(scribbled in frantic copper ink, smudged with gun oil and what might be cloud residue)

  HELLO AGAIN GROUND-DWELLERS AND SKY-CRAWLERS AND WHATEVER YOU ARE DOWN THERE!

  It’s me. Zephyrion. Yes, the one with the wings that are currently trying to escape my back because they’re SO EXCITED. We did it. WE DID THE THING. The resonance rifle is alive and it SINGS and it hates gravity almost as much as I do!!

  Okay okay okay breathe—wait no, breathing is for people who stay on the ground, never mind.

  So the mechanics. Listen. The barrel is triple-wound aetheric coil (that’s three coils, not two, because two is for babies) wrapped around a core of hammered storm-glass I “borrowed” from the thunderhead refinery last Tuesday (don’t tell Mum). When I pull the trigger—BOOM—not boom, more like whrrrrrrmmmZZZZAP—the coils do this thing where they argue with each other about who gets to be the loudest. The winner shoves a whole bucket of green resonance through the focusing lens (polished moon-quartz, thank you very much) and out comes the beam. Not light. Not plasma. Something angrier. It’s green because green is the color of jealousy and also because I spilled glow-worm extract in the coolant tank and now it’s permanent. Science!

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  The kickback? Oh it’s glorious. It tries to launch me backward into next week but the wing-braces (new patent pending, thank you) lock in with a clack-clack and turn the recoil into extra lift. So I go UP while the target goes DOWN. Or sideways. Or into a very surprised cloud. Yesterday I accidentally vaporized a cumulonimbus that looked at me funny. It apologized by raining sideways. I accepted.

  Also the sights are tuned to my eyes now—literally. I stared at the lens too long during calibration and now when I blink the crosshairs stay burned in for like three seconds. It’s like having permanent targeting tattoos on my retinas. Very cool. Very stylish. 10/10 would recommend.

  Anyway.

  Point is: rifle good.

  Wings gooder.

  Sky? Still ours.

  Ground? Still boring.

  Next test: full-power burst while doing a barrel roll through a lightning storm.

  If I survive I’ll write again.

  If I don’t… well… send help. Or cake. Cake first.

  —Zephyrion

  (Signed with a scorch mark because the pen caught fire. Again.)

  P.S. New portrait dropped. Look at me. LOOK AT ME. I’m adorable AND deadly. Rate the fiction or the rifle gets sad and stops glowing.