[The following roleplay is rated mature for reasons that may include, but are not limited to, violence, blood, coarse language, sensual situations and drug use. Reader discretion is advised.]
The thundering blast of the explosion still rang like roaring church bells echoing through empty pews. How long had it been since it had stopped? The world was too blurred to make sense of, colors bleeding into each other in vivid swirls mixed with red. The ringing wouldn't stop. More than anything, he could not stand the remnants of sound, of glass-shattering screams and shrieking machines. It was over, it was over; he had to keep telling himself that, it was over.
He couldn't have known how long he was out there, lying face-down in the dirt and grass, barely conscious. He had to get away. They would come after him, if they hadn't died, and he had to move. Slowly, painfully, he pulled himself to his feet. They trembled beneath his weight, but he was able to steady himself without too much effort. Squinting at the ground, he could hardly believe his eyes. Earth. Earth he had not seen the likes of in--how long had it even been? What year was it? On shaking legs, he started away. His steps were agony, like walking on crystal, and he couldn't extend his legs enough to make much progress with each step. Still, this was far better than how things had been.
The world was slowly coming back into focus. There was a burning light from the sky--what was that? He couldn't remember anything like it, nor like the wispy, winding trails dotting the blues. Just how much of this world was there for him to explore? Now was not the time, and he pressed on, painfully aware of his pace. Behind him was a life he never wanted to return to, people who had tortured him, had captured and enslaved him, had destroyed him. Behind him were the remains of their research, irreparable, thousands or millions of dollars of shrapnel. A smile came over his lips at that. For all they'd done to him, he had gotten his revenge.
He didn't know how long he had been walking before he collapsed onto the ground. The grass was soft, wet; was it early morning? His legs refused to take him any further, so instead, he crawled to a tree nearby and sat against it. His wings brushed against its bark, tickling leaves and drooping to the dirt below. He hated these wings, these cursed experiments. Tucking them tight against his back, he let out a sigh. He could afford to rest. For now, he had to remember; who, what, where was he?
Matteo Agnusdei. That was the name he had been given at birth. He had been fourteen when his mother enrolled him at the Institution, the laboratory of too much white. He was from--Minnesota? Michigan? Montana? That much he was having trouble remembering. He'd had ambitions once, he thought, but they all fluttered from him now, paper wishes in the wind. Now, he was much older, but he couldn't even guess at his age. He had wings, long and swooping things, feather-white and angelic, functioning, a curse from Hell. They protruded gracefully from his shoulder blades, but at their base were scars more numerous and deep than he could imagine. His hands, foreign objects at the ends of his wrists, were red. Was that all his blood? Further inspection revealed that his whole body contained splotches of scarlet, staining his tanned skin, his once-white shorts, his torn polo shirt. He needed to get out of these, to clean up, to gather his bearings, but he didn't even know where to start. Leaning his head against the tree, he sighed again. He never imagined he'd make it out, and now, he didn't know what to do.