The harsh sun bitterly glares upon a dry, desolate landscape, long isolated from the touch of life.

A young woman rests in the sand, basking in the light above. Time passes silently.

Slowly, she raises a hand towards the gaze, blocking the rays from some of her drying, weary eyes. A slight burn soaks into her delicate, pale skin. She rotates her hand, studying her nascent revelation. A torn ribbon gently drifts in the wind, breezing into her fingers, netting around the tips.

Mouth parched, soul starved, she sits up, straightening her slumped back. The blood-soaked dust crumbles off her gown.

Wandering the wilderness, she spots something curious. She bends her knees and lifts a sun-bleached carabao skull sunk into the ground. With a subtle amusement, she raises her exotic companion upon her head, forming a justly Outré hat, as she friskily dances under the cosmic rays, amongst the withered tumbleweeds.

Feet red, lungs dry, she knows it's time to leave, if she can.

Knees worn, she eventually stumbles across a dilapidated vehicle, burned by its previous victors. Aside lay a row of shallow mounds garnished by a rusty spade.

Her soft smile grows under her mask, amidst the dire land.

A collection of rust-dusted cans gathers on the vehicle's rear, as she puckishly pelts small stones at her newfound targets.

Diminished, she relents, reclining against a lone powerline, bracing her drained spirit.

From a distance, a low, subtle growl trickles across the ground; the vibrations wick up her spine. Slowly, her dreary eyes open; her muted curiosity now aback, she raises her head towards the expanse.

A dark silhouette breaks the horizon, the tearing wind unmasking a decrepit highway beneath the neglected dust.

The smell of the fuel poises her mind, as the deep rumble fills her lungs, constricting every breath. She arises, her feet gliding over the searing ground.

The man slows to a stop, bike purring under his touch, face masked behind his screen.

The motorcycle clinks in the heat, the exhaust radiating whispers of smoke as the aged chrome glistens in the sun.

Walking close, her hands impishly tease the cracked leather of the side satchel as she greets the man facing ahead.

“Nice wings,” he says, not looking back.

“You too,” she replies, grinning at the emblem stitched on his tired jacket as her weak voice barely escapes under her breath. The meticulous appliqué catches her interest, layered above the cracked leathers of a young rogue wearing a story older than the clubs he's outlived.

“Getting on?”

She hesitantly distances herself.

“You can’t touch me,” she mutters.

“I'm not asking to.”

She smiles, straddling the back of the bratted chopper, fastening the carabao with the torn strand caught during her gaze. Her hands featherily grasp his waist.

His arms hang from his handles, not daring to slump, thumbs latched rigid over the grips.

His heel kicks up the stand and sets off. Her delicate hair gracefully wisps in the wind.

Eyes closed, back softened, she tenderly cracks her shoulders, extending her silky sails, catching the wind as they trail behind. The dust breezes off as frivolous as her worries.

An old town grows close, her saviour charging ahead.

The music of the road refills her spirit. The growl of the exhaust drains her sorrows. Her chin gently kisses his roughed shoulder.

Soon she will be able to fulfil her mission, her destination drawing near, her purpose slowly becoming clear.

The harsh sun bitterly glares upon a dry, desolate landscape, long isolated from the touch of life.

A young woman rests in the sand, basking in the light above. Time passes silently.

Slowly, she raises a hand towards the gaze, blocking the rays from some of her drying, weary eyes. A slight burn soaks into her delicate, pale skin. She rotates her hand, studying her nascent revelation. A torn ribbon gently drifts in the wind, breezing into her fingers, netting around the tips.

Mouth parched, soul starved, she sits up, straightening her slumped back. The blood-soaked dust crumbles off her gown.

Wandering the wilderness, she spots something curious. She bends her knees and lifts a sun-bleached carabao skull sunk into the ground. With a subtle amusement, she raises her exotic companion upon her head, forming a justly Outré hat, as she friskily dances under the cosmic rays, amongst the withered tumbleweeds.

Feet red, lungs dry, she knows it's time to leave, if she can.

Knees worn, she eventually stumbles across a dilapidated vehicle, burned by its previous victors. Aside lay a row of shallow mounds garnished by a rusty spade.

Her soft smile grows under her mask, amidst the dire land.

A collection of rust-dusted cans gathers on the vehicle's rear, as she puckishly pelts small stones at her newfound targets.

Diminished, she relents, reclining against a lone powerline, bracing her drained spirit.

From a distance, a low, subtle growl trickles across the ground; the vibrations wick up her spine. Slowly, her dreary eyes open; her muted curiosity now aback, she raises her head towards the expanse.

A dark silhouette breaks the horizon, the tearing wind unmasking a decrepit highway beneath the neglected dust.

The smell of the fuel poises her mind, as the deep rumble fills her lungs, constricting every breath. She arises, her feet gliding over the searing ground.

The man slows to a stop, bike purring under his touch, face masked behind his screen.

The motorcycle clinks in the heat, the exhaust radiating whispers of smoke as the aged chrome glistens in the sun.

Walking close, her hands impishly tease the cracked leather of the side satchel as she greets the man facing ahead.

“Nice wings,” he says, not looking back.

“You too,” she replies, grinning at the emblem stitched on his tired jacket as her weak voice barely escapes under her breath. The meticulous appliqué catches her interest, layered above the cracked leathers of a young rogue wearing a story older than the clubs he's outlived.

“Getting on?”

She hesitantly distances herself.

“You can’t touch me,” she mutters.

“I'm not asking to.”

She smiles, straddling the back of the bratted chopper, fastening the carabao with the torn strand caught during her gaze. Her hands featherily grasp his waist.

His arms hang from his handles, not daring to slump, thumbs latched rigid over the grips.

His heel kicks up the stand and sets off. Her delicate hair gracefully wisps in the wind.

Eyes closed, back softened, she tenderly cracks her shoulders, extending her silky sails, catching the wind as they trail behind. The dust breezes off as frivolous as her worries.

An old town grows close, her saviour charging ahead.

The music of the road refills her spirit. The growl of the exhaust drains her sorrows. Her chin gently kisses his roughed shoulder.

Soon she will be able to fulfil her mission, her destination drawing near, her purpose slowly becoming clear.

The harsh sun bitterly glares upon a dry, desolate landscape, long isolated from the touch of life.

A young woman rests in the sand, basking in the light above. Time passes silently.

Slowly, she raises a hand towards the gaze, blocking the rays from some of her drying, weary eyes. A slight burn soaks into her delicate, pale skin. She rotates her hand, studying her nascent revelation. A torn ribbon gently drifts in the wind, breezing into her fingers, netting around the tips.

Mouth parched, soul starved, she sits up, straightening her slumped back. The blood-soaked dust crumbles off her gown.

Wandering the wilderness, she spots something curious. She bends her knees and lifts a sun-bleached carabao skull sunk into the ground. With a subtle amusement, she raises her exotic companion upon her head, forming a justly Outré hat, as she friskily dances under the cosmic rays, amongst the withered tumbleweeds.

Feet red, lungs dry, she knows it's time to leave, if she can.

Knees worn, she eventually stumbles across a dilapidated vehicle, burned by its previous victors. Aside lay a row of shallow mounds garnished by a rusty spade.

Her soft smile grows under her mask, amidst the dire land.

A collection of rust-dusted cans gathers on the vehicle's rear, as she puckishly pelts small stones at her newfound targets.

Diminished, she relents, reclining against a lone powerline, bracing her drained spirit.

From a distance, a low, subtle growl trickles across the ground; the vibrations wick up her spine. Slowly, her dreary eyes open; her muted curiosity now aback, she raises her head towards the expanse.

A dark silhouette breaks the horizon, the tearing wind unmasking a decrepit highway beneath the neglected dust.

The smell of the fuel poises her mind, as the deep rumble fills her lungs, constricting every breath. She arises, her feet gliding over the searing ground.

The man slows to a stop, bike purring under his touch, face masked behind his screen.

The motorcycle clinks in the heat, the exhaust radiating whispers of smoke as the aged chrome glistens in the sun.

Walking close, her hands impishly tease the cracked leather of the side satchel as she greets the man facing ahead.

“Nice wings,” he says, not looking back.

“You too,” she replies, grinning at the emblem stitched on his tired jacket as her weak voice barely escapes under her breath. The meticulous appliqué catches her interest, layered above the cracked leathers of a young rogue wearing a story older than the clubs he's outlived.

“Getting on?”

She hesitantly distances herself.

“You can’t touch me,” she mutters.

“I'm not asking to.”

She smiles, straddling the back of the bratted chopper, fastening the carabao with the torn strand caught during her gaze. Her hands featherily grasp his waist.

His arms hang from his handles, not daring to slump, thumbs latched rigid over the grips.

His heel kicks up the stand and sets off. Her delicate hair gracefully wisps in the wind.

Eyes closed, back softened, she tenderly cracks her shoulders, extending her silky sails, catching the wind as they trail behind. The dust breezes off as frivolous as her worries.

An old town grows close, her saviour charging ahead.

The music of the road refills her spirit. The growl of the exhaust drains her sorrows. Her chin gently kisses his roughed shoulder.

Soon she will be able to fulfil her mission, her destination drawing near, her purpose slowly becoming clear.

Bookshelves as high and mighty as empires stand tall, reigning strong within the halls. Floors of marble, a feathered friend of us all journeys through crystal walls.

Life, death, and everything between. The secret of the universe, and what could have been.

Rules of the heavens, the laws of physics - Social and mechanical decrees pile high.

Grasping his latest archival artefacts, he carries his secretive research towards the city's crystal sky.

Floating through, angels below tend to their daily deeds.

Gold-clad armies train beneath, commanded by the honour of the strongest archangels, many whose names within the mortal realm have never been breathed.

Our little bird flutters to the city's gate, ready to take the latest admissions to the royal library for a tour.

He stumbles on his notes, contemplating what to lecture on today. His time is wearing thin, nerves he never knew he had rattle to his core. So much to do, so little time. The consequences of his latest actions hang in the balance. His emotions are at war.

-

Throughout his study, the effects and misconceptions of occult activity have run high. Ever since the first angel fell, they have dragged the living down with them, towards an endless pit of death and despair.

Associates missing, souls lost, a vacuum in a paradise sucks the life out of his spirit. A pain fills his void.

Why, for simply existing, should he live in such luxury? Just to read books with knowledge that continents full of the unfortunate would give their lives to see?

How free is free will if those who oppose it also oppose every freedom for which you could use it?

His notes cover a bare spot under his arm, the plight of his feathers almost as hard to hide as the soreness of his soul.

He can no longer hold back.

Planet-wide wheels cast overhead, carrying a holy throne of light and fire. Beings of pure love and worship drift past; one of the ten thousand eyes gives him a wink – a further inclination that time is about to expire.

Glass pillars and blazing swords surround the most honourable structures.

His associates are ready; their case is full.

The Council of the High Order lay within; it is time for this little bird to finally sing.

-

A gloomy mist covers the cracked cobbles.

He leans beside an overpass, smoking in the night rain. He watches from a distance as his contacts deliver a payload into his cache hidden within.

Restricted weapons fill the bag. Wads of cash stuff their pockets.

Retrieving the rucksack, he stumbles over the bridge, the bag slung over his back.

A never-ending weight continues to pull him down. Every step is an act of judgment. Is what he is doing truly helping?

He feels his soul shrinking, constricting around his lungs, an aching in his heart as sharp as razor blades.

He sits on the ledge, legs swinging in the wind. He lights a cigarette; the smoke masks his face, vivid thoughts projecting all that he has given up.

There's no purgatory for his kind. His decision to leave paradise still plagues his mind.

Sacrificing his immortal spirit to prevent the world from becoming a sinful abyss.

His sole purpose is to keep adversarial forces at bay. Now he just needs to find a way.

Or at least, to show those who have clung so high, just to sever this world from the love within the sky, the truly fatal way that he and his friends think they ought to pay.

-

A nun walks along the bridge, slyly offering him a cigarette and a newspaper.

She bows her head and drifts off into the distance, leaving as inconspicuously as she arrived.

He reads the small note slipped into the paper, crumpling it into his pocket.

Gazing over the water, he grasps the crucifix in his hand tightly, taunting his newfound pain limits, at the edge of breaching his skin.

His lifeless cigarette butt drops below, the diminished embers fading away on the water as he walks away.

The icy river wicks into the filter, drawing it down toward the remanence of the damned that lay sunken below.

He heads to town, another job going down.

His associate lay beside their blacked-out van.

A small, desolate kominka glows in the background. The smoky inferno consumes the dark acts performed within, preventing them from polluting the city.

The land is now cleansed from the sorrow of the impeded. More foolish victims hastily sold their souls to entities with aeons to ponder every subterfuge of their wicked deals.

Wisps of smog flood the floor. His hand dips into the pool, reaching towards the intrusive voicing plaguing his head.

-

He savours the esoteric relic, a jagged athame. It tries to capture him, taming his free will.

He cuts through the thoughts, packing the blade into his satchel. This will be a perfect candidate for his latest creation.

Slowly, he is building his hexograph – A vital analyser, the pinnacle of his pentacular research.

The others load up the cursed debris. Some will be sold on the black market, the rest disposed of at the church.

Ancient evils tow eternal strings. Every day, their time is running out to keep the growing terror at bay.

His partner gently rests by his side. Her head on his shoulder, basking in the warmth of the flame.

He tries to soak in the moment, knowing there is always evil to crush. But just for now, he can wait another day to find someone to blame.

Together, their band forms the counter fallen. Heavenly beings that lurk in the shadows, tipping the scales away from evil. They purposely sacrificed their immortality, giving the time they have left to fight on behalf of the souls unaware of what they are against.

 

Songs of Inspiration:  Do Not Enter by Glare, Dream by Ivory, Unknown Feelings by Novulent, Escape by Jacal, Fly Away by 8obes

This story is a backstory for a character in my larger series CrucifixT - The Fallen Choir

Bookshelves as high and mighty as empires stand tall, reigning strong within the halls. Floors of marble, a feathered friend of us all journeys through crystal walls.

Life, death, and everything between. The secret of the universe, and what could have been.

Rules of the heavens, the laws of physics - Social and mechanical decrees pile high.

Grasping his latest archival artefacts, he carries his secretive research towards the city's crystal sky.

Floating through, angels below tend to their daily deeds.

Gold-clad armies train beneath, commanded by the honour of the strongest archangels, many whose names within the mortal realm have never been breathed.

Our little bird flutters to the city's gate, ready to take the latest admissions to the royal library for a tour.

He stumbles on his notes, contemplating what to lecture on today. His time is wearing thin, nerves he never knew he had rattle to his core. So much to do, so little time. The consequences of his latest actions hang in the balance. His emotions are at war.

-

Throughout his study, the effects and misconceptions of occult activity have run high. Ever since the first angel fell, they have dragged the living down with them, towards an endless pit of death and despair.

Associates missing, souls lost, a vacuum in a paradise sucks the life out of his spirit. A pain fills his void.

Why, for simply existing, should he live in such luxury? Just to read books with knowledge that continents full of the unfortunate would give their lives to see?

How free is free will if those who oppose it also oppose every freedom for which you could use it?

His notes cover a bare spot under his arm, the plight of his feathers almost as hard to hide as the soreness of his soul.

He can no longer hold back.

Planet-wide wheels cast overhead, carrying a holy throne of light and fire. Beings of pure love and worship drift past; one of the ten thousand eyes gives him a wink – a further inclination that time is about to expire.

Glass pillars and blazing swords surround the most honourable structures.

His associates are ready; their case is full.

The Council of the High Order lay within; it is time for this little bird to finally sing.

-

A gloomy mist covers the cracked cobbles.

He leans beside an overpass, smoking in the night rain. He watches from a distance as his contacts deliver a payload into his cache hidden within.

Restricted weapons fill the bag. Wads of cash stuff their pockets.

Retrieving the rucksack, he stumbles over the bridge, the bag slung over his back.

A never-ending weight continues to pull him down. Every step is an act of judgment. Is what he is doing truly helping?

He feels his soul shrinking, constricting around his lungs, an aching in his heart as sharp as razor blades.

He sits on the ledge, legs swinging in the wind. He lights a cigarette; the smoke masks his face, vivid thoughts projecting all that he has given up.

There's no purgatory for his kind. His decision to leave paradise still plagues his mind.

Sacrificing his immortal spirit to prevent the world from becoming a sinful abyss.

His sole purpose is to keep adversarial forces at bay. Now he just needs to find a way.

Or at least, to show those who have clung so high, just to sever this world from the love within the sky, the truly fatal way that he and his friends think they ought to pay.

-

A nun walks along the bridge, slyly offering him a cigarette and a newspaper.

She bows her head and drifts off into the distance, leaving as inconspicuously as she arrived.

He reads the small note slipped into the paper, crumpling it into his pocket.

Gazing over the water, he grasps the crucifix in his hand tightly, taunting his newfound pain limits, at the edge of breaching his skin.

His lifeless cigarette butt drops below, the diminished embers fading away on the water as he walks away.

The icy river wicks into the filter, drawing it down toward the remanence of the damned that lay sunken below.

He heads to town, another job going down.

His associate lay beside their blacked-out van.

A small, desolate kominka glows in the background. The smoky inferno consumes the dark acts performed within, preventing them from polluting the city.

The land is now cleansed from the sorrow of the impeded. More foolish victims hastily sold their souls to entities with aeons to ponder every subterfuge of their wicked deals.

Wisps of smog flood the floor. His hand dips into the pool, reaching towards the intrusive voicing plaguing his head.

-

He savours the esoteric relic, a jagged athame. It tries to capture him, taming his free will.

He cuts through the thoughts, packing the blade into his satchel. This will be a perfect candidate for his latest creation.

Slowly, he is building his hexograph – A vital analyser, the pinnacle of his pentacular research.

The others load up the cursed debris. Some will be sold on the black market, the rest disposed of at the church.

Ancient evils tow eternal strings. Every day, their time is running out to keep the growing terror at bay.

His partner gently rests by his side. Her head on his shoulder, basking in the warmth of the flame.

He tries to soak in the moment, knowing there is always evil to crush. But just for now, he can wait another day to find someone to blame.

Together, their band forms the counter fallen. Heavenly beings that lurk in the shadows, tipping the scales away from evil. They purposely sacrificed their immortality, giving the time they have left to fight on behalf of the souls unaware of what they are against.

 

Songs of Inspiration:  Do Not Enter by Glare, Dream by Ivory, Unknown Feelings by Novulent, Escape by Jacal, Fly Away by 8obes

This story is a backstory for a character in my larger series CrucifixT - The Fallen Choir

Bookshelves as high and mighty as empires stand tall, reigning strong within the halls. Floors of marble, a feathered friend of us all journeys through crystal walls.

Life, death, and everything between. The secret of the universe, and what could have been.

Rules of the heavens, the laws of physics - Social and mechanical decrees pile high.

Grasping his latest archival artefacts, he carries his secretive research towards the city's crystal sky.

Floating through, angels below tend to their daily deeds.

Gold-clad armies train beneath, commanded by the honour of the strongest archangels, many whose names within the mortal realm have never been breathed.

Our little bird flutters to the city's gate, ready to take the latest admissions to the royal library for a tour.

He stumbles on his notes, contemplating what to lecture on today. His time is wearing thin, nerves he never knew he had rattle to his core. So much to do, so little time. The consequences of his latest actions hang in the balance. His emotions are at war.

-

Throughout his study, the effects and misconceptions of occult activity have run high. Ever since the first angel fell, they have dragged the living down with them, towards an endless pit of death and despair.

Associates missing, souls lost, a vacuum in a paradise sucks the life out of his spirit. A pain fills his void.

Why, for simply existing, should he live in such luxury? Just to read books with knowledge that continents full of the unfortunate would give their lives to see?

How free is free will if those who oppose it also oppose every freedom for which you could use it?

His notes cover a bare spot under his arm, the plight of his feathers almost as hard to hide as the soreness of his soul.

He can no longer hold back.

Planet-wide wheels cast overhead, carrying a holy throne of light and fire. Beings of pure love and worship drift past; one of the ten thousand eyes gives him a wink – a further inclination that time is about to expire.

Glass pillars and blazing swords surround the most honourable structures.

His associates are ready; their case is full.

The Council of the High Order lay within; it is time for this little bird to finally sing.

-

A gloomy mist covers the cracked cobbles.

He leans beside an overpass, smoking in the night rain. He watches from a distance as his contacts deliver a payload into his cache hidden within.

Restricted weapons fill the bag. Wads of cash stuff their pockets.

Retrieving the rucksack, he stumbles over the bridge, the bag slung over his back.

A never-ending weight continues to pull him down. Every step is an act of judgment. Is what he is doing truly helping?

He feels his soul shrinking, constricting around his lungs, an aching in his heart as sharp as razor blades.

He sits on the ledge, legs swinging in the wind. He lights a cigarette; the smoke masks his face, vivid thoughts projecting all that he has given up.

There's no purgatory for his kind. His decision to leave paradise still plagues his mind.

Sacrificing his immortal spirit to prevent the world from becoming a sinful abyss.

His sole purpose is to keep adversarial forces at bay. Now he just needs to find a way.

Or at least, to show those who have clung so high, just to sever this world from the love within the sky, the truly fatal way that he and his friends think they ought to pay.

-

A nun walks along the bridge, slyly offering him a cigarette and a newspaper.

She bows her head and drifts off into the distance, leaving as inconspicuously as she arrived.

He reads the small note slipped into the paper, crumpling it into his pocket.

Gazing over the water, he grasps the crucifix in his hand tightly, taunting his newfound pain limits, at the edge of breaching his skin.

His lifeless cigarette butt drops below, the diminished embers fading away on the water as he walks away.

The icy river wicks into the filter, drawing it down toward the remanence of the damned that lay sunken below.

He heads to town, another job going down.

His associate lay beside their blacked-out van.

A small, desolate kominka glows in the background. The smoky inferno consumes the dark acts performed within, preventing them from polluting the city.

The land is now cleansed from the sorrow of the impeded. More foolish victims hastily sold their souls to entities with aeons to ponder every subterfuge of their wicked deals.

Wisps of smog flood the floor. His hand dips into the pool, reaching towards the intrusive voicing plaguing his head.

-

He savours the esoteric relic, a jagged athame. It tries to capture him, taming his free will.

He cuts through the thoughts, packing the blade into his satchel. This will be a perfect candidate for his latest creation.

Slowly, he is building his hexograph – A vital analyser, the pinnacle of his pentacular research.

The others load up the cursed debris. Some will be sold on the black market, the rest disposed of at the church.

Ancient evils tow eternal strings. Every day, their time is running out to keep the growing terror at bay.

His partner gently rests by his side. Her head on his shoulder, basking in the warmth of the flame.

He tries to soak in the moment, knowing there is always evil to crush. But just for now, he can wait another day to find someone to blame.

Together, their band forms the counter fallen. Heavenly beings that lurk in the shadows, tipping the scales away from evil. They purposely sacrificed their immortality, giving the time they have left to fight on behalf of the souls unaware of what they are against.

Bookshelves as high and mighty as empires stand tall, reigning strong within the halls. Floors of marble, a feathered friend of us all journeys through crystal walls.

Life, death, and everything between. The secret of the universe, and what could have been.

Rules of the heavens, the laws of physics - Social and mechanical decrees pile high.

Grasping his latest archival artefacts, he carries his secretive research towards the city's crystal sky.

Floating through, angels below tend to their daily deeds.

Gold-clad armies train beneath, commanded by the honour of the strongest archangels, many whose names within the mortal realm have never been breathed.

Our little bird flutters to the city's gate, ready to take the latest admissions to the royal library for a tour.

He stumbles on his notes, contemplating what to lecture on today. His time is wearing thin, nerves he never knew he had rattle to his core. So much to do, so little time. The consequences of his latest actions hang in the balance. His emotions are at war.

-

Throughout his study, the effects and misconceptions of occult activity have run high. Ever since the first angel fell, they have dragged the living down with them, towards an endless pit of death and despair.

Associates missing, souls lost, a vacuum in a paradise sucks the life out of his spirit. A pain fills his void.

Why, for simply existing, should he live in such luxury? Just to read books with knowledge that continents full of the unfortunate would give their lives to see?

How free is free will if those who oppose it also oppose every freedom for which you could use it?

His notes cover a bare spot under his arm, the plight of his feathers almost as hard to hide as the soreness of his soul.

He can no longer hold back.

Planet-wide wheels cast overhead, carrying a holy throne of light and fire. Beings of pure love and worship drift past; one of the ten thousand eyes gives him a wink – a further inclination that time is about to expire.

Glass pillars and blazing swords surround the most honourable structures.

His associates are ready; their case is full.

The Council of the High Order lay within; it is time for this little bird to finally sing.

-

A gloomy mist covers the cracked cobbles.

He leans beside an overpass, smoking in the night rain. He watches from a distance as his contacts deliver a payload into his cache hidden within.

Restricted weapons fill the bag. Wads of cash stuff their pockets.

Retrieving the rucksack, he stumbles over the bridge, the bag slung over his back.

A never-ending weight continues to pull him down. Every step is an act of judgment. Is what he is doing truly helping?

He feels his soul shrinking, constricting around his lungs, an aching in his heart as sharp as razor blades.

He sits on the ledge, legs swinging in the wind. He lights a cigarette; the smoke masks his face, vivid thoughts projecting all that he has given up.

There's no purgatory for his kind. His decision to leave paradise still plagues his mind.

Sacrificing his immortal spirit to prevent the world from becoming a sinful abyss.

His sole purpose is to keep adversarial forces at bay. Now he just needs to find a way.

Or at least, to show those who have clung so high, just to sever this world from the love within the sky, the truly fatal way that he and his friends think they ought to pay.

-

A nun walks along the bridge, slyly offering him a cigarette and a newspaper.

She bows her head and drifts off into the distance, leaving as inconspicuously as she arrived.

He reads the small note slipped into the paper, crumpling it into his pocket.

Gazing over the water, he grasps the crucifix in his hand tightly, taunting his newfound pain limits, at the edge of breaching his skin.

His lifeless cigarette butt drops below, the diminished embers fading away on the water as he walks away.

The icy river wicks into the filter, drawing it down toward the remanence of the damned that lay sunken below.

He heads to town, another job going down.

His associate lay beside their blacked-out van.

A small, desolate kominka glows in the background. The smoky inferno consumes the dark acts performed within, preventing them from polluting the city.

The land is now cleansed from the sorrow of the impeded. More foolish victims hastily sold their souls to entities with aeons to ponder every subterfuge of their wicked deals.

Wisps of smog flood the floor. His hand dips into the pool, reaching towards the intrusive voicing plaguing his head.

-

He savours the esoteric relic, a jagged athame. It tries to capture him, taming his free will.

He cuts through the thoughts, packing the blade into his satchel. This will be a perfect candidate for his latest creation.

Slowly, he is building his hexograph – A vital analyser, the pinnacle of his pentacular research.

The others load up the cursed debris. Some will be sold on the black market, the rest disposed of at the church.

Ancient evils tow eternal strings. Every day, their time is running out to keep the growing terror at bay.

His partner gently rests by his side. Her head on his shoulder, basking in the warmth of the flame.

He tries to soak in the moment, knowing there is always evil to crush. But just for now, he can wait another day to find someone to blame.

Together, their band forms the counter fallen. Heavenly beings that lurk in the shadows, tipping the scales away from evil. They purposely sacrificed their immortality, giving the time they have left to fight on behalf of the souls unaware of what they are against.

 

Songs of Inspiration:  Do Not Enter by Glare, Dream by Ivory, Unknown Feelings by Novulent, Escape by Jacal, Fly Away by 8obes

This story is a backstory for a character in my larger series CrucifixT - The Fallen Choir

The harsh sun bitterly glares upon a dry, desolate landscape, long isolated from the touch of life.

A young woman rests in the sand, basking in the light above. Time passes silently.

Slowly, she raises a hand towards the gaze, blocking the rays from some of her drying, weary eyes. A slight burn soaks into her delicate, pale skin. She rotates her hand, studying her nascent revelation. A torn ribbon gently drifts in the wind, breezing into her fingers, netting around the tips.

Mouth parched, soul starved, she sits up, straightening her slumped back. The blood-soaked dust crumbles off her gown.

Wandering the wilderness, she spots something curious. She bends her knees and lifts a sun-bleached carabao skull sunk into the ground. With a subtle amusement, she raises her exotic companion upon her head, forming a justly Outré hat, as she friskily dances under the cosmic rays, amongst the withered tumbleweeds.

Feet red, lungs dry, she knows it's time to leave, if she can.

Knees worn, she eventually stumbles across a dilapidated vehicle, burned by its previous victors. Aside lay a row of shallow mounds garnished by a rusty spade.

Her soft smile grows under her mask, amidst the dire land.

A collection of rust-dusted cans gathers on the vehicle's rear, as she puckishly pelts small stones at her newfound targets.

Diminished, she relents, reclining against a lone powerline, bracing her drained spirit.

From a distance, a low, subtle growl trickles across the ground; the vibrations wick up her spine. Slowly, her dreary eyes open; her muted curiosity now aback, she raises her head towards the expanse.

A dark silhouette breaks the horizon, the tearing wind unmasking a decrepit highway beneath the neglected dust.

The smell of the fuel poises her mind, as the deep rumble fills her lungs, constricting every breath. She arises, her feet gliding over the searing ground.

The man slows to a stop, bike purring under his touch, face masked behind his screen.

The motorcycle clinks in the heat, the exhaust radiating whispers of smoke as the aged chrome glistens in the sun.

Walking close, her hands impishly tease the cracked leather of the side satchel as she greets the man facing ahead.

“Nice wings,” he says, not looking back.

“You too,” she replies, grinning at the emblem stitched on his tired jacket as her weak voice barely escapes under her breath. The meticulous appliqué catches her interest, layered above the cracked leathers of a young rogue wearing a story older than the clubs he's outlived.

“Getting on?”

She hesitantly distances herself.

“You can’t touch me,” she mutters.

“I'm not asking to.”

She smiles, straddling the back of the bratted chopper, fastening the carabao with the torn strand caught during her gaze. Her hands featherily grasp his waist.

His arms hang from his handles, not daring to slump, thumbs latched rigid over the grips.

His heel kicks up the stand and sets off. Her delicate hair gracefully wisps in the wind.

Eyes closed, back softened, she tenderly cracks her shoulders, extending her silky sails, catching the wind as they trail behind. The dust breezes off as frivolous as her worries.

An old town grows close, her saviour charging ahead.

The music of the road refills her spirit. The growl of the exhaust drains her sorrows. Her chin gently kisses his roughed shoulder.

Soon she will be able to fulfil her mission, her destination drawing near, her purpose slowly becoming clear.

 

Inspiration songs: Owls Eye by Ivri, Pandora by Wisp, Change (In the House of Flies) by Deftones, Everything I Do Is For You by Amira Elfeky

This is my first short story. Excuse the awkwardness of my experimental vocabulary, as I am learning how to articulate the unusual and unsettling vibe of the story.

The harsh sun bitterly glares upon a dry, desolate landscape, long isolated from the touch of life.

A young woman rests in the sand, basking in the light above. Time passes silently.

Slowly, she raises a hand towards the gaze, blocking the rays from some of her drying, weary eyes. A slight burn soaks into her delicate, pale skin. She rotates her hand, studying her nascent revelation. A torn ribbon gently drifts in the wind, breezing into her fingers, netting around the tips.

Mouth parched, soul starved, she sits up, straightening her slumped back. The blood-soaked dust crumbles off her gown.

Wandering the wilderness, she spots something curious. She bends her knees and lifts a sun-bleached carabao skull sunk into the ground. With a subtle amusement, she raises her exotic companion upon her head, forming a justly Outré hat, as she friskily dances under the cosmic rays, amongst the withered tumbleweeds.

Feet red, lungs dry, she knows it's time to leave, if she can.

Knees worn, she eventually stumbles across a dilapidated vehicle, burned by its previous victors. Aside lay a row of shallow mounds garnished by a rusty spade.

Her soft smile grows under her mask, amidst the dire land.

A collection of rust-dusted cans gathers on the vehicle's rear, as she puckishly pelts small stones at her newfound targets.

Diminished, she relents, reclining against a lone powerline, bracing her drained spirit.

From a distance, a low, subtle growl trickles across the ground; the vibrations wick up her spine. Slowly, her dreary eyes open; her muted curiosity now aback, she raises her head towards the expanse.

A dark silhouette breaks the horizon, the tearing wind unmasking a decrepit highway beneath the neglected dust.

The smell of the fuel poises her mind, as the deep rumble fills her lungs, constricting every breath. She arises, her feet gliding over the searing ground.

The man slows to a stop, bike purring under his touch, face masked behind his screen.

The motorcycle clinks in the heat, the exhaust radiating whispers of smoke as the aged chrome glistens in the sun.

Walking close, her hands impishly tease the cracked leather of the side satchel as she greets the man facing ahead.

“Nice wings,” he says, not looking back.

“You too,” she replies, grinning at the emblem stitched on his tired jacket as her weak voice barely escapes under her breath. The meticulous appliqué catches her interest, layered above the cracked leathers of a young rogue wearing a story older than the clubs he's outlived.

“Getting on?”

She hesitantly distances herself.

“You can’t touch me,” she mutters.

“I'm not asking to.”

She smiles, straddling the back of the bratted chopper, fastening the carabao with the torn strand caught during her gaze. Her hands featherily grasp his waist.

His arms hang from his handles, not daring to slump, thumbs latched rigid over the grips.

His heel kicks up the stand and sets off. Her delicate hair gracefully wisps in the wind.

Eyes closed, back softened, she tenderly cracks her shoulders, extending her silky sails, catching the wind as they trail behind. The dust breezes off as frivolous as her worries.

An old town grows close, her saviour charging ahead.

The music of the road refills her spirit. The growl of the exhaust drains her sorrows. Her chin gently kisses his roughed shoulder.

Soon she will be able to fulfil her mission, her destination drawing near, her purpose slowly becoming clear.

 

Inspiration songs: Owls Eye by Ivri, Pandora by Wisp, Change (In the House of Flies) by Deftones, Everything I Do Is For You by Amira Elfeky

This is my first short story. Excuse the awkwardness of my experimental vocabulary, as I am learning how to articulate the unusual and unsettling vibe of the story.

The harsh sun bitterly glares upon a dry, desolate landscape, long isolated from the touch of life.

A young woman rests in the sand, basking in the light above. Time passes silently.

Slowly, she raises a hand towards the gaze, blocking the rays from some of her drying, weary eyes. A slight burn soaks into her delicate, pale skin. She rotates her hand, studying her nascent revelation. A torn ribbon gently drifts in the wind, breezing into her fingers, netting around the tips.

Mouth parched, soul starved, she sits up, straightening her slumped back. The blood-soaked dust crumbles off her gown.

Wandering the wilderness, she spots something curious. She bends her knees and lifts a sun-bleached carabao skull sunk into the ground. With a subtle amusement, she raises her exotic companion upon her head, forming a justly Outré hat, as she friskily dances under the cosmic rays, amongst the withered tumbleweeds.

Feet red, lungs dry, she knows it's time to leave, if she can.

Knees worn, she eventually stumbles across a dilapidated vehicle, burned by its previous victors. Aside lay a row of shallow mounds garnished by a rusty spade.

Her soft smile grows under her mask, amidst the dire land.

A collection of rust-dusted cans gathers on the vehicle's rear, as she puckishly pelts small stones at her newfound targets.

Diminished, she relents, reclining against a lone powerline, bracing her drained spirit.

From a distance, a low, subtle growl trickles across the ground; the vibrations wick up her spine. Slowly, her dreary eyes open; her muted curiosity now aback, she raises her head towards the expanse.

A dark silhouette breaks the horizon, the tearing wind unmasking a decrepit highway beneath the neglected dust.

The smell of the fuel poises her mind, as the deep rumble fills her lungs, constricting every breath. She arises, her feet gliding over the searing ground.

The man slows to a stop, bike purring under his touch, face masked behind his screen.

The motorcycle clinks in the heat, the exhaust radiating whispers of smoke as the aged chrome glistens in the sun.

Walking close, her hands impishly tease the cracked leather of the side satchel as she greets the man facing ahead.

“Nice wings,” he says, not looking back.

“You too,” she replies, grinning at the emblem stitched on his tired jacket as her weak voice barely escapes under her breath. The meticulous appliqué catches her interest, layered above the cracked leathers of a young rogue wearing a story older than the clubs he's outlived.

“Getting on?”

She hesitantly distances herself.

“You can’t touch me,” she mutters.

“I'm not asking to.”

She smiles, straddling the back of the bratted chopper, fastening the carabao with the torn strand caught during her gaze. Her hands featherily grasp his waist.

His arms hang from his handles, not daring to slump, thumbs latched rigid over the grips.

His heel kicks up the stand and sets off. Her delicate hair gracefully wisps in the wind.

Eyes closed, back softened, she tenderly cracks her shoulders, extending her silky sails, catching the wind as they trail behind. The dust breezes off as frivolous as her worries.

An old town grows close, her saviour charging ahead.

The music of the road refills her spirit. The growl of the exhaust drains her sorrows. Her chin gently kisses his roughed shoulder.

Soon she will be able to fulfil her mission, her destination drawing near, her purpose slowly becoming clear.

 

Inspiration songs: Owls Eye by Ivri, Pandora by Wisp, Change (In the House of Flies) by Deftones, Everything I Do Is For You by Amira Elfeky

This is my first short story. Excuse the awkwardness of my experimental vocabulary, as I am learning how to articulate the unusual and unsettling vibe of the story.

The harsh sun bitterly glares upon a dry, desolate landscape, long isolated from the touch of life.

A young woman rests in the sand, basking in the light above. Time passes silently.

Slowly, she raises a hand towards the gaze, blocking the rays from some of her drying, weary eyes. A slight burn soaks into her delicate, pale skin. She rotates her hand, studying her nascent revelation. A torn ribbon gently drifts in the wind, breezing into her fingers, netting around the tips.

Mouth parched, soul starved, she sits up, straightening her slumped back. The blood-soaked dust crumbles off her gown.

Wandering the wilderness, she spots something curious. She bends her knees and lifts a sun-bleached carabao skull sunk into the ground. With a subtle amusement, she raises her exotic companion upon her head, forming a justly Outré hat, as she friskily dances under the cosmic rays, amongst the withered tumbleweeds.

Feet red, lungs dry, she knows it's time to leave, if she can.

Knees worn, she eventually stumbles across a dilapidated vehicle, burned by its previous victors. Aside lay a row of shallow mounds garnished by a rusty spade.

Her soft smile grows under her mask, amidst the dire land.

A collection of rust-dusted cans gathers on the vehicle's rear, as she puckishly pelts small stones at her newfound targets.

Diminished, she relents, reclining against a lone powerline, bracing her drained spirit.

From a distance, a low, subtle growl trickles across the ground; the vibrations wick up her spine. Slowly, her dreary eyes open; her muted curiosity now aback, she raises her head towards the expanse.

A dark silhouette breaks the horizon, the tearing wind unmasking a decrepit highway beneath the neglected dust.

The smell of the fuel poises her mind, as the deep rumble fills her lungs, constricting every breath. She arises, her feet gliding over the searing ground.

The man slows to a stop, bike purring under his touch, face masked behind his screen.

The motorcycle clinks in the heat, the exhaust radiating whispers of smoke as the aged chrome glistens in the sun.

Walking close, her hands impishly tease the cracked leather of the side satchel as she greets the man facing ahead.

“Nice wings,” he says, not looking back.

“You too,” she replies, grinning at the emblem stitched on his tired jacket as her weak voice barely escapes under her breath. The meticulous appliqué catches her interest, layered above the cracked leathers of a young rogue wearing a story older than the clubs he's outlived.

“Getting on?”

She hesitantly distances herself.

“You can’t touch me,” she mutters.

“I'm not asking to.”

She smiles, straddling the back of the bratted chopper, fastening the carabao with the torn strand caught during her gaze. Her hands featherily grasp his waist.

His arms hang from his handles, not daring to slump, thumbs latched rigid over the grips.

His heel kicks up the stand and sets off. Her delicate hair gracefully wisps in the wind.

Eyes closed, back softened, she tenderly cracks her shoulders, extending her silky sails, catching the wind as they trail behind. The dust breezes off as frivolous as her worries.

An old town grows close, her saviour charging ahead.

The music of the road refills her spirit. The growl of the exhaust drains her sorrows. Her chin gently kisses his roughed shoulder.

Soon she will be able to fulfil her mission, her destination drawing near, her purpose slowly becoming clear.

 

Inspiration songs: Owls Eye by Ivri, Pandora by Wisp, Change (In the House of Flies) by Deftones, Everything I Do Is For You by Amira Elfeky

This is my first short story. Excuse the awkwardness of my experimental vocabulary, as I am learning how to articulate the unusual and unsettling vibe of the story.

Years ago, four angels descended on the earth. Loosely clothed, hungry and tired, they stagger, struggling to walk, finding somewhere to rest, some being new to having legs entirely.

The city air fills their lungs. Gravity pulls them down. Though not as much as the crippling weight of their guilt, defying God's plan for the purpose for which they were created. Stuck on Earth, the limited time they have left will be the final chapter to the thousands, if not millions, of years that they’ve lived.

A group of men gather close, eyeing up the angels. Rogue, the hardhead of the bunch, pulls the others into a side alley out of view. “We can't be seen,” she says sternly. “We have to keep out of sight.”

“What is this place?” The group looks upon the litter-laden back alley behind a series of small food vendors. “Come on, let's go down here. Stay quiet.”

“Don’t these things sleep? How late is it?” Another says, nervously trailing behind.

“Late enough that anyone awake is more likely to be trouble than any help to us.” The biggest one, Stellis, says, stumbling into the alley, dimly lit by the fog-faded moonlight.

They lean against a wall, trying to acclimate to the climate. They grow tired and hungry, the reality of mortality hitting them in full force. “I've never felt so weak,” Rogue says, sneering. “It's disgusting.”

A stray cat jumps in their way, startling the group. “What is that!” the smallest, Song, screams. Stellis, the tall former heavenly prince, kicks through a door in one hit, allowing the group to seek refuge in a run-down abandoned apartment. He grabs a sharp object from the floor and searches the rooms, clearing them of danger.

The others rush in and immediately block the entrance with a cabinet. Rogue sweeps a series of loose needles away from the centre of the furniture baron floor.

“Can… These things hurt us?” Song asks. Henry, the most “human” appearing and relaxed of the group, bends down. “I'm not sure. Even I don’t know to what extent these substances can affect our bodies.”

“You're kidding!” Stellis scoffs. “A lead architect of the Holy Royal Library, my as…”

The group turns to Song, wincing at the window.

“Speak,” Rogue states, sternly.

“What are we supposed to do now?" She asks, “I didn’t expect this place to be so scary. Or cold...”

The others look at each other, then turn to Henry.

“Hey, I didn't say I had all the answers. Just getting here was the first problem.”

They sit around a small makeshift fire in the living room. Made of torn-up floorboards and scraps from a broken dresser, they try to gain what heat they could muster. Coughing from the smoke, shivering from the breeze of the broken windows, it is sure to be a rough night.

Will they get jobs? Join a church? Lay low in something part-time while training to become an exorcist? The question of what they will do with their lives to survive plagues their minds.

“Stop pouting,” Rogue grunts. “You know why we are here. And I'll be dammed if I'm going to join some convent. If I wanted to live by the rules of Father, I would have stayed where I was and retained my glamorous form.”

“Well, then just what are we supposed to do?”

“Do?” She viciously grabs Henry by the collar. “Whatever is dam necessary!”

She throws him on the floor and walks to the end of the room overlooking the street. She pulls out a large, pointed shard of glass lodged in the windowsill.

“There's no way back now. That was the deal. So, you all better get to work!"

She continues, "Whether we last one day or a thousand, you made your choice, so get used to it. Or let those revolting ground creatures feast on you in a ditch, for all I care.”

She glides the shard along the tip of her tongue, just enough for it to scrape but not to leave a mark. “As long as I get my pound of demon flesh,” she grins.

“Careful, you know we can't heal”, Stellis worryingly notes. “Unless you want a thousand years with a bleeding tongue.”

“Why's that? You going to stop me, princess?” she laughs. “You forget... I'm the only one here that’s lived an eternity with a blade.”

Henry perks up. “Yeah, it’s a bitch you couldn’t bring that with you.”

A glistening appears from the back of Rogue's robes as she pulls out a finely detailed curved sword. Her grin widens. Eyes dead, a dark aura washes over her face.

“Besides,” she says with a towering demeanour, “maybe I'll finally feel what it's like to bleed.”

 

 

In the morning, just as the night begins to fade, the group leaves their temporary place of solace and heads to the market.

 

People are speaking a strange language that the group are only just starting to understand. Most are still not used to having “ears” by earthly standards.

The breeze of the morning wind, the clashing of utensils by the food stalls, the idle chatter of those passersby – the sounds flood their ears, painful, struggling to get used to hearing words actually coming from mouths. They believe they are in Japan, not that any of them know enough about Earth to be sure.

Hungry and unsure what to do, one of them swiftly swipes an apple from a stand without the vendor's notice.

“Seriously?” Stellis exclaims.

“What? Scared I'll go to hell?” Rogue shrugs off sarcastically, mouth full of a giant bite.

“Well, I for one don’t want to steal,” Henry agrees.

“Yeah! Would you expect Father to bring up thieves and deceivers up to home?”

Rogue smirks, “You know, there was this one guy.”

“Uhh, shut up, you know what we mean.”

Song catches up with the rest of the group, having been distracted by the birds pecking at the floor, the early crowds flooding the morning market. “What religion is this place anyway?”

Henry responds, “Yeah. Talking about crosses, I don’t see many.”

“Regardless, if you don’t want to starve, we need to find a way of making money. This place works on trading.” Stellis claims, subtly dropping loose change from the floor into the apple stall's cash tray.

“A job? I'm surprised you even know what one is, your rrroyalll highness.” The sarcasm of Rogue's words deliciously roll off her tongue as she walks away.

They reach the end of the market. Large warehouse buildings sit beside them.

Rogue fends off Stellis’s attempts of taking the apple for himself.

“Will you quit it, you two!” Henry adds. “With these clothes, we’re already drawing more attention than we need.”

“It's his brother's fault we're even down here.” Rogue pouts.

“MY brother? Lucifer's all our brothers, you idiot.”

 

Time gets on, and the night grows dark. They spent the whole day scouting the area and returned to the warehouses where they started.

 

“Dudes, it’s been all day. Anyone found anything?”

“Nothing. Everyone here already seems so poor. I doubt most would spare what little work they have to outsiders.”

“Look!” Song shouts. She points to an abandoned warehouse with boarded-up windows. Piles of clothes can be seen spread out on the floor amongst old shop racks.

Henry asks, “Hey, guys? Is it stealing if no one owns it?”

“Not if it gets me out of these rags.” Rogue pushes him out of the way and tears through the pile to see what she wants.

From further within, voices are overheard. The group stands still, hiding behind the boxes. “I thought you said this place was abandoned.”

“Who thought animal skin would look so flashy compared to feathers?” Stellis pulls Rogue from trying on jackets. “Get down! Are you trying to get us killed on our first day?”

The commotion of a fight becomes too much to handle, and the group escapes through a back passage, desperately rushing to put on what clothes they can grab on the way out.

Rogue stares at Henry, struggling to put on a t-shirt. “What? At least you had limbs before! How am I supposed to know how this thing goes on?”

“You're such a hindrance! We should have left you behind after you wrote up that pathetic contract.”

Stellis elbows Rogue in the side. “Quiet! Sound travels far on this plane.”

The previous shouting moves closer, reaching the other side of the large double doors they just went through. Hiding behind boxes outside, the market to escape to is just in view, but all are too scared to run for it in case the noise draws attention.

The brawling bursts through the doors, a fight breaking out into the street.

“Whoa, this is intense,” Stellis says, peeking from the corner of the crates.

He grabs Rogue, pulling her closer. “Look!”

“A Demon?” She says, licking her lips.

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Wait… are they killing it?” Song asks softly, crouching low on the floor, hiding their face.

“I think so?” Stellis responds. “Something doesn’t feel right, though.”

“You think so?” A voice appears behind them, before cracking them over the head with a baseball bat.

 

The group groans, awaking in a dimly lit room within the warehouse they just fled.

 

They begin to wake, struggling to move, their hands coated in the stale dust from the floor.

“So, fresh blood on my turf, eh?” A mysterious figure stands behind the faint glow of an old hanging lampshade, the darkness masking their face. The group tries to move, realising they've been bound.

“Funny, you seem more pathetic than usual,” he continues.

“Screw you!” Rogue seethes through her teeth. “I’ll show you pathetic!”

 “Yeah, man! Who the hell even are you!” Stellis shouts muffled under his gag.

“Your demons are you not?” He raises a sword of his own, placing it near Stellis’s mouth, cutting the gag. “You'd better start speaking up before I cut out your tongues.”

The figure kneels down, closer, his head slowly revealed by the light.

“Wait… You’re an-” Henry’s sentence gets cut off.

“Angel?” He says, leaning on his sword. “Once upon a time. I wasn’t always one for following the rules. But then, that’s a story for another day.”

“Wait, man! We’re on your side!” The others try to plead as Rogues' eager eyes scan for a way out.

“Ha! My side? Is that so…” The figure laughs, stroking his chin sarcastically.

“And what side would that be?” He says, walking back over to the desk. A faint glimpse of light shines from the surface of his baseball bat. The soft glow from his newly lit cigarette as he picks the bat up.

“Uhh… fighting demons?” Henry says curiously.

“Demons?” He laughs, dramatically. “I don’t fight demons, just those who get in my way.”

“Wow! What a great show.” Rogue scoffs. “Everything seems so funny to you. Gunning for an acting award?”

Coughing can be heard under a weak wheezing from the other side of the room.

“And who the hell is that?” Rogue says, eyes squinting in the darkness, leaning in for a better look.

The man cracks the bat against the wall. “None of your dam business!”

The figure walks over to Song. “Do you know why I like bats?” He pauses. “One tap, and I can overwhelm your angel senses and knock you out. One swing, and there won't be much of a head to look at.”

“Look, man! We didn’t mean to step on your turf,” Henry pleads.

“Oh? But then you did.”

 

~Let them go~

 

From the dark corner, a smaller, slimmer figure slowly emerges, gasping for breath, struggling to stand.

“What?” The man says viciously.

“Just let them go. They barely even know what planet they are on,” they wheeze. “They look lucky they chose the right one and didn’t suffocate on Mars.”

The man grasps the woman's arms, catching her fall. “Babe, I told you to rest. You're too weak”. He worryingly pulls a chair from under the desk and places her on top. “I can't lose you yet.”

“Ahem?” Rogue dismissively interrupts. “She said something about letting meee go? And getting these DAM ROPES OFF.”

The shadowy woman looks at him sternly, with a faint look of sadness behind their eyes.

Finally, the man agrees and begins removing the binds placed on the group.

Standing up, Rogue struggles to get her balance. “What’s your two's deal anyway? If you were demons, you would have eaten us by now.”

The man playfully bites his jaw near her ear, untying her. “This one's smart.”

 

The group gathers around the desk. Small battery lamps illuminate the space.

 

“I'm Von,” he says. “That over there is Mika. We've been here for about a year.”

“So, what happened?” Song asks nervously.

“We were angels. Typical messengers used to help guide people and perform other low-level worldly tasks.” He continues, “Giving people little signs and helping them find soul mates, blah blah.”

The others look curious. “So, what changed?”

Mika finally gains the strength to speak. “After a few thousand years of watching weddings, there's only so many you can attend without dreaming of your own.”

Von adds, “When we kept meeting each other, eventually we figured if they could have soul mates, why can't we. So, we left.”

“Mmwha, mmwha, mmwha,” Rogue sarcastically mouths kissing noises. “Doesn't explain why you hit me with a BAT!”

“Who were the others?” Stellis calmly deflects.

“Others?” Von wonders.

Stellis’s eyes glance at Mika’s wounds.

“Oh.” Von explains, “We've made a few… acquaintances whilst we've been here.”

He continues, “A few humans here and there who help us on our way.”

“Not that it always works.” Mika struggles to support her torso upright, leaning on the desk. She brushes off Von’s hand, anxiously attempting to aid her. “I’m fine, leave me alone.”

“Wait… You’re the one from the fight!” Henry points out.

“The gangs are ruthless,” Von explains. “You can suddenly owe them thousands without asking them for a penny. And when the time's up, they start carving you up and selling your parts on the market.”

Song winces at the sound of the horror.

 “We’ve got involved with some bad groups; we hadn't the choice. Unfortunately, one of them found Mika whilst I was running for supplies.”

Rogue’s eyes bat back and forth, contemplating something – resisting the urge to speak.

“We needed weapons to protect ourselves from demons and angels alike. Not to mention thugs.”

Mika slowly adjusts herself to make it easier to talk. “We find it easier to just pose as humans, doing odd jobs here and there. Unfortunately, we fell behind on some payments, which is why they came looking.”

“At least they don’t know we're Angels! There's no telling how much they would try to sell us for.”

Von continues, despite Rogue's boredom and strange antics. “We do odd jobs to make money when we can. Bounty hunting here, some night guarding there, not that it's ever enough.”

“Hoooold up,” Rogue interrupts, no longer able to hold back. “You're telling me it's just you two? How the hell did you get us all here?”

 Stellis comments, “That's true; she sure didn’t help. And how did you fend off all those people?”

“I'm that good,” Von states, smirking, as Mika scoffs at the cringe of her partner's audacity.

“Join us,” Rogue states.

“Join you?” They both laugh. “In what? Your little boyband?” The group looks annoyed at their enjoyment. “You could barely sneak behind some boxes! What could you have to offer?”

“To finish what we came here to start,” Rogue says, a mean demeanour punctuates her seriosity. “To rid this land of Demons and take control of our own lives.”

The others nod along as she speaks. “Live by our own rules, and no one else's.”

“HAHA, that's hysterical. I love it!” Von exclaims, thumping the table with his fist, as Mika subtly chuckles under her breath. “If I didn’t feel so sorry for you, I would be half inclined to believe you.”

He leans forward, with an impish grin, “I don’t think even you believe that’s realistic.”

“Try me,” Rogue says sternly. “I'm willing to die trying.” She puts her hand out for a shake, the others deathly quiet, waiting for a response. Von smugly seals the deal.

 

Song sits in the corner with Henry as the others discuss serious business: Demon sacrifices, Earthly laws and assimilation within the underworld.

 

Song is on the edge, struggling to adapt to such a varied environment. Henry is sitting beside her, being introverted himself; he offers her some comfort.

Mika, now having regained a little strength, kneels down in front of them.

“Hey, little one,” Mika says, gently cupping Song's cheek with a smile. She softly unburrows her head from her arms.

“You were a Seraphim, right? Take this; it might remind you of home." Song curiously examines the tape player she's been given, unsure what it is or how it works. She gives Mika a warm smile at the gesture, no longer feeling overwhelmed.

“Do you have a name?” Mika asks.

Song looks at her blankly, unable to answer.

“What do people call you?”

“Uhmm… I don’t really have one yet.”

“Hmmmm, that's right”, Henry adds. “I suppose some of us never needed one before. We’ll all have to get one to blend in or change it to something simple humans can understand.”

Mika takes the headphones from Song’s fumbling hands before she breaks them, gently places them on her head, turning the music on. Henry smiles, “Maybe we should call you Song.”

The more dominant ones convene more seriously.

“What’s with her?” Von asks.

“Huh?” Stellis answers, “Oh! That’s our Seraphim.”

“A praiser, huh?”

“Yeah…,” Stellis answers. “Unfortunately, being that close to Father's throne, singing and praising and the sort, she wasn't really exposed to sin like us. She probably doesn’t even know what it is, honestly.”

“I bet,” Von replies. “It looks like she has a touch of childhood innocence to her.” He continues, “I hope that won't become a problem.” Rogue silently nods.

Henry gets up and meets the others quietly. “What's going on? You guys staring are giving us the creeps.”

“All I'm saying,” Von answered dismissively. “From what I've seen, there's a big target painted on the backs of the likes of her.”

Henry is outraged. “What the hell does that mean?”

“That you shouldn’t have brought her!” Von swiftly pulls Henry to the side, hiding what they are saying from view. “Something with such close knowledge of Father? Seriously? The Demons would have a field day torturing her, especially something so pure, so innocent.” Stellis winces at the gravity of the revelation.

“I hear a lot of chat, but I don’t hear a plan,” Rogue interrupts bluntly.

“Now there's enough of us?” Von scratches his chin, “We can probably start our own clan. Not something that can rival the Yakuza, but the smaller groups? Ehhhh… It's possible.”

“So, like what?” Rogue presses.

“Weapons? Relics? Procuring things that us Angels will have an edge at over humans,” Von explains.

“Well, weapons would certainly help us against the Deamons”, Stellis calls with a calm and calculating disposition as Rogue grins at the plan.

“But we have to remember,” Von cautions. “Humans live much shorter lives than us; compared to them, we all look between our early to late 20’s. Mika and myself and pushing closer to 30. Years, that is, not centuries.”

Henry nods in agreement.

“To blend in, we will have to act our age, especially her,” Von guides his eyes to Song, cheerfully nodding to music in the corner. “Unlike heaven, mental maturity is essential for survival down here. It’s a lot crueller then ul give it credit for.”

“Trust me, I believe it,” Henry says, stroking the sore side of his head from the earlier altercation.

“They really live that short of a span?” Stellis argues.

“Well, I've seen Angels in our position last a lot less down here. Even by my own hands…” Von looks down, speaking in a calm but dark tone.

At the other end of the room, Mika sits on the floor, back against the table, tired with too little energy to sit upright.

“We should get some food,” Von speaks up, looking over at his partner. “I know a place. Besides, it would be good to people-watch, get you guys used to seeing how humans actually walk,” he says, grinning.

The group travels to a local diner to gain some strength as the night dies and the morning fully breaks.

Welcome to the first part of my new supernatural dark fantasy series CrucifixT! I have never written anything before, so any feedback will be greatly appreciated!

Question: When does an angel finally transform into a demon?

As soon as they leave heaven? When their lungs are filled with more gun and cigarette smoke than air? Or when they have finally given up hope for humanity?

Introduction

We are the Fallen Choir.

Former Heavenly beings who no longer follow the rules. We answer to no one. Belong to no one.

Previously in the form of Seraphim, Cherubim, Virtues or the Powers, we are now our own choir – the choir of the fallen.

We've spent aeons watching from above, as those who fell below tear others apart – Those we love, and those sent down to protect those we serve.

Together, we made a deal with Heaven to fight those from Hell. A sacrifice to the council of the High Order, relinquishing our celestial rights all to achieve one thing – to stay on earth, so we can strike demons into the ground where they belong.

We gave up our holy status, our divine powers and perfect immortality. We are the hunters that are now the hunted. Becoming fallen, to crush the fallen.

Now we fight amongst the mortals, hidden in plain sight, counting the days until our time finally runs out.

 

Backstory

Angels don't age, but without God's power, we can’t really heal either. In fact, without his spirit, we can’t do much of anything, as most of our supernatural abilities are only performed through channelling what we have been given to wield.

The downside of this deal, or at least one of many, is simple. Once we are dead, we are dead. No Heaven, no Hell, no wandering the Earth, and thankfully no Abyss (Demon Hell). We are just as vulnerable, if not more, than those who call Earth home.

Our heavenly bodies have been limited to Angel form - the lowest rank of the Heavenly Hosts. This is the most human-like form of celestial beings that people have been known to interact with, which, for the most part, is usually indistinguishable from the general population.

We may no longer have 6 sets of beautiful wings, planet-wide interlacing rings of eyes, or beautiful bodies carved from fire or any other epic attributes our previous forms may have had. However, from within, the strength of our spirit remains the same.

With no powers from God, we have only what we can muster. Living off the land, we must fight like a mortal, feast like a mortal and more importantly, blend in just like everyone else. Assimilation, or a life hidden underground - these are our only hope if we are to survive.

Many in our ranks had former roles of tending to holy thrones, overseeing entire celestial departments, and even low-level admin tasks. Without the ability to have families, our associates were all we had to call our own.

Countless demon attacks, watching those sent down to work on Earth never return, and witnessing the constant anguish imposed on humankind. We could no longer sit back. We gave up paperwork to get our hands dirty, sacrificing our easy lives for the greater good, just as we watched our Father do two thousand years ago.

He serves mankind as a God. However, even someone as mighty as him saw the importance of serving as the Angel of the Lord. And ultimately, chose to sacrifice his own life for the betterment of mankind before finally re-ascending to heaven. A model for both angel and humankind. Now it's time for us to do the same. Though unlike him, once we’re gone, there won't be any way back.

Now mortal, our time is running short. Unable to repair, no way to recover after a fight, our bodies are all we've got. We grow weaker every day, and our choir is wearing thin.

 

We are the fallen, fighting the fallen, for those we have watched fall.

(I'm still conflicted about having a separate intro and backstory. Would they work more together? Should I just try again? I have all the chapters ready for feedback, but this is the one giving me the most struggle.)

Act 0 - Backstory

Years ago, four angels descended on the earth. Loosely clothed, hungry and tired, they stagger, struggling to walk, finding somewhere to rest, some being new to having legs entirely.

The city air fills their lungs. Gravity pulls them down. Though not as much as the crippling weight of their guilt, defying God's plan for the purpose for which they were created. Stuck on Earth, the limited time they have left will be the final chapter to the thousands, if not millions, of years that they’ve lived.

A group of men gather close, eyeing up the angels. Rogue, the hardhead of the bunch, pulls the others into a side alley out of view. “We can't be seen,” she says sternly. “We have to keep out of sight.”

“What is this place?” The group looks upon the litter-laden back alley behind a series of small food vendors. “Come on, let's go down here. Stay quiet.”

“Don’t these things sleep? How late is it?” Another says, nervously trailing behind.

“Late enough that anyone awake is more likely to be trouble than any help to us.” The biggest one, Stellis, says, stumbling into the alley, dimly lit by the fog-faded moonlight.

They lean against a wall, trying to acclimate to the climate. They grow tired and hungry, the reality of mortality hitting them in full force. “I've never felt so weak,” Rogue says, sneering. “It's disgusting.”

A stray cat jumps in their way, startling the group. “What is that!” the smallest, Song, screams. Stellis, the tall former heavenly prince, kicks through a door in one hit, allowing the group to seek refuge in a run-down abandoned apartment. He grabs a sharp object from the floor and searches the rooms, clearing them of danger.

The others rush in and immediately block the entrance with a cabinet. Rogue sweeps a series of loose needles away from the centre of the furniture baron floor.

“Can… These things hurt us?” Song asks. Henry, the most “human” appearing and relaxed of the group, bends down. “I'm not sure. Even I don’t know to what extent these substances can affect our bodies.”

“You're kidding!” Stellis scoffs. “A lead architect of the Holy Royal Library, my as…”

The group turns to Song, wincing at the window.

“Speak,” Rogue states, sternly.

“What are we supposed to do now?" She asks, “I didn’t expect this place to be so scary. Or cold...”

The others look at each other, then turn to Henry.

“Hey, I didn't say I had all the answers. Just getting here was the first problem.”

They sit around a small makeshift fire in the living room. Made of torn-up floorboards and scraps from a broken dresser, they try to gain what heat they could muster. Coughing from the smoke, shivering from the breeze of the broken windows, it is sure to be a rough night.

Will they get jobs? Join a church? Lay low in something part-time while training to become an exorcist? The question of what they will do with their lives to survive plagues their minds.

“Stop pouting,” Rogue grunts. “You know why we are here. And I'll be dammed if I'm going to join some convent. If I wanted to live by the rules of Father, I would have stayed where I was and retained my glamorous form.”

“Well, then just what are we supposed to do?”

“Do?” She viciously grabs Henry by the collar. “Whatever is dam necessary!”

She throws him on the floor and walks to the end of the room overlooking the street. She pulls out a large, pointed shard of glass lodged in the windowsill.

“There's no way back now. That was the deal. So, you all better get to work!"

She continues, "Whether we last one day or a thousand, you made your choice, so get used to it. Or let those revolting ground creatures feast on you in a ditch, for all I care.”

She glides the shard along the tip of her tongue, just enough for it to scrape but not to leave a mark. “As long as I get my pound of demon flesh,” she grins.

“Careful, you know we can't heal”, Stellis worryingly notes. “Unless you want a thousand years with a bleeding tongue.”

“Why's that? You going to stop me, princess?” she laughs. “You forget... I'm the only one here that’s lived an eternity with a blade.”

Henry perks up. “Yeah, it’s a bitch you couldn’t bring that with you.”

A glistening appears from the back of Rogue's robes as she pulls out a finely detailed curved sword. Her grin widens. Eyes dead, a dark aura washes over her face.

“Besides,” she says with a towering demeanour, “maybe I'll finally feel what it's like to bleed.”

 

 

In the morning, just as the night begins to fade, the group leaves their temporary place of solace and heads to the market.

 

People are speaking a strange language that the group are only just starting to understand. Most are still not used to having “ears” by earthly standards.

The breeze of the morning wind, the clashing of utensils by the food stalls, the idle chatter of those passersby – the sounds flood their ears, painful, struggling to get used to hearing words actually coming from mouths. They believe they are in Japan, not that any of them know enough about Earth to be sure.

Hungry and unsure what to do, one of them swiftly swipes an apple from a stand without the vendor's notice.

“Seriously?” Stellis exclaims.

“What? Scared I'll go to hell?” Rogue shrugs off sarcastically, mouth full of a giant bite.

“Well, I for one don’t want to steal,” Henry agrees.

“Yeah! Would you expect Father to bring up thieves and deceivers up to home?”

Rogue smirks, “You know, there was this one guy.”

“Uhh, shut up, you know what we mean.”

Song catches up with the rest of the group, having been distracted by the birds pecking at the floor, the early crowds flooding the morning market. “What religion is this place anyway?”

Henry responds, “Yeah. Talking about crosses, I don’t see many.”

“Regardless, if you don’t want to starve, we need to find a way of making money. This place works on trading.” Stellis claims, subtly dropping loose change from the floor into the apple stall's cash tray.

“A job? I'm surprised you even know what one is, your rrroyalll highness.” The sarcasm of Rogue's words deliciously roll off her tongue as she walks away.

They reach the end of the market. Large warehouse buildings sit beside them.

Rogue fends off Stellis’s attempts of taking the apple for himself.

“Will you quit it, you two!” Henry adds. “With these clothes, we’re already drawing more attention than we need.”

“It's his brother's fault we're even down here.” Rogue pouts.

“MY brother? Lucifer's all our brothers, you idiot.”

 

Time gets on, and the night grows dark. They spent the whole day scouting the area and returned to the warehouses where they started.

 

“Dudes, it’s been all day. Anyone found anything?”

“Nothing. Everyone here already seems so poor. I doubt most would spare what little work they have to outsiders.”

“Look!” Song shouts. She points to an abandoned warehouse with boarded-up windows. Piles of clothes can be seen spread out on the floor amongst old shop racks.

Henry asks, “Hey, guys? Is it stealing if no one owns it?”

“Not if it gets me out of these rags.” Rogue pushes him out of the way and tears through the pile to see what she wants.

From further within, voices are overheard. The group stands still, hiding behind the boxes. “I thought you said this place was abandoned.”

“Who thought animal skin would look so flashy compared to feathers?” Stellis pulls Rogue from trying on jackets. “Get down! Are you trying to get us killed on our first day?”

The commotion of a fight becomes too much to handle, and the group escapes through a back passage, desperately rushing to put on what clothes they can grab on the way out.

Rogue stares at Henry, struggling to put on a t-shirt. “What? At least you had limbs before! How am I supposed to know how this thing goes on?”

“You're such a hindrance! We should have left you behind after you wrote up that pathetic contract.”

Stellis elbows Rogue in the side. “Quiet! Sound travels far on this plane.”

The previous shouting moves closer, reaching the other side of the large double doors they just went through. Hiding behind boxes outside, the market to escape to is just in view, but all are too scared to run for it in case the noise draws attention.

The brawling bursts through the doors, a fight breaking out into the street.

“Whoa, this is intense,” Stellis says, peeking from the corner of the crates.

He grabs Rogue, pulling her closer. “Look!”

“A Demon?” She says, licking her lips.

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Wait… are they killing it?” Song asks softly, crouching low on the floor, hiding their face.

“I think so?” Stellis responds. “Something doesn’t feel right, though.”

“You think so?” A voice appears behind them, before cracking them over the head with a baseball bat.

 

The group groans, awaking in a dimly lit room within the warehouse they just fled.

 

They begin to wake, struggling to move, their hands coated in the stale dust from the floor.

“So, fresh blood on my turf, eh?” A mysterious figure stands behind the faint glow of an old hanging lampshade, the darkness masking their face. The group tries to move, realising they've been bound.

“Funny, you seem more pathetic than usual,” he continues.

“Screw you!” Rogue seethes through her teeth. “I’ll show you pathetic!”

 “Yeah, man! Who the hell even are you!” Stellis shouts muffled under his gag.

“Your demons are you not?” He raises a sword of his own, placing it near Stellis’s mouth, cutting the gag. “You'd better start speaking up before I cut out your tongues.”

The figure kneels down, closer, his head slowly revealed by the light.

“Wait… You’re an-” Henry’s sentence gets cut off.

“Angel?” He says, leaning on his sword. “Once upon a time. I wasn’t always one for following the rules. But then, that’s a story for another day.”

“Wait, man! We’re on your side!” The others try to plead as Rogues' eager eyes scan for a way out.

“Ha! My side? Is that so…” The figure laughs, stroking his chin sarcastically.

“And what side would that be?” He says, walking back over to the desk. A faint glimpse of light shines from the surface of his baseball bat. The soft glow from his newly lit cigarette as he picks the bat up.

“Uhh… fighting demons?” Henry says curiously.

“Demons?” He laughs, dramatically. “I don’t fight demons, just those who get in my way.”

“Wow! What a great show.” Rogue scoffs. “Everything seems so funny to you. Gunning for an acting award?”

Coughing can be heard under a weak wheezing from the other side of the room.

“And who the hell is that?” Rogue says, eyes squinting in the darkness, leaning in for a better look.

The man cracks the bat against the wall. “None of your dam business!”

The figure walks over to Song. “Do you know why I like bats?” He pauses. “One tap, and I can overwhelm your angel senses and knock you out. One swing, and there won't be much of a head to look at.”

“Look, man! We didn’t mean to step on your turf,” Henry pleads.

“Oh? But then you did.”

 

~Let them go~

 

From the dark corner, a smaller, slimmer figure slowly emerges, gasping for breath, struggling to stand.

“What?” The man says viciously.

“Just let them go. They barely even know what planet they are on,” they wheeze. “They look lucky they chose the right one and didn’t suffocate on Mars.”

The man grasps the woman's arms, catching her fall. “Babe, I told you to rest. You're too weak”. He worryingly pulls a chair from under the desk and places her on top. “I can't lose you yet.”

“Ahem?” Rogue dismissively interrupts. “She said something about letting meee go? And getting these DAM ROPES OFF.”

The shadowy woman looks at him sternly, with a faint look of sadness behind their eyes.

Finally, the man agrees and begins removing the binds placed on the group.

Standing up, Rogue struggles to get her balance. “What’s your two's deal anyway? If you were demons, you would have eaten us by now.”

The man playfully bites his jaw near her ear, untying her. “This one's smart.”

 

The group gathers around the desk. Small battery lamps illuminate the space.

 

“I'm Von,” he says. “That over there is Mika. We've been here for about a year.”

“So, what happened?” Song asks nervously.

“We were angels. Typical messengers used to help guide people and perform other low-level worldly tasks.” He continues, “Giving people little signs and helping them find soul mates, blah blah.”

The others look curious. “So, what changed?”

Mika finally gains the strength to speak. “After a few thousand years of watching weddings, there's only so many you can attend without dreaming of your own.”

Von adds, “When we kept meeting each other, eventually we figured if they could have soul mates, why can't we. So, we left.”

“Mmwha, mmwha, mmwha,” Rogue sarcastically mouths kissing noises. “Doesn't explain why you hit me with a BAT!”

“Who were the others?” Stellis calmly deflects.

“Others?” Von wonders.

Stellis’s eyes glance at Mika’s wounds.

“Oh.” Von explains, “We've made a few… acquaintances whilst we've been here.”

He continues, “A few humans here and there who help us on our way.”

“Not that it always works.” Mika struggles to support her torso upright, leaning on the desk. She brushes off Von’s hand, anxiously attempting to aid her. “I’m fine, leave me alone.”

“Wait… You’re the one from the fight!” Henry points out.

“The gangs are ruthless,” Von explains. “You can suddenly owe them thousands without asking them for a penny. And when the time's up, they start carving you up and selling your parts on the market.”

Song winces at the sound of the horror.

 “We’ve got involved with some bad groups; we hadn't the choice. Unfortunately, one of them found Mika whilst I was running for supplies.”

Rogue’s eyes bat back and forth, contemplating something – resisting the urge to speak.

“We needed weapons to protect ourselves from demons and angels alike. Not to mention thugs.”

Mika slowly adjusts herself to make it easier to talk. “We find it easier to just pose as humans, doing odd jobs here and there. Unfortunately, we fell behind on some payments, which is why they came looking.”

“At least they don’t know we're Angels! There's no telling how much they would try to sell us for.”

Von continues, despite Rogue's boredom and strange antics. “We do odd jobs to make money when we can. Bounty hunting here, some night guarding there, not that it's ever enough.”

“Hoooold up,” Rogue interrupts, no longer able to hold back. “You're telling me it's just you two? How the hell did you get us all here?”

 Stellis comments, “That's true; she sure didn’t help. And how did you fend off all those people?”

“I'm that good,” Von states, smirking, as Mika scoffs at the cringe of her partner's audacity.

“Join us,” Rogue states.

“Join you?” They both laugh. “In what? Your little boyband?” The group looks annoyed at their enjoyment. “You could barely sneak behind some boxes! What could you have to offer?”

“To finish what we came here to start,” Rogue says, a mean demeanour punctuates her seriosity. “To rid this land of Demons and take control of our own lives.”

The others nod along as she speaks. “Live by our own rules, and no one else's.”

“HAHA, that's hysterical. I love it!” Von exclaims, thumping the table with his fist, as Mika subtly chuckles under her breath. “If I didn’t feel so sorry for you, I would be half inclined to believe you.”

He leans forward, with an impish grin, “I don’t think even you believe that’s realistic.”

“Try me,” Rogue says sternly. “I'm willing to die trying.” She puts her hand out for a shake, the others deathly quiet, waiting for a response. Von smugly seals the deal.

 

Song sits in the corner with Henry as the others discuss serious business: Demon sacrifices, Earthly laws and assimilation within the underworld.

 

Song is on the edge, struggling to adapt to such a varied environment. Henry is sitting beside her, being introverted himself; he offers her some comfort.

Mika, now having regained a little strength, kneels down in front of them.

“Hey, little one,” Mika says, gently cupping Song's cheek with a smile. She softly unburrows her head from her arms.

“You were a Seraphim, right? Take this; it might remind you of home." Song curiously examines the tape player she's been given, unsure what it is or how it works. She gives Mika a warm smile at the gesture, no longer feeling overwhelmed.

“Do you have a name?” Mika asks.

Song looks at her blankly, unable to answer.

“What do people call you?”

“Uhmm… I don’t really have one yet.”

“Hmmmm, that's right”, Henry adds. “I suppose some of us never needed one before. We’ll all have to get one to blend in or change it to something simple humans can understand.”

Mika takes the headphones from Song’s fumbling hands before she breaks them, gently places them on her head, turning the music on. Henry smiles, “Maybe we should call you Song.”

The more dominant ones convene more seriously.

“What’s with her?” Von asks.

“Huh?” Stellis answers, “Oh! That’s our Seraphim.”

“A praiser, huh?”

“Yeah…,” Stellis answers. “Unfortunately, being that close to Father's throne, singing and praising and the sort, she wasn't really exposed to sin like us. She probably doesn’t even know what it is, honestly.”

“I bet,” Von replies. “It looks like she has a touch of childhood innocence to her.” He continues, “I hope that won't become a problem.” Rogue silently nods.

Henry gets up and meets the others quietly. “What's going on? You guys staring are giving us the creeps.”

“All I'm saying,” Von answered dismissively. “From what I've seen, there's a big target painted on the backs of the likes of her.”

Henry is outraged. “What the hell does that mean?”

“That you shouldn’t have brought her!” Von swiftly pulls Henry to the side, hiding what they are saying from view. “Something with such close knowledge of Father? Seriously? The Demons would have a field day torturing her, especially something so pure, so innocent.” Stellis winces at the gravity of the revelation.

“I hear a lot of chat, but I don’t hear a plan,” Rogue interrupts bluntly.

“Now there's enough of us?” Von scratches his chin, “We can probably start our own clan. Not something that can rival the Yakuza, but the smaller groups? Ehhhh… It's possible.”

“So, like what?” Rogue presses.

“Weapons? Relics? Procuring things that us Angels will have an edge at over humans,” Von explains.

“Well, weapons would certainly help us against the Deamons”, Stellis calls with a calm and calculating disposition as Rogue grins at the plan.

“But we have to remember,” Von cautions. “Humans live much shorter lives than us; compared to them, we all look between our early to late 20’s. Mika and myself and pushing closer to 30. Years, that is, not centuries.”

Henry nods in agreement.

“To blend in, we will have to act our age, especially her,” Von guides his eyes to Song, cheerfully nodding to music in the corner. “Unlike heaven, mental maturity is essential for survival down here. It’s a lot crueller then ul give it credit for.”

“Trust me, I believe it,” Henry says, stroking the sore side of his head from the earlier altercation.

“They really live that short of a span?” Stellis argues.

“Well, I've seen Angels in our position last a lot less down here. Even by my own hands…” Von looks down, speaking in a calm but dark tone.

At the other end of the room, Mika sits on the floor, back against the table, tired with too little energy to sit upright.

“We should get some food,” Von speaks up, looking over at his partner. “I know a place. Besides, it would be good to people-watch, get you guys used to seeing how humans actually walk,” he says, grinning.

The group travels to a local diner to gain some strength as the night dies and the morning fully breaks.

Act 0 - Backstory

Years ago, four angels descended on the earth. Loosely clothed, hungry and tired, they stagger, struggling to walk, finding somewhere to rest, some being new to having legs entirely.

The city air fills their lungs. Gravity pulls them down. Though not as much as the crippling weight of their guilt, defying God's plan for the purpose for which they were created. Stuck on Earth, the limited time they have left will be the final chapter to the thousands, if not millions, of years that they’ve lived.

A group of men gather close, eyeing up the angels. Rogue, the hardhead of the bunch, pulls the others into a side alley out of view. “We can't be seen,” she says sternly. “We have to keep out of sight.”

“What is this place?” The group looks upon the litter-laden back alley behind a series of small food vendors. “Come on, let's go down here. Stay quiet.”

“Don’t these things sleep? How late is it?” Another says, nervously trailing behind.

“Late enough that anyone awake is more likely to be trouble than any help to us.” The biggest one, Stellis, says, stumbling into the alley, dimly lit by the fog-faded moonlight.

They lean against a wall, trying to acclimate to the climate. They grow tired and hungry, the reality of mortality hitting them in full force. “I've never felt so weak,” Rogue says, sneering. “It's disgusting.”

A stray cat jumps in their way, startling the group. “What is that!” the smallest, Song, screams. Stellis, the tall former heavenly prince, kicks through a door in one hit, allowing the group to seek refuge in a run-down abandoned apartment. He grabs a sharp object from the floor and searches the rooms, clearing them of danger.

The others rush in and immediately block the entrance with a cabinet. Rogue sweeps a series of loose needles away from the centre of the furniture baron floor.

“Can… These things hurt us?” Song asks. Henry, the most “human” appearing and relaxed of the group, bends down. “I'm not sure. Even I don’t know to what extent these substances can affect our bodies.”

“You're kidding!” Stellis scoffs. “A lead architect of the Holy Royal Library, my as…”

The group turns to Song, wincing at the window.

“Speak,” Rogue states, sternly.

“What are we supposed to do now?" She asks, “I didn’t expect this place to be so scary. Or cold...”

The others look at each other, then turn to Henry.

“Hey, I didn't say I had all the answers. Just getting here was the first problem.”

They sit around a small makeshift fire in the living room. Made of torn-up floorboards and scraps from a broken dresser, they try to gain what heat they could muster. Coughing from the smoke, shivering from the breeze of the broken windows, it is sure to be a rough night.

Will they get jobs? Join a church? Lay low in something part-time while training to become an exorcist? The question of what they will do with their lives to survive plagues their minds.

“Stop pouting,” Rogue grunts. “You know why we are here. And I'll be dammed if I'm going to join some convent. If I wanted to live by the rules of Father, I would have stayed where I was and retained my glamorous form.”

“Well, then just what are we supposed to do?”

“Do?” She viciously grabs Henry by the collar. “Whatever is dam necessary!”

She throws him on the floor and walks to the end of the room overlooking the street. She pulls out a large, pointed shard of glass lodged in the windowsill.

“There's no way back now. That was the deal. So, you all better get to work!"

She continues, "Whether we last one day or a thousand, you made your choice, so get used to it. Or let those revolting ground creatures feast on you in a ditch, for all I care.”

She glides the shard along the tip of her tongue, just enough for it to scrape but not to leave a mark. “As long as I get my pound of demon flesh,” she grins.

“Careful, you know we can't heal”, Stellis worryingly notes. “Unless you want a thousand years with a bleeding tongue.”

“Why's that? You going to stop me, princess?” she laughs. “You forget... I'm the only one here that’s lived an eternity with a blade.”

Henry perks up. “Yeah, it’s a bitch you couldn’t bring that with you.”

A glistening appears from the back of Rogue's robes as she pulls out a finely detailed curved sword. Her grin widens. Eyes dead, a dark aura washes over her face.

“Besides,” she says with a towering demeanour, “maybe I'll finally feel what it's like to bleed.”

 

 

In the morning, just as the night begins to fade, the group leaves their temporary place of solace and heads to the market.

 

People are speaking a strange language that the group are only just starting to understand. Most are still not used to having “ears” by earthly standards.

The breeze of the morning wind, the clashing of utensils by the food stalls, the idle chatter of those passersby – the sounds flood their ears, painful, struggling to get used to hearing words actually coming from mouths. They believe they are in Japan, not that any of them know enough about Earth to be sure.

Hungry and unsure what to do, one of them swiftly swipes an apple from a stand without the vendor's notice.

“Seriously?” Stellis exclaims.

“What? Scared I'll go to hell?” Rogue shrugs off sarcastically, mouth full of a giant bite.

“Well, I for one don’t want to steal,” Henry agrees.

“Yeah! Would you expect Father to bring up thieves and deceivers up to home?”

Rogue smirks, “You know, there was this one guy.”

“Uhh, shut up, you know what we mean.”

Song catches up with the rest of the group, having been distracted by the birds pecking at the floor, the early crowds flooding the morning market. “What religion is this place anyway?”

Henry responds, “Yeah. Talking about crosses, I don’t see many.”

“Regardless, if you don’t want to starve, we need to find a way of making money. This place works on trading.” Stellis claims, subtly dropping loose change from the floor into the apple stall's cash tray.

“A job? I'm surprised you even know what one is, your rrroyalll highness.” The sarcasm of Rogue's words deliciously roll off her tongue as she walks away.

They reach the end of the market. Large warehouse buildings sit beside them.

Rogue fends off Stellis’s attempts of taking the apple for himself.

“Will you quit it, you two!” Henry adds. “With these clothes, we’re already drawing more attention than we need.”

“It's his brother's fault we're even down here.” Rogue pouts.

“MY brother? Lucifer's all our brothers, you idiot.”

 

Time gets on, and the night grows dark. They spent the whole day scouting the area and returned to the warehouses where they started.

 

“Dudes, it’s been all day. Anyone found anything?”

“Nothing. Everyone here already seems so poor. I doubt most would spare what little work they have to outsiders.”

“Look!” Song shouts. She points to an abandoned warehouse with boarded-up windows. Piles of clothes can be seen spread out on the floor amongst old shop racks.

Henry asks, “Hey, guys? Is it stealing if no one owns it?”

“Not if it gets me out of these rags.” Rogue pushes him out of the way and tears through the pile to see what she wants.

From further within, voices are overheard. The group stands still, hiding behind the boxes. “I thought you said this place was abandoned.”

“Who thought animal skin would look so flashy compared to feathers?” Stellis pulls Rogue from trying on jackets. “Get down! Are you trying to get us killed on our first day?”

The commotion of a fight becomes too much to handle, and the group escapes through a back passage, desperately rushing to put on what clothes they can grab on the way out.

Rogue stares at Henry, struggling to put on a t-shirt. “What? At least you had limbs before! How am I supposed to know how this thing goes on?”

“You're such a hindrance! We should have left you behind after you wrote up that pathetic contract.”

Stellis elbows Rogue in the side. “Quiet! Sound travels far on this plane.”

The previous shouting moves closer, reaching the other side of the large double doors they just went through. Hiding behind boxes outside, the market to escape to is just in view, but all are too scared to run for it in case the noise draws attention.

The brawling bursts through the doors, a fight breaking out into the street.

“Whoa, this is intense,” Stellis says, peeking from the corner of the crates.

He grabs Rogue, pulling her closer. “Look!”

“A Demon?” She says, licking her lips.

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Wait… are they killing it?” Song asks softly, crouching low on the floor, hiding their face.

“I think so?” Stellis responds. “Something doesn’t feel right, though.”

“You think so?” A voice appears behind them, before cracking them over the head with a baseball bat.

 

The group groans, awaking in a dimly lit room within the warehouse they just fled.

 

They begin to wake, struggling to move, their hands coated in the stale dust from the floor.

“So, fresh blood on my turf, eh?” A mysterious figure stands behind the faint glow of an old hanging lampshade, the darkness masking their face. The group tries to move, realising they've been bound.

“Funny, you seem more pathetic than usual,” he continues.

“Screw you!” Rogue seethes through her teeth. “I’ll show you pathetic!”

 “Yeah, man! Who the hell even are you!” Stellis shouts muffled under his gag.

“Your demons are you not?” He raises a sword of his own, placing it near Stellis’s mouth, cutting the gag. “You'd better start speaking up before I cut out your tongues.”

The figure kneels down, closer, his head slowly revealed by the light.

“Wait… You’re an-” Henry’s sentence gets cut off.

“Angel?” He says, leaning on his sword. “Once upon a time. I wasn’t always one for following the rules. But then, that’s a story for another day.”

“Wait, man! We’re on your side!” The others try to plead as Rogues' eager eyes scan for a way out.

“Ha! My side? Is that so…” The figure laughs, stroking his chin sarcastically.

“And what side would that be?” He says, walking back over to the desk. A faint glimpse of light shines from the surface of his baseball bat. The soft glow from his newly lit cigarette as he picks the bat up.

“Uhh… fighting demons?” Henry says curiously.

“Demons?” He laughs, dramatically. “I don’t fight demons, just those who get in my way.”

“Wow! What a great show.” Rogue scoffs. “Everything seems so funny to you. Gunning for an acting award?”

Coughing can be heard under a weak wheezing from the other side of the room.

“And who the hell is that?” Rogue says, eyes squinting in the darkness, leaning in for a better look.

The man cracks the bat against the wall. “None of your dam business!”

The figure walks over to Song. “Do you know why I like bats?” He pauses. “One tap, and I can overwhelm your angel senses and knock you out. One swing, and there won't be much of a head to look at.”

“Look, man! We didn’t mean to step on your turf,” Henry pleads.

“Oh? But then you did.”

 

~Let them go~

 

From the dark corner, a smaller, slimmer figure slowly emerges, gasping for breath, struggling to stand.

“What?” The man says viciously.

“Just let them go. They barely even know what planet they are on,” they wheeze. “They look lucky they chose the right one and didn’t suffocate on Mars.”

The man grasps the woman's arms, catching her fall. “Babe, I told you to rest. You're too weak”. He worryingly pulls a chair from under the desk and places her on top. “I can't lose you yet.”

“Ahem?” Rogue dismissively interrupts. “She said something about letting meee go? And getting these DAM ROPES OFF.”

The shadowy woman looks at him sternly, with a faint look of sadness behind their eyes.

Finally, the man agrees and begins removing the binds placed on the group.

Standing up, Rogue struggles to get her balance. “What’s your two's deal anyway? If you were demons, you would have eaten us by now.”

The man playfully bites his jaw near her ear, untying her. “This one's smart.”

 

The group gathers around the desk. Small battery lamps illuminate the space.

 

“I'm Von,” he says. “That over there is Mika. We've been here for about a year.”

“So, what happened?” Song asks nervously.

“We were angels. Typical messengers used to help guide people and perform other low-level worldly tasks.” He continues, “Giving people little signs and helping them find soul mates, blah blah.”

The others look curious. “So, what changed?”

Mika finally gains the strength to speak. “After a few thousand years of watching weddings, there's only so many you can attend without dreaming of your own.”

Von adds, “When we kept meeting each other, eventually we figured if they could have soul mates, why can't we. So, we left.”

“Mmwha, mmwha, mmwha,” Rogue sarcastically mouths kissing noises. “Doesn't explain why you hit me with a BAT!”

“Who were the others?” Stellis calmly deflects.

“Others?” Von wonders.

Stellis’s eyes glance at Mika’s wounds.

“Oh.” Von explains, “We've made a few… acquaintances whilst we've been here.”

He continues, “A few humans here and there who help us on our way.”

“Not that it always works.” Mika struggles to support her torso upright, leaning on the desk. She brushes off Von’s hand, anxiously attempting to aid her. “I’m fine, leave me alone.”

“Wait… You’re the one from the fight!” Henry points out.

“The gangs are ruthless,” Von explains. “You can suddenly owe them thousands without asking them for a penny. And when the time's up, they start carving you up and selling your parts on the market.”

Song winces at the sound of the horror.

 “We’ve got involved with some bad groups; we hadn't the choice. Unfortunately, one of them found Mika whilst I was running for supplies.”

Rogue’s eyes bat back and forth, contemplating something – resisting the urge to speak.

“We needed weapons to protect ourselves from demons and angels alike. Not to mention thugs.”

Mika slowly adjusts herself to make it easier to talk. “We find it easier to just pose as humans, doing odd jobs here and there. Unfortunately, we fell behind on some payments, which is why they came looking.”

“At least they don’t know we're Angels! There's no telling how much they would try to sell us for.”

Von continues, despite Rogue's boredom and strange antics. “We do odd jobs to make money when we can. Bounty hunting here, some night guarding there, not that it's ever enough.”

“Hoooold up,” Rogue interrupts, no longer able to hold back. “You're telling me it's just you two? How the hell did you get us all here?”

 Stellis comments, “That's true; she sure didn’t help. And how did you fend off all those people?”

“I'm that good,” Von states, smirking, as Mika scoffs at the cringe of her partner's audacity.

“Join us,” Rogue states.

“Join you?” They both laugh. “In what? Your little boyband?” The group looks annoyed at their enjoyment. “You could barely sneak behind some boxes! What could you have to offer?”

“To finish what we came here to start,” Rogue says, a mean demeanour punctuates her seriosity. “To rid this land of Demons and take control of our own lives.”

The others nod along as she speaks. “Live by our own rules, and no one else's.”

“HAHA, that's hysterical. I love it!” Von exclaims, thumping the table with his fist, as Mika subtly chuckles under her breath. “If I didn’t feel so sorry for you, I would be half inclined to believe you.”

He leans forward, with an impish grin, “I don’t think even you believe that’s realistic.”

“Try me,” Rogue says sternly. “I'm willing to die trying.” She puts her hand out for a shake, the others deathly quiet, waiting for a response. Von smugly seals the deal.

 

Song sits in the corner with Henry as the others discuss serious business: Demon sacrifices, Earthly laws and assimilation within the underworld.

 

Song is on the edge, struggling to adapt to such a varied environment. Henry is sitting beside her, being introverted himself; he offers her some comfort.

Mika, now having regained a little strength, kneels down in front of them.

“Hey, little one,” Mika says, gently cupping Song's cheek with a smile. She softly unburrows her head from her arms.

“You were a Seraphim, right? Take this; it might remind you of home." Song curiously examines the tape player she's been given, unsure what it is or how it works. She gives Mika a warm smile at the gesture, no longer feeling overwhelmed.

“Do you have a name?” Mika asks.

Song looks at her blankly, unable to answer.

“What do people call you?”

“Uhmm… I don’t really have one yet.”

“Hmmmm, that's right”, Henry adds. “I suppose some of us never needed one before. We’ll all have to get one to blend in or change it to something simple humans can understand.”

Mika takes the headphones from Song’s fumbling hands before she breaks them, gently places them on her head, turning the music on. Henry smiles, “Maybe we should call you Song.”

The more dominant ones convene more seriously.

“What’s with her?” Von asks.

“Huh?” Stellis answers, “Oh! That’s our Seraphim.”

“A praiser, huh?”

“Yeah…,” Stellis answers. “Unfortunately, being that close to Father's throne, singing and praising and the sort, she wasn't really exposed to sin like us. She probably doesn’t even know what it is, honestly.”

“I bet,” Von replies. “It looks like she has a touch of childhood innocence to her.” He continues, “I hope that won't become a problem.” Rogue silently nods.

Henry gets up and meets the others quietly. “What's going on? You guys staring are giving us the creeps.”

“All I'm saying,” Von answered dismissively. “From what I've seen, there's a big target painted on the backs of the likes of her.”

Henry is outraged. “What the hell does that mean?”

“That you shouldn’t have brought her!” Von swiftly pulls Henry to the side, hiding what they are saying from view. “Something with such close knowledge of Father? Seriously? The Demons would have a field day torturing her, especially something so pure, so innocent.” Stellis winces at the gravity of the revelation.

“I hear a lot of chat, but I don’t hear a plan,” Rogue interrupts bluntly.

“Now there's enough of us?” Von scratches his chin, “We can probably start our own clan. Not something that can rival the Yakuza, but the smaller groups? Ehhhh… It's possible.”

“So, like what?” Rogue presses.

“Weapons? Relics? Procuring things that us Angels will have an edge at over humans,” Von explains.

“Well, weapons would certainly help us against the Deamons”, Stellis calls with a calm and calculating disposition as Rogue grins at the plan.

“But we have to remember,” Von cautions. “Humans live much shorter lives than us; compared to them, we all look between our early to late 20’s. Mika and myself and pushing closer to 30. Years, that is, not centuries.”

Henry nods in agreement.

“To blend in, we will have to act our age, especially her,” Von guides his eyes to Song, cheerfully nodding to music in the corner. “Unlike heaven, mental maturity is essential for survival down here. It’s a lot crueller then ul give it credit for.”

“Trust me, I believe it,” Henry says, stroking the sore side of his head from the earlier altercation.

“They really live that short of a span?” Stellis argues.

“Well, I've seen Angels in our position last a lot less down here. Even by my own hands…” Von looks down, speaking in a calm but dark tone.

At the other end of the room, Mika sits on the floor, back against the table, tired with too little energy to sit upright.

“We should get some food,” Von speaks up, looking over at his partner. “I know a place. Besides, it would be good to people-watch, get you guys used to seeing how humans actually walk,” he says, grinning.

The group travels to a local diner to gain some strength as the night dies and the morning fully breaks.

Years ago, four angels descended on the earth. Loosely clothed, hungry and tired, they stagger, struggling to walk, finding somewhere to rest, some being new to having legs entirely.

The city air fills their lungs. Gravity pulls them down. Though not as much as the crippling weight of their guilt, defying God's plan for the purpose for which they were created. Stuck on Earth, the limited time they have left will be the final chapter to the thousands, if not millions, of years that they’ve lived.

A group of men gather close, eyeing up the angels. Rogue, the hardhead of the bunch, pulls the others into a side alley out of view. “We can't be seen,” she says sternly. “We have to keep out of sight.”

“What is this place?” The group looks upon the litter-laden back alley behind a series of small food vendors. “Come on, let's go down here. Stay quiet.”

“Don’t these things sleep? How late is it?” Another says, nervously trailing behind.

“Late enough that anyone awake is more likely to be trouble than any help to us.” The biggest one, Stellis, says, stumbling into the alley, dimly lit by the fog-faded moonlight.

They lean against a wall, trying to acclimate to the climate. They grow tired and hungry, the reality of mortality hitting them in full force. “I've never felt so weak,” Rogue says, sneering. “It's disgusting.”

A stray cat jumps in their way, startling the group. “What is that!” the smallest, Song, screams. Stellis, the tall former heavenly prince, kicks through a door in one hit, allowing the group to seek refuge in a run-down abandoned apartment. He grabs a sharp object from the floor and searches the rooms, clearing them of danger.

The others rush in and immediately block the entrance with a cabinet. Rogue sweeps a series of loose needles away from the centre of the furniture baron floor.

“Can… These things hurt us?” Song asks. Henry, the most “human” appearing and relaxed of the group, bends down. “I'm not sure. Even I don’t know to what extent these substances can affect our bodies.”

“You're kidding!” Stellis scoffs. “A lead architect of the Holy Royal Library, my as…”

The group turns to Song, wincing at the window.

“Speak,” Rogue states, sternly.

“What are we supposed to do now?” She asks, “I didn’t expect this place to be so scary. Or cold...”

The others look at each other, then turn to Henry.

“Hey, I didn't say I had all the answers. Just getting here was the first problem.”

They sit around a small makeshift fire in the living room. Made of torn-up floorboards and scraps from a broken dresser, they try to gain what heat they could muster. Coughing from the smoke, shivering from the breeze of the broken windows, it is sure to be a rough night.

Will they get jobs? Join a church? Lay low in something part-time while training to become an exorcist? The question of what they will do with their lives to survive plagues their minds.

“Stop pouting,” Rogue grunts. “You know why we are here. And I'll be dammed if I'm going to join some convent. If I wanted to live by the rules of Father, I would have stayed where I was and retained my glamorous form.”

“Well, then just what are we supposed to do?”

“Do?” She viciously grabs Henry by the collar. “Whatever is dam necessary!”

She throws him on the floor and walks to the end of the room overlooking the street. She pulls out a large, pointed shard of glass lodged in the windowsill.

“There's no way back now. That was the deal. So, you all better get to work!”

She continues, “Whether we last one day or a thousand, you made your choice, so get used to it. Or let those revolting ground creatures feast on you in a ditch, for all I care.”

She glides the shard along the tip of her tongue, just enough for it to scrape but not to leave a mark. “As long as I get my pound of demon flesh,” she grins.

“Careful, you know we can't heal”, Stellis worryingly notes. “Unless you want a thousand years with a bleeding tongue.”

“Why’s that? You going to stop me, princess?” she laughs. “You forget... I'm the only one here that’s lived an eternity with a blade.”

Henry perks up. “Yeah, it’s a bitch you couldn’t bring that with you.”

A glistening appears from the back of Rogue's robes as she pulls out a finely detailed curved sword. Her grin widens. Eyes dead, a dark aura washes over her face.

“Besides,” she says with a towering demeanour, “maybe I'll finally feel what it's like to bleed.”

 

 

In the morning, just as the night begins to fade, the group leaves their temporary place of solace and heads to the market.

 

People are speaking a strange language that the group are only just starting to understand. Most are still not used to having “ears” by earthly standards.

The breeze of the morning wind, the clashing of utensils by the food stalls, the idle chatter of those passersby – the sounds flood their ears, painful, struggling to get used to hearing words actually coming from mouths. They believe they are in Japan, not that any of them know enough about Earth to be sure.

Hungry and unsure what to do, one of them swiftly swipes an apple from a stand without the vendor's notice.

“Seriously?” Stellis exclaims.

“What? Scared I'll go to hell?” Rogue shrugs off sarcastically, mouth full of a giant bite.

“Well, I for one don’t want to steal,” Henry agrees. “Yeah! Would you expect Father to bring up thieves and deceivers up to home?”

Rogue smirks, “You know, there was this one guy.”

“Uhh, shut up, you know what we mean.”

Song catches up with the rest of the group, having been distracted by the birds pecking at the floor, the early crowds flooding the morning market. “What religion is this place anyway?”

Henry responds, “Yeah. Talking about crosses, I don’t see many.”

“Regardless, if you don’t want to starve, we need to find a way of making money. This place works on trading.” Stellis claims, subtly dropping loose change from the floor into the apple stall's cash tray.

“A job? I'm surprised you even know what one is, your rrroyalll highness.” The sarcasm of Rogue's words deliciously roll off her tongue as she walks away.

They reach the end of the market. Large warehouse buildings sit beside them.

Rogue fends off Stellis’s attempts of taking the apple for himself.

“Will you quit it, you two!” Henry adds. “With these clothes, we’re already drawing more attention than we need.”

“It's his brother's fault we're even down here.” Rogue pouts.

“MY brother? Lucifer's all our brothers, you idiot.”

 

Time gets on, and the night grows dark. They spent the whole day scouting the area and returned to the warehouses where they started.

 

“Dudes, it’s been all day. Anyone found anything?”

“Nothing. Everyone here already seems so poor. I doubt most would spare what little work they have to outsiders.”

“Look!” Song shouts. She points to an abandoned warehouse with boarded-up windows. Piles of clothes can be seen spread out on the floor amongst old shop racks.

Henry asks, “Hey, guys? Is it stealing if no one owns it?”

“Not if it gets me out of these rags.” Rogue pushes him out of the way and tears through the pile to see what she wants.

From further within, voices are overheard. The group stands still, hiding behind the boxes. “I thought you said this place was abandoned.”

“Who thought animal skin would look so flashy compared to feathers?” Stellis pulls Rogue from trying on jackets. “Get down! Are you trying to get us killed on our first day?”

The commotion of a fight becomes too much to handle, and the group escapes through a back passage, desperately rushing to put on what clothes they can grab on the way out.

Rogue stares at Henry, struggling to put on a t-shirt. “What? At least you had limbs before! How am I supposed to know how this thing goes on?”

“You're such a hindrance! We should have left you behind after you wrote up that pathetic contract.”

Stellis elbows Rogue in the side. “Quiet! Sound travels far on this plane.”

The previous shouting moves closer, reaching the other side of the large double doors they just went through. Hiding behind boxes outside, the market to escape to is just in view, but all are too scared to run for it in case the noise draws attention.

The brawling bursts through the doors, a fight breaking out into the street.

“Whoa, this is intense,” Stellis says, peeking from the corner of the crates.

He grabs Rogue, pulling her closer. “Look!”

“A Demon?” She says, licking her lips.

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Wait… are they killing it?” Song asks softly, crouching low on the floor, hiding their face.

“I think so?” Stellis responds. “Something doesn’t feel right, though.”

“You think so?” A voice appears behind them, before cracking them over the head with a baseball bat.

 

The group groans, awaking in a dimly lit room within the warehouse they just fled.

 

They begin to wake, struggling to move, their hands coated in the stale dust from the floor.

“So, fresh blood on my turf, eh?” A mysterious figure stands behind the faint glow of an old hanging lampshade, the darkness masking their face. The group tries to move, realising they've been bound.

“Funny, you seem more pathetic than usual,” he continues.

“Screw you!” Rogue seethes through her teeth. “I’ll show you pathetic!”

 “Yeah, man! Who the hell even are you!” Stellis shouts muffled under his gag.

“Your demons are you not?” He raises a sword of his own, placing it near Stellis’s mouth, cutting the gag. “You'd better start speaking up before I cut out your tongues.”

The figure kneels down, closer, his head slowly revealed by the light.

“Wait… You’re an-” Henry’s sentence gets cut off.

“Angel?” He says, leaning on his sword. “Once upon a time. I wasn’t always one for following the rules. But then, that’s a story for another day.”

“Wait, man! We’re on your side!” The others try to plead as Rogues' eager eyes scan for a way out.

“Ha! My side? Is that so…” The figure laughs, stroking his chin sarcastically.

“And what side would that be?” He says, walking back over to the desk. A faint glimpse of light shines from the surface of his baseball bat. The soft glow from his newly lit cigarette as he picks the bat up.

“Uhh… fighting demons?” Henry says curiously.

“Demons?” He laughs, dramatically. “I don’t fight demons, just those who get in my way.”

“Wow! What a great show.” Rogue scoffs. “Everything seems so funny to you. Gunning for an acting award?”

Coughing can be heard under a weak wheezing from the other side of the room.

“And who the hell is that?” Rogue says, eyes squinting in the darkness, leaning in for a better look.

The man cracks the bat against the wall. “None of your dam business!”

The figure walks over to Song. “Do you know why I like bats?” He pauses. “One tap, and I can overwhelm your angel senses and knock you out. One swing, and there won't be much of a head to look at.”

“Look, man! We didn’t mean to step on your turf,” Henry pleads.

“Oh? But then you did.”

 

~Let them go~

 

From the dark corner, a smaller, slimmer figure slowly emerges, gasping for breath, struggling to stand.

“What?” The man says viciously.

“Just let them go. They barely even know what planet they are on,” they wheeze. “They look lucky they chose the right one and didn’t suffocate on Mars.”

The man grasps the woman's arms, catching her fall. “Babe, I told you to rest. You're too weak”. He worryingly pulls a chair from under the desk and places her on top. “I can't lose you yet.”

“Ahem?” Rogue dismissively interrupts. “She said something about letting meee go? And getting these DAM ROPES OFF.”

The shadowy woman looks at him sternly, with a faint look of sadness behind their eyes.

Finally, the man agrees and begins removing the binds placed on the group.

Standing up, Rogue struggles to get her balance. “What’s your two's deal anyway? If you were demons, you would have eaten us by now.”

The man playfully bites his jaw near her ear, untying her. “This one's smart.”

 

The group gathers around the desk. Small battery lamps illuminate the space.

 

“I'm Von,” he says. “That over there is Mika. We've been here for about a year.”

“So, what happened?” Song asks nervously.

“We were angels. Typical messengers used to help guide people and perform other low-level worldly tasks.” He continues, “Giving people little signs and helping them find soul mates, blah blah.”

The others look curious. “So, what changed?”

Mika finally gains the strength to speak. “After a few thousand years of watching weddings, there's only so many you can attend without dreaming of your own.”

Von adds, “When we kept meeting each other, eventually we figured if they could have soul mates, why can't we. So, we left.”

“Mmwha, mmwha, mmwha,” Rogue sarcastically mouths kissing noises. “Doesn't explain why you hit me with a BAT!”

“Who were the others?” Stellis calmly deflects.

“Others?” Von wonders.

Stellis’s eyes glance at Mika’s wounds.

“Oh.” Von explains, “We've made a few… acquaintances whilst we've been here.”

He continues, “A few humans here and there who help us on our way.”

“Not that it always works.” Mika struggles to support her torso upright, leaning on the desk. She brushes off Von’s hand, anxiously attempting to aid her. “I’m fine, leave me alone.”

“Wait… You’re the one from the fight!” Henry points out.

“The gangs are ruthless,” Von explains. “You can suddenly owe them thousands without asking them for a penny. And when the time's up, they start carving you up and selling your parts on the market.”

Song winces at the sound of the horror.

 “We’ve got involved with some bad groups; we hadn't the choice. Unfortunately, one of them found Mika whilst I was running for supplies.”

Rogue’s eyes bat back and forth, contemplating something – resisting the urge to speak.

“We needed weapons to protect ourselves from demons and angels alike. Not to mention thugs.”

Mika slowly adjusts herself to make it easier to talk. “We find it easier to just pose as humans, doing odd jobs here and there. Unfortunately, we fell behind on some payments, which is why they came looking.”

“At least they don’t know we're Angels! There's no telling how much they would try to sell us for.”

Von continues, despite Rogue's boredom and strange antics. “We do odd jobs to make money when we can. Bounty hunting here, some night guarding there, not that it's ever enough.”

“Hoooold up,” Rogue interrupts, no longer able to hold back. “You're telling me it's just you two? How the hell did you get us all here?”

 Stellis comments, “That's true; she sure didn’t help. And how did you fend off all those people?”

“I'm that good,” Von states, smirking, as Mika scoffs at the cringe of her partner's audacity.

“Join us,” Rogue states.

“Join you?” They both laugh. “In what? Your little boyband?” The group looks annoyed at their enjoyment. “You could barely sneak behind some boxes! What could you have to offer?”

“To finish what we came here to start,” Rogue says, a mean demeanour punctuates her seriosity. “To rid this land of Demons and take control of our own lives.”

The others nod along as she speaks. “Live by our own rules, and no one else's.”

“HAHA, that's hysterical. I love it!” Von exclaims, thumping the table with his fist, as Mika subtly chuckles under her breath. “If I didn’t feel so sorry for you, I would be half inclined to believe you.”

He leans forward, with an impish grin, “I don’t think even you believe that’s realistic.”

“Try me,” Rogue says sternly. “I'm willing to die trying.” She puts her hand out for a shake, the others deathly quiet, waiting for a response. Von smugly seals the deal.

 

Song sits in the corner with Henry as the others discuss serious business: Demon sacrifices, Earthly laws and assimilation within the underworld.

 

Song is on the edge, struggling to adapt to such a varied environment. Henry is sitting beside her, being introverted himself, he offers her some comfort.

Mika, now having regained a little strength, kneels down in front of them.

“Hey, little one,” Mika says, gently cupping Song's cheek with a smile. She softly unburrows her head from her arms.

“You were a Seraphim, right? Take this; it might remind you of home.” Song curiously examines the tape player she's been given, unsure what it is or how it works. She gives Mika a warm smile at the gesture, no longer feeling overwhelmed.

“Do you have a name?” Mika asks.

Song looks at her blankly, unable to answer.

“What do people call you?”

“Uhmm… I don’t really have one yet.”

“Hmmmm, that's right”, Henry adds. “I suppose some of us never needed one before. We’ll all have to get one to blend in or change it to something simple humans can understand.”

Mika takes the headphones from Song’s fumbling hands before she breaks them, gently places them on her head, turning the music on. Henry smiles, “Maybe we should call you Song.”

The more dominant ones convene more seriously.

“What’s with her?” Von asks.

“Huh?” Stellis answers, “Oh! That’s our Seraphim.”

“A praiser, huh?”

“Yeah…,” Stellis answers. “Unfortunately, being that close to Father's throne, singing and praising and the sort, she wasn't really exposed to sin like us. She probably doesn’t even know what it is, honestly.”

“I bet,” Von replies. “It looks like she has a touch of childhood innocence to her.” He continues, “I hope that won't become a problem.” Rogue silently nods.

Henry gets up and meets the others quietly. “What's going on? You guys staring are giving us the creeps.”

“All I'm saying,” Von answered dismissively. “From what I've seen, there's a big target painted on the backs of the likes of her.”

Henry is outraged. “What the hell does that mean?”

“That you shouldn’t have brought her!” Von swiftly pulls Henry to the side, hiding what they are saying from view. “Something with such close knowledge of Father? Seriously? The Demons would have a field day torturing her, especially something so pure, so innocent.” Stellis winces at the gravity of the revelation.

“I hear a lot of chat, but I don’t hear a plan,” Rogue interrupts bluntly.

“Now there's enough of us?” Von scratches his chin, “We can probably start our own clan. Not something that can rival the Yakuza, but the smaller groups? Ehhhh… It's possible.”

“So, like what?” Rogue presses.

“Weapons? Relics? Procuring things that us Angels will have an edge at over humans,” Von explains.

“Well, weapons would certainly help us against the Deamons”, Stellis calls with a calm and calculating disposition as Rogue grins at the plan.

“But we have to remember,” Von cautions. “Humans live much shorter lives than us; compared to them, we all look between our early to late 20’s. Mika and myself and pushing closer to 30. Years, that is, not centuries.”

Henry nods in agreement.

“To blend in, we will have to act our age, especially her,” Von guides his eyes to Song, cheerfully nodding to music in the corner. “Unlike heaven, mental maturity is essential for survival down here. It’s a lot crueller then ul give it credit for.”

“Trust me, I believe it,” Henry says, stroking the sore side of his head from the earlier altercation.

“They really live that short of a span?” Stellis argues.

“Well, I've seen Angels in our position last a lot less down here. Even by my own hands…” Von looks down, speaking in a calm but dark tone.

At the other end of the room, Mika sits on the floor, back against the table, tired with too little energy to sit upright.

“We should get some food,” Von speaks up, looking over at his partner. “I know a place. Besides, it would be good to people-watch, get you guys used to seeing how humans actually walk,” he says, grinning.

The group travels to a local diner to gain some strength as the night dies and the morning fully breaks.

Welcome to the first part of my new supernatural dark fantasy series CrucifixT! I have never written anything before, so any feedback will be greatly appreciated!

Question: When does an angel finally transform into a demon?

As soon as they leave heaven? When their lungs are filled with more gun and cigarette smoke than air? Or when they have finally given up hope for humanity?

Introduction

We are the Fallen Choir.

Former Heavenly beings who no longer follow the rules. We answer to no one. Belong to no one.

Previously in the form of Seraphim, Cherubim, Virtues or the Powers, we are now our own choir – the choir of the fallen.

We've spent aeons watching from above, as those who fell below tear others apart – Those we love, and those sent down to protect those we serve.

Together, we made a deal with Heaven to fight those from Hell. A sacrifice to the council of the High Order, relinquishing our celestial rights all to achieve one thing – to stay on earth, so we can strike demons into the ground where they belong.

We gave up our holy status, our divine powers and perfect immortality. We are the hunters that are now the hunted. Becoming fallen, to crush the fallen.

Now we fight amongst the mortals, hidden in plain sight, counting the days until our time finally runs out.

 

Backstory

Angels don't age, but without God's power, we can’t really heal either. In fact, without his spirit, we can’t do much of anything, as most of our supernatural abilities are only performed through channelling what we have been given to wield.

The downside of this deal, or at least one of many, is simple. Once we are dead, we are dead. No Heaven, no Hell, no wandering the Earth, and thankfully no Abyss (Demon Hell). We are just as vulnerable, if not more, than those who call Earth home.

Our heavenly bodies have been limited to Angel form - the lowest rank of the Heavenly Hosts. This is the most human-like form of celestial beings that people have been known to interact with, which, for the most part, is usually indistinguishable from the general population.

We may no longer have 6 sets of beautiful wings, planet-wide interlacing rings of eyes, or beautiful bodies carved from fire or any other epic attributes our previous forms may have had. However, from within, the strength of our spirit remains the same.

With no powers from God, we have only what we can muster. Living off the land, we must fight like a mortal, feast like a mortal and more importantly, blend in just like everyone else. Assimilation, or a life hidden underground - these are our only hope if we are to survive.

Many in our ranks had former roles of tending to holy thrones, overseeing entire celestial departments, and even low-level admin tasks. Without the ability to have families, our associates were all we had to call our own.

Countless demon attacks, watching those sent down to work on Earth never return, and witnessing the constant anguish imposed on humankind. We could no longer sit back. We gave up paperwork to get our hands dirty, sacrificing our easy lives for the greater good, just as we watched our Father do two thousand years ago.

He serves mankind as a God. However, even someone as mighty as him saw the importance of serving as the Angel of the Lord. And ultimately, chose to sacrifice his own life for the betterment of mankind before finally re-ascending to heaven. A model for both angel and humankind. Now it's time for us to do the same. Though unlike him, once we’re gone, there won't be any way back.

Now mortal, our time is running short. Unable to repair, no way to recover after a fight, our bodies are all we've got. We grow weaker every day, and our choir is wearing thin.

 

We are the fallen, fighting the fallen, for those we have watched fall.

(I'm still conflicted about having a separate intro and backstory. Would they work more together? Should I just try again? I have all the chapters ready for feedback, but this is the one giving me the most struggle.)

Years ago, four angels descended on the earth. Loosely clothed, hungry and tired, they stagger, struggling to walk, finding somewhere to rest, some being new to having legs entirely.

The city air fills their lungs. Gravity pulls them down. Though not as much as the crippling weight of their guilt, defying God's plan for the purpose for which they were created. Stuck on Earth, the limited time they have left will be the final chapter to the thousands, if not millions, of years that they’ve lived.

A group of men gather close, eyeing up the angels. Rogue, the hardhead of the bunch, pulls the others into a side alley out of view. “We can't be seen,” she says sternly. “We have to keep out of sight.”

“What is this place?” The group looks upon the litter-laden back alley behind a series of small food vendors. “Come on, let's go down here. Stay quiet.”

“Don’t these things sleep? How late is it?” Another says, nervously trailing behind.

“Late enough that anyone awake is more likely to be trouble than any help to us.” The biggest one, Stellis, says, stumbling into the alley, dimly lit by the fog-faded moonlight.

They lean against a wall, trying to acclimate to the climate. They grow tired and hungry, the reality of mortality hitting them in full force. “I've never felt so weak,” Rogue says, sneering. “It's disgusting.”

A stray cat jumps in their way, startling the group. “What is that!” the smallest, Song, screams. Stellis, the tall former heavenly prince, kicks through a door in one hit, allowing the group to seek refuge in a run-down abandoned apartment. He grabs a sharp object from the floor and searches the rooms, clearing them of danger.

The others rush in and immediately block the entrance with a cabinet. Rogue sweeps a series of loose needles away from the centre of the furniture baron floor.

“Can… These things hurt us?” Song asks. Henry, the most “human” appearing and relaxed of the group, bends down. “I'm not sure. Even I don’t know to what extent these substances can affect our bodies.”

“You're kidding!” Stellis scoffs. “A lead architect of the Holy Royal Library, my as…”

The group turns to Song, wincing at the window.

“Speak,” Rogue states, sternly.

“What are we supposed to do now?" She asks, “I didn’t expect this place to be so scary. Or cold...”

The others look at each other, then turn to Henry.

“Hey, I didn't say I had all the answers. Just getting here was the first problem.”

They sit around a small makeshift fire in the living room. Made of torn-up floorboards and scraps from a broken dresser, they try to gain what heat they could muster. Coughing from the smoke, shivering from the breeze of the broken windows, it is sure to be a rough night.

Will they get jobs? Join a church? Lay low in something part-time while training to become an exorcist? The question of what they will do with their lives to survive plagues their minds.

“Stop pouting,” Rogue grunts. “You know why we are here. And I'll be dammed if I'm going to join some convent. If I wanted to live by the rules of Father, I would have stayed where I was and retained my glamorous form.”

“Well, then just what are we supposed to do?”

“Do?” She viciously grabs Henry by the collar. “Whatever is dam necessary!”

She throws him on the floor and walks to the end of the room overlooking the street. She pulls out a large, pointed shard of glass lodged in the windowsill.

“There's no way back now. That was the deal. So, you all better get to work!"

She continues, "Whether we last one day or a thousand, you made your choice, so get used to it. Or let those revolting ground creatures feast on you in a ditch, for all I care.”

She glides the shard along the tip of her tongue, just enough for it to scrape but not to leave a mark. “As long as I get my pound of demon flesh,” she grins.

“Careful, you know we can't heal”, Stellis worryingly notes. “Unless you want a thousand years with a bleeding tongue.”

“Why's that? You going to stop me, princess?” she laughs. “You forget... I'm the only one here that’s lived an eternity with a blade.”

Henry perks up. “Yeah, it’s a bitch you couldn’t bring that with you.”

A glistening appears from the back of Rogue's robes as she pulls out a finely detailed curved sword. Her grin widens. Eyes dead, a dark aura washes over her face.

“Besides,” she says with a towering demeanour, “maybe I'll finally feel what it's like to bleed.”

 

 

In the morning, just as the night begins to fade, the group leaves their temporary place of solace and heads to the market.

 

People are speaking a strange language that the group are only just starting to understand. Most are still not used to having “ears” by earthly standards.

The breeze of the morning wind, the clashing of utensils by the food stalls, the idle chatter of those passersby – the sounds flood their ears, painful, struggling to get used to hearing words actually coming from mouths. They believe they are in Japan, not that any of them know enough about Earth to be sure.

Hungry and unsure what to do, one of them swiftly swipes an apple from a stand without the vendor's notice.

“Seriously?” Stellis exclaims.

“What? Scared I'll go to hell?” Rogue shrugs off sarcastically, mouth full of a giant bite.

“Well, I for one don’t want to steal,” Henry agrees.

“Yeah! Would you expect Father to bring up thieves and deceivers up to home?”

Rogue smirks, “You know, there was this one guy.”

“Uhh, shut up, you know what we mean.”

Song catches up with the rest of the group, having been distracted by the birds pecking at the floor, the early crowds flooding the morning market. “What religion is this place anyway?”

Henry responds, “Yeah. Talking about crosses, I don’t see many.”

“Regardless, if you don’t want to starve, we need to find a way of making money. This place works on trading.” Stellis claims, subtly dropping loose change from the floor into the apple stall's cash tray.

“A job? I'm surprised you even know what one is, your rrroyalll highness.” The sarcasm of Rogue's words deliciously roll off her tongue as she walks away.

They reach the end of the market. Large warehouse buildings sit beside them.

Rogue fends off Stellis’s attempts of taking the apple for himself.

“Will you quit it, you two!” Henry adds. “With these clothes, we’re already drawing more attention than we need.”

“It's his brother's fault we're even down here.” Rogue pouts.

“MY brother? Lucifer's all our brothers, you idiot.”

 

Time gets on, and the night grows dark. They spent the whole day scouting the area and returned to the warehouses where they started.

 

“Dudes, it’s been all day. Anyone found anything?”

“Nothing. Everyone here already seems so poor. I doubt most would spare what little work they have to outsiders.”

“Look!” Song shouts. She points to an abandoned warehouse with boarded-up windows. Piles of clothes can be seen spread out on the floor amongst old shop racks.

Henry asks, “Hey, guys? Is it stealing if no one owns it?”

“Not if it gets me out of these rags.” Rogue pushes him out of the way and tears through the pile to see what she wants.

From further within, voices are overheard. The group stands still, hiding behind the boxes. “I thought you said this place was abandoned.”

“Who thought animal skin would look so flashy compared to feathers?” Stellis pulls Rogue from trying on jackets. “Get down! Are you trying to get us killed on our first day?”

The commotion of a fight becomes too much to handle, and the group escapes through a back passage, desperately rushing to put on what clothes they can grab on the way out.

Rogue stares at Henry, struggling to put on a t-shirt. “What? At least you had limbs before! How am I supposed to know how this thing goes on?”

“You're such a hindrance! We should have left you behind after you wrote up that pathetic contract.”

Stellis elbows Rogue in the side. “Quiet! Sound travels far on this plane.”

The previous shouting moves closer, reaching the other side of the large double doors they just went through. Hiding behind boxes outside, the market to escape to is just in view, but all are too scared to run for it in case the noise draws attention.

The brawling bursts through the doors, a fight breaking out into the street.

“Whoa, this is intense,” Stellis says, peeking from the corner of the crates.

He grabs Rogue, pulling her closer. “Look!”

“A Demon?” She says, licking her lips.

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Wait… are they killing it?” Song asks softly, crouching low on the floor, hiding their face.

“I think so?” Stellis responds. “Something doesn’t feel right, though.”

“You think so?” A voice appears behind them, before cracking them over the head with a baseball bat.

 

The group groans, awaking in a dimly lit room within the warehouse they just fled.

 

They begin to wake, struggling to move, their hands coated in the stale dust from the floor.

“So, fresh blood on my turf, eh?” A mysterious figure stands behind the faint glow of an old hanging lampshade, the darkness masking their face. The group tries to move, realising they've been bound.

“Funny, you seem more pathetic than usual,” he continues.

“Screw you!” Rogue seethes through her teeth. “I’ll show you pathetic!”

 “Yeah, man! Who the hell even are you!” Stellis shouts muffled under his gag.

“Your demons are you not?” He raises a sword of his own, placing it near Stellis’s mouth, cutting the gag. “You'd better start speaking up before I cut out your tongues.”

The figure kneels down, closer, his head slowly revealed by the light.

“Wait… You’re an-” Henry’s sentence gets cut off.

“Angel?” He says, leaning on his sword. “Once upon a time. I wasn’t always one for following the rules. But then, that’s a story for another day.”

“Wait, man! We’re on your side!” The others try to plead as Rogues' eager eyes scan for a way out.

“Ha! My side? Is that so…” The figure laughs, stroking his chin sarcastically.

“And what side would that be?” He says, walking back over to the desk. A faint glimpse of light shines from the surface of his baseball bat. The soft glow from his newly lit cigarette as he picks the bat up.

“Uhh… fighting demons?” Henry says curiously.

“Demons?” He laughs, dramatically. “I don’t fight demons, just those who get in my way.”

“Wow! What a great show.” Rogue scoffs. “Everything seems so funny to you. Gunning for an acting award?”

Coughing can be heard under a weak wheezing from the other side of the room.

“And who the hell is that?” Rogue says, eyes squinting in the darkness, leaning in for a better look.

The man cracks the bat against the wall. “None of your dam business!”

The figure walks over to Song. “Do you know why I like bats?” He pauses. “One tap, and I can overwhelm your angel senses and knock you out. One swing, and there won't be much of a head to look at.”

“Look, man! We didn’t mean to step on your turf,” Henry pleads.

“Oh? But then you did.”

 

~Let them go~

 

From the dark corner, a smaller, slimmer figure slowly emerges, gasping for breath, struggling to stand.

“What?” The man says viciously.

“Just let them go. They barely even know what planet they are on,” they wheeze. “They look lucky they chose the right one and didn’t suffocate on Mars.”

The man grasps the woman's arms, catching her fall. “Babe, I told you to rest. You're too weak”. He worryingly pulls a chair from under the desk and places her on top. “I can't lose you yet.”

“Ahem?” Rogue dismissively interrupts. “She said something about letting meee go? And getting these DAM ROPES OFF.”

The shadowy woman looks at him sternly, with a faint look of sadness behind their eyes.

Finally, the man agrees and begins removing the binds placed on the group.

Standing up, Rogue struggles to get her balance. “What’s your two's deal anyway? If you were demons, you would have eaten us by now.”

The man playfully bites his jaw near her ear, untying her. “This one's smart.”

 

The group gathers around the desk. Small battery lamps illuminate the space.

 

“I'm Von,” he says. “That over there is Mika. We've been here for about a year.”

“So, what happened?” Song asks nervously.

“We were angels. Typical messengers used to help guide people and perform other low-level worldly tasks.” He continues, “Giving people little signs and helping them find soul mates, blah blah.”

The others look curious. “So, what changed?”

Mika finally gains the strength to speak. “After a few thousand years of watching weddings, there's only so many you can attend without dreaming of your own.”

Von adds, “When we kept meeting each other, eventually we figured if they could have soul mates, why can't we. So, we left.”

“Mmwha, mmwha, mmwha,” Rogue sarcastically mouths kissing noises. “Doesn't explain why you hit me with a BAT!”

“Who were the others?” Stellis calmly deflects.

“Others?” Von wonders.

Stellis’s eyes glance at Mika’s wounds.

“Oh.” Von explains, “We've made a few… acquaintances whilst we've been here.”

He continues, “A few humans here and there who help us on our way.”

“Not that it always works.” Mika struggles to support her torso upright, leaning on the desk. She brushes off Von’s hand, anxiously attempting to aid her. “I’m fine, leave me alone.”

“Wait… You’re the one from the fight!” Henry points out.

“The gangs are ruthless,” Von explains. “You can suddenly owe them thousands without asking them for a penny. And when the time's up, they start carving you up and selling your parts on the market.”

Song winces at the sound of the horror.

 “We’ve got involved with some bad groups; we hadn't the choice. Unfortunately, one of them found Mika whilst I was running for supplies.”

Rogue’s eyes bat back and forth, contemplating something – resisting the urge to speak.

“We needed weapons to protect ourselves from demons and angels alike. Not to mention thugs.”

Mika slowly adjusts herself to make it easier to talk. “We find it easier to just pose as humans, doing odd jobs here and there. Unfortunately, we fell behind on some payments, which is why they came looking.”

“At least they don’t know we're Angels! There's no telling how much they would try to sell us for.”

Von continues, despite Rogue's boredom and strange antics. “We do odd jobs to make money when we can. Bounty hunting here, some night guarding there, not that it's ever enough.”

“Hoooold up,” Rogue interrupts, no longer able to hold back. “You're telling me it's just you two? How the hell did you get us all here?”

 Stellis comments, “That's true; she sure didn’t help. And how did you fend off all those people?”

“I'm that good,” Von states, smirking, as Mika scoffs at the cringe of her partner's audacity.

“Join us,” Rogue states.

“Join you?” They both laugh. “In what? Your little boyband?” The group looks annoyed at their enjoyment. “You could barely sneak behind some boxes! What could you have to offer?”

“To finish what we came here to start,” Rogue says, a mean demeanour punctuates her seriosity. “To rid this land of Demons and take control of our own lives.”

The others nod along as she speaks. “Live by our own rules, and no one else's.”

“HAHA, that's hysterical. I love it!” Von exclaims, thumping the table with his fist, as Mika subtly chuckles under her breath. “If I didn’t feel so sorry for you, I would be half inclined to believe you.”

He leans forward, with an impish grin, “I don’t think even you believe that’s realistic.”

“Try me,” Rogue says sternly. “I'm willing to die trying.” She puts her hand out for a shake, the others deathly quiet, waiting for a response. Von smugly seals the deal.

 

Song sits in the corner with Henry as the others discuss serious business: Demon sacrifices, Earthly laws and assimilation within the underworld.

 

Song is on the edge, struggling to adapt to such a varied environment. Henry is sitting beside her, being introverted himself; he offers her some comfort.

Mika, now having regained a little strength, kneels down in front of them.

“Hey, little one,” Mika says, gently cupping Song's cheek with a smile. She softly unburrows her head from her arms.

“You were a Seraphim, right? Take this; it might remind you of home." Song curiously examines the tape player she's been given, unsure what it is or how it works. She gives Mika a warm smile at the gesture, no longer feeling overwhelmed.

“Do you have a name?” Mika asks.

Song looks at her blankly, unable to answer.

“What do people call you?”

“Uhmm… I don’t really have one yet.”

“Hmmmm, that's right”, Henry adds. “I suppose some of us never needed one before. We’ll all have to get one to blend in or change it to something simple humans can understand.”

Mika takes the headphones from Song’s fumbling hands before she breaks them, gently places them on her head, turning the music on. Henry smiles, “Maybe we should call you Song.”

The more dominant ones convene more seriously.

“What’s with her?” Von asks.

“Huh?” Stellis answers, “Oh! That’s our Seraphim.”

“A praiser, huh?”

“Yeah…,” Stellis answers. “Unfortunately, being that close to Father's throne, singing and praising and the sort, she wasn't really exposed to sin like us. She probably doesn’t even know what it is, honestly.”

“I bet,” Von replies. “It looks like she has a touch of childhood innocence to her.” He continues, “I hope that won't become a problem.” Rogue silently nods.

Henry gets up and meets the others quietly. “What's going on? You guys staring are giving us the creeps.”

“All I'm saying,” Von answered dismissively. “From what I've seen, there's a big target painted on the backs of the likes of her.”

Henry is outraged. “What the hell does that mean?”

“That you shouldn’t have brought her!” Von swiftly pulls Henry to the side, hiding what they are saying from view. “Something with such close knowledge of Father? Seriously? The Demons would have a field day torturing her, especially something so pure, so innocent.” Stellis winces at the gravity of the revelation.

“I hear a lot of chat, but I don’t hear a plan,” Rogue interrupts bluntly.

“Now there's enough of us?” Von scratches his chin, “We can probably start our own clan. Not something that can rival the Yakuza, but the smaller groups? Ehhhh… It's possible.”

“So, like what?” Rogue presses.

“Weapons? Relics? Procuring things that us Angels will have an edge at over humans,” Von explains.

“Well, weapons would certainly help us against the Deamons”, Stellis calls with a calm and calculating disposition as Rogue grins at the plan.

“But we have to remember,” Von cautions. “Humans live much shorter lives than us; compared to them, we all look between our early to late 20’s. Mika and myself and pushing closer to 30. Years, that is, not centuries.”

Henry nods in agreement.

“To blend in, we will have to act our age, especially her,” Von guides his eyes to Song, cheerfully nodding to music in the corner. “Unlike heaven, mental maturity is essential for survival down here. It’s a lot crueller then ul give it credit for.”

“Trust me, I believe it,” Henry says, stroking the sore side of his head from the earlier altercation.

“They really live that short of a span?” Stellis argues.

“Well, I've seen Angels in our position last a lot less down here. Even by my own hands…” Von looks down, speaking in a calm but dark tone.

At the other end of the room, Mika sits on the floor, back against the table, tired with too little energy to sit upright.

“We should get some food,” Von speaks up, looking over at his partner. “I know a place. Besides, it would be good to people-watch, get you guys used to seeing how humans actually walk,” he says, grinning.

The group travels to a local diner to gain some strength as the night dies and the morning fully breaks.

(This is technically just the first chapter of a larger story, from what was originally going to be a set of smaller stories within the same universe. If you like this one, there is more to come - this story and others in short form.)

This is my first story, a little hesitant to share it, but I am desperate for input so I can remedy any major mistakes going forward.