Chapter Text
You'd think they called the soldiers flying the birds angels, right? That makes sense. They're the ones in control of the choppers, of the landing and the takeoff.
But no.
No, the angels weren't the pilots- the pilots were the pilots and they were respected and given due deference but they weren't the same as the angels.
The angels were the gunners.
The angels were the folks behind the iron sights, laying down the fire as the chopper came down. The angels were the ones who jumped from the open doors, heavy artillery under heavier fire, throwing themselves down to the ground sometimes willingly sometimes not but always with their fingers on the triggers.
You had to be careful, on body detail, with the angels; never knew how many bullets were left in the chamber.
The angels made sure there was a path, ran forward as those they were picking up ran behind, sometimes (often) not making it back to their pilots and their precious birds, but never turning around.
That wasn't what they were trained to do.
And there had never- ever- been a pilot and an angel better than Impulse Esvey and Skizriel Lehman.
The war's been over now for- hell, almost fifty years, and they still talk about that pair. How the moment their tags showed up on any sights, it was a scramble to down every chopper in the vicinity on the double because if Impulse got in that damn seat, if Skizz got his hands on even ONE of the guns, it was over.
If you go to the Hall of Valor, there's an entire corner dedicated to their accolades. Lists of successful missions, back to back to back. Rewrote the damn manual, they did. Pulled off maneuvers no one else was crazy enough or stupid enough to try and somehow it always worked out. Lots of pilots and angels cut their teeth on glory but Imp and Skizz? It wasn't a whole other ball game. It was a different sport on a different planet.
They didn't single-handedly win the war, no.
To hear old buddies tell it, though, they certainly helped.
Only now we get to the end of the story, don't we? When all the birds were at last grounded, and all the treaties signed, all the bodies sent home to grieving families or friends or just people who carried a part of the dead by will or for spite or out of sheer coincidence.
Wars aren't happy stories.
It doesn't matter who wins, because in the end the victory always feels so slick with the blood and the tears and the raw open wounds of what was lost.
A lot of the airborne didn't make it out. A lot did. Their fates are as varied as anyone's- some married, had kids, put it behind them. Some left the world on their own painful terms. Others took innocents with them, unable to let go of the ghosts. They became politicians and woodworkers, taxi drivers and painters, museum guides and pizza delivery drivers and whatever happened to Imp and Skizz?
Where did they go, that storied pair?
Well, Impulse moved on. He had a head for numbers, for redstone, for designs bigger than the server he'd fought on.
He brought Skizz with him, sometimes.
Not all the time.
Pilots and Angels- they trust one another with their lives.
But the question isn't 'how many pilots can dance on the head of a pin', is it?
-
Skizz is watching a city burn when he feels a warm body come up the path. Old instinct has one scarred, calloused hand reaching for a knife but an older instinct says, can it, you idiot.
It's Dippledop.
And so it is, Impulse emerging from the treeline and-
"What are you WEARING?!"
Skizz can't keep the incredulity out of his voice. He knows and doesn't know that Impulse chose this outfit for precisely this purpose- that his vibrant pink and yellow jacket, the neon lights outlining his belt and boots, the steady green glow of his HUD visor all paint a picture that pulls at Skizz's oldest instinct, that of gentle mockery.
That pulls him, sodden and gasping, out of the wine-dark sea in which he has been willingly drowning.
"It's my new look for the season. You like it?" Impulse does a little turn, grinning. "Latest fashion out of Pixel Pulse Valley."
"Dude. When did Wario get a son and when did that son start peddling cocaine?"
Impulse snorts and drops down onto the stump beside Skizz. "Thanks, bud."
"I tell only the truth." Skizz grins at him and it's almost a real one. Then they both look down at the burning city.
"All set?" Impulse asks lightly. He doesn't ask, how much did you get paid this time? He doesn't ask, is anyone looking for you? He doesn't ask, how many totems did you use, and if I were to rip your shirt open now would your heart be a jagged golden cut?
Skizz leans on him, silently thanking him for not asking those questions, which tells Impulse all he needs to know about the answers.
"The vote was final this morning." Impulse says.
Skizz holds his breath. His angel could be dead, for how still he becomes.
"You're coming with me."
No arguments. No wiggle room. No 'quick stops' at any of the safehouse worlds full of giant half-thought out machines, deathtraps that give Skizz that momentary sensation of being whole as darkness reaches out for him for the hundred thousandth time and doesn't manage to close its fingers on his singed and dirty feathers.
They will not even brush by Skyblock- their Skyblock, where they'd tried their hardest in the only way they thought they knew to build a home. Even the threat of the void on all sides wasn't enough to quite quench the demons.
"Okay, dude." Skizz whispers. "Okay."
Impulse closes his eyes and he curls an arm around Skizz, tucking the bigger man's head under his chin and pretending like he does every other time that he doesn't feel the shaking that means Skizz is crying.
No more or less than Skizz has done for him, a thousand times before.
"They're gonna hate me." Skizz whispers.
"No." Impulse promises, watching the embers fly up into the air to be swallowed by the night. There's a stormcloud on the horizon. "If they hated you, they'd have told you, remember? Zed promised."
Skizz laughs. It's watery and tight but it is a laugh. "Can I at least get a shower?"
"Oh a shower is required we aren't letting any of the girls see you like that. Or Grian. Grian will mock you mercilessly."
Skizz chuckles. "Remind me to build a giraffe in his basement. If he's got one."
Impulse snorts. "Good luck with that, he'll never even remember it's there. Any last check ins, angel?"
"sir no sir," Skizz murmurs.
"Then you're off duty, soldier," Impulse says. "Come on. Let's get out of here."
Impulse helps Skizz get up, gather his equipment. He does his best to ignore how it's set up for urban infiltration, for priming and laying down explosions. He tries not to be relieved when they drop all of it on their way through the world hub into one of the void incinerators, and how Skizz exhales so hard it could be one of his dying gasps but instead he stands a little taller.
They do get one nights' sleep before the jump to Hermitcraft, and Skizz loosens his red tie on the same suit he wore to every interview they ever had to give as a fighting pair, even when the sleeves- which had never quite contained his biceps- gave up the ghost.
"How do I look?"
Impulse grins. "Like Fred Flintstone decided to get into law."
"Oh shut the hell up, Wario. Let's fly."
"Yeah." Impulse presses the alert button, can almost see Xisuma in his mind's eye tagging and whitelisting Skizz. "Let's fly."
-
How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?
Depends on where the pin falls.