Young Writers Society

They cast you out.
You weren't perfect enough
-- you weren't numb enough for them.
They couldn't control you
and so they cast you out.

History of the Realms

The history of the four realms has been a large struggle of balance and power, which has essentially reflected there perfectly. Ages ago, the ruler of heaven, King Thoren rebuilt the world from a land ruined by war. He created the four realms: isles, earth, heaven, and of course there.

earth is the realm of choice. Inhabiting it is the only person who has ever escaped there, named Kasear. As mentioned, the universe is always struggling to keep balance, and with the immense power and good intention that Thoren had, there had to be a force to counter act it. Kasear is that force, and so Thoren struck a deal with him in which Kasear would be allowed to forever rule earth however he chose, if he would never leave. Kasear accepted and earth was encased in a barrier Kasear could never see or cross. Then to keep balance of power, Thoren split his power three ways and stored each portion into artifacts. The three artifacts went off to the remaining three realms.

isles is the realm of the dead. Surrounding it, instead of a barrier, is an enormous chasm infinitely deep and infinitely wide. This essentially means that, unless you are meant to find isles for one reason or another, it would be impossible to find it by crossing the chasm. Inside isles is a sentient force known as The Collection, who is the guardian of the realm's artifact, a silver petaled flower.

heaven is the realm of perfection. It is the utopia that Thoren always dreamed of, as his first home was ravaged by destruction and home, forcing him to take the role of a god to preserve the living. For the first inhabitants of heaven, he essentially went through and removed the evil, the badness in people, creating a race in there known as the impure. (More on them later :3) From there, heaven was meant to be a place where kindness ruled, art and beauty flourished, love prospered between everyone: a utopia. However, the universe seeks balance and there are always imperfections finding their way in again. That is the role of the guardians, to keep heaven untainted. Those take out are cast into there.

(Those are you. Your family.)

Thoren rules over heaven, though after the deal with Kasear, he was so drained that he fell into a deep slumber, now stuck in a state that is wedged between life and death. The artifact of heaven is a perfectly crafted steel sword with a golden hilt, which is in Thoren's arms as he rests. His guardians watch his utopia for him.

there is the realm of balance. It is this, rather than chaos or imperfection, as it is the utter opposite of heaven, because it is what keeps the balance in the universe. For each perfect angel in heaven there is an impure to match them. So, there is the entire reason heaven has been around as a utopia for centuries without even a crack in its foundation. Now, there are guardians in and around there, most of the time trying to blend in while still protecting the artifact. Thoren originally placed them there to protect the fallen from the impure, however at this point in time, most hardly intervene. The artifact is an ordinary looking pocket-watch with a bronze chain.

Now, with the artifacts are what keep the power balanced within the four realms, which means there is only a limited amount power within each realm. That is especially disastrous in there, so every person must fight with one another to secure any kind of magic, and so magic is extremely precious. People will kill others for their magic, since when one dies their energy is released once again. All the more reason the artifact must be heavily guarded because possession of the artifact means possession of all magic.

Races Found in there

There are four main races in there: the fallen, the impure, the humans and the guardians.

The impure were mentioned before. (But for those of you skimming the impure are the remaining parts of an angel in heaven that were taken out to make them perfect. Thus the impure have no good qualities or so little that they're negligible.) The impure are often savage-like, though there are some with prefer to mess with their victims psychologically. The closest thing most get to feeling "love" or "caring about someone" is their relationship with their family, which is very, very, very fiercely close.

Then are the fallen. These are angels that once lived in heaven but were cast out for one reason of another. The reason is often minimal, so the fallen aren't all bad when they first enter there. It's later on when the energy around them corrupts them. Often times, the one quality that got them cast out flourishes into a more extreme version, but they are never completely bad people. They are also much better magicians than the impure.

Next come the humans. Humans are essentially any child of the fallen. They are someone who lives in there but has never seen heaven, let along been cast out. Humans are strangely rare in there because it fairly difficult for a fallen to take care of themselves, let alone a child or lover. They are considerably good at magic, even better than the guardians, but they are often weak. Those around often have to be crafty and street smart to make it this far.

Finally are the guardians. Guardians are essentially the stereotypical angel. (Angels in heaven are only called angels because they are in heaven. Guardians are the only ones with wings.) They will likely find themselves in there because of exceptional skill in magic -- to disguise their wings -- and extremely set in "perfection". Which means that it is harder to taint them because of the energy in there. Guardians never live in there permanently and are always rotating in and out.

Your Story

You're probably wondering why this has anything to do with you. You know it all -- the story, the lore and the reason you, your family has been cast into this dreadful place. You have your story of either being born and raised here in the lovely land of there or finding yourself here, surrounded by guardians showing you into exile.

You also remember the barrier. Not many others can see it, most of you finding that out the hard way and appearing as more of a loon than before. But you know it's there. You can even place your hand out and touch its glassy structure and feel the energy pulsing in it. You. want. out.

One night, you dream. Dream of a King, the King -- King Kasear. He promises you his help, to free you from there and even the fear of returning. He promises to restore justice to the world in destroying heaven, the land of those who have wronged you in one way or another. He promises to help you cross the barrier and then shatter it, like he did all those centuries before.

All you have to do is take the artifact of there.

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“And your names?” the man asked, his hushed words pulling his mouth into a devilish smile.

Though the room was empty of any other bodies besides hers and the man’s, there was a murmur of responses, each sounding like hisses being smothered by a gust of wind. Definitely muted voices, she decided. While she could not make out the words, the man watching her seemed pleased by them, his face lighting up with a dark pleasure, changing his crystal eyes to a more sinister shade of blue.

As the room fell silent again and the whispers faded, he still stared at her and waited for her name. He had requested it of course.

Finally she spat at the man, “Riss. But something tells me you already knew that.” Her words shook the darkness of the room, sticking to the tension rising the air and shoving aside the memory of the first voices.

The man only chuckled. He then ran a hand through his charcoal hair and waited a moment as suddenly new words were strung together by the bodiless voices. Now, she could scarcely make out individual words that turned into phrases, questions. They floated up in the gaze of the man, as if it were a light that surfaced them.

“Who was that?”

“Is someone else here?”

“I heard something. We’re not alone?”

A silent blanket settled over the scene just before the man spoke again. “Be calm, my friends. There are indeed many of you here. I have gathered you all to ask of a favor.” He held up his large, calloused hands, with his palms facing out towards Riss and the other invisible occupants.

“Hold up!” she snapped. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

After the words left her mouth, she could feel the brush of skin across her bare arms, muscles tensing from the contact. Then there was another voice echoing her outburst, followed by another and another, all different people, all different sounds. They spoke with confidence, as she did when her name attacked the man standing before her. Perhaps it was her time to feel smug.

Instead, he flashed another smile, showing a perfect row of shimmering white teeth. “You all have heard of me, whether it be by parents to scare you to sleep, by ancient texts or by legends. I am the king, the true king: King Kasear.” His tone was one of a man speaking to thousand, a man who would address a mass of people who would roar and cheer at every word spoke. Aside from another uproar of the whispers, which seemed louder at this moment than ever before, there was no such response.

“So what? We’re talking fairy tales now?” she hissed, visibly shrugging off a nagging cold on the back of her neck. The venom in her words licked her lips as she continued. “You know expect me to believe the bull shit you’re spewing? Listen, ‘sear. Just call me again when you want to play with the big kids, alright?”

The other protests began as well, but if they had started before or after she concluded with crossing her arms across her chest, she couldn’t tell. They just swirled around her head in a big jumble that she couldn’t hope to pick anything out. There were just pieces that chipped off the whole in the commotion. Such as the falcon screeching in her ears, or the sounds of male and female voices intermingling. All of it was there. And though it was a mess, she felt it was hers. That everyone stood beside her, with her.

That was only the beginning.


Though the sun had begun to sink down the western sky from the morning it broke the up in east, the shadows had only just begun to catch up with it. They draped themselves over the cracked streets and through the long alleyways, creating what appeared as a mirror road to a land of darkness. Inside their shade it was cooler; it was a sensation that pricked at what little warmth was left in the skin of a passerby, but hardly enough for them to notice.

Especially Riss, whose mind wandered so far from her body she couldn’t be considered even “there”. She moved with purpose, the tapping of her feet against the cracked, gray streets reduced to only a faint noise, drowned out by the sea of silence. But even so, it was her hunger driving her forward, more than her head, as it clawed at her throat and coiled around stomach, squeezing until she felt sick and weak.

Yet all she could think about was the dream, the king, the artifact.

She hated dreams, like she hated prophecies and the old men that would litter the downtown streets, dressed in white robes and screaming “May your destiny be damned!” whenever she glared at them. Well, dreaming came at a pretty close second.

Though this one, felt different. Of course it had, she dreamt of a figure from a children’s story that existed “centuries ago” – never proven to be alive – and something wouldn’t allow her to let it go. It was a dream, just that, a fantasy that her mind created in an attempt to rattle her to the core. She hated to admit it, but so far it was working.

It was so ridiculous! An artifact, no the artifact, was what he wanted? How the fuck was she supposed to steal this object of legends, get out of the barrier and deliver it to some man she didn’t even know existed? And what, some dream team was supposed to “meet together” to do the deed?

To even try would be suicide. But she couldn’t let. it. go. If only she could knife dreams in the face; that would solve all her problems.

With the concluding thought, she shoved away the dream and all its contents, returning to the world around her. Not once had she broken pace, continuing to slip between the two worlds of light and dark created by the sun and her gray veils. Her legs knew the path too well to be set off by petty differences, and though her attention was consumed elsewhere, she was pleased to return from her head to the sight of her destination.

The scene was soft on her eyes, especially with the extra grayness of the evening tugging at the rusted red look of the bricks. There was only one long strip of the day’s light left, right in the middle of the pathetic, stone court, draping the apartments looming ahead of her in a blanket of gray for the oncoming night.

She paused for a moment in the center of the court, letting her skin soak up the warmth of the strip for a moment before pushing herself forward. Her hunger demanded she be fed, and while she thought this place had been long since stripped of anything useful, abandoned after a series of violent raids, a young man entering the building a few nights ago signaled it may have been a promising stash.

Key word: May. Nothing in there was ever certain.

The worn soles of her shoes slapped the concrete stairs as she swiftly bounced up them. A light breeze brushed back her mess of hair so it all flipped to the left, falling back onto her shoulder as the breeze passed her by. She took the extra step of pushing it behind her ear as she scanned the front of the building. In the end, she followed the walkway that surrounded the building to the back, as the front entrance was likely fortified in some way.

The back looked absolutely no different, as far as scenery went. The only plant life consisted of bricks, bricks and more bricks. Even the building was as fantastic piece of architecture, with a uniformly rectangular shape throughout, even with a nice black, elevated – now corroding – railing that was meant to keep out non-tenants. Likely if she hadn’t lived here in her early days in there, she wouldn’t have been able to find this place again. It never was that memorable.

Though, the main difference between the front and back was that there were a good variety of at least twenty doors to choose break into. And so the raiding began.

She walked up to the closest door to her and pressed one hand against the bright wood. Upon her touch, it felt firm and rigid, as if the door had grown into the frame and became a boulder wedged in the entrance of the cave. She didn’t bother with the handle before moving on.

For the next few moments, this became the ritual, pushing her fingers against the door to feel its strength and then jiggling the door handle to search for weakness, an easy way in. To her surprise, they held up well for their age, the doors not yet rotting and the handles firm in their place. She even considered it wasn’t worth it, that she had to come up with another plan, until she came across a door labeled Room 137.

The wood appeared as a tame best, almost melting under her touch as she pressed into it. Even after her fingers moved away, there was a small impression where he hand laid. Then her fingers curled around the rusting, yellow handle, which was locked as expected, but it moved more. The lock clicked and strained under her force to hold her back.

A crooked smile appeared on her face as she then pulled out a thin knife. With a practice hands, she held the door handle and shoved the end of the knife in to the keyhole. She didn’t bother to pick it, instead threw her weight onto the door and pushed down until the lock snapped. The door flew open.

The room had a moldy smell, of excess rotting filth. Closer to the corner of the room, there was a ragged pile of sheets with holes bitten through the fabric and tears around their edges. The sheets on the bed beside the pile appeared in a similar condition, with parts of the mattress showing through.

Overall, the room was small and crammed, with only a shoot off for a bathroom and a laughably small kitchen. The paint all around was chipped and fading, though the room itself was not in a horrible condition. Whoever had left had fully intended to come back, as far as she could tell.

Though she enjoyed reminiscing and thinking about the shock the apartment’s owner would experience upon coming back to a raided home, Riss moved inside, darting towards the kitchen.

She threw open the pantry and the tiny cupboards stuffed into the small space, but each had a different collection of cobwebs and layers of dust. In fact, the entire kitchen was completely bare, with even the sink not working upon command.

“Son of a bitch,” she muttered.

A smart move, she concluded, for the owner to stash away supplies some place less obvious. Her eyes scanned the room again, landing on a wooden wardrobe. Another suspect, perhaps. But its only contents were a couple of ridiculous shirts and some blue jeans with rips all the way down the leg.

So she tipped it, and allowed its enormous crash to fill the room with noise and dust for as second. She watched the hinges of the door to snap, the wood breaking and splintering all over the floor. Then after that moment she moved again.

Her heart thumped, hoped drummed against her chest as the giddy feeling of the act battled against it. Don’t test me, she thought to the room, gritting her teeth as she approached the tiny bed. Her knuckles still gripped her knife, soon turning white from pressure she put onto it.

She shredded the mattress, the sheets, the blankets that all sat in that corner. The fabric and fluff flew into the air as she hacked and tore until half of the blood from the mattress littered the floor and surrounding.

But yet she found nothing. There was nowhere left for her to look. Even her brief search in the bathroom showed no results. The goddamn apartments had won out again.

The knife soon found itself hurtling out of her hand and into the wall opposite the bed. With a dull thunk, it was lodged into place as she screamed in frustration. She didn’t care if anyone heard her, or was even around to hear. Her body shivered at the failed attempt, her one hope. Likely the other rooms would appear the same, either wedged shut or bone dry.

She left the knife where she threw it as she marched out the door.

Her mind was racing with thoughts and curses to the owner, the complex, everything. Inside her stomach, hunger jabbed at her again and misery clouded over her thoughts, with the anger and frustration ebbing way after having nowhere left to rule.

She left the door wide open as she hoped the black railing and jumped down into the lower alley.

Though her adrenaline pulsed through her blood and there was a drunken piece of glee in her mind, shame soon pushed through. She’d lost her temper, she’d gotten careless and perhaps that would lead someone right to her.

Let them fight me, then.

A shuffling of feet ahead of her made her head snap up, hand moving toward her dagger. (Obviously the noise she made must have alerted someone, there was no way it didn’t.) Though it was just the familiar face of Ossie, her second shadow.

The sight of him brought back all new frustrations and she bit her lip at the thought. He looked even scrawnier now than he’d seen him, yet still alive and watching her from the side. Something held her back from thumping on the head as she walked past.

She said nothing and stalked down the alleyway, fuming. Of course, she didn’t have to, as the “follow me” was completely understood. She had one more plan up her sleeve, and it would definitely involve more than just her.

"We are more than just a group of people who work the same craft," the tall man in the dark orange suit said. He had a golden watch on his wrist, and an angry, yet calm smirk on his pale face. "We are a group of friends. And you begged to join our group. Why would you do this, Sasha? Why would you betray us, me like this?" He asked the hooded woman, who was tied in the chair in front of him and his three henchmen.


One of them wore a long overcoat; another, the eldest one, had a very thick beard. The third one looked like he was sixteen, which he was.


"Why would I not?" the woman answered. They were all in a dark, fully-stocked warehouse, with only a single weak light shining on them from above. "You don't ask me to go on jobs with you, I always have to be the one who asks you. You don't think I'm good enough, Krys. You take me for granted, and I showed my loyalty to you every single day."


"You were new," Krys said. "An outsider. You should have known your place."


"Lynna was new." Sasha leaned forward in her chair, straining the ropes through her clothes against her skin. "And you still treated her better than you ever treated me. You still gave her the best jobs, the most interesting, the most paying. And you still would have if she hadn't pointed that bow at me."


"This is ridiculous," one of the other men said. "Let's just get this over with."

"Why don't you like me, Krys?" the woman asked. "Is it the hood? Just ask me to take it off, I would do that for you. Come on, Krys! Take it off!"

"What have you told them?" The man in the orange suit adjusted his sleeves. "What do they know?"

"What do they have that I don't?" Sasha pointed at the three henchmen. "And what is it with you and Loo?" She looked at the henchman who had spoken. "Why does he know every job before it even happens, and I only find out about it in the morning paper? Why do you only come to me when they're not around, or when you need one extra person?"

"Let's just kill her and be done with it," Loo suggested.

"Is that why you betrayed me?" Krys circled around the chair. "You were feeling excluded?"

"It could have been anything," Sasha said. "You could have asked me to go to the Disarray and bring back a souvenir. You could have asked me to take your dog for a walk, or help you practice... You could have asked me to… steal you a flying unicorn! I would have done anything, and you know it. But, I suppose, when you know that someone is that loyal, you expect them to always be there, no matter what you do or say, no matter what you don't do and don't say."

"You know," Krys said. "Some people might think you're going crazy."

"At least I'm not selling Opium like Loo."

"What!?" Loo took a step backward.

"Loo wouldn't do that." Krys chuckled. "Opium is not our turf."

"You think I'm the only one doing jobs on the side? Loo and I made a deal: I would keep quiet about the Opium, and he would help me get into your tight circle of 'friends'. It's all I ever wanted, but he didn't deliver."

"The bitch is lying," the henchman said. "I'll gut you," he spoke to her through his teeth as he waved around a small pocketknife.

"Think about it, Krys." Sasha stared at the ground. "Why has he been threatened by me? He knew I could always tell you, so he tried to push me away from you. And where did all that money come from, if not from the Opium? That sword he got you last month – Opium money. You're so smitten with him, you just can't see it."

"Hmm. Loo," the leader said and placed his hand on his chin, his golden watch shining in the weak light. "Where did that money come from, anyway?"

"So what if I sold a little?" The henchman raised his arms. "It doesn't compare to what she did!"

"You fucking moron." Krys clenched his jaw. "We. Don't. Sell!" He screamed as he grabbed Loo by his long overcoat. "Did you give any to my son? Answer me!"

"Come on, Krys!" Loo said. "She's just trying to turn us against each other."

"If I was trying to turn you against each other," Sasha uttered. "I would tell you that Nick is nicking your wife's knickers."

"Lying bitch!" another of the henchmen exclaimed, the old one, with the beard.

"Was I wrong about the Opium? You've seen the looks they give each other. Deep down, you know it."

"Why are you saying these things?" Nick, the bearded one asked. "I thought you were my friend."

"And I thought all of you were my friends, but I was wrong," Sasha replied. "So, you see, Krys. I don't belong in this chair any more than they do. Well, I've got nothing against Kubb, he's a pretty good guy."

Krys opened the jacket of his suit, and revealed a gun tucked in his pants. "Two bullets," he said as he took it out. "One for Sasha, the other just in case. Did you give any Opium to my son? Did you and my wife..?"

"No, I swear!" Loo yelled. "I did not…"

"Don’t lie to me!" Krys pointed at Loo with the gun, his tightened fist involuntarily squeezing the trigger. He shot his man in the thigh. "Oh, shit!" he shouted as Loo screamed and dropped his pocketknife. He fell to the aged warehouse floor, holding his leg with both hands. "Now look what you've made me do!" he turned to Sasha.

"I didn't make you do anything," she replied from behind her hood. "I'm tied up!" She chuckled.

"Sasha, you allowed us to catch you, why didn't you escape? What have you told them?"

"Everything. About every operation, every safe house, every warehouse, about this place… You should have brought more bullets."

Everyone's eyes turned to the door as a tremendous force kicked it down. "Quick!" Krys whispered loudly. "Hide! Hide!"

Blaise shuffled through his stash of supplies and gathered the warmest clothes he had. Isidora was perched outside, feeding him the local weather report. Biting cold, ferocious winds... A chance of snow.

Suddenly, her focus shifted. In his mind, Blaise could see the familiar bird’s-eye-view of ragged homes and twisting, muddy streets, the rifts from wagon wheels brimming with fresh rainwater. The edges of the scene were frayed with a white, chalky border, indicating that Isidora was sharing a past memory with him. He gently laid his coat aside and waited for her to get to the point, silently reminding her that they should get going before the sun showed itself.

She agreed, and skipped to the essential point of the memory. She keyed him into specific details to establish where in the city they were - the rainwater from the wagon wheel rifts in the street was frozen and the wooden shingles on each roof were dark and weathered from the constant strain of melting snow. Only the cold, gray, northern edge of the city would harbor such streets.

Next she tugged the memory to focus on a single dilapidated apartment, two stories high. She was perching herself on the rusted iron balcony of the second floor and looking inside. The apartment itself was run-down and cheap, but the person who lived there seemed to be living comfortably, even if their possessions were scarce. The bed, for one thing, was thick with multiple layers and a blanket of white fur on top, and the door of the armoire was ajar, promising that a few valuable contents were within. There was even a nice mirror on the wall.

“You don’t need another mirror, Isidora...”

His falcon mentally thunked him on the head, and continued with the memory. He was surprised to see that she wasn’t interested in the mirror at all. The mirror was just another detail. What she was really interested in wasn’t even in the room. Yet.

When the man walked in, Blaise hardly had a chance to see what he looked like. Isidora immediately zeroed in on what he had around his neck: an old red jacket.

“A jacket? What the hell do we need that for?” He didn’t really need to ask. He could read himself what she was thinking, that it would be a challenge. How, though?

Watch...

In the memory, the man was clearly exhausted from his day and eager to slip into his multi-layered bed, but as he got ready to retire he never took that jacket off. It wasn’t until he was halfway under the covers that he slipped it off and gently draped it on top of his chest. One hand was still clenching it as he fell asleep.

In a flash of chalky white, the memory was over. Blaise blinked. Perhaps it would be a good challenge...

“Alright, alright,” he finally growled, putting on his thickest coat. “We’ll get the damn jacket. As a challenge, and nothing more.”

Blaise clambered out of his underground hiding place and rose to his feet, brushing off the flecks of dirt on his pants. His partner in crime chirped happily and settled on his forearm, and after he shoved the massive boulder back into place - covering the entrance of the hideout - and smoothed over the dirt he had unsettled, they were off towards the north end of the city.

They planned as they traveled. That’s what they always did. By the time they reached the dilapidated apartment of the falcon’s memory, they were ready. Well, almost ready. Blaise admittedly wasn’t entirely confident with their plans this time.

They didn’t even know who their victim was, or why he seemed to be so well-off and yet lived in the poorest part of the region. All Blaise could hope for was that Plan A would work out. He didn’t want to stick around to see Plan B in action.

Isidora leaped from his forearm, landed on the rust iron balcony, and peered through the window, happy to see that the man was sleeping inside and the red jacket was draped on his chest, just like in the memory. Blaise climbed up to join her, and instantly he set to work on picking the door’s lock. With a satisfying click, they were admitted inside.

Isidora locked herself onto Blaise’s back. With her beak she grabbed his collar at the back of his neck, and with her talons she balanced on the small of his back, keeping herself concealed. Once he was sure she was ready, Blaise crept towards the bed. The man was still sleeping and his hand his hand was resting on top of the jacket. Here’s where magic would be nice to have, Blaise thought.

Isidora shot him a vein of anger. I’m your magic, she seemed to be saying.

Right, right. He didn’t like this, though. Normally they wouldn’t plan on doing something so risky. Usually their plans were based on stealth and were entirely anonymous; ideally, this guy would wake up to find his jacket gone, having no idea who had stolen it or how. Blaise sighed. Unfortunately, tonight was not a usual night. If Plan A didn’t work out - and he had a nagging feeling it wouldn’t - he and Isidora would have to step out of their comfort zone.

Isidora nudged him impatiently with her beak, so he stepped forward and leaned over the man, noticing his dark complexion and distinctly pointed chin. Gently, Blaise gripped the edges of the red jacket and inched it towards him. Slowly, gradually, the jacket slipped under the man’s hand. Almost there, almost there... For a moment, Blaise realized that Plan A just might work.

Then, like a flash of lightning, the man’s hand shot out and grabbed the jacket. Shit! Blaise yanked the jacket back with two hands and stumbled backwards. Plan B, Isidora! Plan B!

It was dark, but when the man sat up in bed, poised like an angry lion, Blaise could see the fire boiling in his eyes. Nonetheless, Blaise forced himself to laugh maliciously, and brandished the red jacket with fury. That’s when Isidora came in. She tightened her grip on his back and unleashed her salt and pepper wings.

Everyone’s heard the old folklore of the angels of their. Protectors. Magic-wielders. Winged men. Powerful men. Blaise laughed again, but this time his malicious joy was brimming with authenticity.

“Return to your bed and I’ll leave you in peace,” he proclaimed, and with Isidora’s wings sprouting on either side of him he looked just like one of those angels you’d find in a book of fairy tales.

The man didn’t listen.

Instead, he leapt from his bed and in a glorious flash of heavenly white, wings of his own spouted from his shoulder blades.

Rather than pausing to marvel at the magnificent sight before him, Blaise dashed through the back door and jumped off the balcony into a thin carpet of snow that had just begun to fall. He tossed the red jacket to the side and raced down the street, searching for a refuge in the shadows and getting himself as far away from the winged man as he could. Most likely the wings he had seen were just an illusion - winged men were folklore, after all - but in any case any man with such magical capabilities was a powerful man indeed.

Some blocks away from the apartment, Blaise slowed to a stop. No one was following them. Them? Wait - where was Isidora?

He had been so busy getting himself away from the apartment that he had temporarily shut off his mind to his partner in crime. After all, he had assumed she had been right there. She’s always been right there.

A flood of terror dashed over his body when he reached out to her. Isidora had grabbed the jacket where Blaise had left it and had tried to fly off with it. She was trapped now. The magic wing man was after her.

Blaise clenched his fists, his whole body shaking with anger. “Nobody,” he hissed between his teeth, “touches my bird.”

It was a murky sunny day, and from that single sunlight on my bedroom floor, I knew it was going to be a bad day. I was sweating when I woke up. The air was damp with the heat index and the cloudy forecast, wasn't exactly helping. The thin blankets seemed to become wool ones through the night, so I kicked them off. There was yelling coming from the streets below. A typical day in there. There were no birds. No fun. The only music in the town was the alarms that would go off at times, jolting you awake as to far what might've happened. At time the sounds of the city were conjoined in a madhouse song.
I yawned, moving out of bed with my feet hitting the wood floor. There was a sight smell of sweat and oil lingering in the air, but I ignored it, getting ready for the day ahead.
The assortment of different people below in the town center, seemed to have changed everyday causing fights and riots over stupid things.
I looked in the mirror, my messy hair was subdued by the tight bun against my head. My face was paler than before, lines of dirt and sweat lined my eyes and cheeks. Sighing, I pushed back a piece of hair that was in front of my face and walked out of the door.

The hallway outside my door was empty, doors closed with an accumulation of garbage bags and mail. The light from outside only made the hallway seem more mysterious and red. I closed the door (everyday you must check every once in awhile, left and right-- repeat, then lock your door. Repeat the process everyday until you think you are safe), and hurried down the corridor to work. There were no people or thing, for that matter, in the lobby or a person at the counter. Just papers clammed on the floor and around the broken elevator. Even though I had witness this environment almost everyday, the feeling just left shivers on my spine. Lights flickered, mice seemed to be crawling around the corners, and broken pipes of water were dripping throughout the night, It was home at least.
When I got outside, the heat greeted me washing me in sweat and caused my clothes to cling to my sides. Perfect day for a walk to work. There were people walking, around the center of the town, which had a crumbled statue of the long lost leader of there, Kaesar. He was known for escaping there, which caused an uproar in some places. Most would set up momuments of him, made of the finest stone while some would set hammers to these momuments and have parties. I was one of the people who didn't care much, like a dying dog. Kaesar was a dying dog that I would walk past every day, while most people would shove a sharpened stick through his stomach.

It was quite nice in the town center, except for the random screaming and hollering every once in awhile. Some kids were fighting over what looked like a bag of food. I sighed, shaking my head. The younger boy was winning while the older, more lankier than the younger person. The older boy had dirty blonde hair, that clinged to his head. Fierce blue eyes, stared at the youngest person. I walked over to the boys, moving to my knees.

"What are you guys fighting over?"

"What does it look like, bitch?" the older one grunted, giving one last heave. The youngest one stumbled forward at the sudden tug.

I chucked. "Why are you fighting over it? You both could easily share it."

The older one looked at me like I was crazy. "No one shares. I must win. You won't win, Joff. You should starve." And with that, tugged with all his might when the younger one fell on his face. He whined in pain, looking up. It seemed his nose looked broken with blood running down to his mouth.

"You fucking idiot! You broke my fucking nose!" the younger one shouted, holding his face. The older one let out a chuckle holding onto his prize.

"Weak links, moron." And ran away. I blinked. What just happened? The younger one was crying, now sitting on his butt. I went to touch him, when he gave me a cold glare.

"Don't fucking touch me, bitch." And got up, running in the opposite direction. Something was bubbling in my gut, like water in a pot. Something was digging in my mind, stinging the thoughts that vibrated there. I shook my head, narrowing my eyes at the younger person.

"You better run, little shit." Were the words that escaped my lips. For a split second, my mind was processing about running after the boy but restarted. I blinked, gapping at the words as if they were a neon sign in front of me. I walked north to the school, passing many different robberies and people yelling all around me. It was useless of being here, tortured and being treated like this. Somedays, even though I hated him, I would love to escape this hell like Kaesar.

I was turning the corner when I heard a conversation between a young man with a faded scar on his cheek and another man with dirty clothes, ripped on the sleeves and the pants. He was looking around, holding something close to his body. The young man with the faded scar, rubbed his hands together.

"This will be perfect."

"I hope so."

"Don't hope. That's just a figure of speech, no?"

The old man shrugged, taking out the hidden object. I walked pass but I saw the little thing. It was a murky with something small and round inside. The young man with the faded scar, handed the old man some money (which I never seen but heard of) and walked off in the opposite direction. The old man in the rags, slumped against the brick wall. He tipped his hat, and snored off.

When I made it to the school, I saw a group of boys being spoken to by a tall guy with green eyes. He seemed causal with a small red jacket and white shirt underneath. He wore blue denim jeans and some white tennis shoes, torn and frayed at the sides. He was speaking for a lesson, most likely, waving his hands about before settling around with his hands behind his back. Quite an animated fellow.

I walked into the school, dirty and broken like the apartment I live in. There was an old man sweeping the north hallways, mumbling phrases under his breath. I walked past him, shifting my bag over my shoulder when I heard him utter these words.

"Time's up, honey." I stopped in the middle of the hallway.

"Excuse me?"

The old man looked up, a restful look in his eyes. "Time's up, honey." And continued sweeping. Shaking my head, I continued on my way. There were classrooms, dark and lit, that I passed with kids and no kids. The stale smell welcomed me once again as I reached the last door of the hallway, I looked down to see if the old man was still there. In his place, was nothing. Probably went to clean up the other hallways.

The school day was long and a worst than scrubbing the bathroom floors. The kids I seen fighting over the food bag, were in the hallway throwing sharpen pencils at each other. It was fight with tears and some stab wounds in some girl's arm. She screamed, as the pencil just dangled there for a while before falling out. I sighed, bending down to bandage a girl's arm. The two boys started to kick tables and ran around, playing some sort of tag. Some of the teachers, who looked tired and weak from the previous days would groan and sleep with their head downs. Drool would fall over the side of the desk like a waterfall.

After the long day, I walked home with the sun setting in the west. The sky was milky purple with lines of bright blue, with pink clouds floating around making different shapes of animals and things. There seemed to be a small sliver of the silver moon, hiding behind a yellow cloud. I wished there was beauty like that in the sky on the ground and everywhere I looked. I began walking again, passing the old man before. He seemed to be sleeping since from the last time I saw him.
The roads were less crowded, everyone settling down (or planning for tonight). When I got up to the my apartment room, I throw my stuff and fell asleep. The sound of the city was like a madhouse lullaby-- the screams and the alarms were the flutes while my heartbeat was the soft, thumping drum.

The morning sun rose over the city casting dark shadows along the crowded paved streets. The city was surprisingly restless for this early in the morning, and this made Melaina quite intrigued. Crowded streets meant more viewers. More viewers means a full belly tonight. Melaina shivered as the cool breeze rushed through her strawberry blonde hair. The eyes of restless men, and disgusted women landed on her. Her race wasn’t the only thing that attracted the attention of others. A blessing and a curse.

By the time Melaina reached the square, the city was in it’s full motion. Women are rushing through stores looking for objects they do not need, men are running to work to feed their families, and children are skipping around on their way to school stuck in the daydream that life is fair. Melaina cannot help but notice every single face. Every single story. In a world such as There everyone has something to say, but none have any courage to say it.

Melaina finds her post at the center of the square next to the fountain. A site where wishes are made, and lost. Hope is a peculiar thing that no one can even begin to wrap their heads around. This reality is quite sad to Melaina, and yet her hope never ceases. The area of the fountain is quite large, and the sounds echo hypnotically across the white stone. A perfect place to pull people into a musical fantasy.

Melaina extracts her black violin from its polished case, and places it in the crook of her neck. A sigh escapes her as she places the bow softly against the strings. Without the slightest bit of doubt Melaina began to play.

( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KbrA-ko_iLc If you want the full effect)

At first the melody began slow, and quiet. But as the song continued on, the tune became more and more mesmerizing to the passing residents. Melaina could sense their presence and their stares, but she dare not open her eyes. For the music has wrapped itself around her. Like a titanium shield. A shield of comfort and serenity. A shield that even in her state of poverty made her feel like the most fortunate person. Music has always been a gift to her. A gift that she could share.

The audience had begun to grow more and more. People watched in amazement as the music traveled through the square echoing against the buildings. What once was the loud noisy square, had turned into a silent stage. For that moment it felt like time had completely stopped. Worries had completely washed away, and longing for something greater burned in all of their eyes. Music is a powerful thing, and for Melaina it is her way of life.

When the song ended Melaina opened her eyes to the sight of people staring. Some smiled, others had tears in their eyes, and there were even a few that slightly clapped. It took a moment for reality to set back in, and the audience dispersed returning to their daily schedules as if nothing happened. Only few took the time to place small coins in Melaina’s violin case. She smiled, and thanked the generous people for their kindness.

And so, her day continued on like this. New songs were played, and new audiences stopped to listen. The coins began to pile up, but their value was not much. Not enough to gain the support she needed, but generous all the same.

It was towards the night that Melaina received most of her money. The nights were when people came out to gamble, drink, and play games. Men gathered around her stand to get a chance to play her game. A game of chance, and luck. A game she liked to call “Can you guess?” The rules were simple. Place a bet. If you win you receive back what you bet plus half, and if you lose you lose all. Three cards are placed on a table. You must choose the correct one to win.

That night business was going well. She had managed to make a good amount, and all the gamblers were still happy playing a game they thought was fair. They were all happy until a large man approached, and took a seat in front of the stand. He smiled maliciously, and dropped a full bag onto the table.

“How much do you wish to bet?” Melaina asked calmly.

“All of it.” He laughed. Melaina smiled trying to hide her disgust from the putrid smell of alcohol on his breath.

“Well well. Someone is feeling lucky tonight.” She picks up the bag, and places it behind her in a basket with all of her other earnings. “You know the rules yes?” The man nods and rubs his hands together. Melaina slightly laughs and raises her hand towards the cards. The cards begin to twist through the air creating a beautiful dance of flight. The man's attention was so captivated by the magic, and Melaina was easily able to divert his attention from the chosen card. She placed the cards back on the table and smiled.

“Make your choice.” The man laughed, and pointed at the card in the center. Melaina turned over the card to reveal the wrong card.

“Damn.” The man said disappointed. He stood quickly and swayed a little. “Fun game you little bitch.” He laughed and walked off stumbling over himself. Melaina laughed, but she couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for the man. Sadly in this world though it’s every man for himself. She quickly closed up her stand, and packed away her things. It was time to go home for the night. The walk was not long, but it always made her feel tired. The weight of the day is perched on her shoulders, and the lights of the city blur together in a haze. Mistakenly Melaina turned down a wrong alleyway where she was greeted by a large man. The very large drunk man from the games tonight. Before she could turn around he spotted her.

“Hey you!” He walked towards her chugging off the rest of his bottle. “You’re the little whore who cheated me out of all my earnings for the month.” She tried to walk faster, but he quickly caught up to her grabbing her arm tightly. With one swift motion he pushed her harshly against the wall. A gasp escapes her throat, and white spots flood her vision. “I’ve always hated you disgusting little humans.” She shivers as his breath crawls across her neck, and jaw.

“Please leave me be.” She pleads struggling in his hold. Her hand searches the wall for anything to grasp.

“I want my money back.” He orders angrily.

“Alright. But I have to get it in my bag. Please release me, and I’ll get you your money.”

“How about instead you give me something else, and we’ll call it even.” He wraps his arm around Melaina’s waist.

“Get off of me!” She pleads struggling. Before the man could continue a heavy object thrashes against his head. He falls to the floor unconscious, and Melaina looks up to see a stranger standing in front of her with a brick in their hand. Self consciously Melaina smooths down her dress, and picks up her fallen objects.

“Seriously? No thank you?” She looks up at the stranger.

“I was handling it.”

“Yeah I could tell, by the way he had you pinned to the wall struggling.”

“I said I had it handled. The moment he would have been distracted I would have been able to reach my dagger. I’m not a damsel in distress I can handle myself.” She lifted the side of her dress to reveal the sheath holding her father's dagger.

“I see. And what if he didn’t become distracted?” The stranger asked. Melaina looked at them in silence. The stranger sighed and rubbed a hand over their face. “Look. I’m sorry. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. Now please excuse me.” She quickly walks past the stranger. When the reaches the edge of the alleyway she quickly turns back to the stranger. “Thank you...Really.”

“My pleasure.” They both nodded, and then continued on their way.

When Melaina reached the tiny shack she called a home, she was too tired to even eat. However it was very hard to ignore her rumbling stomach. So before heading to bed she grabbed a small roll of bread from her pantry. She layed down on her bed looking up at the dreary ceiling, as she took a bite out of the bread. She moaned at the small pleasure of food in her stomach. After she finished her meal, she retreated back to the sight of the ceiling. Her eyes felt heavy, and her body became still. Melaina never liked the dark even as an adult, so with a slight wave of her hand a small ball of golden light began to dance around the room. She watched as the ball transformed from a hare, to a dancer. All stories that her father had once told to her. She smiled as sleep crept across her body. Today was an interesting day, and Melaina had a strange feeling that the world wasn’t going to ever be normal again when she woke up.

Something was coming.

She just didn’t know what it was.

Pain was something general. It came and went, like a faint breeze smelling of stale sweat and dust. Sometimes, it came in different forms, like an odor of rusty metal or a musk of sour, spoiled food - unpleasant but bearable. Other times it was the raw stench of halting gasps and grit filled saliva, and the revolting twang of defecation. Osiris knew pain and knew its many scents, but it wasn't the knowing of pain that made him indifferent to its physical effects: it was his understanding of it. A living thing could know of pain but could still not understand it. Osiris understood pain, and therefore he could live along side it, relatively mentally unaffected.

Currently, this pain that he felt smelled stale and sweet, like rotting books. He felt it sitting in his body, right in the pit of his core. He had always regarded his physicality separately from himself, like a pair of boots that occasionally needed maintenance, and this pain he inspected with a slightly concerned brow, because he knew this scent well and that, instead of fading away, it would fester and be bad for him in the long run.

Riss believed that the solution to this pain would be in the warehouse that they watched from a safe distance away. And because Riss said so, Osiris believed it without a pause.

Quickly, Riss sprinted to the left of the warehouse, sticking to the long, bleak shadows that stretched like black cats across the infertile ground. Osiris followed promptly.

Most times, Riss didn't tell him what she was about to do. He had to guess and follow blindly, but that must be the best way to do things, because Riss would always handle things that way. Riss didn't really tell him much of anything, now that he thought about it, except an occasional comment about how he should leave and never come back. Of course, Osiris wouldn't be able to protect her if he did that. And Riss would get lonely.

She paused behind a pile of old tires. She watched the warehouse some more. Osiris did the same.

There were clear signs, at least to him, that the building had been inhabited at one point. Someone had taken the time, effort, and risk to hammer planks over the windows and doors, but they had not taken the time to hide the paths that they would take when sneaking to and from the warehouse. They looked like pale scars, with the dirt pounded bare and hard from many trekking feet, and the grass bowing away submissively.

A buzzing, insistent whine suddenly drove into his right ear, and Osiris instinctively slapped it. A wet feeling pricked at the edge of his hairline, and as he peered at the insect remains on his palm, Riss gasped.

Blood pooled around the crisp slash of her blade, trickling through the dry cracks in her palm and dripping to pat pat on the silvery grass at her feet. Instantly, Osiris ripped the bottom of his moth eaten t-shirt, rather loudly, and snatched the knife out of her now open and bloody palm. He struck the knife into the dirt, as if it was to blame. As Riss opened her mouth, he grabbed her palm, cradling the strip of fabric against the back of her hand.

She struck him hard enough that his face whipped to the side and that the fabric slipped quietly through his fingers to the ground. Through the sting, he recognized that his cheek was now fully wet and somewhat sticky. Osiris blinked a stray droplet of blood that had landed on his eyelashes away, then mutely returned his attention back to Riss.

She had picked up the strip and was now calmly wrapping it around her palm.

"Don't you fucking touch me without permission again, you dumb cunt," she said quietly, and then added, "and you could have alerted someone."

When she was done, she looked up and regarded her blood on his face with mild satisfaction. Osiris smiled tentatively, happy that he had pleased her somehow. Then, before he could flinch away, she slapped him again, this time on his other cheek. The blood that had dripped down onto her other palm was now smeared onto the other side of his face, and a thumbprint arched from the edge of his eye down across his mouth. Osiris again returned his attention back to Riss. She was smiling, and he thought that it was lovely.

She moved into a crouching position, and Osiris shifted to do the same. She darted towards the back of the warehouse, the dry grass crunching under her small feet, and Osiris stayed eagerly close to her heels.

Instead of being boarded up, like the rest of the warehouse, there were no signs of planks or barriers. Riss eyed it for a moment, then slid her back against the splintery wood of the warehouse's exterior. She peered inside through the cracks in between the boards.

She scoffed in frustration and then moved to examine the door. Osiris peeked through the crack she had looked through in curiosity, but the view was blocked by a crate. He moved to hover by Riss in case she needed his help. She worked furiously at a lock, her hairpins clicking and jangling against its' mechanisms. It snapped open after a moment and the lock thunk against the worn ground.

She cracked the door open and winced when it creaked. She pressed her face into the opening, her face intense and hungry, and a cold malicious grin slipped onto her face. Osiris watched her, excited as well, though he did not know what for.

She backed away from the door, swaggering her shoulders back in eager confidence. She glanced to him - he mirrored her expression enthusiastically - before she ran at the door and kicked it open.

It banged against the walls of the warehouse before swinging into their faces. Riss gave the door another indignant shove and then strolled inside, knife in hand, her eyes darting between, onto, and over the fully stocked crates of food and other precious goods. Her eyes became fevered; they had that gleam that Osiris knew too well.

Osiris peered around, and sniffed the air. It tasted like gunpowder, and metal, and danger. Like people. He looked urgently to Riss, but she was in the process of cracking open one of the crates and sticking her hand inside. She was being loud, but unintentionally, and as the board she peeled away clattered to the ground she leaned in and breathed deeply.

He hurried over to her and attempted to pull her shoulders down, but she turned and slapped him away, snarling.

Then: "There's only two of them!"

Both of their heads swiveled around as a tall, top heavy man unfolded behind a stack of crates, mixed emotions of outrage and sick pleasure twisting his rather bland features. He was dressed in a strange, colored outfit that seemed to have been made for an even taller man. As he strolled out into the open, two other men appeared from the same general direction.

"What do you think you're gonna do with that knife, little lady?" The third one said, the one being consumed by his dark overcoat.

The one in the suit glanced at him before returning his attention back on the intruders. His gaze was everything expected of a dangerous gang member, but his mouth was pursed, almost strained. The three of them formed into a semi-circle, lazily walking towards them, yet they wavered between far and close together, as if they were used to a certain type of ritual but something had caused a rift between the three and none of them no longer knew where they stood.

He stepped a certain distance from Riss - four feet was the approximate distance for the two of them to fight separately, yet it was close enough that either could intervene with the other's fight (though Osiris thought it more so he could intervene if Riss needed help). They had been in a dark corner of the warehouse, but now they stepped forward, where a patch of light shined like a shard of glass.

"What the fuck is he?" one of them said, but he couldn't tell who because he was momentarily blinded. He hurriedly stepped forward, eager to be able to see in the more meager glow.

The three of them were now close enough that Osiris could see their patchy hairs and viscid skin. The one in the suit stood to the far left, a gun held loosely in his hand. Osiris glanced to Riss furtively out of the corner of his eye - she gave a slight tilt of her head, her eyes focused on him.

Osiris pressed his fingers against the makeshift weapon that was strapped to the back of his thigh. He remembered briefly the boy he had gotten it from, and how difficult it was to pull it out of his innards, which had been cold and clotted with maggots. He gripped the wooden handle and mutely waited for someone to move.

It didn't take long. Riss still had that gleam in her eye, and now she smelled blood, and she wanted to watch it spill. She was eager, almost rabid, for a taste of violence. As the man in the suit stepped forward, the gun held suggestively in his hand, she struck out, the knife biting into his wrist until it nicked against bone. His scream turned into a gurgle as she dodged his fist and thrusted her sharpened nails under his chin, where the skin was soft.

The one in the middle, the bearded one, turned to pull Riss off of the gunman. Osiris didn't have time to help her as the last one yelled profanities and slashed the knife in front of him, almost nicking Osiris' shoulder.

"Get the fuck back, fucking freak!"

Osiris' expression did not change - his face was as blank as it always had been, as it always would seem to be, at least to those that have known him long enough to assert that. And as in those it really was just one person, and she had scarcely known him for over a year.

As the man stabbed for his stomach, expecting a slow response that would be surmised of a thing that stood so still, Osiris unlatched the weapon and lodged into the man's forearm, moments before the knife struck him. He screamed and Osiris yanked it out, pulling the fixated razor blades down the length of his palm and twisting vigorously when the blades caught in his fingers. Simultaneously he kicked the man in the chest, forcing an already crumpling man onto his knees. When the contraption was free, he whipped it across the shrieking man's head.

As it turned out, Riss did not need his help. The gunman laid on the ground, twitching and making funny noises, trying to pick up his tongue with his hand that still worked. The other one was stretched out in front of him, tendons resting on the dirt floor like frayed string, his wrist torn in half.

Riss was on top of the bearded one, giggling, carving his off his facial hair and skin. There was already a pool of blood spreading beneath him, so Osiris assumed that there were other wounds that kept him from throwing her off. He screamed, but faintly, so he must be going into what Riss had once explained as shock.

Osiris smiled, because Riss was happy again.

"Well, well, well."

Both of them turned as a figure, almost amorphous in a black hood and cloak that swallowed all but a pair of boots peeking out at its hem and fully covered arms, stepped cautiously forward. As the figure moved, or more acutely drifted, as it made no noise or gentle clap of feet on the floor, it brushed ropes off of its shoulders, as if it had once been tied up. Riss stood, her face now serious and irritated. The bearded man remained with half of a face.

"Wh-" Riss started, but could not finish, as the thunder of the front door being broken down alerted them.

"This would be where we go through that back door." The figure said, and it sounded as if it were smiling.

Quinn was absolutely, positively pissed.

“Return to your bed and I’ll leave you in peace,” the man said, with his ridiculous bird sprouting ridiculous wings on either side of him. The guy didn’t look like an angel, he looked like an idiot. An idiot with Clara’s red jacket gripped in his sneaky little fingers.

What a great way to start my morning. Behind Quinn’s eyes, he still felt the tug of tiredness. His entire upper body ached from moving fallen chunks of ceiling off of long dead bodies in the attempts to find Clara. Little bits of dirt was still embedded underneath his fingertips. Even when his own wings unleased from their rightful cage, without even wanting them too, he could feel that sharp pain from the unused muscles.

He hadn’t used his wings with good reason.

But Clara was worth it.

With just one moment of inaction, the thief jumped off the balcony, casting the precious jacket aside into the snow without any care for all of the memories that were stored up inside of the material.

Quinn went to go levitate it back up, energy be damned, but that stupid bird got to it first with its claws. He attempted to control his wings and ran out the open window, onto the balcony. Thinking quick on his feet, he spotted that damn bird again. Even though his head hurt like hell, he managed to pull the feathery beast back to him. He couldn’t give a single shit about the cold, he just wanted his jacket back.

He then paused, glancing back down at the running thief below. That bird was obviously important. With a quick flick of his wrist, the bird was entrapped in a cage. Its wings flapped around as it was in distress.

Perfect.

Quinn hadn’t flown in so long that he didn’t want to jump off and rely on his wings to catch him, given that everything in his body screamed at him to get some more rest. He couldn’t handle all of the magic. The starting of a headache and the inkling of exhaustion brewed inside of his skull. All of his decisions impaired by the sheer amount of everything weighing on him. The cold, the memories, how much his wings weighed on his back.

He had hidden them for so long that they were foreign.

But that stupid thief made him do all of this.

He jumped and suddenly he was flying. The cold air bit against his face. His own wings soared through the air as he approached the bird at rapid speeds. Quinn wasn’t running on adrenaline, but necessity. He needed to get Clara’s jacket back.

Besides, he would absolutely love to makes friends with the bird of that sick bastard. Quinn was absolutely pleased that he was woken up and his most precious possession was gone. In fact, he was gleeful at the fact that the guy who stole the jacket looked so familiar.

He reached out to attempt to think of where he know the guy from, but then found his hand tugging on his jacket. The scene suddenly snapped back into place and he was still midair, his wings working overtime to keep himself up at the height. Quinn gave one last final pull on the jacket, finally freeing it from that stupid bird.

“You know what’s even more stupid?” He said to himself under his breath, “Your mom.”

The joke was tasteless and tacky, yes. But his brain, in its tired state, found it perfectly acceptable.

“Yeah, yeah. You meaningless little pest. You’re trapped until I let you free. Your owner abandoned you. Just like your mom!” He raised a fist in triumph, then put it back down to his side and backed up a few feet. Sleep finally caught up with him and he couldn’t stop blinking the exhaustion out of his eyes, “Okay, not your mom. My mom. But not my mom, because of—”

At the bird’s – was it a falcon?— sharp glare, he faltered. Somehow, even through its magic cage, it managed to look threatening.

“Well, you’re an idiot.” He quipped back.

Quinn moved forward and reached out a free hand to attack the damn thing, but it managed to evade him. So he curled his hand into a fist and shook it at the thing. “I’m not in the mood to fight,” he announced.

For some reason, his words sounded slurred and drunken to his own ears. Even though that couldn’t have been right – Guardians couldn’t have addictions. He had to be perfect, like his mom. Quinn couldn’t remember the last time he had a taste of bitter wine.

He looked down at the screaming thief below him, then back at his jacket. Tying the sleeves around his waist, he smiled at the salt and pepper falcon. “Hey, little birdy. It’s payback time.” He released the beast from its magical cage and then grasped for it, his clumsy fingers gripping around its neck.

“Payback’s a bit—” Quinn started.

Then he looked down. The thief had stopped moving, instead looking up at where Quinn was. Perfect, absolutely perfect.

He flung the bird to the side, going for a dive in the attempts to kill the thief. But then he stopped. No, Quinn knew that bastard from somewhere. His face, the stupid way he had dyed the tips of his hair.

“I’ll fight you later!” Quinn waved, his words stumbling over each other.

He watched as the thief ran toward the bird and then suddenly realized that he was falling too. “Ahah! Sleep! I didn’t know I needed that!” Before he hit the ground.

One of Quinn’s last waking thoughts was that he needed to wake up in time to see his father brought to justice.

The bookstore lights started shutting off one by one. Nikias looked up from his history book to glare at the tiny girl at the sales desk. “If you want me to leave you can just say so.”

She returned his gaze calmly. “You’d just ignore me. Now are you gonna leave or do I have to take you out myself?”

“Like you could do that,” Nikias scoffed. She was around his age, but her frame wasn’t much larger than a twelve year old. She wouldn’t be able to stop him if she tried.

Sighing, he closed the book and plopped it on top of the stack he’d built up over the day. Only half of them would fit in his backpack so why even try? He wrapped his arms around the bottom two and headed toward the door; as slow as he could of course. If she wanted to turn the lights out on him he’d take his good old time leaving.

The girl stayed planted behind the desk as he walked by. Just as he turned away she spoke up. “You gonna pay for that?”

Nikias halted. “Do I ever?”

“I don’t know. I’m not usually here,” the girl retorted. Her footsteps were so quiet that Nikias didn’t realize she was coming until she was blocking his path out the door. “But I can tell you I’m not letting you leave with those.”

Nikias squinted. The girl’s strong stance and crossed arms meant business, but he was able to catch the slight waver in her eyes. A grin snaked onto his face. He had her.

“Exactly how do you plan to get me to pay?”

The girl’s stance didn’t falter. “You're not leaving here until I have money in my hand. We’ll stand here all night. I don’t care.”

Nikias laughed. “Your negotiation tactics are terrible.” Did she really think she would be able to talk him into paying? He was in here almost every day. Surely one of the other workers would’ve told her about him already. This little stand off was pointless.

He sighed and stepped around her. “I’m just going to leave. I gotta hit the restaurant before it closes you know—"

She reached out to stop him, and in a moment she was on the ground. It must’ve surprised her, as she made no attempt to stand. Nikias glared down at her as she rubbed her back.

“Look, you made me drop my books.” He stooped to pick up the mess he’d made when he flipped her. The books weren’t scattered too far. A few ended up sprawled spine up, page corners folded. A brand new book ruined for something as silly as money.

When he had gathered everything he turned back to see the girl still on the ground. “I’ll bring back the ones that bore me. The others I keep. Your boss will understand.” With a less than caring smile, he pushed his way out onto the crowded street.

The moon was travelling between clouds, lighting his path for a few moments before moving on. Shadows were out in large quantities as the sounds of the night squealed in his ears. It only made him feel at home.

Suddenly a bright light flashed ahead of him. He stopped to shield his eyes from the onslaught. It was gone in a moment, but it intrigued him. What was the cause for it?

He didn’t seem to be the only one. Whispers traveled through the people around him. Wild theories reached his ears, each one more crazy than the other. He rolled his eyes. The people here were already close to moving backwards. If any more idiocies spewed from their mouths they’d be too far gone to ever make it back.

Most of them lost interest quickly, but a few took off, even tentatively, toward where the light had come from. Nikias shifted his weight to more easily grasp his books. Should he follow them? The light sparked interest in him, but he also had to get something to eat. He couldn’t remember the last time he had; his stomach reminded him of that.

“Fuck it,” he muttered as he took the backpack from his back. He stuffed as many books into it as could fit and tucked the rest under his arms. There wasn’t any time to drop them at home. And no way he’d return to the bookstore and deal with the girl.

He hurried down the street, trying not to let his backpack tip him over backwards, following those who still whispered of the light. After only a few steps he realized they were moving toward the barrier. His heart raced with anticipation. What could be there?

There was shouting heard in the distance, both desperate and berating. The other sounds that reached his ears were unidentifiable. He couldn’t place a single one.

Until he turned the corner and found himself in front of the barrier.

Nikias froze as he took in his surroundings. There were a few dozen people crowded around something. He tried to force his way to the front, but no one would let him in. They pushed him back, spat at him to let them go first. Eventually he gave up and fell to the outskirts of the crowd.

He watched as more bodies fed into the madness. The shouts grew louder, as did the much quieter calls of desperation from somewhere he couldn’t see.

The crowd spit a man out and Nikias grabbed his arm. “What’s going on?”

“Angels,” the man growled. “The guards just brought ‘em in. Just tryin’ to knock ‘em around a bit, ya know? Go throw a few, boy. Makes you feel better.” The man gave him a diseased smile before disappearing back into the crowd.

Nikias’s face paled with the news. Angels brought by the guards, just like he was. It was a banishment. What did they do to get kicked out? Eat the wrong food?

Everyone new who came in seemed to know exactly what to do. Nikias shook his head. People really did like looking for a fight. He was a fighter himself, but he wasn’t interested in fighting someone who wouldn’t fight back.

He settled on the ground against a lonely wall and cracked open the history book. The chaotic noise was familiar to him. It was the perfect place to spend a few hours.

Isidora tugged weakly at the buttons on Blaise's coat and shivered in the morning air. My poor little bird... Blaise gently kissed her head, unbuttoned his coat, and tucked her inside, holding her against the warmth of his chest. He himself was exhausted, with frozen beads of sweat tickling his forehead, but he knew that more than half of it was due to Isidora. When his subconscious would probe further into her well-being, his own heart would beat faster and his shoulders and forearm muscles would begin to ache, just like her wings. She had been trapped in a magic birdcage and strangled by an idiotic wing-man, for goodness sake!

Blaise turned one last time to fearlessly kick a mound of mud and snow into the unconscious wing-man's face. He momentarily regretted doing so once the frozen dirt left his boot, but he gave a sigh of relief when the dude stayed asleep. He was out cold.

Blaise jutted his chin out and spat, “That was for my bird, you piece of shit.”

He turned to leave. He had hardly gone a few feet when one of Isidora's talons pointedly scratched at his stomach.

"Ow!" he howled. "What was that for?"

Sorry, she said, her mental thoughts slurred with exhaustion. You weren't letting me through your wall.

"Ah." She was referring to the mental "wall" between them. She must have been too tired to open the gate, and Blaise hadn't heard her faint knocking. What is it? he asked.

Go back. Look... look at his face.

What? His face?!

Trust me. You’ll remember him from somewhere.

I’ll remember him from when he attacked me, yeah.

No, it’s... she faltered, clearly weighed down with tiredness. It’s... different.

Blaise scratched his head. Just send me a memory, would you?

She angrily jabbed him with her talons again.

Blaise winced. “Alright, alright. I get it. You’re too tired.” He wandered back to the middle of the street where the wing-man lay, glancing around to see if anyone was watching. Grudgingly, he bent down to brush the chunks of snow and frozen mud off of the man’s face. Isidora, I don’t see how...

Like a flash of lightning it all clicked at once. Those bangs. The dark drown hair, dark skin, and pointed facial features, centered all around those fierce brown eyes that rested behind closed eyelids, edged with alertness and strained with a thread of unforgettable pain.

“Oh,” Blaise said. “The dream.”

That’s how he had gotten the Plan B idea with the wings. He had seen a wing-man, this wing-man, in a dream. Like a trail of falling dominoes, other parts of the dream resurfaced, too. He remembered hearing mournful violin music and flashes of different voices, paired with fleeting images of things like a pile of books, a wooden bird figurine, a set of pale blue eyes, and a pair of broken wings.

Satisfied that Blaise finally understood, Isidora nestled her beak in the pocket of his undershirt and fell asleep.



“My pleasure,” Blaise said, bowing slightly and making sure his face was still draped in the dark shadows.

With her angelic white dress whisking behind her, Lane was gone. Blaise knew who she was, of course - Melaina Hamilton, the pretty girl who he’d stolen from a few times. Isidora’s favorite mirror had once been Lane’s, in fact.

He had never known the girl was that pretty, though. Something about the music seemed to sway him. It was as if her violin held a magical charm that plucked at his heartstrings. And of course, there was the dream. That perfectly unbearable dream.

Blaise sighed and tossed the heavy shovel aside. Then he bent down to inspect the fat drunkard’s pockets. That’s one way to steal, he mused. Just hit ‘em on top of the head with a shovel.

Suddenly Isidora’s conscience materialized in his mind. What do you think you’re doing?

Blaise groaned and rubbed his head. Sometimes he just wanted to find the key for the mental gate between them and lock it closed. He loved his bird, but he would also appreciate some time alone.

I thought you were asleep, he said. After the disastrous course of events that morning, Isidora had chosen to wait inside the hideout while Blaise pick-pocketed on his own. But of course, no distance could ever separate the mental thread that kept the man and his bird together.

You know the drunkard has nothing on him, Isidora said. Go after the girl!

She was in the dream too, Isidora. It’s as if the whole dream was just a listing of people not to steal from. You saw how well the red jacket episode went. Isidora fell silent. Blaise could feel something brewing in her mind - an emotion he wasn’t familiar with. Are you jealous?

Before she could reply, a brilliant flash of light lit up the night sky. “What the hell?” Blaise cursed, staggering backwards against a splintered wall. His eyes were burning. “What the hell was that?”

Go after it!

Blaise’s heart quickened. With hardly a moment of hesitation, he pushed off the wall and bolted down the alleyway, following the light. Before long, the commotion of people grew louder and louder, even as he reached the edge of the city, towards the barrier. The buildings thinned out, the streets roughened, and the vegetation sprung up more frequently, with more scraggly spruces and trails of ivy. Then, all of a sudden, he reached the end.

Blaise froze. A huge mob of people were gathered around one central point, yammering and fighting to reach the middle.

He smiled. A huge mob of people was a thief’s dream.

Melaina Hamilton

Melaina hardly got in ten minutes of sleep before the blinding lights blared through the thin walls of her home. She yawned and sat up wondering what all the commotion was about. Melaina stood, and walked towards her door. Outside a group of men rushing towards the city center answered her question.

“Yes! An actual angel! Rumors say that it is being publicly beaten. And they also say-” There muffled voices trail off down the alleyway. Melaina’s eyes go wide, and she quickly rushes to grab her things. She had no intention of seeing someone be beaten to death, but her desire to see an an actual Angel presses her to view this in person. She quickly falls in line with the large number of people as they squeeze through the city to see this strange event.

When Melaina finally reached the center, people screamed all around her. Hateful, and fiery words spewed from their mouths like poison. It sent shivers down her spine as she thought of this beings horrific fate.

They will make it slow, and agonizing.

Flashbacks of her father's public beating rush through her mind. The pain and embarrassment in her father's eyes that day made Melaina sick. It not only is painful physically, it is also painful mentally as they strip you of your pride, dignity, and life. It's sickening how some find enjoyment from these events, but she cannot make herself turn around.

When they bring the Angel forward Melaina’s heart skips. Its beauty was breathtaking, and mesmerizing. What could this being have done to deserve this? The crowd around Melaina began to become more restless. They waved their arms frantically and shouted chants of betrayal and disgrace at the angel. She watched as they stripped the angel down to nothing, and chained his hands above his head. His eyes were sad, but he kept his head high. He would not let the fear of being beaten stop his dignity from being taken away. Melaina’s father had looked like that too in the beginning, and it's sad how quickly they can turn you from a brave man to a weak child in a matter of minutes.

The persecutors stepped forward and raised their hands to make an announcement. The crowd obeyed and became quiet.

“Ladies and Gentlemen! Tonight we exhibit the revenge our world has longed for generation after generation! Tonight we get the taste of blood we all have longed for! Angel blood!” The crowd cheers. “Tonight we prove we are not the inferior world, but we are strong! Tonight we prove to Heaven that we are the Hell they should fear! While this disgusting being has been living a life of luxury and peace, we all have been living a life of poverty and struggle! Tonight this Angel shall receive the accumulative amount of pain we all have experienced throughout the history of There! Tonight this fucking monster will bleed!” The crowd goes wild, and the yearning for blood lust fills their eyes. Melaina watches in fear as the torturers begin.

They bring out a whip with silver spikes surrounding the ropes edges. Melaina has never seen such a torture device, and she comes to the conclusion that they must have been saving it for an opportunity like this. The moment the first crack of the whip comes in contact with the angels skin Melaina winces. He does not scream, or cry out. Instead he stares out ahead his head still high.

“Looks like we have a stubborn one here.” The torturers share laughs, and continue on with their methods. As the hours pass by the forms of torture become more excessive. Eventually they were able to force the screams of pain from the Angel’s throat. A tear fell from Melaina’s eye as the crowds around her began to laugh in enjoyment of the Angel’s pain. She saw her father's eyes reflecting off of the Angels. His fight is beginning to dwindle, and there is no way to stop it.

Blood now puddles below the angels body. His body violently shakes fighting for that last bit of strength to continue keeping his head up. Melaina’s fingers dig into her palms as she prays for his head not to fall.

Don't let them see you break. Don't let them see you break.

But her thoughts do nothing to help him. With one last crack of the spiked whip the angels eyes fall to the back of his head, and his body collapses in. The crowd erupts in cheers, but Melaina can only hear silence. She looks around, and the world has almost gone into slow motion. Everyone jumps, screams, and laughs at their victory.

No one deserves a fate like this.

Suddenly Melaina pulls her violin from her back, and places it in the crook of her neck. She places the bow onto the strings, and takes in a deep breath.

For the death of those who can't control death.

( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mF3DCa4TbD0 full effect)

Melaina begins to play the song once taught to her by a wife that had lost her husband. A song for those who cannot control death she called it. The crowd becomes silent, and turns to Melaina with horrified eyes. She does not stop though. The crowd's adrenaline slows, and the heartbeats mesh together as one heart. All eyes watch her eager to hear the message she has to give. Some look down in regret of the choices they made, while other faces grow more red with anger. However no one moves, no one stops her. As the song plays on golden light flows from her fingertips in little orbs of light resembling stars. They dance around her, and eyes follow them mesmerized by the magic. Through music Melaina is creating magic for all to see. Magic that you can't look away from. From the stage the torturers look at Melaina with pure hatred. How dare someone so low as a human interrupt this event of revenge? They look at each other, and nod. They wave their men to surround her slowly. As her song comes to an end the world stands frozen. The silence lasts for many moments before one of the men calls out.
“Seize her!” Suddenly the men rush at her, and grip her arms tightly sending her violin to the ground. The crowd erupts in mixed emotions as some cheer on her punishment, and others fight now on her side. They force her up onto the stage, and push her down onto her knees. The main torturer pulls her head back by her hair. She gasps, and looks into his cold eyes.

“How dare you!” He yells. She spits in his face, and he backs off groaning in disgust. He wipes the spit from his eyes, and back hands her straight across the face with all his might. “You fucking bitch!” Blood falls from her cheek in a huge gash left from the hit.

“Bring forward the little whores enchanted instrument!” Melaina’s eyes go wide as she struggles in the mens hard grip. Seeing the distress in her eyes the man laughs. A young man brings the black violin forward. “Now smash it!”

“No!” Melaina screams. “It's the only thing I have!” The man turns to her and slaps her again even harder. She spits blood from her mouth, and looks up with anger. He grabs her chin tightly and stares her dead in the eye.

“I will deal with you later...personally.” He licks the trickle of blood from her face, and smiles maliciously at her. “A shame such a beauty like you going to waste before now. But that won't be a problem anymore.” He stands and turns towards the crowd once more.

“I said smash it!” He screams. The young man lifts it above his head, and the crowd erupts in noises. Melaina shuts her eyes tight, and her body shakes.

Make it stop. Make it stop!

Amia/Jezebel | Early Morning | Alleyway

A girl. That song. What was it called? It rang, loud and clear. It stopped the "actual angel beating" that was happening. The poor angel himself was panting and bleeding. During this girl's preformance, Amia slowly nodded along. She was running on little hours of sleep, awoken a few hours before by yelling and blinding lights through her open window. What does a woman need to get some proper shut eye around here? she had thought, aimlessly putting on an old green robe and slippers. Now, like everyone else, she was staring at the girl. The guys that were tortuing the angel were eyeing the girl with hatred. It was a normal feeling, as nobody else felt it. But why? While she played, something came off the violin- bright, puffs of light. They acted like stars. Amia watched one drift higher and higher into the sky. Fireflies, she thought. Her gaze resumed on the girl, who continued to play until three men tried to seize her. It was a sight worth missing if you blinked. Around Amia, everyone was cheering while others were silent, completely glued to what was happening. It was as if they wanted to help, but knew not what help would they provide.

Amia was having mix emotions over this. At one side of the table, there was a calm and peaceful woman. Her eyes were lit up with concern and doubt. This was the good side of Amia. The caring, nurturing side that she would show to anyone. Peacekeeper. However, towards the other head of the table, a dark person sat with a smirk and drank inexpensive red wine.

"This is quite fun, no?" the darkness asked before snickering. The peaceful side, blinked, her facial features unchanging.

"Oh, come on! Show a smile and enjoy what is happening. You never get to see something like this." The dark figure stood up, walking towards a mirror on the far east wall. The dark figure sighed, resting a hand on the mirror. It rippled and waved to the image happening outside.

"It's too perfect to miss."



Amia was too engrossed in her thoughts to notice the girl's violin stolen from her. A guy, completely happy at what he was doing, shouted something to the crowd about breaking it apart. Cries. Screams. Begging. It was all silenced out by the guy's yelling. He smirked, his smile reminding few of a cat's. He raised the black violin over his head and screamed, "Smash it!"

The girl was now shaking, closing her eyes and praying that everything would be alright. Nothing was right in this world. People fathomed popularity more than anything. Within a matter of seconds, they'd do anything to get somebody's attention. Including beating an innocent angel. It set off a chain of reactions if they were successful, causing other people to notice. Those people then wanted in on the action, like a deck of cards used to build a house. One swift move and the whole thing fell.

The girl continued shaking. Fast. It seemed, much like the bright puffs that danced on her violin strings, she was glowing. The three men that had her pinned stared in fasination. The man holding the violin, however, didn't care. He aligned the violin to smash head on and break into a thousand small, black pieces. The man didn't know why he was doing this; perhaps it was the heat of the moment. His veins were pumping with revenge, his mind set on breaking the stupid violin, and everyone around him was cheering him on. A small voice. It was muttering.

"Just. Do. It." It was a broken voice. A shattered mirror. The man was completely indulged with himself. Overpowerment and anger grasped onto his mind. "Just. Do. It." He smirked, lifting the violin over his head and before he could even think twice of hitting it, he felt a kick in the head. A holler. Look Out! He couldn't move; a heavy, foreign object fell onto his back. He could feel it snap. The pain jolting up his middle and towards his brain.

Darkness.



Jezebel was clapping her hands. The chaos outside was just beginning.

"Isn't this exciting?"

Amia blinked, reaching out to a wine glass. She sipped it softly, before setting it on the table. Jezebel looked back, frowning.

"Did you ever hear a poem by Fredrich Hietzchse?" Amia reminded silent, staring at the dark haired female. "I take that as a no." Jezebel sat down, opposite of Amia.

"It reads: you need chaos in your soul to give birth to a dancing star. Do you know what that means, Amia?" Silence. "It means: during a dark time, something rewarding will come after. Now, this fight that's happening outside is something wonderful. Yes, yes; even though you and I may be different. This "war" is a step into a direction we need." Jezebel turned to the mirror, screams and shouts echoing from outside.

"For better or for worst."



Around Amia, it was happening. She didn't care for it; her thoughts were tangled and twisted. The world was planning for something. Isn't that how the world works? Something unexpected happens and it just goes forth. Like a rollercoaster. The people around Amia were like a plastic bags; they would only blow past her with ease. Everything around her was slow and suspenseful. Her mind was in the gutter, covered with dead wet leaves. It blocked out the screams and shouts. She seemed to move side to side to something silent.

Children. Husbands and brothers. Fought against each other. A man. The same man that nearly broke the girl's violin was stagging towards Amia, holding onto a red steel pipe. He was grinning. Dried blood was on his pantleg and on his fingers. A sudden twist in his expression. He wanted that girl dead. The same feeling he felt when holding onto violin, it was surging throughout his veins. The man gripped onto the pipe.

Amia didn't turn her back nor did she sense the guy sneaking slowly behind her. Warning lights were shadowed by a throbbing headache.



"Another saying, I remember is god often uses our deepest pain as the launching pad of our greatest calling. Now, I don't understand that one. Perhaps it means he gives out little hints that lead us into the right direction." Jezebel stated, moving an index around her wine glass. Amia's face hadn't changed. Sorrow reflected in her eyes. Jezebel glanced towards the blonde haired woman.

"You're talkative tonight, Amia. Since I'm providing the conversation, I'll give you a two minutes to say anything." Amia blinked. A slience waved over the table as Jezebel tapped her fingers on the table.

"I'm waiting," Jezebel cooed.



The man raised the red steel pipe above his head. It was the perfect aim. Before he could even swing (once again), Amia turned around and gripped the steel pipe. Her eyes were now brown, glancing with anger and laced with sweetness.

"Whatcha think ya doing, mister?" the words rolled off her tongue as she tugged at the steel pipe. It slipped out of the man's hand, who was frowning deeply. Amia lowered her eyes over the pipe, moving it around in her hands.

"I want to have some fun too, ya know?" She smirked, glancing towards the man. "You look like the perfect target." The man moved back, but nothing was behind him. Fear settled in his stomach, overpowered by the continous motion to fight back. He had just handed a strange girl his only weapon; in a war, you must trust thy enemy and love thy weapon or something like that.
Amia curtly smiled, moving the weapon into the nook of her shoulder.

"You don't mind dying for me, do you?" Her tone changed from cutesy to husky, the look in her eyes darken. The man was going to die. And he knew it.



"What a stupid fellow. You know, Amia, sometimes wrong helps us into the right. This man doesn't seem to understand that." Jezebel cooly said, staring through the mirror. Amia had moved from the chair to a nearby bookcase. It was lined with the human Amia's memory and shortcuts into making her forget the sudden things Jezebel did. Despite their differences, Amia and Jezebel worked well together.

"This guy is something else, Amia. You know what they say feel the fear and do it anyway!"



Amia moved the pipe down from the nook of shoulder, and whacked the man. Upside the had. He moved backwards, holding his head before falling down onto the wet pavement. Above him, shrill laughter rang. Around him, the world continued to move. Everyone was fighting with shouts and threats. He softly closed his eyes, welcoming the darkness with open arms.



"And that's how ya do it! Didn't that get your blood boiling, Amia?" Jezebel asked, moving away from the mirror. Amia hummed in replied, walking towards a different mirror (white outershell with a gold reflection) and placed one hand on it. Jezebel yawned, glancing at the empty wine bottles on the table.

"You don't mind if I take those, do you?" Amia was silent, reading through a book she carried with her to the mirror. Jezebel shrugged, taking one of the bottles. She then silently skipped to her bedroom.

Amia sighed. "She never understands the mess she makes, does she?"

Quinn Aceton / Late Night / East side, by the apartments

Guardians were supposed to be pure, without fault, absolutely perfect.

So when Quinn woke up, he couldn't understand what had happened to him. His body was bent at odd angles on the cold ground, his face was staring up at the sky -- the dark sky -- and he couldn't move like he wanted to. While there was a pounding pain in the back of his head, that didn't distract him from the heavy weight on his chest that made him wince every time that he took a shuddering breath.

Guardians were supposed to be without addiction, but he could taste the repulsiveness of his bad breath and the dryness of his mouth reminded him of sandpaper. It was hard to swallow back the little saliva gathering and it hurt, a lot. His throat wasn't forgiving and the general pain didn't help.

He tried extending his arm out in order to grip onto something -- anything --, but all his numb fingers could grasp one was clumps of snow that he could barely feel. Cold. It melted fast. Overheating. Quinn was overheating and he should have known it from the thin veil of sweat gathering on his forehead, despite the apparent cold in the air. Despite the damn snow.

He let out a low grunt of pain, trying to sit up. The fall must have taken a hell of a lot of out him, because simply sitting up felt like complete agony running through his veins. In some parts of his body, the pain was dull. In other parts, he wanted to let out a scream into the vast night of nothingness above him.

Thank god for it being night.

Quinn's thoughts were harder to collect, all scattered about in his brain as he tried to just pull himself together. Distant ideas, all supposed to be connected, floating around in the endless abyss which he considered his ruined mind. Tonight is revenge time, he reminded himself, pulling his knees up and resting his aching head on that. Tears flowed freely down his face and he didn't dare do anything else but sit there and cry.

Because if anyone were to actually describe Quinn, then they would know that he wasn't pure; he wasn't without fault; there was no way in hell he could be absolutely perfect. Addiction and spite ran through his body, even if he wanted to insist that he was something better.

-

"Fuck the world," he said to himself, under his breath. The world was louder, a bit more obnoxious than usual and he couldn't really place his finger on it. Although, with the way he knew his body was swaying, he wasn't certain if he could really put his finger on anything for one thousand dollars.

Although, he could probably bring himself back to his sober wits if someone managed to find Clara. But Quinn, even in his deluded state, knew that only he would be able to find her and help her. Even if he had to drag along his bottle of wine, in search for a stash of beer, in search of the mob that he could hear stirring maybe a few blocks away. People were talking and shoving and rioting, but they didn't seem to pay him any mind. Clara's jacket hung tight to his skin with the dampness of his sweat, so he wouldn't have to worry about being found out as a Guardian.

"Fuck the whole goddamn world and everyone else in it. Fuck this." He stubbed his toe on a rock as he tried to navigate through the crowds. "LET ME THE FUCK THROUGH."

Somebody clasped their hand on his shoulder and he swiveled around, not as gracefully as he'd imagined in his head. Everything was numb but emotions managed to take over his brain as he looked at a rather young chap. "Aye, man. Let's fuck the world together together, eh?" Quinn couldn't really make out the features, since the guy was wearing a hood and his face was covered.

The preposition seemed reasonable enough and he raised up his halfway finished bottle of wine (it had been his second since he had got up, to nurse the pain of his previous hangover. He couldn't remember the taste, but that hardly mattered), "How could you... how could you help me with this task?"

People brushed past them but Quinn could hardly care, because the man was close to him and everything was a bit warmer. His brain was fuzzier and fuzzier, yet all the more clear. His actions didn't connect with his head all that well, his words were a bit slurred. But he still managed to retain awareness.

"Ah ye, I see that you are looking for a bastard amongst the angels? At least, you look to be trying. How about I help you, eh?"

Quinn nodded, looking into the deep brown eyes of the guy and could almost see Clara staring back at him. "I'd... I'd like help, yeah. What's your name, anyhow?"

The man only smirked, "Call me Jack."

The next few moments were a literal blur, but Quinn couldn't tell if that was because of the heavy alcohol or because of the man working his magic. The world spun faster and all Quinn really wanted to do was beat the shit out of his father, throw up, and then pass out on the cold hard ground again. He was getting better at being in a constant state of drunkenness, even though the euphoria was only fleeting.

He found himself in a back alley, with his backpack secured around his shoulders. (Although that was odd, given the fact that he hadn't thought to put it on that night.) The wine bottle in his hand was nearly empty, so he took a swig and then spat it out at the ground. It had tasted like magic and sour wine, which he should have been used to. "Jack? Uh, Jack? This isn't exactly what I had in mind, so if you could uh..." He looked around, seeing the slumped over body of someone he could hardly recognize. Jack's name was silent on his lips until something else entirely came out.

"Father?"

"Be a Guardian, like your mother. She's perfect.

Someone was behind him and if he had to guess, then they were Jack. The grip felt familiar and oddly comforting. "I found him, eh? Right bastard? Didn't beat him up, although I wanted to. From what I can tell, this guy is a major asshole." He sounded genuine, sympathetic, his voice spoke in what seemed like a melody.

Quinn went to turn around -- to thank Jack for all his help -- but the man was gone before Quinn could say another word.

Then nothing but rightful rage stretched across all rational corners of his mind and he took the bottle and smashed it on the ground, watching as it scattered into a million pieces. Both big and small. He wanted to see blood, he wanted to see splatter. Quinn wanted to see his father's guts hanging from the open windows above him and he wanted to decorate the streets with the lining of his small intestine. Blood would be spilt that night, but it wouldn't be innocent.

"Do you remember," he started, as alcohol and years of emotional abuse clouded his mind, "my fifth birthday party?" Quinn moved the hunched over body so that he could face his father, even with the bruises and scars scattered all over the man's body. He knew that jawline and he remember the spitting fury that came out, when he accidentally knocked over the block tower. "I cried for days after that, just because I had tripped. You hurt me."

He reached over to grab his father's wrists, to twist them like his had been behind the kitchen counters when no other angels were watching. The man's eyes snapped open and he screamed out in pain, but Quinn quickly dropped his wrists and elbowed him in the center of the chest to shut him it. It worked, but his father started to gasp for breath and words of mercy were rising to the top.

"Do you remember hours and hours of memorizing your weird mantras? They were short, Father. But I could never say them right, could I? I was just too angel to be your perfect Guardian little boy. I couldn't be like my goddamn mother, so you had to punish me. You had to punish my friend."

Quinn's eyes were wild then, as he leaned over his father's broken and small figure.

A smashed piece of glass by the head caught his eye and he quickly snatched it up, admiring how clean that one piece of glass managed to break and how good of an improv weapon it would be. It could easily cut through flesh.

"I spent years without entertainment, just because you were afraid of addiction. Well, fuck you, because I'm fine."

His father didn't speak.

Quinn drove the piece of glass into his father's neck, watching as blood slowly dribbled from the wound. It wasn't enough, it would never be enough.

"You took my childhood and twisted it into your fantasy." Quinn slipped the bloody piece of glass into his jacket's pocket and then rose to his feet, watching as his father cowered beneath him. "You never thought to think that you were fallen, huh? You never once thought you examine your own behavior? Oh! Such a righteous person who was doing everything to protect his son must be good. You could never be fallen, right, Father? This is all just one big fucking mistake."

He snatched the man up and brought him to his feet, even though the man's knees seemed weak. Broken. This wasn't what he wanted.

"How about you put up a fight, huh? Or is this like when I was smaller? When I couldn't fight back?"

His father's brown eyes were wide, hands backed up against the wall as he looked down both ways of the alley in absolute horror of what was going to happen. The gray shirt he had been wearing was already bloodstained because of the moshpit over at the angel drop-off and shit would only get a lot worse from there. A bleeding neck, broken knees, and a hurt pride were the least of that man's worries.

"You can't hurt me, Quinn."

The confidence was fake, as he was still pushed up against the wall with no way of escape. Quinn had grown way too much for that. Spitting at the ground didn't help the father's case either, because Quinn could easily use magic to summon his dagger.

"Oh really, Father? It's not like I have a handy knife," he leveled the blade near his father's adam's apple. He started to press ever so slightly, watching the neat line of blood that began to trickle. "Father, I don't need to meet up with the rest of the Guardians until next week. I have all the fucking time in the world to torture you. It'll be the most perfect torture that you'll have the pleasure of helping with."

Then Quinn smiled, seeing Clara in the back of his mind and thinking about his stash of beer in her apartment.

Quinn took the dagger from his father's neck and drove it straight into the man's stomach.

-

Quinn never really considered himself to be an artist. But he figured that the masterpiece he was working on would be a great breakthrough.

It was a shame, however, that he was going to run out of materials soon.

But Clara's face would be worth it, just so see it on the wall of the apartment. Dragging his father's body back hadn't been a problem, with a few waves of concealment. No one really saw him to be suspicious and if they did, not one confronted him.

He turned his gaze to see his father twitching on the floor, as the blood spilled out into multiple tupperware containers.

"The pain will end soon, Father." Quinn said, turning back to the peeling wallpaper and the drying blood on the walls. "Just..." he smiled, staring down at his own blood covered hands, "relax and wait for the sweet embrace of death."