He knew the risk he was taking. His wings would not be it anymore. He was never in the fighting generation. He had been born when the fighting was all over and they had come down to Earth and then, their transformational genes had become stagnant. So, to be blunt, he and all that had been in his generation were the devolution species of what once was a proud race. The wings now, seemed more like a theatrical prop more than actual wings with which he could glide up to the sky.
Now, he could only glide for few seconds, before the wings gave way. But then, that was going to change.
When he had left the confines of the place where his race had held themselves, over one of the mountain peaks in this area, he had one clear goal in mind.
