T'reka stood, arms akimbo and wing-feathers out, as the supervising technician made certain all of her straps were on correctly and snugly.
“Remember, DO NOT FLAP,” the technician reminded her above the engine noise of the Flight Machine. “This pack has its own glider-wings, and any flapping on your part will disrupt the steering mechanisms and put you in the ocean!”
“Understood!” T'reka chirped.
“We’re going to drop you in five.”
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
The doors beneath the pack that held her in straps dropped away.
The Flight Machine jumped away from her and wind rushed in her ears.
T'reka fought the urge to flap by increasing her grip on the shoulder straps and sinking her toe-talons into the canvas of the pack. She made her analytical mind take over for the descent.
The Flying Engine’s rapid ascent was an illusion caused by the pack’s bulk and apparent solidity in a rapidly-changing environment.
The apparently-ascending ground should not terrify and, though she felt the urge to slow her descent, she knew she must not.
The pack’s own wing should be deploying any moment now.
Any moment… now!
She fought terror by attempting to analyse the geography of her soon-to-be home.
Better-be home.
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