I've never been the one for prologues, because their too short and that just makes you want more of the story. I apologize for this. I just thought I'll give you a guys an idea, on the story.

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"It could be yours", one them whispered. The blind avian boy looks from one member to the next. Although, he really isn't looking, he's hearing their voices. Listening for each syllable, for each vowel, and for each consonant that rolled of their tongues. Their words were important to him, they were the key whether he would live or die.

There he sat in the middle of a room, with one light shining down on the small yet tall bird boy. He blinked once, his eyes somewhat fuzzy. "We only gave half of what you can really have". Another one of their voices bounced off the walls, rebounding into his ear canal.

Every part of him ached. They tortured him, beaten him, even threatened him to no end. His hands were bounded behind his back that his arms ached in protest. His wings that were stretched then teased with as if he was some puppet, hung limp off his back. No longer could he feel his legs, they've been broken long ago. Thus, his inability to fly out of this wretched place. And when he thought all hope was lost, they gave a small spark of it. A small spark that now resides in the dark reaches of his pupils, which allowed him a vision that was slightly fuzzy, if not entirely grey.

He left them so long ago, his flock his family. Their faces were a distant memory, the last time he's actually seen them…well it was here. He was sure they faces have altered as much as their voices. That too a distant memory, how long has it been now? How many years? Guess it really didn't matter anyway, at least not anymore. They didn't' want him, not really. They practically pushed him away, he remembers it, how could he not? His memory was all he left, the psychological torture almost took that away, almost.

The argument involved something to do with him being blind, isn't always something with him being blind.

"Then why don't you just leave"! Those were their words, their last word that drove him away from them. It finally pushed him to the edge; he took it like he always took it. Like he took everything, the jokes, the disregarding, then there's the worse thing of all; the uselessness. A wise crack was always the best remedy in those types of situations, just a little humor, a little reminder to let them know he was here.

But not anymore. No longer was that necessary. No longer did he make bombs with the Gasman, create a lovely fire for Nudge or for Max's delight, cook for little Angel, or utter wise cracks to Fang who never found them very funny were now a thing of the past.

Because here he was offered something he could not refuse, and it was not his just sight but something even more precious to him.

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So review and tell me what you think ; )