I Am A Flyer

II: Twists and Turns

There were four of them. Well, more like three and a half, because one of them looked like he was sleeping, half slumped over where sat. There were so many lines across his face that it was hard tell if his eyes were open or closed.

Jett stared at the sleeping Elder in open curiosity, wondering if it really was safe to let people this old run a military organization. He glanced around the tent, which seemed dark and empty. He'd been told that there were almost three dozen of the Elders around, and if this was their tent of operations, where were they?

He turned, barely noticing that the flyer who had brought him here had disappeared. Jett glimpsed a few other flyers standing motionlessly in the shadows. Guards? He tried to see if he knew them, but the shadows hid them all to well. Then he mentally kicked himself. There's no way you'd know them. All the flyers you knew – they're all dead, remember?

Jett bit his lip, suddenly feeling miserable. It was all part of being in a war; he knew that, but it was still hard to deal with. Pushing away those thoughts, he returned his attention to the four Elders. Or three an a half. The three seemed to be engaged in quiet conversation. None of them seemed to have noticed him.

He observed them, trying not to seem too obvious about it. The one who was sleeping seemed to be the oldest, but the rest were getting up there in years as well. All of them had gray in their hair, though the sleeping one seemed to be going bald. Jett sighed, shuffling his feet. These Elders just seemed like simple old men – not the scary leaders that exerted a strong control over all the flyers.

So. . . what should he do? Was he supposed to walk up to them? Salute? Introduce himself? Or was he supposed to wait here until they deemed him worthy of their attention? He shifted his weight nervously.

Maybe they couldn't see him? No, that was impossible, because he was standing right in front of them! He was reminded of the village Elders near the Putarc Forest. Whenever he ran into them, those old cronies would simply ignore him for a while just to make him sweat. Now that he thought about it, these Troit Elders were probably doing the same thing.

Annoyed, Jett scowled faintly, and planted his feet. Well, two could play that game. Hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his pants, he tilted his head back so he could stare up at the ceiling. His eyes roamed every inch, as if it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen.

A few minutes of this passed by. The tent's ceiling was the most boring thing Jett had ever laid eyes on, but he stubbornly continued his perusal. These guys. . .they're just as bad as Gray. Actually, they're probably worse. Gray didn't ignore me...well, not like this, anyway.

"Talon trainee."

The sharp command pulled Jett's attention over to the group of Elders. The three that weren't sleeping had decided to fix identical, hard stares on him – cold, empty stares that were supposed to make him squirm.

They nearly did. Once beneath their pinning gazes, Jett instantly realized that these old men were more than just senile leaders. Those age-clouded orbs of theirs bore the marks of countless wars. They held trapped within their depths the faded screams of the dying, the wails of the broken. Raven bore these very same eyes, Jett realized with a twang of shock. Yet, unlike the Talon, these Elders were secretive, calculating, cruel, very much the predator. They eyed him like a piece of meat, as if he were a tender, rare steak just sitting on a plate, waiting to be eaten.

These Elders. . .are - were they Flyers, too?

He looked away, thoroughly chilled. A strong dislike rose up, causing his muscles to tense up, his jaw to firmly lock into place. Whoever these old men were, he didn't like them. Didn't like they way they looked at him, dissected him with their eyes.