Akting Out

Day Two: Dawn

Michael tried to regulate his breathing, but each breath he took in was like fire in his lungs. His entire body trembled, racked by pain and exhaustion. He winced as a ray of new sunshine penetrated the canopy of the odd forest and touched the left side of his face. The gentle warmth was refreshing, but also a grim reminder that he had gone twenty-four hours without rest.

The rapid pace of his breathing caused his injuries to spasm, and Michael moaned as he reached to touch his injured knee and shoulder. The dead beast behind him had sunk its teeth so deeply into him that the wounds had gone clear through his body.  Had the demon’s teeth gone through his heart, not even his mother’s tie would have saved him. Michael stood in a pool of his own blood, but he could feel the gradual soothing of his body beginning to heal itself. Even so, it would be hours before he was back in fighting condition.

Hours I don’t have, Michael thought.

“You must be Michael.” The demon before him spoke in a guttural, throaty voice, tearing Michael from his thoughts and forcing him back to the present.

Michael raised his head to look at the demon. This was the same creature Michael had first engaged when he entered Beal City, although the demon had healed from Michael’s near-shattering of its jaw. Michael had to keep from retching at the gothic sight; the demon’s head was a bulbous, deformed orb with two oversized eyes and six tentacle-like mouths that wiggled and squeaked like hungry worms as it spoke. Michael could only see the demon’s feet at the end of its long body. It looked as though something had taken its head and feet, placed them at opposite ends of a long black ebony casket, and then set it upright.

Michael lacked the strength to answer; even if he had been able, his response would’ve been hateful. Unable to slow his breathing, Michael was mildly shocked as his legs began to tremble involuntarily. Michael clutched his injured shoulder and silently prayed for a miracle; he needed a way to save himself. Slowly, Michael dropped to his knee. He noted with some surprise that the demon had not advanced.

“You are Michael St. Ambrose.  Only those of the Ambrose line carry the Four-Way Fighting Style.,” the demon said definitively, bowing its head. “It’s an honor to meet you. I have a message from your father.”

Both surprised and curious at this statement, Michael raised his head.

“Your father wishes to know,” the demon began hesitantly, “how your mother is faring.”

Michael couldn’t explain the sudden rage that flooded him. All he knew was that he needed to see this creature dead.

Power returned to his legs. His pain evaporated. From his kneeling position, Michael sprung forward, charging straight at the demon.  He heard a scream as he charged; he wasn’t sure if it was his own or the demon’s.

Just before Michael came within striking distance, the demon’s casket-like body split in two with a loud thwack. Michael registered an elongated body—and six equally elongated arms protruding from it. There were two claw-like talons protruding from each arm. The demon took a step back, its arms bent in anticipation.

Michael screamed as he thrust his rear hand forward, leaving his fingers straightened and to the side in a spearhand technique. It would’ve impaled the beast—if it had connected. The demon swayed to Michael’s right. Michael immediately bent his arm and brought it back towards the creature, attempting to jam his elbow into the demon’s extended solar plexus. Its six arms came together, deflecting the blow. Michael pressed the advantage, bringing his left leg up and throwing it toward the demon’s head, spinning as he completed his roundhouse kick. The pain that shot through Michael’s body as he hyperextended his knee let him know that he still wasn’t ready for a full-out fight, but if he could put the demon down in a few seconds…

Something audibly chattered as the demon quickly shot beneath the kick and pivoted, stepping to Michael’s left. The demon retaliated; all three of its right arms flew toward Michael’s top half. At the last moment, Michael brought both of his hands—and one knee—up to his body. His knee blocked the lowest arm, and he caught the other two in his hands. Before he could figure out the next move, something jammed into the inside of his standing knee, and Michael shrieked in surprise as he found himself floored. Did he just kick me?!

“Yes, I did,” the demon replied, even as Michael rolled back onto his hands and jumped up. The demon was walking toward him at an angle, prepping his next attack. “We’ve learned much from your father since his arrival.”

Oh, no.

The demon attacked. High jab, right side, Michael parried. Middle jab, right side, Michael parried again. The high jab came back, faster than Michael could block, and he took it beside his eye. His vision flashed white momentarily before he felt something strike the middle of his body, jarring him and disrupting his rhythm. Instinctively, Michael raised his hand and caught a high jab before he could be hit again. Michael stepped in, holding the arm, knowing he only had seconds. He drove an uppercut-reverse between its middle and lower arms, moved in, delivered a hard outside chop to its chest, and relished it when the demon forced out a breath.

Michael was going for a high backhand to the demon’s face when something struck the back of his legs, and Michael fell to the ground. He quickly crossed his arms in front of his face and body, but was still knocked back by the oncoming front kick the demon sent his way. Michael rolled with the impact, falling backwards and rolling on to his feet.

The demon stepped into him and threw all six of its arms at Michael at dizzying speeds. Michael had no choice but to keep giving ground; defending himself against six arms was a nightmare. Although he did his very best to push away all the blows that came toward him, Michael was tagged frequently, and soon dull pains rose in his head and chest as he was peppered by the demon’s attacks.

Slapping away an arm, Michael threw his left leg straight into the air, forcing the demon to sway back. Michael lowered his leg and immediately brought it back, turning his hip over and thrusting a side kick towards the demon’s midsection. The demon simultaneously jumped back and blocked downward. The demon came back, throwing a front kick aimed at Michael’s torso—and Michael was ready for it. As he took firm hold of the leg, Michael stepped into the demon and drove a reverse punch with such force that it nearly penetrated the beast’s midsection. As the demon doubled over in surprise and anguish, Michael slammed his forearm into the demon’s mandible, forcing his head to snap back. Michael took the same arm and jammed it into the top of the demons’ knee, feeling the kneecap buckle and sink in beneath the blow. As the demon screamed, Michael lowered the leg to the ground.

Michael stood and waited, his body still healing. The demon came forward again, striking with all six of its arms. Michael saw it coming; he stepped to the side, blocking the arms to his outside. Michael pinned two of the arms together, and in a scream of profound rage, Michael brought his right leg up, crashing the inside of his heel through the elbows of the top two arms. The demon did not scream as Michael jerked, ripping the arms free. As the demon staggered forward, Michael jumped, chambering his right leg and then thrusting it into outside of the demon’s knee. The demon’s bones cracked and splintered beneath the impact, and the demon helplessly dropped to its good knee. Michael raised his right leg again and smashed the heel of his into the demon’s eye. The eye popped, bursting as it caved in. Before lowering his leg, Michael turned his hip over again and sent the instep of his foot crashing into the back of the demon’s head. The demon fell forward, landing face-first on the floor of the jungle.

Michael exhaled. “That’s how my mother’s doing–.”

Something stung him. Michael slapped his neck where he felt the sting, only to have something sting him in the face just below the eye. Before Michael could bring his hand up, he saw something tiny fly away from his face. Another sting caught him on his left arm. Then another on the left side of his neck.

Michael looked down to the lifeless demon and saw that it was coated with what appeared to be fruit flies. They were pouring out of the open wounds on the beast’s arms and legs, buzzing angrily—and rising up toward Michael.

Michael threw the beast’s severed arms down and tried to back away as he was swarmed, but his legs failed him and he fell backward. He was stung repeatedly over the face and neck. He swatted violently, fruitlessly at the miniscule insects. In retaliation, the insects struck at his hands, repeatedly attacking his face and chest. They crawled along his body, their feet digging into his skin and scraping as they moved. Some found their way into his open wounds, disrupting his healing process as they stung repeatedly. Sweating as though his skin was on fire, Michael screamed as his strength left him, and he fell back onto his back. When he did, the flies left him.

Michael heard the leaves shift where the demon had fallen. He raised his head and saw the demon roll to its back and sit up, as though its energy had been restored. When the demon, surrounded by the fruit flies, turned to look at Michael, Michael fell back to the ground; he lacked the energy to mount a defense.

“It will be awhile before either of us are combat-ready,” the demon said. “May we speak for awhile?”

Astonished, Michael raised his head. Slowly, the pain ebbed and he sat up, raising his knees to his chest as though preparing to get to his feet. He glowered as the demon turned to face him.

“Come now,” the demon chided. “Have we lost so much of ourselves that a simple conversation is no longer possible?”

“Fine!” Michael spat. “What do you want to talk about?” You talk. I’ll heal, and then I’ll kill you.

“When you’re finished healing,” the demon spoke nonchalantly, “You’re welcome to try. I was enjoying our match.”

Michael scowled. “Since when can demons Reach when they’re in Heaven?”

“I told you, your father has taught us much since his arrival. I’m honored to serve him. I’m just as honored to meet you, Michael. He speaks very highly of you.”

Michael didn’t know what to make of that. “My dad…he’s alive?”

The demon nodded, and quickly raised his three arms as he shook his head apologetically. “Yes, but please forgive me for neglecting my manners. My name is Balaam; I am the ruler of my mistress’ Rodentia army.”

“And you beat children,” Michael growled. “I know who you are.”

“I follow orders, just like you, Michael,” Balaam quickly countered. “But to give you a more thorough answer, your father is alive, and in good spirits—save for his occasional longing for you and your mother. He misses you terribly, you know.”

“Then why doesn’t he come see us?” Michael challenged. “He misses us so much, why doesn’t he come say hello? He obviously knows how to pass between worlds.”

“You know it’s not that simple,” Balaam said knowingly. “Are you telling me that you wouldn’t kill him on sight?”

Michael shook his head. “I don’t want to kill my father. I want to talk to him.”

“Really. What would you say?”

“I…” Michael hesitated. If he lied, Balaam would simply read his mind and discover the truth anyway. “I want him to come home.”

Balaam said nothing. Michael did his best to steel himself. “Damn you,” He whispered. “Dad—Dad hasn’t been gone that long. He hasn’t done anything irredeemable yet. Something could be worked out…” Michael raised his head, locking eyes with Balaam. “My mom—she’s wasting away without him. We have no friends. We’ve been exiled. I have to hunt in the wild so we can survive. I just—I want him to come home…so things can go back to normal.”

“Son,” Balaam began compassionately, “You have no idea what your father has done since he joined us. Even if your father desired to return to Heaven—which he doesn’t—things could never go back to the way they were.” A pang of sorrow formed in Michael’s gut. Balaam bowed his head before he continued, “Your father told me to pass that along to you.”

The sorrow was replaced by rage. Michael clenched a fist, but lacked the energy to act on his impulse. He sat and waited.

“Tell me, then,” Michael growled a moment later. “Tell me what my father has done.”

“He has ordered me to destroy Beal City,” Balaam replied casually.

Michael nodded. “I figured as much. I’m here to stop you.”

Balaam shrugged. “I was told to expect as much.”

“Why?” Michael pressed. “Why Beal City?”

Balaam shook his head. “Young man, do you even know who it is you serve? You have this arcane notion of right and wrong that you serve blindly, without meaning, simply because you are told to.”

“No one told me to do anything,” Michael barked. “I’m here because I choose to be.”

“I’m sure you believe that,” Balaam continued. “Michael, are you so naïve? That boy? The one you saved? He drew you to his town. He wanted you to follow him that day.”

“So what if he did? You were holding his people hostage and you tried to kill their children. He did what he had to,” Michael replied.

Balaam chuckled; it was the same sound as someone clearing his throat. “Actually, it was not I who set the church on fire. You chased me away before that happened. Michael, do you know who that boy is? Who his people are? Why he’s so intent on keeping you in that city when you obviously have more pressing business?”

Michael said nothing; he had no answer.

“If you believe nothing else I say, I promise you that Anders and his people are quite capable of defending themselves. They simply choose not to; they would rather endanger the lives of others rather than take up arms themselves. Did you know that your father lobbied to have them imprisoned when he still resided here? He is their enemy now; it’s only logical that he would want such a threat eliminated.”

“I don’t believe you,” Michael growled, lying to himself. “I don’t believe they would place other people in harm’s way if they could defend themselves.”

Thunder boomed in the sky behind Michael. Thick, black clouds appeared out of nowhere and began to roll, tumbling over themselves as they moved over the jungle.

“You’ll see,” Balaam said patiently. “Tell me, Michael, do you know why your father left?”

Michael opened his mouth. Surprisingly, he couldn’t speak. He had no idea what to say.

Balaam nodded, looking at the darkening sky overhead. “Okay. We’ll come back to that.”

Michael then realized his fist was still clenched, and his arm was shaking. Two bolts of sky-blue lightning struck on either side of Michael, and there was a quick crack of thunder.

“Instead, I ask you: how will you save the people of Beal City? Four-Way Fighting or not, you cannot stand up to the Eternally Damned. The Sefiroth won’t arrive in time; they may not even be aware of Beal City’s existence. I wonder; will you finally release the power your mother taught you to wield?”

How does he know that?!

Three lightning bolts struck in rapid succession inches from Michael. Thunder split the sky in half; the ground trembled.

“Michael,” Balaam said softly, “Your father speaks often of your mother. He tells of how she called the rain to bless a harvest or entertained your people with a fireworks display. Of course, that was before they realized how powerful your mother was, wasn’t it?”

Michael’s heart raced so quickly he felt that it might explode. He no longer felt any pain throughout his body. Instead, he was overcome by sheer, unadulterated rage. This thing, this enemy…this demon had intimate knowledge of Michael’s most cherished memories. And his father had enabled it.

“And when they realized how powerful your mother was…they outlawed her, didn’t they?”

Blue lightning illuminated the sky. With the next crack of thunder, the skies opened, and a torrential rainstorm poured down upon them. “But she taught you to use it, didn’t she?” Balaam pushed. “If you used your power—your syonic power—you could very easily crush anything we sent your way, couldn’t you?”

Control. Get it under control.

The rain was icy. It came hard, soaking Michael’s clothes and binding them to his body, causing his hair became matted. Michael looked at his fist; he was concealing a blue light that matched the lightning that struck the ground throughout the jungle. The storm created a dark orchestra of sorts; rain rhythmically pounding the thick, heavy leaves of the jungle as lightning danced across black clouds, chased closely by tremendous, thunderous applause.

Balaam kept pushing. “But if you did… you would be executed, wouldn’t you?” Balaam leaned forward. “This is the truth of the one you serve, Michael. He’s a spoiled child, and he’s a coward. Anything he does not understand, he casts out. He preaches forgiveness and then turns public opinion on you. And you know this firsthand, don’t you?!”

Michael inhaled, but had a hard time exhaling. He remembered when he and his mother had to leave Yevon in the dead of night to avoid further persecution—just after his father had left. His father…

“No,” Michael said firmly, shaking his head. He looked at Balaam through the sheet of rain that separated them. Michael looked harder; the brood of flies that surrounded Balaam…they had dwindled in number. “I will not join you, even if it means seeing dad again.”

“Join–?” Balaam let his head fall back and let loose a terrible, guttural laughter that could easily have been mistaken for someone being tortured. “I’m not here to recruit you, Michael. I’m here to destroy the Great Wind Gate.”

“But you just said–.”

“The Eternally Damned will see to Beal City. I will see to the Gate.”

Michael chuckled. “You’ll never get past Dominiom, he said plainly. “He’ll send you right back into the lake if you get within one hundred feet of the gate.”

“Dominiom was old when I was a resident here. He’s decrepit now. And with this heavy rain in…” Balaam trailed off, looking to the sky, “He’ll never see me coming in time.”

As Balaam lowered his head towards Michael, his eyes were red. Michael realized with horror that the fruit flies were gone. “I have you to thank for that, Michael.”

Balaam sprung forward and tackled Michael to the ground before Michael even registered what was happening. Balaam quickly rose—all six of his arms were now healed—and clutched Michael’s left leg. Without a word, Balaam brought all three of his arms down as though breaking boards—and broke Michael’s leg instead, striking at the outside of the knee. Michael screamed, his agony masked by the rolling thunder.

Balaam then pivoted, stepping over Michael and holding his leg like a lever, and jerked hard to the left.
Michael, on his stomach, screamed endlessly. He had never known pain like this before. Although it numbed within seconds, the consistent throb at his ruined joint felt like something in his knee was violently trying to push its way out.

Michael only ceased his screaming because his voice had given out. His breathing was irregular, he tried to reach down to his leg, but his entire body felt light, as though he was floating. No, don’t go into shock!

The stench of decaying flesh was upon him, and he heard Balaam speak beside his left ear. “Listen to me, Michael,” he whispered. “Hate me if you will, but nothing I have told you here is a lie. I am going to destroy the Great Wind Gate, and there is nothing you can do to stop me. However, you can save Beal City. You must simply choose between what is right and what is the law.”

Michael opened his mouth, even though he couldn’t open his eyes. He wanted to spit, he wanted to curse, he wanted to suddenly reach up and tear Balaam’s throat out. But he couldn’t move. He could barely think.

“It is a choice,” Balaam concluded, “I leave to you.”

There was an audible chittering sound that quickly faded into the sky. Balaam had flown away.

His leg had gone almost completely numb; even the pain had receded, but he couldn’t feel anything below his knee at all. Compound fracture…

Despair began to set in. He knew he would never fight again.

But Balaam was right. Michael had other powers, other abilities…abilities he had kept his mother from using the night he had left home.

Focus. Focus…Beal City. Focus.

It was the rain that kept him awake. In his mind’s eye, Michael envisioned the ruined church, where he and Azrael had saved the children, and where Anders had taken a vicious beating. He kept his mind there, at that place.

A thick, branching bolt of blue lightning struck Michael directly in the chest.

Michael vanished.

The storm almost immediately ceased.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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Day One: Night

Michael and Azrael had been walking for hours, attempting to get closer to the thundering walk. At first, it had been in front of them, but now they felt surrounded by the noise.

In silence, they exited Beal City through its rear, moving past the charred rubble of the church. A congested forest made up of dark green and purple foliage crept into the outskirts of Beal City as though beginning a natural invasion. Michael and Azrael cautiously navigated through the thick of this forest, clearing through vines that felt more like snakes: thick, muscular, and slimy to the touch. Gigantic leaves the size of bodies extended from the branches, and the ground beneath the young men’s feet had changed from coarse sand to something damp and shallow, as though they were in the shallowest of swamps. A sour odor emanated from the leaves, affecting Michael’s ability to track.

The sun had descended on their journey, and the branches were so tightly wound together that moonlight could only shoot pinpricks down through the canopy of the forest. In some places, the forest came alive, tightening itself to seal holes and block the light as if rejecting it.

All the while, the calamitous footsteps seemed to engulf them, as though it was the forest itself somehow barreling down upon the hapless residents of Beal City. There was no pinning down the rhythmic origin; it was everywhere at once.

More than once, Michael was almost overcome by a sense of dread accompanied by the thought: we should not be here. Ahead of Azrael by a few paces, Michael wondered how the crossling managed to stay so calm. The chilling atmosphere of the forest didn’t seem to affect him. Growing up in Olymparus, who knows what he’s had to endure…

As Michael used his left forearm to move a shield-sized leaf out of his way, another booming footstep echoed for miles. He came to the sudden, chilling realization that he hadn’t heard a cricket, owl, or any other nocturnal life since the sun set. He and Azrael were the only living beings in the forest.

“We should abandon this.” Azrael said, as if coming to the same realization. Michael turned back to look at Azrael, his arm still keeping the leaf at bay. Azrael met Michael’s stare. “Do you hear that?” Azrael asked as another footstep shook the realm. “Whatever is coming, we may not be able to stand against it–.”

The two angels heard splash behind them, as if something had fallen to the ground. Michael and Azrael immediately grew silent as they vainly looked behind them. We’re being tracked, Azrael Reached for Michael. Michael nodded. I know. Mental silence. They may be using it to track us.

Michael looked at Azrael and nodded over the crossling’s shoulder. Azrael nodded and turned around, soundlessly leaping into the density of the forest and vanishing. Michael glanced up, trying to find a suitable perch—and found it, approximately ten feet away and to the left. Bracing himself, he bound for the outstretched limb and landed silently atop it. The branch wasn’t solid and seemed to buckle under the sudden weight. Michael fought back, maintaining his balance and then squatting.

Within minutes, a shadowed figure passed beneath them slowly and hauntingly. It stopped directly beneath Michael, who gripped his perch as another thunderous step shook the area. It was as though as spirit had been pursuing them, its outer edges blurred and appearing footless.

Spirits don’t fall down.

It was that thought that Michael kept in his mind as he threw himself from the perch and landed atop the solid black spectre. The ‘ghost’ screamed in surprise and pain as Michael brought his foot down on his quarry’s shoulder.

Michael quickly reached down, jerking the stalker to its feet. He wrapped his right forearm under its chin and then locked it into place by placing his right fist inside his left elbow, and simultaneously began to twist and squeeze. Whatever it was, it wasn’t putting up much of a fight.

“J-J-John…” It managed.

Michael recognized the voice and was almost immediately angry. He considered finishing the job…and then released his grip, letting the boy collapse to the ground, where he began coughing as air was forced back into his lungs.

Irritated, Michael looked up at Azrael as he emerged from hiding. Michael looked back down to the boy, who began to pick himself up. “Anders…” Michael said through grit teeth, “One of these days, your stalking is going to get you killed.”

Anders dusted himself off. He had changed clothes since leaving the infirmary. “Eh, I could’ve gotten out of it.” He smirked as he looked at Michael.

“Really?” Michael replied, raising his eyebrows. He reached both hands for Anders, who swayed. “Let me put you back in it, and we’ll see.”

Anders stumbled backwards, and Azrael put his arm between Michael and Anders. “We don’t have time for this.” He said simply. He turned to Anders. “What are you doing here?”

“I was following you.” Anders replied, as though the answer was obvious. “No one ever comes out here.”

“I see why,” Michael grumbled. “You shouldn’t be out here, especially in your condition.”
Anders shook his head, dismissing the notion of danger. “Ahhh, there’s nothing out here to hurt you, John. Although this forest stinks and it’s creepy. I was hoping you and the Pale One here were going to take it down.”

“Pale one?” Azrael scoffed, offended. “Learn some respect, boy.”

“I’m just kidding.” Anders offered apologetically. “But why else would you be out here? I know you’re warning the Great Wind Gate.“

“The what?” Michael and Azrael spoke simultaneously. Michael pointed to the ground as he spoke.
“Wait a moment. One of the Great Wind Gates is here?”

Anders nodded. He seemed surprised that neither Azrael nor Michael knew this. “Yes, just beyond this forest, not one mile from here. It’s why the city was set up here, to protect it. I’ve never seen it. I was hoping to follow you guys to…”

Michael and Azrael looked to each other in horrific acknowledgement. They both realized at the same time; the footsteps had ceased.

“You mean that’s not why you guys are out here?”

A terrible rumbling coursed through the ground, originating from the path they had not yet traveled. Within seconds, it reached the ground beneath their feet and its intensity doubled.

The crash of a hundred glasses shattering accompanied the sudden stabbing pain that struck Michael’s right foot between his big and middle toes. Before Michael could scream, something sent him flying thirty feet into the air.

The last thing he heard was the agonizing bellow of a creature that was both enraged and in eternal pain. The dark scream literally shook the forest, and Michael, already airborne, was sent flying several feet back towards Beal City. The angry, tortured scream could be heard across the Kingdom, and Michael instinctively covered his ears to save his hearing.

Michael was then caught in the wake of a thousand needles grazing his body, or so it seemed, as shooting pain tore up his legs, torso, and arms. Fresh cuts opened, and Michael felt his strength begin to ebb as his blood was spilled.

How much time had passed?
He felt like he had been flying forever, and now the overpowering stench of methane and sulfur suddenly robbed him of his ability to breathe. He could still hear, although his hands muffled much of it, and the thunderous footsteps he and Azrael had been tracking were dangerously close now. The gargantuan creature was taking its first steps into the Kingdom. Azrael. Where was Azrael? Where was Anders? Had they made it?

Michael was dizzy and nauseous. He tried to center himself; it was glass that had sliced him up…which meant that there was a mirror underground. Was that possible? Michael had heard of the technology, but until now, he hadn’t seen it in action. He no longer doubted its effectiveness.

Some wounds were deeper than others. Removing a hand from his ear, Michael held his chest just under his left breast in a vain attempt to control the bleeding. A dull pain began to set in at the rear of his head. His heart roared inside of him and its chaotic rhythm flooded his entire body. Even his toes throbbed with every pulse. He wouldn’t –couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t open his mouth. He tried to open his eyes; they refused. Panic set in as Michael realized he was losing consciousness.

Still yourself. His father’s words, spoken often when Michael was younger, entered his head. Control your body.

The creature took another step into his Kingdom.  It let out another dark shriek, as if celebrating its release from the lake of fire.

Michael forced his eyes open. He couldn’t see clearly, but he could make out the desert floor. The sand was thirty feet below and coming up fast. He wasn’t flying, he was falling.
Michael exhaled first to brace himself. This was still his land, which meant the sulfuric stench would be filtered out. Indeed, the oxygen was beating the sulfur back into hell, and the air was relatively fresh. He inhaled deeply and felt his heart rate return to normal.

The forest was thrashing violently, its thick branches flailing as though it had been injured by the creature’s arrival. As the leaves thrashed they raced through a myriad of colors from the deepest purple to the brightest crimson. Out of his peripheral vision, beneath him, a branch/limb was swinging towards him. Michael performed a semi-flip, diving headfirst towards the branch, and palmed it on his way down. His fingers dug into something wet and soft, and he grunted, nearly snapping his shoulder out of the socket as his grip kept him from falling to the ground.

Michael kept his legs together, propelling himself first backwards, and then forwards. His feet went out ahead of him as he flipped, landing tenuously on the branch. It seemed to respond to his intentions and became still beneath his footing.

At last, Michael could see everything.

Not twenty feet from him was a gaping hole where sand fell over shattered glass, pouring into a bottomless abyss below. Michael knew where that went.

Glowing, orange aqueous fluids ran from the immense, sick-legged creature that plodded slowly away from Beal City. It was surrounded by a host of various humanoid creatures fresh from the lake of fire. Smoke rolled off of rotting flesh, some of which fell lifelessly to the ground, revealing singed bone beneath.  Hellfire burned brightest in those spots, grotesquely replacing lost flesh and limbs. A lifeless din could be heard from their combined groaning, and if it could be construed as anything, it may have been relief. These were the ones who received the worst of Yin’s punishment: eternity in the Lake of Fire. These were the Damned. They were being led by the demon Michael had contended with earlier.

A cursory glance didn’t turn up Anders or Azrael, and Michael couldn’t risk Reaching lest the demon key his location. Michael had to trust in Azrael’s resourcefulness.

As the lake melted away from the mammoth creature, Michael could make out smooth, bone-white skin. It had two heads shaped as deformed ovals; the right head seemed nonchalant, content to examine the ground as it passed, taking in the surface with the black eyes of a hammerhead shark. It’s left head seemed more alert. As quickly as its dense neck could manage, its head swung from side to side, surveying the whole of the land. It swung too close to its primal head, and the two crashed. The result was an angry cry from the primal head, quickly returned by a dominating bellow by the intelligent one. The primal head seemed to cower under the shriek of its intelligent counterpart.
A curved horn, two feet high and about an inch thick, completed the look. The intelligent head’s horn reached into the sky, while the primal horn was positioned directly in front of it. It would skewer anything it ran into.

The demon ordered something to the Damned placed at the rear of the beast, and as one, grumbling, they turned, and began to march back towards Beal City. Although Michael couldn’t understand Hellspeak, he knew why the Damned was heading in that direction.

As his injuries healed, Michael hoped that beast’s horns were as brittle as they looked. As if to accommodate him, the branch Michael stood on extended itself and joined with another tree a few feet away.

Michael took one deep breath. The damned would pay him no mind, and the demon…well, the demon would have to wait.

Michael began sprinting along the conjoined branch. Reaching the second branch placed him at the back of the large demon. When he landed, he would have only seconds.

Without missing a step, Michael dropped seven feet from the branch to the coarse scales of the ivory demon. The intelligent head immediately bucked upwards, releasing a questioning growl. It was an effort for Michael not to hold his breath as he continued to sprint along the back of the demon. With its head raised, it’s horn was perfectly placed.

Michael took three steps along the demon’s neck, and the inquiring grumble became an angry snarl. Using the momentum of his run, Michael took a flying leap, chambering his right leg almost to his chest. At the last second, he fired his foot at the base of the intelligent head’s horn. A flash of anguish shot through Michael’s leg—he had put everything he had into that kick—but the result was worth it. The horn cracked, and as Michael passed, he reached out behind him, grabbing the horn with his left hand. With every bit of strength he had, he yanked downward, and the demon hollered in shock and surprise. The horn snapped clean off.

It was instinct from there.
Michael immediately turned to the bewildered demon leader, and in the second their eyes met, Michael saw the flash of recognition pass through its eyes. Michael didn’t allow him a word, slashing wide with the horn and opening a gash in the demon an inch deep. Viscous green fluid exploded outward, and the black demon shrieked as it fell to the ground.

A shadow loomed over Michael. He immediately dodged to the right, barely avoiding something that crashed to the ground where he once was. The head of intelligence had just tried to consume him. Fear quickly shot through Michael as he clasped the horn with both hands. He was now between both heads.

Without thought, Michael turned to the primal head and saw the apex of its horn coming for him. Michael leapt and deftly landed atop the horn. Before the demon could react, Michael sprinted to the top of its head and slashed from right to left, cutting through flesh to brain matter. He brought the horn back, deepening the wound. He then raised the horn above his head and stabbed downward, impaling the demon’s brain. He continued to push inward–

“AAAAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!”
Michael shrieked involuntarily as a pair of teeth closed around his midsection and left arm, and suddenly he was torn away from the primal head and again, he was moving quickly through the air. This time, it wasn’t freely. Michael clenched his eyes, grit his teeth, and fought to keep his sense of orientation. The pain was almost unbearable. He realized that the intelligent head had gotten the drop on him, and he was now between its jaws. Two rows of shark-like teeth now held him firmly, and Michael was nearly immobile. He managed to open his eyes, catching the irate gaze of the demon. It wanted to make him suffer.

Through the impossible pain and unyielding terror of being eaten alive, Michael remembered; the horn was in his right hand. And he was not dead yet.

Michael inverted his grip on the horn. He raised his hand and began to violently stab at the beast’s face, striking anywhere he could. It became a battle of wills. Michael felt his strength again begin to fade, the pain of knives stabbing his entire body intensified as the demon began to clench its teeth around Michael’s body. Michael stabbed at the creature’s nose and open mouth. It began to bleed, but the damage wasn’t nearly enough to be mortal.

With the last of his energy, and in a bout of sheer determination, Michael brought his hand back one last time and plunged the horn into the demon’s eye. It immediately burst, orange fluid raining down. It screamed in pain, and as it opened its mouth, Michael tumbled out and landed in a heap on the ground.

His mother’s robe tie instantly went to work. Michael, clutching the horn, lay on his stomach, trying to find the energy to rise. He could still hear the demon shrieking above him. Get up, get up…GET UP!!!!

Michael pushed himself to his feet and sprinted towards the demon, whose head was raised as it tried to dull the pain of being blinded. Its primal head lay limp and lifeless at the side.

Michael climbed atop the primal head, sprinted along its head, and then leapt towards the neck of the intelligent heat. As he passed, he slashed downwards. The neck gave no resistance as the horn passed through it, and the demon’s head landed before Michael touched down.

Michael caught his breath without looking back. Holding the horn as his injuries healed themselves, Michael looked to the shocked demon leader, who was trying to hide its surprise.

There was a final, thunderous boom behind him, this one harmless. With no accompanying roar of intimidation and its threat passed, the creature fell to the Kingdom dead, and Michael began his advance towards the demon that had brought it here.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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Day One: Dawn

They stood a foot apart, and their fists struck the ground in unison. Azrael was grateful that his fading Thanatonian powers had not left him completely.

There was a rumble accompanied by slight shaking beneath the ground as the desert floor opened, and sand poured into the void.

Then there was water. It erupted with such force that Azrael and his former opponent were knocked backwards as the energized geyser tore a hole in the ground that was nearly four feet wide. Azrael watched, almost in awe, as the water flew high in the air and angled left before descending upon the burning church.

Azrael got to his feet, followed closely by the young man who had attacked him. As he watched the water attack the church, something strange happened. Moments before the fire touched down on the burning roof of the church, the fire appeared to scatter; it opened in a circular pattern from the water’s ground zero, revealing badly charred, blackened wood beneath. When the water struck the roof, there was a piercing, otherworldly growl. Something had been hurt.

Azrael realized what they were dealing with. He fought hopelessness as he realized the water would not be enough. But it bought time, and maybe that was all they needed.

Azrael stole a quick glance as the young man beside him suddenly raced for the church. Apparently, they were thinking alike.

The two were drizzled by the water that battled the fire, holding it in a stalemate. The fire flared purple methane to fuel itself: it was fighting back. In some places on the church, the water could hold it off, and in others, the water was evaporated. Steam began to rise from the base of the smoldering building. Not much time.

As Azrael and his partner arrived at the rear wall, it was completely enflamed. Azrael observed for a moment as the young man beside him raised his right leg and immediately fired two side-style kicks into the wall fearlessly. He was able to fire two more before lowering his leg to the ground, but he had been able to kick a small hole in the wall, clear through to the interior.

Azrael was momentarily intrigued; the ability to use ones legs while fighting originated with the Ambrose clan. The clan had fallen out of favor in the Kingdom after…after an incident no one spoke of. He had heard that the clan had been wiped out after being exiled, and their fighting style had died with them. Either this boy was trained before the Ambrose’s were killed, or he was a survivor.

The answers would have to wait. The purple flame began to roll over itself, trying to seal the hole the boy had just made.

Azrael unwittingly pushed the young man aside, removing the top half of his robe. Azrael tore it in half down the middle and quickly made circular motions with his hands, wrapping the halves into protective gear around his fists. When they were solid, Azrael began to pound away at the wood near where the young man had made the hole. Beside him, the young man began shooting his foot into the opposing side of the hole. Seconds later, the geyser still raining down on them and holding the fire at bay, they fired in unison, each putting all of their strength into a single reverse punch that opened the hole to a gaping four feet.

Azrael stepped over the jagged wood, crouching beneath the top half of the hole to enter the church. The children, bound and gagged to the two support beams in the center, began to squirm in their bindings, wriggling as best they could to face Azrael. Some of them had been crying for hours, and their gags had loosened from the panicked tears and sweat that soaked their innocent faces.

Azrael noted that the water was beginning to beat back the fire. Purple flames, accompanied by the repugnant smell of sulfur and methane, began to appear within the walls, as if eager for the children within. The flames bellowed, and its screams bounced against the walls of the church interior, creating a haunting echo.

Behind him, as the young man climbed through the hole, the wood splintered under his footing, and the young man lost his balance. Azrael quickly took hold of him as he fell forward, jerking him inside just as the rear wall came crashing down with a thunderous roar. Azrael and his partner both gasped as they watched the wood collapse. “Thanks.” The young man offered.

Azrael didn’t reply. He quickly got to his feet, turning to the first support beam. The children screamed through their gags, eyes wide in raw horror as they begged Azrael to set them free. The young man moved behind him to the support beam closest to the front door, crouching, and going to work. Azrael could hear the young man speaking softly, trying to reassure the kids that everything would be alright.

With the ties loosened, the children sprung to their feet, instinctively racing for the open-ended rear of the church. At the top of his peripheral vision, Azrael caught purple fire snaking into the underside of the roof. Slowly, it began to rain down solid, foul-smelling material. One of the children shrieked in sudden agony as superheated molten rock landed on her bare foot. Azrael grabbed her, pulling her backwards as the fire completed itself, forming a continuous wall that completely blocked their exit. To compound matters, with natural air cut off, Azrael was almost immediately dizzy as the combined stench of sulfur and methane flooded the room.

“ANDERS!! Give me a hand!!”
The voice came from behind Azrael, who held a hand to his mouth in an attempt to filter the horrid odor. The children were coughing violently as some fell to their knees, fingers digging into their chest as they fought for air.
Azrael turned to the sealed front door of the church, where he could hear the residents clamoring at the door, frantically trying to get to their children. The young man held a limp figure in his arms, and was alternating legs as he kicked at the wall beside the door. Holding the boy was hindering his movement, and the frustration was evident in his voice. Outside, Azrael could hear someone pounding relentlessly on the wall.

Azrael removed his hand, but as he went to speak, he inhaled needles of sulfur and was sent into a coughing fit. He gestured to the children as best he could, motioning for them to go to the front of the church, away from the hellfire wall. Its flames had begun to snake inward, creating molten tracks as it moved with a will of its own along the inside of the church roof. What happened to the water?!

With a final cry, the young man was able to blast a hole clear through to the outside, where hands immediately reached in, almost in a frenzy trying to reach their children. The young man, worn from inhaling so much sulfur, fell to his knees and clutched his stomach, doubled-over. Each attempt to draw in fresh air became a violent coughing fit.

Azrael’s lungs felt like overinflated balloons inside his chest. He raced across the church to its front, and cleared a path between all of the children trying to escape the fire and return to the safety of their parents. “Get back—“He forced, his voice muffled by his inability to breathe, “GET BACK FROM THE WALL!” It was as much to the children as it was to their parents, and the children were quicker to comply.  The hellfire was now more than a third of the way into the church. Azrael noted that the young man behind him had stopped coughing. Stopped moving.

His fists mirrored each other as he readied a double-punch and then fired it into the wall. In a single shot, nearly a third of the wall exploded outward, and the children ran freely into the fresh air.

There was a tremendous angry bellow behind him, followed by the rapid crunching of many bones breaking. Azrael chanced a look back and saw that the fire was literally eating the church, immolating its walls and reducing them to charred splinters. It was happening at the rear and coming for them quickly.

Azrael quickly bent down and scooped up the young man, draping one arm over his shoulder.  With no air and no time left, Azrael took two steps towards freedom and threw himself forward. The church exploded outward immediately afterwards in a final bid to claim them. Azrael and the young man rolled freely along the sand. As children were tightly embraced by grateful families, Azrael drew in fresh air and got to his feet. Beside him, the young man slowly regained consciousness. He rolled onto his stomach and looked at the church.
The water was indeed gone. The fire, engulfing the entire church, rumbled menacingly. It began to tornado, swirling into a vortex as the rumble began a raging shriek. The tornado rose into the sky as though it might reach Purgatory, and then dove down back onto itself. It completely obliterated the church, sending sharpened wood fragments throughout the city. Azrael, and everyone else there, dove for cover.

When they rose, the fire and the church were gone. Only a black spot and the receding smell of sulfur, like newly rotted eggs, remained. Azrael understood the hellfire’s rage. For all of its efforts, it had not claimed a single life.

Nearly thirty minutes later, the entire town was gathered in its city hall. It had been converted to a hospital, and those that knew how were tending to the wounded. Azrael had only suffered mild sulfur inhalation. He refused medical attention; he’d dealt with worse.

He was uncomfortable making his way through the mammoth building. All around him, joyful mothers and fathers clutched their grateful children as though they would never again let go. They cried, they gave thanks, and when they saw Azrael pass by, they looked at him with their eyes brimming with tears of gratitude that couldn’t be articulated.
When he had first entered the town hall, he was nearly bowled over by a child than ran into him full-tilt, wrapping her arms around his legs and embracing him tightly. “Thank you, sir.” She had whispered, meaning every word. Azrael hadn’t known how to react. He didn’t touch the little girl; he didn’t know what to say. She didn’t seem to notice, only looking up to him with bright brown eyes and smiling. Azrael noted she was young; she didn’t have all of her adult teeth yet. Luckily, her mother called her, and she turned and skipped away. Azrael watched her go, unable to process these new emotions. Now, he just wanted to get out of there.

Azrael’s mind went back to his childhood in Olymparus, growing up in badlands between Heaven and Hell. The product of a fallen angel and the woman who tried to redeem him, he had been raised with more toughness than love. It wasn’t something he had a problem with; crossling children weren’t welcomed by either side and his father’s harshness had made him strong. His mother’s gentle hand had taught him right from wrong, but his father ensured that neither he nor his twin brother would ever be victims.

So faced with a joyous situation such as this, Azrael wasn’t quite sure how to behave. It wasn’t for him; he had done his duty, and it was time for him to be on his way.
Before he reached the front entrance, Azrael caught a spectacle off to his right. The young man was surrounded by the town’s girls, but his attention was focused on a boy who was being treated for what appeared to be whip injuries. The young man looked up, locking eye contact with Azrael, who immediately turned away. Damn.

Azrael increased his pace and exited through the front door. He took a quick glance back to ensure that he wasn’t being followed, and then began to lower himself into a glide–

“HEY!!”

Azrael grit his teeth, cursing under his breath as he righted himself. Ready for a confrontation, Azrael slowly turned, half-facing the young man as he jogged from the entrance to city hall, approaching Azrael.
“Thank you,” The young man said gratefully, nodding, “For saving my life back there.”

Azrael was relieved, but showed no body language. “You’re welcome.” He replied. “I’m sure you would’ve done the same for me. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

“That fighting style you use,” The young man persisted, “You’re from Olymparus, aren’t you?”

“What makes you say that?” Azrael inquired neutrally.

“The rapid hand movements.” The young man answered quickly, knowing what he was talking about. “It’s a derivative of a style based on animal movements. I read some of the fallen angels started it.”

Azrael said nothing. The young man hesitated. “Are you…are you one of the fallen angel?”

Azrael was silent. The young man exhaled. “Look,” He said gently, “I’m sorry that I attacked you. I was in the wrong. You saved those children in there. Your heart is obviously in the right place—“

“Then what does it matter if I’m a fallen angel or not? My allegiance is to the Kingdom. Shouldn’t that be all that matters?” Azrael retorted. The fact that he had taken offense was evident in his voice. The young man said nothing. Azrael turned to face him fully. “Your fighting style.” Azrael said accusingly, “The ability to fight with one’s legs originated with the Ambrose clan. I had heard that they were all killed. So are you a student…or a survivor?”

The young man blinked twice, looking away. He nodded, understanding what Azrael was saying. “Some questions are better left unanswered, aren’t they?” Azrael finished. He extended his hand as a friendly gesture. “My name is Azrael. What’s yours?”

The young man accepted the gesture, shaking his wrist. “John.” He answered. Azrael had to stifle a chuckle; the man was clearly lying, but one’s business was their own. ‘John’ must’ve read Azrael’s eyes, because he followed up with, “The head of the Ambrose clan; he trained me alongside his son as a favor.”

Of course he did.

“Well, John.” Azrael said, taking his hand back, “It’s been a pleasure, but if you’ll excuse me, I have business to see to.”

Azrael turned around. “What kind of business?” John inquired.

“My business.”

“The kind of business that takes you to Asgard, right?”

Azrael was stunned. How does he…?

As Azrael turned to face John again, John had pulled a familiar-looking parchment bearing Yang’s seal from the inside of his flannel. “My allegiance,” John spoke genuinely, “is also to the Kingdom.”

“Then you know why I have to go.” Azrael said quietly. “Asgard is at least a thousand miles from here. We have two days to get there.”

“I don’t care if you’re an Olympic-level glider.” John quickly returned. “You’ll never cover that kind of distance in two days. There has to be another way. You ever think we’re here for a reason?”

“What reason would that be?” Azrael asked flippantly. He was in no mood for signs, coincidences, or a lesson in either.

“How’d you know about that fire?” John asked. Azrael said nothing.

“Okay, fine, pull the stoic act.” John said quickly. “But the point is; you knew people were in trouble and you came to help. Maybe that’s why Yang chose you.”

Yang didn’t choose me…this was what Azrael wanted to say. “You’re right, I did. But now that I’ve done that, I have my duties to attend to.”

“Azrael,” John pushed, “Can’t you see there’s something happening here? These people are being oppressed in their own homes by demons. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“John, we are at war!” Azrael spat, his tone at its loudest. “The innocent are oppressed and killed on a daily basis. For now, this is the way of things. If we are accepted at Asgard, then maybe we can make a difference. But we have to think of the greater good. Do we save one village at the expense of losing a war?”

“When we’re made aware of the village’s suffering, then YES, WE DO!!!” John roared back. “If we’re in a position to save one life, then we should do it!”

It was times like this when Azrael forced himself to remember that not everyone was from the Legion, and not everyone had provided escort for hundreds of recently deceased. “You have your convictions,” Azrael said, composing himself. “And I have mine. I hope to see you again in two days.”

“Have it your way.” John growled. He pointed at Azrael. “But you’re making a mistake, Azrael. Live with that.”

As John angrily turned back to city hall, there was an immense booming noise in the distance, as though someone had dropped ten tons outside of town, behind what remained of the church. The ground shook with such violence that both Azrael and John lost their balance and fell.

The residents came rushed out of city hall, fearful that the building would collapse on top of them.

For a moment, all was eerily silent. Azrael and John, looking into the distance, got to their feet.

A colossal booming noise. The ground shook. Silence.

Then another.

Then another.

Something howled a deep, piercing cry that could be heard for miles. It lasted for five seconds, and then silence.

“Everyone.” John said quietly, fiercely, “Get inside.”

The residents quickly shuffled back into city hall as the booms resumed. The ground shook with a little more force and the booms became louder. Fear shot through Azrael.

Whatever it is, it’s a behemoth, and it’s coming.

A dark revelation crept into Azrael’s mind as he realized what must be done.

These people will be slaughtered because we chose to interfere.

His mother had instilled in him the necessity to take responsibility for one’s own actions. They had started this fight, and now they had to finish it.

“John,” Azrael said silently. “For now…I am with you. We need to keep that monster away from this city.”

John shot Azrael a look of surprise. There was another boom as the creature took a slow, plodding step. “Whatever it takes,” Azrael said sincerely.

John nodded, extending his hand. “Whatever it takes,” he echoed.

Azrael took hold of John’s wrist, and shook firmly. No matter their fate, they would see this through to the end.

Without another word, they released each other’s hands. They turned back towards where the church had stood only hours earlier. Slowly, they began to walk towards whatever was coming, and whatever battle awaited them.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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Day One: Mid-Day

Michael had to admit it: when Anders didn’t want to be found, inexperienced trackers were not going to find him. It was one thing to disappear when the surrounding area was diverse, but it was another thing entirely when one could disappear into emptiness.

Four times over as many hours, Michael had made his way over a dune to find endless desert before him. The sun had risen to its highest point during his journey, but now the temperature was mild and bearable. For Michael, it was a reminder that Heaven’s current condition was a result of war and not of nature.

Michael had spent many summers learning the finer aspects of hunting and tracking with his father. The training was paying off now; prey always revealed itself, somehow. Nothing was flawless, even the chameleonic nature of some of Heaven’s craftier animals. Leaves don’t breathe visibly—the prey behind them does. Or it blinks. Or eventually, it caves to fear and tries to escape.

Sand didn’t sneeze; someone hiding beneath it might.

When Michael saw the sand dune erupt, he simply hid and waited. Anders was good, but impatient; the second he believed Michael had given up, he burst forth from the sand and continued onward.
It had dawned on Michael that traveling this far out of the way jeopardized his chance at arriving in Asgard on time and seeing his father. If he missed this opportunity, he might never see his father again – unless Yin won, and he and his father were reunited, not as father and son, but as master and slave.

Michael wanted to see his father when he could get some answers. He needed to know why his father had chosen the other side, even though it destroyed their family in the process.

Anders was clearly in trouble. He had been willing to threaten life simply for something to eat, and he was going out of his way to ensure that he wasn’t followed. If Michael was in a position to save someone’s life, he couldn’t turn his back on that, not even for his own agenda. Michael’s mother had not raised him to abandon anyone who needed help.

After Michael had been following the boy for forty-five minutes, the trail had gone cold and stayed that way. Michael had actually revealed himself after waiting for Anders to do the same, but it was as though the boy had taken to burrowing underground. It was possible, but by no means easy. Michael wondered if he had underestimated the boy.

The sun suddenly flared high above him, roiling as if about to go nova. The light was so bright and sudden that Michael screamed, shielded his face with his forearm, and threw his body to the ground. For a split second, it was as though the corona had been fired directly into his eyes, but the pain came and went in an instant. By the time Michael hit the ground, it was gone.

Michael slowly raised his head and looked dead ahead of him. What he saw was nothing short of divine intervention.

A wide beam of the sun rained down directly ahead of him, casting a bright yellow glow on a small city. It was about ten miles ahead, and just right of its center, there was a small wisp of smoke rising. It was the only indication of life in the area. Transfixed by the display, Michael slowly got to his feet. The city appeared, from his vantage point, to be a jagged row of structures that rose on each side to form a peak in its center. It appeared to be an angel-made mountain, short and wide, and part of it seemed to be on fire.

The beam sealed itself, closing on both ends. The mountain vanished.
With the image of what he had just seen firmly burned into his mind, Michael took three running steps down the dune and fell forward, his body halting a foot from the ground. Keeping his hands at his sides to cut wind resistance, his toes scant centimeters from the ground to maintain his angelic footing, Michael glided off toward the vision.

Ten minutes of high-speed gliding eliminated the need for the sun’s illumination, and the city rose into view. Five minutes later, he rocketed under the wooden awning that welcomed him to Beal City.

Michael righted himself and looked around. The city was small but diffuse; shoddily-constructed adobe houses were stretched out as far as he could see. They looked misshapen, like the concrete had been poorly stacked upon itself. Dried glue seeped out and ran down the walls of some of the buildings, while plywood lay in rows in others. Huge support beams held up poorly-constructed wooden awnings that extended past what Michael guessed were homes, and as he walked, one of the beams creaked, as if its collapse was at hand.

It was as though the city had been destroyed and then rebuilt by amateurs. It was sad and hopeful at the same time, as though the victims here had refused to give up.

If there were any victims left…the thought crept into Michael’s head as he made his way through the ghost town of Beal City. There wasn’t a soul around. Maybe the dilapidation was a result of everyone heading for greener pastures, as though there were any around…

The unmistakable crack of a whip snapped Michael’s attention off to the east—where the smoke, ever-widening and becoming black, twisted as it rose into the air.

Without thinking twice, Michael ran the few blocks up the main road, past a butcher’s shop filled with rotting meat, and rounded the corner. He found the town’s populace, and the source of the fire.

Michael’s jaw fell open in horror. A church, the largest edifice in the city, was in danger of becoming engulfed, fire spreading from the roof downward, flames tasting the walls. Beal City’s angels, roughly two hundred of them were standing helplessly before it. Michael could hear crying.

The whip cracked again, but no one screamed. The angels stood with their backs to Michael, unaware of his presence, blocking his view.
Michael quickly looked around and ran to the right, between two homes. Taking slow, deliberate steps into the giving sand to mask his arrival, Michael moved left around the corner of the home to arrive behind it. Another whip crack, and from here, Michael could hear the impact against skin. Still, no screaming. Whoever was on the receiving end was resilient.

Michael rounded the outside corner of the home’s rear wall. From there, he saw everything.

Two angels—one male, one female, were holding up the whip’s victim. Both of them looked as though the act was killing them, and the angel being beaten was a boy, no older than–
Rage swelled at the pit of Michael’s stomach. That’s Anders!

The boy had taken a terrible beating, and a ring of blood droplets encircled him on the ground. Still, the boy was hanging tough, and although Michael couldn’t hear the conversation from almost forty feet away, he could clearly read defiance.

It was clearly a demon who was in command. Tall, jet-black, with the bulbous head and eyes of a common fly, its jaws were horizontal mandibles. It had four elongated, bony arms with two claws at the end. Its legs were hairy and extremely well-defined, as was its upper torso. It was as though all the muscle had been proportioned to its legs and body, leaving the arms frail. Off of its shoulders, running down its back were two large half-shell pieces. If they came together, they looked as though they provided adequate protection for his body. Pulled back, they allowed free movement of his arms, which was something Michael wanted to take away as soon as possible…

The church’s entire top half was now engulfed in flames. Hellish black plumes of smoke twisted and raced into the sky. Michael was certain the smoke could now be seen for miles.

The woman holding Anders suddenly buckled, dropping and turning away as she vomited. She fell to her knees, clutching her stomach and retching horribly, as though unable to stop. The demon stopped his torment of Anders and raised the skinny whip slowly, menacingly, towards her. As he spoke, there was a rapid chittering behind his words. Truly an insect given unholy life. Why would anyone choose this?
“On your feet, bitch.” The demon spoke, “Or I turn the whip on your husband as well.”

The woman quickly shook her head, coughing as she rose. The effort of raising Anders’ arm seemed to take everything out of her, but Anders looked at her with a smile.
I’ve seen enough.

The sand would hamper his movement somewhat, but he would still get enough speed to pull this off. Leaving the wall behind, Michael lowered his body and sprinted towards the demon. The beast raised his whip again, and Michael was close enough to hear its words this time. “Let this be a lesson,” It seethed, “to any of you who think of running away again.”

“I have a lesson for you.” Michael said quickly. The demon was completely unaware of his presence until it was too late, and by then, Michael was in the air. As the demon snapped, quickly looking over its left shoulder, Michael shot out his right leg and caught the demon clean in its mandible, snapping it clean off.

The demon was knocked backwards, screaming in fear, surprise, and pain as it clutched what was left of its mouth, and as Michael landed, he was glad the demon hadn’t fallen down. Michael lunged into him, connecting a solid right hook to its poorly-protected face, followed by an equally solid left. As the demon reeled, struggling to regain an advantage, Michael pressed his own; spinning, raising his right leg, he chambered for all he was worth and thrust his foot cleanly into the beasts’ midsection. There was the satisfying crunch of ribs snapping beneath his foot as the creature was sent flying backwards, rolling helplessly in the sand, its whip knocked free.

Michael sprinted for the creature, stooping momentarily to pick up the fallen whip. In the second Michael went for the whip, the creature scrambled to its feet, kicking a cloud of sand in its wake that forced Michael to pause, shielding his eyes momentarily. “Coward.” He growled.

The sand settled and Michael began to pursue the demon again. Two steps into his chase, he was knocked off-balance when the top half of the roof, eaten away by fire, slid away. Wood grated against itself, consumed by fire, giving a horrid, mournful cry as it came crashing to the ground. As it fell hard into the sand, Michael had rushed out of the way as the debris listed, and then fell where he had been standing. If the quarter-roof had landed on him, he would’ve been crushed.
Michael exhaled to keep his focus and raced around the edge of the blazing church. The demon was hobbling, running for dear life as it passed a pale-skinned man with hair darker than the demon’s skin. The man, about Michael’s age, seemed dumbstruck as he watched the demon hurriedly step past him and disappear into the makeshift corridors between the adobe homes.

You worthless son of a–

Michael kept pace but changed targets; he was now aiming for the man who had simply let the beast go. The angel—if he even was an angel—was about five feet six with skin so pale that Michael wondered if he might be sick. Short, black hair meant Michael didn’t have enough to grab, and the angel appeared to be well-built beneath the white robes. He might know how to handle himself…

“Hey, you!” Michael challenged. The angel turned as Michael came within striking distance. “Why did you let him go?!” With the last word, Michael struck the angel with such a hard right hook that he was sent spinning once, falling to the ground. He rebound quickly, landing on his hands and rolling to his feet. Wiping new blood on the sleeve of his shirt, he held up a hand. “Just a moment—“ He tried, but Michael wasn’t in the mood to listen…

Michael grabbed the arm with his left hand and attempted to strike the angel with a right straight. In a fluent motion, the angel snatched his hand free, dodging Michael’s blow to the right. Snatching the arm threw Michael off balance, forcing him to stumble forward—where the arm came back, smacking him cleanly in the face. Michael staggered backwards and recovered quickly. He came back, throwing a jab-reverse combination. The angel swayed, avoiding the jab, and slapped the reverse downwards. The punches came so fast that Michael had no time to adjust. He was caught first in the chest, then in the face. As he reeled, a sharp, pointed blow caught him at the top of the spine, snapping his head back. Was that his elbow? When did he get behind me?!

He was dizzy, his spine felt as though it had been jammed between his shoulders, but Michael quickly turned, raising his hands and bracing for a fight. He was surprised—and a little grateful—that the angel as not advancing.

“I. Don’t want. To fight you.” The angel said definitively. “I came to put out this fire. If you want to challenge me afterwards, I’ll accommodate you.”

The angel didn’t wait for Michael to respond. Gliding to a faded-beige well fifteen feet away, the angel quickly righted himself, dropping the wooden bucket hanging from its awning into the water below and bringing it back up hand-over-hand. Every so often, he glanced back to the church urgently, without looking to Michael.

His attention was called back to the well when the worn rope snapped under the water’s weight. Wind whistled and there was the forceful echo of something heavy hitting the water. Michael could read the sudden desperation in the angel’s face as he braced himself against the well, looking down hopelessly.

Michael took a few unsure steps towards the well. He seems genuine…but it’s just an empty building…

When the angel suddenly bolted upright, there was no mistaking the look in his eyes; he was genuinely afraid. “Help me!!”

“It’s too far gone!” Michael countered. “It’s empty! We should see to the people!”

The angel grit his teeth, and for a moment, Michael could believe that the angel was about to tear him apart in sheer frustration. “Reach!” The angel spat angrily.

The angel was referring to their inherent ability to sense each other through their life force. Michael turned back to the church and closed his eyes….By Yang!!!

There were two support beams in the church, positioned between two rows of well-worn pews. Tied to each of these beams, bound and gagged, were eight children. Michael could see in his mind…he could feel how utterly terrified the sixteen children were, staring at the gaping hole in the roof as the flames moved as though alive, crawling along the interior of the walls, coming for them.

Michael suddenly realized that he had not seen a single child in the throng while Anders was beaten.
As Michael stretched the limits of his Reach, he could see the panicked townspeople of Beal City, some of them throwing caution to the wind, beating on the doors with their bare hands and desperate to get their children out.

It took Michael seconds to race through his options. He looked back to the angel. “We need more water than few buckets are going to provide.” He rattled off between breaths. Even as he spoke, an impossible idea came to mind. The angel clearly knew the Arts, so maybe…

“What do you suggest, then?” The angel replied, not taking his eyes from the church.

“We trigger the spring.”

The angel looked at Michael uncertainly.

“Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.” Michael said quickly. “We use our energy, and we trigger the spring.”

“We would have to use enough energy to not just pierce the ground, but summon a geyser. Can you do that?”

“I can if you can.”

The angel nodded. “So be it.”

Michael closed his eyes and took a step back. He wished he could see how another angel summoned their own life force, but this would require all of his concentration.

Michael kept his right hand open and level with his chest as if in prayer. His left hand shot above him, lined up with his right. He tried to force thoughts of the fire out of his head as he began his prayer, raising his energy from the pit of his stomach until he could feel electricity dancing on his skin. When his hands were inches apart, he opened his eyes, slamming his right fist into his left palm in the weapon/shield form. His body awash with blue energy, he looked across to the angel and saw him bathed in the black, nebulous glow, as though the angel was a member of…Gabriel’s legion?!

Focus.
He met eye contact with the angel, who mirrored his expression. Ready.

Moving his left palm to the top side of his right fist, Michael pivoted, twisting his body, aiming his fist for the ground. His right arm slid down his palm as though sheathing a sword and the other angel mirrored him. The last thought Michael had before their energies collided with the ground was that he had no idea what to do if this didn’t work…

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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Day One: Dawn

Perched on the outstretched branch of a sequoia tree, sixty feet from the ground, Michael waited.

He had been stalking the deer since the sun made its first appearance over the horizon. Since contending with the slake and leaving home, Michael had walked for three hours before making camp in the forested Orosus Lands. Under the protection of high, full trees and the roar of a small fire, he had slept till dawn and awoken with an appetite. With sixty-six hours to travel over two hundred miles, he didn’t want to waste time hunting; the deer had been a lucky find.

Tracking in the same method his father had taught him, Michael, blade drawn defensively, had stalked the oblivious deer silently through the thick of the Orosus. It had come to rest at a brook to quench its thirst. Michael climbed onto an ancient sequoia. Moving out onto a ledge placed him directly above the deer. Michael would simply drop down, stabbing the deer through the neck. It wouldn’t feel a thing.

Michael shifted to a squat position as the deer lowered itself to the ground, drinking from the clear water. The animal was grown, sporting a full set of antlers; it would feed him for the entire journey…
If it has done nothing to you, his mother’s words came roaring back into his head, why take its life?

Michael responded in his mind, trying to suppress memories of his mother’s teachings; because I’m hungry, mom, and these creatures were put here for our consumption.

It was as though his mother was right in the tree with him, right over his shoulder. A gentle breeze blew through, remember the circle, Michael. As you have harmed others, so will harm be brought unto you. There are other ways of satiating your hunger without slaughter.
Michael winced. His mother, born to a woman who held dominion over nature, had been raised vegetarian. She had passed her philosophies on to her family.

As Michael’s stomach rumbled, the deer raised its head slowly, turning and looking at its surroundings. It was as though the deer was aware that something had come for it, but was either too distant to be a threat…or hadn’t made up its mind yet.

To complicate the matter, Michael heard the words his father had said when they had hunted lesser demons together. If you’re going to kill something, his father had spoken, make sure it can kill you back.

The deer returned to the brook.

Michael sighed. Remembering a wild blackberry bush not too far from here, Michael sheathed his knife by his ankle. He had begun to stand when the ground thundered violently enough to shake the tree. Michael quickly crouched, grabbing tightly onto the branch as something passed beneath him.

As Michael observed, the deer sprang to its feet, not nearly in time to avoid being overtaken by a tremendously muscular, pale, four-legged creature. It bellowed ferociously, a deep, chilling, resonating cry of desperate hunger as it dove upon the deer, eviscerating it with three stone-like tusks that protruded from its elongated, boar-like face. The deer screamed, struggling weakly as the beast slammed it back to the ground, withdrawing its tusks. The deer made a weak attempt to rise; its legs bleeding and quivery. As it rose, the beast thrust upwards, impaling the deer with such force that it was lifted from the ground. The deer gave one final cry, and the beast allowed it to fall to the ground, where it was silent.

As the beast settled down for its meal, Michael landed upon it, stabbing it through the top of its head up to the hilt with his knife. In agony and shock, the beast screamed, bolting upwards. Struggling, Michael grasped the mortally wounded creature by the underside of its neck. As it fought to throw him, Michael forced the creature’s chin upwards, drawing his blade across its throat. The beast fell to the ground, dead, and Michael rolled as it slid, bounding to his feet. His father’s words returned to him as he turned back to the dead beast. Wiping the blade on his blue, woolen pants, Michael replaced his knife. Clutching his prey by the tail, he began to drag it back towards camp.
Michael walked for fifteen minutes before the embers of what remained of his fire came into view. As he neared camp, he frowned: The contents of his backpack had been spilled open.

Dropping the beast to the ground, Michael took a few cautious steps forward and looked toward the surrounding trees. He appeared to be alone, but the slake’s presence meant there was a mirror in the area.

Who said that was the only thing to come through?

Suddenly feeling threatened, Michael slowly dropped to one knee and began to draw his blade…

Cold, sharp, steel touched his throat. The knife came over his right shoulder, his assailant behind him.

Michael gasped involuntarily. He had neither seen nor heard his attacker coming. He froze.

Holding the blade at his throat, his assailant reached down to Michael’s ankle knife and unsheathed it.

“Nice knife.” A voice behind him said. Michael frowned; it wasn’t a demonic voice. In fact, it seemed rather young, like that of an adolescent, maybe younger than him. “Thank you,” Michael replied, unsure of what else to say.

Michael’s own blade went flying off to the left, landing a few feet away. “I need your stuff.” The voice said firmly, “and I need the forak.”

Michael realized that his captor was referring to his kill. “Okay.” Michael agreed.

“I’m going to take my knife away, and you’re going to help me carry my things back to my village. If you resist, I will kill you. I am the greatest fighter in Heaven.”

“Okay.”

Slowly, the knife came away from Michael’s throat. The second it was clear, in a single motion, Michael turned, grabbing his assailant’s wrist with both hands. His assailant yelped in surprise as Michael twisted his arm backwards, clutching the wrist with his right hand and with the left, Michael stole the knife. He was going to take his assailant’s life when he found himself looking into the terrified face of a boy no older than twelve. “Please don’t kill me.” The boy pleaded, wide-eyed and helpless.

Incredulous, Michael slowly lowered the boy’s wrist, keeping his eye on him as he rose. The boy dusted himself off, looking to Michael timidly. “Can I have my knife back?”

“No.” Irritated, Michael turned his back to the boy, retrieving his own knife. He replaced it, approaching the boy. “Who are you, and why were you going through my things?”

The boy shrugged. “I was hungry. I thought you might have something to eat.” He looked to the dead forak. “I was right, wasn’t I?”

Michael contemplated knocking the boy out and leaving him. The boy smiled, his eyes pleading. “So, um, feel like sharing?”

Michael chuckled, nodding. “Sure, I’ll share.” He tossed the boy his knife back, and the boy caught it by its hilt with one hand. “You gut the forak. I’ll build the fire.”

The sun was higher in the sky by the time Michael and the boy had roasted up the forak. The boy was competent enough to quickly gut the beast, as though he had done it before. Michael noted that he was good with a knife, but thus far, the boy had deflected all attempt at conversation. Only after opening prayer did the boy finally nod his head towards Michael, who sat on the ground opposite the fire. “Hey,” He asked, swallowing a mouthful of pork, “that reversal move you used on me; where did you learn that?”

For a second, Michael looked across the flame to the boy, and then returned to the forak’s leg. “Old family secret.” He replied.

“Really?” The boy pressed, “Which family? What’s your name, anyway?”

“John.” Michael lied. He had long since ceased giving out his real name; the devastation of his family had made him and his mother pariahs. The less anyone knew about them now, the better.

“What about you? What’s your name?” Michael asked.

“Ander.” The boy replied, “So, you can really fight, then. You ever seen any real battles?”

“A couple.”

“Really?” The idea of real combat seemed to excite Ander, who pressed, “What’s it feel like?”

Michael raised his eyes to Ander. “You always this inquisitive of people you ambush?”

Ander chuckled. “Oh, I wasn’t really gonna kill you, I just…” he trailed off, the expression in his face darkening, and Michael noticed the change.

“Just what?” Michael asked, “What were you trying to do?”

Ander quickly finished his meat and stood up. “Look,” he said hurriedly, “I’m sorry I attacked you. Thank you for feeding me and all that, but I should get going.”

Michael was suddenly concerned. “You live near here?”

Ander quickly nodded, preparing to walk away. “Yeah…my town isn’t far. Thanks again.”

Ander turned around, and Michael quickly got to his feet. “Hey,” he offered, reaching, “I don’t know you, but you were willing to put a knife to my throat for food; there’s something wrong. What’s going on?”

Ander turned, and Michael could clearly see fear in the boy’s eyes.

“Whatever it is,” Michael said in all sincerity, “I can help you. You don’t have to hurt anyone.”

Ander seemed to consider it, and then smiled, his face lightening.

“You’re alright, Michael.” He snickered, “Thanks for the meal.”

“Hey, wait…” Michael tried, but Ander had already jogged off east into the distance.

Michael realized that he never had a chance to warn him about the mirror.

A moment of indecision flashed through him. If he followed the boy, he would lose valuable time on the road to Asgard. If he could figure out what had driven another angel to the brink to survive, then he might be able to do something about it.

Or, he could tell himself that he did the right thing, pack up his possessions, and continue along his way. Situations like these always worked themselves out somehow…and Ander could take care of himself.

Against a slake?

Michael also remembered; there were no villages in this direction from Yevon.

Ander seemed in a hurry to get back to wherever it was he came from…why?

Because something might come looking for him.

Not someone, something.

The boy was in trouble.

Michael quickly packed up his belongings and took one last look at the sun before heading east, following Ander’s trail.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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“Mom,” Michael spoke warily, not taking his eyes from the jet-black creature five feet from him, “please…just stay there. Don’t do anything.”

He chanced a quick glance backwards to the wooden porch, where his mother stood in the open doorway. In the second he turned his head, the crouching demon hissed, and there was a violent scratching sound as the slake scurried towards him. Michael quickly whipped his head back to the demon, which froze in mid-step. In a predatory manner, it lowered its cobra-head, pulling the lenses away from the six eyes on its crown. It opened its mouth to an unnatural width, revealing hundreds of needle-like spiked teeth within. Even in the black, starless night, Michael could see the green gleaning as drooled venomous fluid to the ground before it.

Holding his home-made silver knife in his right hand defensively, Michael exhaled, pushing away his fear, lowering himself into a backstance. His arms were crossed protectively in front of him with his right arm out front, should the slake lunge.
There was a step behind him, and Michael’s eyes widened; he didn’t dare take his eyes from this creature, but he quickly shook his head. “Mom…” he said quietly, fiercely, “Don’t.”

His mom’s traditionally soft voice responded behind him, “Michael…that thing can kill you.”
“No, it won’t.” Michael quickly returned, surprised at his own resolve, “But if you do what you’re planning…they will kill you.”
His mother said nothing.
“Trust me, mom.”
She took a step back. “Okay, Michael.”

Michael braced himself, holding the knife close to his body and putting his other palm out in a threatening manner towards the slake. In response, the beast snaked its tri-forked, leathery tongue out of its mouth. Michael let his eyes lower to the slake’s four legs, bent at the joint as if preparing to lunge. As long as I keep its legs from retracting…I have a chance.

He had to admit that he enjoyed the rush, and he allowed himself a smirk; still in adolescence, he was about to take on one of Hell’s most feared demons on his own.

Michael feinted left, making a quick stomping motion with his left foot. The slake flinched, and Michael dashed right. Hissing, the slake moved in unison with him, scurrying and circling left. It kept its eyes upon Michael, remaining in its hunched position, its back to his mother, who stayed in a ready position at the porch. Michael accepted a bleak truth; it’s here for me...

This begged the questions; did Yin dispatch assassins to those who’d received invitations? Did she know what Yang was planning and if she did…what was she doing to brace for it?

The slake lowered itself closer to the ground, its front legs retracting back into its body, allowing the creature to nearly become fully snake again. Its tongue retreated back into its closing mouth, but the teeth remained visible. The answers would have to wait.

Michael’s danger senses shrieked. Too late, he realized what was coming.
The slake made a short, forward-jerking motion. Michael couldn’t see them, but he felt them even as he tried to dodge to the right; a group of needles tore through his shoulder and upper arm. It was as though he’d fallen onto a steel cactus, and with the needles so closely grouped together, blood came freely and he felt as though his entire arm might come off.

His shoulders and arm went numb. The venom was working quickly.
Scratching sounds ahead of him. He couldn’t see clearly, but the eager hissing meant the creature was coming for him.

An uneasy wind blew past him, originating from the house. Michael looked up, quickly shaking his head to dismiss grogginess as he clutched his shoulder. To his horror, his mother had her hand outstretched.

The slake was completely grounded, slithering towards him with insane speed, mouth agape. Teeth at the ready.

Two seconds.

Michael reversed his grip on the blade, tossing it and catching it by its apex. Grunting through the pain of his new injury, Michael hurled the knife towards his mother softball-style. The blade forced his mother to duck back into the house as it stuck firmly to the right of the entrance, landing with a resounding thunk and burying itself almost up to its hilt. The last thing he saw before looking back to the slake was the shock and hurt in his mother’s eyes as she re-emerged.

The slake raised its head from the ground and opened its monstrous jaw, going for Michael’s ankle. Michael leapt straight into the air, tucking his knees to his chest, ignoring the aching flash that shot through his being. The slake shot beneath him.
With all the force he could muster, he brought both feet down on the body of the slake, which bucked its head up in shock and unexpected agony.

Michael turned and brought his right foot down on the slake’s head once, shattering three of its six eyes. Needles snapped beneath his heels and a pulpous, green fluid was sent flying from what remained of its eyes. It struggled to get out from under Michael, hissing weakly. Michael brought his foot to his head, and then brought his heel down on the slake’s head once again, and the slake moved no more.

Michael grunted, allowing himself to feel the pain in his shoulder as the battle came to a close. Only three or four needles remained inside of him, and with the slake dead, the poison died with it. Michael winced as he removed the needles from his shoulder and tossed them to the barren ground of his front yard.

Exhaling, regulating his breathing to control the receding pain, Michael stepped onto the porch and for a moment, looked square into the eyes of his mother. Although she was beautiful, fair skinned, flowing red hair with emerald eyes, the recent years had been difficult, and hair looked a little more ragged, her skin almost unhealthily pale.
“Michael…?” She asked, her voice failing and on the brink of tears.

Michael quickly shook his head, unable to mask his sympathy for his mother. He embraced her, holding her close. Careful not to aggravate her son’s wound; she only held his right side. “Mom, if you use that power…they will execute you. You know that.”
“I wasn’t about to watch my only son die.” She retorted firmly. Michael pulled away to look his mother in the eye, remembering not too long ago when she looked down upon him. “I didn’t die, mom.” He smiled, “You and dad trained me well.”

Tears came freely, but Araqiel refused to sob. She was proud of her son, and she smiled. “Is this why you’re getting into the thick of things, Michael?” She asked, her voice shaking, “To get closer to your father?”

Michael looked away, into the black distance of the night for a moment, and then looked back to his mother. “No…” He said slowly. He wasn’t sure he believed it himself, “I am going…because demons should not be here. We should not have to protect ourselves in our own home.”

Araqiel shook her head, reaching up, touching the young man’s face. “Son, I know you think you’re doing the right thing, but Yang’s plan…it will not bring an end to demons in Heaven.”

Michael frowned as he listened to his mother. “What do you mean? If he’s right, and this Nexus Stone can do what the letter says it can…”

Araqiel nodded quickly. “Yes, yes, it can, Michael, can’t you see? That is the problem. If you make to Valhalla and you are chosen to become an archangel…the power of the nexus stone won’t just be limited to you, or anyone else. All of us—angels and demons alike—will be imbued. How do you think Yin will react when she realizes her brother what her brother has unleashed? She’ll send everything she has, and conquest won’t be her goal—annihilation will.”

Michael exhaled. She’s right. “Then we…” He started, trying to make himself believe it, “…will have to stop her before she can.”
“And what about your father?”
Michael said nothing, caught by surprise.
“If you must,” Araqiel continued, “Will you stop him too?”

Michael lowered his head. They both knew why he was leaving.

“Mom,” He said silently, “I have to go.”

Araqiel held her son for a moment longer. Reaching down to the tie that held her silk robe to her body, she untied it, allowing her robe to fall open. She reached up to Michael’s injured shoulder, pulling down the checkered red/black flannel pattern jacket she made for him, and tied the silk around the injury. Michael felt his pain fade away, feeling in his arm returned. “As long as this stays whole,” She explained, “You should recover from non-life-threatening injuries fairly quickly.”

Smiling to his mother, Michael pulled the flannel back over his shoulder. He reached inside the doorway behind her and picked up his lightweight burlap sack, holding a few changes of clothes; he would hunt for food on the way.

From here, the suburbs on the outskirts of the capital city of Yevon, it was about a week’s journey to the Athearean Falls. He would then have to scale one thousand feet of mountain to reach Asgard, where Yang and Odin would be waiting.

He had to make the journey in three days.

“I’ll return it,” Michael promised, “when I come back.”

Araqiel smiled. They both knew that Michael’s return was far from guaranteed.
Michael bent down, kissing his mother on the cheek. He reached up behind her, pulling his knife free, sliding it into the leather sheath on the outside of his right ankle. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, Michael descended the porch to the ground and headed to through the yard, taking note of the dead slake off to the right.

“Michael,” Araqiel called after him, “If you see your father, please remember…he loves you.”

Michael paused, closing his eyes. He stopped for a moment to consider the ramifications of encountering his father, if he was even still alive. He tried to convince himself that he had accepted Yang’s invitation to bring peace back to Heaven, rather than settle a family dispute.

Michael hoped he wouldn’t see his father. He hoped the rumors were true, and the angel was indeed a memory.

He opened his eyes, exiting the front yard to the road.

He did not look back.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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