Line one: Delta-Hotel Six-one-three-nine, two-one-four three.

The doctor was kind, when he held out the clipboard to you, eyes like everyone's grandpa in a crisp white coat. The memory is hazy, now, a timeless blur of machines beeping and the world fluttering, in and out, like a butterfly's wings. A painless procedure, they'd said, and a nurse had shut the news off, in the background. Like an MRI, really; you'll wake up somewhere else, is all. That thin black line had wavered there, waiting for your signature. Four years doing good for the world, and then we can find a new body for you. One that can run again.

Line two: Net ID six-one five; callsign Valkyrie Four.

The world is red. Red, and white; snow and blood in a pounding smear across my senses. The handset shakes in my grip, distant booms striding closer, over the mountains. The smell of burning metal stabs at my senses, the Jenny's turret twisted and canted over her hull like a broken toy. The last, bleak words from her speaker before the sky had lit up: Incoming.

Line three: One, urgent.

It hadn't been like running, but in a way it had been better. The Earth falling away beneath you, the world of technicians and soldiers with paper swords vanishing until there's only blue above, and white blow. And words, crisp and clear, spoken into your mind with the precision of your new eyes. A task to do, a route to follow, a brief hour of freedom until the hunger began to pang and you returned, down to Earth, to sleep.

Line four: Hoist.

The frozen ground lances at my hands as I haul myself toward the road, cold fire in my veins with every drag. The screaming, stabbing in my legs knocks the world off-kilter, and I can hear someone gasping from far away. This was the last time. This, something routine, and I was supposed to go back home. I am going to go back home. I am, I am I am I am I am, and the radio scrapes the frozen ground, stained with something dark and shot through with hope.

Line five: One, litter.

But the clear blue skies had given way to dark ones, clouded with storms and the sonorous pom-pom of black blossoms flowering, and each run through the air became a lightning-bolt of adrenaline. What passes for adrenaline, at least, in this body, your eyes seeing for kilometers, all around, and your wings spread with a neverending thrum. Each time, though, their faces, crawling inside you, sheltering from the storm, their eyes wide and haunted with hope and horror.

Line six: Enemy in area.

Choking on the thickness in my throat, I lay back against the rusted hulk of some long-ago car, its owner fled or dead, my world a slice of sky and the black plastic lifeline clutched in my hand. It'd make a lovely photograph, I think, dreamlike. Maybe with a wide lens, a low exposure. One day, I'll come back here, on new legs, and with eyes that can see the beauty in the grass and rock.

Line seven: Beacon.

This is it, though, the last run before your feet will touch the ground again. You've heard rumors, of what happens after this life: Another hospital, another body, this one soft and smooth and chained by gravity, better than before. Maybe someone, too, disease and death forgotten, a new life. You won't have to remember, they tell you. Will you remember what it was like, to be more than human?

Line eight: One, alpha.

For a moment, I think I'm dreaming, the swimming blackness in my sight choking off the sound. Maybe I am, but I can hear it, over the rolling thunder and the racing of my heart. Like an angel's song, the sound of the most beautiful girl in the world. I can't feel anything, anymore, I marvel, and the lights sweep over me, a sharp, gray shape and a blurring in the air where engines grind down against the earth. The steady thrumming is like a lullably, shaking shattered bones and bringing a half-drunk smile to my lips. Nothing but the most beautiful girl in the world. Maybe when I'm home, I'll-

Line nine:

Lights click back on, and you're smaller, now, blankets shrouding you an the faint hum of machines again. From four years ago, the memories flood back - the scans, the tears streaking down their faces, the mention of four weeks at most. But now - something's different.

You raise a hand.

You have hands, again.

You raise the other hand, and something rough and warm is over it, an embarrassed grin written on a face that seems half-familiar. And your voice, a strangled croak.

And his voice.

"Hey."