“Oh. Well, okay.” A voice rings out behind Erwin, and he freezes, despair coiling in his gut because this is the end, he’s been seen and he’ll be captured and experimented on and it’s five in the goddamn morning, who else is in the showers? He chose this time specifically because no one else is ever in the showers at five in the fucking morning. (Or: Erwin has wings and Hanji walks in on him naked.)

“You’ve heard the rumors,” Mustang says, looking at Ed over the top of his latest report, “about the angels.” Ed scoffs and rolls his eyes, “Angels don’t exist, don’t be ridiculous.” “Of course, of course,” he murmurs, gaze sliding back down, “There have been multiple eye witness accounts, however.” Ed slouches into the chair and doesn’t bother to keep the contempt to from his voice when he says, “Don’t depend on anything with wings to save you. Things that were made to leave always end up doing so, in the end.” “Yes, well,” he says, “sometimes they come back.”

The first time Nicke sees a mature pair of player wings in person—not pre-downs, not rookie wings, but a full wingspan—it's the April before the draft, and he's in a dressing room in Latvia, trying not to be star-struck by his own teammates. Or: The NHL gives you wings.