B A K C H E I A

Valentina had noticed them staring not long after they’d entered the coffee shop, but they hadn’t paid it too much mind, knowing that, at best, Thea wasn’t entirely… normal. But then, neither were they: they were a former angel passing as human. 

Still, they’d known Thea was Azrael’s favorite toy, long before they’d cared about humans at all. Back then, they hadn’t cared to understand what Azrael’s choices did to Thea, hadn’t cared at all about Thea, really, but their opinion had changed wholly in the last few years; Elena and everything that had followed her had changed them. There was something in them that wanted to protect Thea from Azrael, if they could. They knew the angel too well after all, and no longer did they discount Thea as a presence not worth thinking much about.

Thea mattered.

A soft smile crossed lips at Thea’s reply, gentle, which was oddly contrasted to the demeanor they normally showed. “No harm done, Thea. Are you okay?” They were asking about so much more than just how they were doing, though they wasn’t sure Thea would catch it. “You seem tired.”

Valentina. There was an immediate sense of relief that washed over her as she met the gentle smile directed her way, her shoulders dropped along with the last fragments of a semblance of guard. Azrael shifted, but she discounted their movements, no longer dedicating any attention to their kaleidoscopic moods, ever-changing like summer storms. Thea, instead, focused on Val, on the cadence of their voice, the concern and warmth they regarded her with: her cheeks were already pink with embarrassment, and she hoped that they didn’t think her attention untoward. With so much strife around her, she clung to what shores of comfort she could.

Poor thing. How long has it been since anyone has treated you as anything more than a pawn to be conquered?

She shook her head at that, hoping, as if, she could physically shake off Azrael’s influence, before realizing that she’d nonverbally answered the question Val had directed towards her; eyes widening, she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, before hurriedly clarifying. “I mean, yes-- I’m alright. Just a little tired, yeah, maybe,” she admitted. “I can’t sleep very well these days.” She murmured the admission into her coffee, flashes of eyes and thorns and menaced towns burned into the backs of her eyelids.

“That’s probably enough about me,” she continued, coughing in embarrassment and frowning at herself. “How about you? How are you? I’d love- like- to hear about how you’re doing, if you care to tell,” she asked.

Today had been the day, the day where she would finally meet her first friend. Her only friend, to some regard. High school passed by with little company, but thankfully, the letters had never stopped. Amalthea never stopped being her friend, either. Countless times, Julie had poured her heart and soul into those letters, admitting things you would only tell your close friends.

Her struggle in high school. Her lack of confidence for law school. Her first day on the job. Her angel love story. 

It almost felt like confessions at a church, except ones she didn’t feel heavy about. Ones that she wasn’t judged for. And today, she finally got the chance to meet her friend. 

“Julie?”

She blinked, looking up. A smile quickly graced her face, her body reacting instantly, giving the pen-pal a warm hug. Juliette pulled away a moment later, admitting, “ - sorry, I got excited.” 

“I can’t believe it’s you, in the flesh.” 

Thea laughed, staggering back with the force with which Julie embraced her with, arms wrapping around her easily, familiarly. A rush of relief, a minute of comfort: she wasn’t lost, for the first time in a long, exhausting while.

“Hi, you,” she said softly, after Juliette pulled back. “It’s okay,” she giggled, almost ready to go in for another hug. “I’m excited to see you too, finally! I can’t believe that I just now came to Kansas,” she said in a rush, smiling, albeit drooping momentarily at the thought of why she was in Kansas in the first place. 

Now wasn’t the time for such thoughts, she admonished herself. “I should have come way earlier,” she stated. “Or you should’ve visited me,” she said, faux accusingly.

Logan hated mornings, to the point where he’d made sure only to sign up for classes that began after 11 a.m. this semester. But this particular morning didn’t count as one, for he hadn’t slept at all the night before. He’d been up working on a side project that upset a large number of people he would never meet and left him with a nice sum of money to his name (well, not his name). 

So he was in a particularly good mood despite the hour, one that only improved as he took his coffee and then glanced to his left only to see a girl staring at him. And she was cute, though Logan didn’t feel that same electric jolt he got from Professor Hot Stuff, which was – disconcerting, to say the least. Something else to be considered. But that was for later, for she saw him take notice and a smirk pulled at his lips at the way her cheeks flushed and she crumpled up the paper she’d been doodling on. 

Had she been drawing him? Logan could hardly blame her, if she was. He moved closer and dismissed her apology with a wave of his hand. “Hey, no worries. I mean, I can’t blame you.” It was almost a joke, if only it reached his eyes. Without asking he slid into the seat opposite her – if it made her uncomfortable, all the better – and nodded at the napkin. “What were you working on?”

"Just doodling,” she said hesitantly, trailing off as he slid into the seat across from her. A smirk upon his lips, a glint in his eyes that bore trouble, the cavalier wave -- none of the behavior he exhibited reassured her; common decency and a tendency to root down in fear rather than flee kept her in her seat, offering a small smile to the stranger currently sitting with her. A flash of amusement passed through her, Azrael, chuckling at her: hapless and helpless -- and then a moment of quiet observance as they took in the man across from her.

A riot of nerves kicked in her stomach, and a grim note passed through her thoughts before she shook her head free of their influence. “I just tend to draw things when I’m spacing out,” she offered. An apology graced the flat of her tongue: although it tripped upon his easy dismissal of her first.

Thea was at a loss: she wasn’t quite sure what he wanted from her, whether this was a strange come on brought on by too much caffeine, and what was the proper way to respond. He wasn’t... unattractive; no, Thea had always been drawn to those who had more confidence than she had (which was little, to say the least). Were the nerves simply just that? Ill adjusted response to a coffee-shop crush? Azrael’s response made her think twice at the prospect, though, and she probed gently: “Can I help you with anything?”

Laviah had never taken to coffee strongly, the bitter taste was overwhelming and the sugar required to cover it up was just as much so. But Susanna Castillo had. This body had once consumed a triple shot cappuccino religiously every morning and so Laviah carried out the old ritual with zeal, even if ‘Susanna’s’ choice to go freelance meant she wasn’t under the scrutiny of the woman’s old coworkers any more.

She’d only just smilingly asked the cashier for her regular when that little muffled ping of recognition went through her, like the vibrations of a fingernail flicked against a crystal glass, Laviah craning her head immediately towards the source. Aha! Bent over a napkin, scribbling madly away – she knew that face and the two heads that lay behind it. What fun it was to engage, regardless of which there was to meet. 

“Amalthea.” Laviah drew out every syllable, as brightly as if there was no one she’d so wanted to see. She pressed a hand emphatically to the top of the young woman’s as she slid into the opposite seat, “Don’t apologize, dove, I’m just so happy to run into you.” A moment of pause before her brows knit together in faux-concern, curiosity piqued by the the bags under Thea’s eyes and what was left visible of her crumpled, spiky drawings. Was Azrael close to the surface after all? Laviah felt a little trill of excitement at the thought. “You look like you’re dying for sleep.” 

She startled; she couldn’t help it. On her good days, she was as easily startled as the flighty creature the woman so fondly nicknamed her after -- and today was not one of them. How did this woman know her name? It wasn’t a lucky guess: Thea was common enough a name, and her coffee cup only read a questionable Theo, and her mind raced desperately to place the face in front of her.

Amalthea pinked, embarrassment flooding her system: she had the oddest feeling that she recognized the woman from somewhere, and clearly, the other knew her well enough to know her full name and not just the diminutive she preferred. A warm hand lay on top of her own, and she met concern directed back at her, and she wet her lips, blinking, at a loss for how to respond.

Perhaps Azrael had befriended the person while she’d been... otherwise incapacitated? She racked her brain, and Azrael’s mocking laughter pounded in her head, bringing on a migraine: lights seemed to shine brighter, noise seemed to filter through statically. She blinked hard, and Azrael cooed: want me to make it all go away, my dear? Just say the word.

The smiling face that greeted her took Sloane aback slightly, her brows pulling together as she regarded a woman who looked to be about her own age, trying to gauge whether she ought to be wary or guilty for startling her so. Suspicion would always win out with Sloane, but the girl looked meek enough that she allowed her expression – and her grip on her knife – to soften a touch. Her head tipped to the side as the other explained why she’d disturbed Sloane in the first place, eyes flickering to the wallet. 

It wasn’t Sloane’s – of course it wasn’t, for she would never be so careless – but she couldn’t begrudge the other the gesture. If anything, the unnecessary apologizing was reminiscent of Simeon in a way that pulled at her heartstrings. Sloane set down her knife and shook her head. “Don’t be sorry, it was nice of you to ask.” Sloane could have apologized for snapping as she did, but she wasn’t particularly sorry. It wasn’t her fault the other startled so easily. “Did you check inside it? There might be an ID.”

Thea inhaled quick, bracing herself, and exhaled quietly, confusedly, as the woman’s demeanor softened and she put the knife down. She let her own smile falter and soften into a genuine curl in a grateful beat, thankful that one, she hadn’t been stabbed by a cheap diner knife, and two, that the woman hadn’t decided to verbally berate her either. “I--” she started. “Yeah, I checked earlier, but I didn’t see it in a cursory check.

“I suppose I’ll just leave it here at the diner, with the waitstaff and hope that someone traces their steps back here,” she offered up, waving the waitress over. The woman bustled over, looking harried, and giving a quick smile, asking whether everything was alright, before pouring a cup of coffee and leaving before Thea as so much had a chance to explain the situation. She deflated momentarily. “Do you think it’ll be okay if I just left it on the counter? I don’t want to disturb your breakfast anymore than I already have.”

location: coffee shop

Juliette sighed again, looking down at her notes. She had already applied to five jobs in the past hour, and it seemed like she would have to broaden her search if she wanted to get something within the next few months ( needed it, actually ). The stack of bills weren’t helping, either. 

Focused on her work, she barely glanced at the shadow approaching her, mumbling, “ - hm, no, that seat isn’t taken.” 

There’d been exactly one good thing about her sudden uprooting to Kansas -- and that was that she would finally be able to meet Julie; she wet her lips, steeling herself to push open the door. It was a generic coffee shop, packed with people, but they’d sent each other photos to know what the other looked like: she would recognize her penpal of so many years, right?

That wasn’t what she was really nervous about, though; what would happen if Julie didn’t like her in real life -- and only liked talking to her through letters?

Excitement broke past the nerves and she walked to where the blonde was sitting, hovering a little, unsure of how to start, before taking the seat across from her at her prompt.

“Julie?” She asked, hands fiddling.

Where: Elevator of local apartment building Who: Anyone

Irene stepped out of police station and into the sun, wincing at the bright, blinding light. Stomach rolling, the very hungover Irene began the walk home to her apartment building. Despite her numerous times in the drunk tank, she never got used to the uncomfortable benches, giving her a back ache that would last for days. Slipping a pair of sunglasses over onto her face, she tried to kept an even trudging pace home. Last night had started out fine, with her just quietly drinking in the corner of the local bar when a call from her mother had sent her spiraling. Go home to see her sick father? She didn’t think so. She’d be damned if she took another step into that town again.

Eventually, her very tired feet took her all the way to her apartment building, leaving her to slip into the elevator after another person. She’d moved her investigative office to Lawrence in the hopes that it might make the transition easier. All she wanted in that moment was to go up to her room, shower off the night’s exploits, light up and sleep for a couple of hours before the next bomb dropped and she had to be up. And after all, Lawrence was a hub of unusual activity.  God, though, apparently had other plans for Irene that day - deciding that he hadn’t suffered enough. While the lights flickering caught her attention, it wasn’t until the elevator suddenly jolted to a stop and she slammed into the side that Irene really started paying attention. Eyes wide, she grabbed the bar to stop herself from crumpling instantly, straightening up as the elevator’s lights flickered on and off, the machine refusing to move.

She hadn’t determined whether it was good or bad that she wasn’t alone in the elevator yet.

Thea hated small spaces -- she hadn’t always, no, she was a creature seldom stirred to such detest, but her hatred stemmed from a new fear she’d developed after two encounters with Azrael. Spending time as a prisoner in her own mind (looking into the abyss Nietzsche wrote of cautiously, hearing nothing but the occasional alighting of Azrael’s thought patterns) had ensured her claustrophobia now, but she was loathe, after a long day, to climb any amount of stairs. She’d made her way into the elevator, giving a tense smile in passing at the other person occupying it and forced herself into a corner, hands gripping, white knuckled, at the bar.

The elevator rattled, and she shut her eyes in fear, but it continued its ascent; she opened her eyes. The lights flickered. Azrael flared. Violence erupted in the quietest of seconds, she found -- the elevator gave a furious screech, accompanied by the sudden clap of bone and metal, before it sputtered to a stop. She looked over where the other woman stood, wide-eyed and holding onto the very bar she was clutching onto -- shaken, but seemingly unharmed. She pressed a hand to her mouth, hoping not to make a scene (and a fool of herself), trying to muffle the gasping breaths her chest heaved for. Slowing down her breathing, though her heart still pounded a punishing tattoo, Thea spoke, voice tremulous. “Are you okay?”

Who: Anyone                                                                                                                  Where: Nondescript local bar

The sun glinted off Tucker Kincaid’s golden skin as he strolled down Mass Street, his hands in his pockets. There was something to be said about the indecisiveness of Kansas weather. It would drop to below freezing one day and reach sixty degrees the next day. Thankfully, it was the latter today so Tucker had decided to go out instead of grading papers all day. He could only read bullshit for so long before he needed to crack open a cold one with the boys. Unfortunately, though, his former brothers were all busy so it left Tucker to brave the world alone. Plus Rog was dead so it wasn’t like he could invite anyone to out drink him. He’d remain champion another day. Still, he wandered into one of the local pubs, seeking a more lowkey night since it was just himself.

He slid onto a barstool, sighing happily at the sight of alcohol in front of him. He was even more pleased to discover that the bartender was a former student of his, one that he remembered at least. As they engaged in cheerful conversation, Tucker felt some of the hairs on the back of his neck suddenly rise as someone entered the bar and passed behind him. His smile remained fixed in place but he was increasingly aware of the person hopping onto the barstool beside him despite there being plenty of open other seats away from him. Not taking his eyes off the bartender, Tucker waited until he had put in an order for a Tank Seven and nachos to actually acknowledge the person sitting beside him. 

“You looking for me?”

She didn’t normally frequent pubs, hyperaware of how easy it was for doctors to fall into a nasty bit of alcoholism -- surgery was naturally high pressure and high stress, and the temptation of relinquishing control, of being someone else for just a night was enticing. She, of all people, knew this intimately, but also was aware of the pitfalls of it: as such, she didn’t like to partake in drinking. She’d taken a backseat in her own life for far too much time as it was. But losing children was always hard, always a tragedy to witness; she found herself at the pub, almost in a fugue state.

There were open seats at the bar. She passed by a man chatting with the bartender, and made her way to the farther end before noticing another sleazier looking man with his eyes already on her; it kicked up a riot in her chest -- suddenly struck by a bout of paranoia. She backed away slowly until fleeing altogether, very much looking a deer in headlights, finding herself sitting close to the first man, as if he could dispel any unwanted attention. He turned; Thea was simultaneously put at ease and on edge (her stomach fluttered and there was a light brushing of Azrael’s consciousness against hers, an ominous sign she didn’t know how to interpret).

How terrible and wonderful it was to have caught the attention of a creature like Narcissus, golden in all manners, even in speech -- Thea chanced a small smile. “I’m sorry,” she offered up, genuine, wide-eyed. “I just -- there’s a guy --” she looked over at the far end, where the man resided. “And I just felt safer here? I’m sorry, that’s dumb; I can move,” she said, apologetic.

Where: Nondescript local diner Who: All ya’ll 

If Sloane had learned anything in her time on the move, it was that nearly every random town in the Midwest looked the same. And if she’d learned anything else, it was that once you looked closer they were all distinctly different. They had their own history, their own charm, their own magic, their own angels. Every town had them these days, or it felt like it. Every town we’re in has one, Sloaney, the angel in her own head taunted. Sloane’s jaw tightened, her fingers gripping the dinner knife on the countertop before her and driving it into her pancakes with more force than necessary. 

She’d been reading over a local newspaper, food and coffee (the best in town, according to the flickering neon sign in the window) getting cold as she pored over the pages for any sign of angelic activity until the voice needled at her again. Now, she was taking her anger out on her pancakes, slicing them to shreds until her plate looked like a murder scene coated in maple syrup. It was only when she heard the soft sound of someone’s throat clearing that she looked up with a scowl. “What?”

In theory, picking up the lost wallet and asking around it to find its rightful owner seemed a good course of action -- that is, until she’d gotten around to actually asking people. The first couple of patrons were friendly enough, and Thea, herself, was an amiable personality, but upon reaching the lone woman sitting and staring bloody murder at a newspaper and ripping her pancakes, well, she recalculated every decision that brought her to this very moment, in this very scenario. She’d dealt with ornery people aplenty at the hospital, but the professional setting there empowered her where she was more tentative in day-to-day life.

She almost backed out, but steeled her heart and cleared her throat, smiling brightly, even when she winced at the vehement reaction. She held the wallet up for examination, jerking her arms into motion. “I’m so sorry,” she apologized, prefacing her spiel. “I just wanted to ask if this was your wallet? I found it on the floor over there,” she said quickly. “I’m so sorry to bother,” she repeated, a little fearful of the grip the other woman had on her cutlery.

“Nice to meet you too, Thea,” they said, pausing before adding, “but you didn’t answer anything I asked.” There was something wrong here. Thea didn’t seem to be a puppet for Azrael to speak through — in fact, it didn’t seem like Azrael had any control over this prophet… was she a prophet? What was she.

What are you? that’s what Simeon wanted to ask, what are you and why do you feel like a prophet.

The nauseous feeling only got worse, and they couldn’t stop the uncomfortable twist of their mouth when a particularly bad pang of it shot up their throat, the acidic taste of bile burning it.

“I’d still like to see it,” their words were gentle, but firm, “please. I personally think that things made from lack of sleep and inattention can be quite interesting.” It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t exactly a whole truth either. “They tell you more about a person than something that had full attention and perfect conditions.” It’s also a great way to weed out prophets, Simeon added in their head, but did nothing but smile at Thea.

She tittered nervously, clearing her throat once and blinking at them. “Not taking no for an answer, huh?” She joked, fiddling with her hands and relinquishing her hold on the crumpled napkin and smoothing it out as best as she could, ignoring the ink stains on her hands, transferred from the fresh ink on the napkin. (She’d worse things on her hands before.)

“It’s nothing, it’s really not even good,” she prefaced it, more than just a little embarrassed at having been caught drawing the man on her napkin at all, mortified at having to show them the doodle. “I’m so sorry for staring -- and drawing you,” she said, chastised. “I just got off a long shift, but I can’t sleep because I can’t afford to mess up my sleeping schedule, so I’m here, at the coffee shop, drawing strangers,” she rushed out by way of explanation. “And rambling at them, too,” she murmured to herself, pinking.

Eydie was nervous.

She didn’t want to be recognized — neither her nor Levi did — so they had split up for a hot minute. Eydie had decided to get a coffee ( more a steamed milk with vanilla syrup ) while she waited for Levi to return from the Walmart run that needed to happen for their motel room. Just something about subsisting off packets of stale corn chips didn’t appeal to either of them. They wanted to get some good hot food, even if it were microwavable.

The lady that was staring at her made her anxiety spike. But, once Eydie looked harder at the lady, she wasn’t dialling a number on her phone, or texting anyone — she was simply doodling.

Eydie ordered her vanilla steamed milk, giving the cashier a haphazard handful of change that she’d counted out meticulously beforehand ( ignoring the annoyed grumbles of the other people in line behind her when the cashier had to count the coins out ) and shuffling off to the lady in question. Her skirt flowed behind her and her button down somehow felt more suffocating that it should have.

— She is really cute, you know.

Eydie swallowed the thought. She played with the hem of her cream cardigan, and the navy button down’s cuff underneath hat. “No, I’m sorry,” she said, voice soft and quiet; light, “for interrupting you.” Eydie didn’t know what to do, so she took the empty seat across from the lady laying on her arm across the table. She folded her hands in her lap, smoothing her skirt once… twice… three times. “I don’t mean to interrupt you. I just… I just? Um.” She didn’t know the words to say — it wasn’t like Eydie could exactly offer anything of substance for interrupting the other woman. “I’m… um.” A blush worked its way onto her own cheeks. “What do you normally draw? Art is wonderful, I’d love to learn it someday.”

The current object of her attention sat down across from her; Thea sat up straight, noting and echoing the blush spreading across her cheeks. “No! no,” she amended, shaking her head at how vehement the first exclamation was. “Sorry, I just mean it’s not an interruption at all.” She took in the way she looked: navy blue button downs fully buttoned, a neat cardigan and skirt combination -- conservative, even by Kansas’ estimations.

A part of her longed to be home in California; another reminded her that it simply couldn’t be, not with the way she was (a danger, a menace).

“It’s not art,” she said, humbled, smoothing out the napkin and looking down at the messy doodles -- clean lines of jaws and soft eyes, thorns winding around everything, growing a little more frantic on the edges. “I’m not an artist,” she said softly.

No, artists created -- and a prophet of death and destruction knew nothing of anything.

Zahariel could feel the coppery taste slide down his throat when he entered the coffee shop. He knew that it was the signature of Azrael, and Zahariel started glancing around the coffee shop for the tells of a prophet.

There wasn’t anything or anyone that stood out as the prophet of Azrael — there wasn’t much that stood out in that coffee shop at all ( it being all bustling humans, some making soft comments to Zahariel himself for the godliness that he held in his skin and clothing ) and he was about to give up.

Then he saw her — the one in the corner drawing.

If there wasn’t anything that prophets weren’t good at, it was blending in.

Her eyes were focused on Zahariel’s face — did she know what he was? — and he abandoned the line for the coffee to beeline toward her. “You shouldn’t stare at strangers,” he said plainly, no reprimand in his voice, letting it more settle into a jovial, joking tone, “But you must show me.” Art wasn’t something that was exclusive to humans, but it was usually inspired by the divine. Or so Zahariel thought — nothing that wasn’t inspired by divinity was worth anything. There would be thousands of art pieces inspired by the human condition or imagination but they would be not worth nearly their weight in salt compared to the holy works inspired by angels.

Zahariel focused on her. What was she? He couldn’t feel his fellow angel at the forefront of her mind, but still had the unmistakable tang of Azrael in the back of his throat — was she one of those prophets that wouldn’t just yield for life?

Interesting, he thought, interesting that Azrael has chosen one like this.

“I’m a godly man, are you drawing anything that I may know?” Zahariel smiled warmly. “Anything from scripture?”

God, she was mortified -- the urge to draw had increased since her introduction to Azrael, the urge to document, as if she weren’t sure if her eyes were tricking her or not anymore. She drew, almost as if to prove to herself that her hands were still steady, still capable of creation and not destruction: that they wrought anything but death.

She blinked; her hands went red for a brief second and she startled enough to drop the napkin she’d been clutching. She blinked again and her hands were as clean as ever, and she smiled to cover up. “Have at it,” she said casually, nudging the wrinkled napkin over, though she originally had no intention of showing the stranger.

His approach set off a rioting in herself -- it felt like a dulled spark in her veins, a miniature kick of recognition and she bit down on her bottom lip, worrying at it. She had no true idea of what was on the napkin she’d pushed over: it had to be some blend of faces in the bustle of the coffee shop, bells, and thorns, if her usual fare was anything to go by. 

“Nothing expressly from scripture,” she returned, nervously, unsure where the man was going, and just how close he hit to home. “Maybe some vague interpretation of it,” she amended, in case her drawings betrayed her words.

Simeon didn’t usually look for prophets when they were just running in to get coffee for Sloane and them, usually on the way to a more important epicentre for angelic activity than the shithole they decided to stop in — but this was different, this was somewhere that had a concentration of angels. This was somewhere that Simeon wanted to know why they ere was such a grand amount of angels — wanted to know why there was such a large number of any sort of holy being ( though an angel would never call an nephilim ‘holy’ they certainly fit the bill for normal humans ).

There was the queasy feeling in their stomach — the unmistakeable tang of Azrael in the back part of Simeon’s throat — and that is what had them drawn to the lady drawing in her own little part of the shop. They had ordered and quickly turned to her. Had quickly walked to her and, having plastered a soft and warm smile on their face said the words, “No, no, it’s okay.” Simeon motioned to the now-crumpled napkin. “What are you drawing? Will you show me? I’ve always had an interest in art.”

It wasn’t a lie, as Zadkiel, Simeon had found it so fascinating what the humans interpreted the angels to be — had found humanity and its art so fascinating that they had considered disgracement hundreds of years before it happened to them.

“Please, don’t be embarrassed. Just show me, then we’re even.” Simeon took the seat opposite the lady. “You may call me Simeon, by the way,” they said, smile never leaving their face as the nauseous feeling got worse — this was a prophet, but not a traditional one ( what was she if not a prophet in the proper sense? ), “Who are you?”

The thought stuck in Simeon’s mind — what are you?

Thea took a deep breath in; her stomach churned as the other approached: a feeling that she ascribed to the unfortunate aftermath of a hard shift in her ER residency. Azrael laughed again, crueler than she knew it, adding to her discomfit. She panicked mildly, fist crumpling her napkin further in addition to her own embarrassment at being caught daydreaming.

She ignored the queasy feeling; she had experienced it enough all throughout her unfortunate and confusing stay in Kansas. She’d never experienced such spells throughout her whole life, being of a heartier build than her own sister.

“It’s nothing,” she said hastily. “Honestly just the production of a lack of sleep and inattention on my own part,” she added on, unwilling to show them the likeness of themselves and admit to anyone the attention she’d been paying.

It wasn’t discomfort per se that discouraged her: they seemed friendly enough, taking a seat across from her, wide smile in place, a hallmark southern kindness. She returned it out of a sense of duty and not out of desire, bedside manner kicking in instinctively. “I’m Thea,” she said, as if it answered any of the questions they’d posed.

It wasn’t late per se; it was just late for her, considering the number of hours she’d slept in the last 24 hours -- at least less than 3 hours, by her own estimation -- after the 12 hour shift she’d just gotten off of. The coffee shop was buzzing with people gearing up for a full day; she caffeinated for the sake of routine, daydreaming idly as people brushed by her table by the window. She should’ve been sleeping, to be perfectly honest, but the sun was shining, and energy was too high for her to manage it: Azrael was leaving to her own devices.

Hand guided by precision borne of anatomical charts, she watched as the coffee crowd inched forward towards the register, doodling on the napkin next to her, likenesses of everyone popping up in every form on her napkin. The crowd swelled; her hand did not: noticing suddenly the object of her focus wandering closer (either on purpose or by chance she did not know), she crumpled the napkin in her fist, blood rushing to her face.

It occurs to you that you’re a paradoxical creature: human, and yet sometimes not at all, a doctor hosting death, religion fading fast as you gather more and more empirical proof to its name. They say seeing is believing, and yet, the more you see, the less you believe.

You wonder if this is how Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, prophets of history, felt: angel’s voices melding into brass, subtle barbs lifting up corners of your mind you weren’t even aware existed, balled fists pressing out of your eyes, growth rattling inside of your ribs: something celestial, something empyrean, something holy and horrible. That’s how you feel: achingly archaic, terribly holy, like you might expand outside of yourself at any given moment.You were born twice:

    (one) rioting to life, in your mother’s arms.             (two) made anew, this time, an existence of glass.

You don’t notice how fragmented you are until a couple months into your residency (it’s easy to put everything mildly concerning in a little box called adjustment period and dismiss it as the stress of waking up in Kansas). Azrael laughs when you’re in the OR. It’s a sullen clap of laughter, booming in you like you’ll collapse in on yourself. Not 20 minutes later in what should’ve been a smooth surgery, you and the attending doctor lose the patient on the table to some unforeseeable complications. It’s your first time losing a patient. It’s not the attending doctor’s first.

Azrael laughs in your head later after a routine check up, and you’re up and running to your attending doctor, unaware of how feverish you sound, raving about the coming death of a perfectly stable patient, growing in volume and insistence as Azrael speaks, as your pleas fall on deaf ears. Mania consumes.

The surgeon sighs and tells you to rest in an on-call room, says the first loss is always the hardest to stomach, especially on a punishing 12 hour shift. 

    (one) you, forsaken Cassandra.             (two) death, the ruins of mighty Troy.

This is what it means to be a prophet of death: knowing the folly of man is and will always be assuming there will be a tomorrow.

Bells toll in your head. They echo.

Sloane: what little things matter the most to you?

“Pictures,” she whispered, smiling. “The ability to immortalize a moment and enjoy it for a lifetime, even after it’s long gone? It’s worth far more than just a thousand words,” she said, finally, thinking about the photo she kept in her wallet: a picture crumpling at the edges, and well loved, a picture of Andrea on her first day of school. 

Valentina: what would you sacrifice for love? what wouldn’t you sacrifice for love?

“I’m not entirely sure, to be completely frank with you. Maybe I would’ve answered that I’d sacrifice unconditionally for love once upon a time, but I’ve been… finding parts of myself that I never knew existed, for lack of a better way to phrase it.”