He was frustrated. He was frustrated in the way that a machine is frustrated when its purpose had been removed, a train with its tracks mislaid, running on dry engine fumes until he consumed himself. His frustration was not apparent to the naked eye. It would show in minute microsnaps, a subtle tensing of his jaw, an averting of his eyes beneath dark lashes, a closed in nature of his body posture. The brightness, the madness of the city infuriated him and unsettled him. He did not move well, not terrestrially. A creature of light and air, confined in this stinking human suit, the true human out of mind and out of time rattling within, his temper was irked. Still, he was patient. He was cautious. He learned. He knew.
It was different when one was watching them, like colorful ants pouring out of an anthill, each individual purposeful only in their role to play. Alone, each was worthless, and the most important being ever created. For each one formed the intricate tapestry that formed of the Plan. It was always the Plan. One could almost hear the capital letter clink into place. He had always known the Plan, back even then when all had appeared as formless dark, known his place in it, his understanding of it. He had known who was above him (God) and who was below him in rank (all other creation), and he had been comfortable in that, a most lauded servant, humble and sure.Â
Memories. Memories of screaming into the darkness, of blood running, of corporal bodies, of the pain and the madness of the Cage. Memories of collapsing beside his brother when they were too weary to fight, the shattered comfort of having him near, even as an enemy that neither of them wanted as an enemy. Lucifer had tried to avert their battle, even then, but Michael was not proud, but certain. He suffered in silence, but in his mind, he called out to his Father, humble, soft, asking. Waiting for an answer, for some shred of information about why he had been allowed to fail. For was this not his destiny? To rise above the Serpent upon the end of days for the Glory of Heaven? Was this not his place, hated that he must destroy what he had helped create, and loved that he might serve the Almighty and bring peace to the Kingdom of Heaven, weigh the guilty and the innocent, reward the just and punish all in perdition?Â
No answer came. He was forsaken. Forgotten. Confused. The confusion made him dangerous, a fury building within him kept carefully under lock and key. All of what he had done was to lead to this eventual conclusion. He remembered the fear and the fury and the terrible doomed calm upon Luciferâs face, the screaming of fledglings, the great wings burning as they fell through a cloudless sky. Down, down, into the Pit, tortured by solitude that he now understood. The war, brother against brother, hatred, division. His entire existence snuffed out in an instant, and into that deep darkness, rich and waiting, germinated a seed of doubt. He would never term it doubt, but that was what it was. A wish to understand that was never answered, an anger that he despised himself for, a search for direction that never formed.Â
Sitting at the bar in silence, he looked out the window at the people outside. From his vantage point, there seemed to be many. Once, they would have seemed to him full of Purpose, driven, cogs in an intricate machine. Now they seemed as rushing insects, teeming over the outstretch of the city. This terrible, alien, city. My sheep. But how was he to know his orders, when no orders came? When he loved them not? When this last irrefutable proof of his Fatherâs absence slammed shut in his face like a metal door? He did not know why he chose the bar. Perhaps because it was distracting, calming, to see the sins evident in every line of every face. The rush of life confused him and kindled that rage, but it also distracted him enough to manage it. He walked over to the bar counter where it was slightly calmer next to a man that sparked and stung his instincts.
A dangerous curiosity rose in him, freed potential. He listened to his words.
The seafoam eyes drifted to the smaller man, and gave him a look of chilling intelligence and nameless threat without meaning. It was the look of a universe, ancient and ageless and knowing and dangerous. Â It was a look that would send the bravest man into internal paroxysms. It said Hunter and it said amusement, and the amusement was almost worse.
