- [Forward Staging Position] - Camp Alpha, Sector 5-1

The heavy flaps of the military field tent part, and Father Alaric steps inside of the improvised field chapel set up in the primary staging area. The air inside hits him with the mixed scents of oil lamps and damp canvas, the glow from the hanging bulbs casts eerie shadows around ornaments and symbols that have yet to be fully unpacked. Many of them are still wrapped in old wax cloth to protect them during transport.

His assistant, Sister Beatrice, follows closely after him, her heart racing beneath her traditional white-patterned robe. “Is it true that they’re really angels?” she asks, her voice a whisper laced with both fear and hope.

Alaric looks back at her. “The military insists they are,” he replies, but uncertainty gnaws at him. This is a big claim. Then again, they are in the spirit-world of all places. Many of the church's beliefs and teachings have become validated, and the faith has seen a resurgence amongst the people because of it.

Brother Matthieu, a younger man with an ease to his gait, strolls in leisurely, hands shoved deep into his pockets, a smirk creeping onto his face. “An angel?” he chuckles. The sound reverberates against the tent’s fabric as he swipes back his slicked hair. “The only one around is me,” he says, pointing at Beatrice with a jackal’s smile.

She stares at him silently for a moment before listlessly lifting a finger to point back at him. “See. This is exactly why you couldn’t get any other job,” she explains in a dry tone.

“Job?” he asks, raising an eyebrow as he takes her hand. “Sister… this is my calling,” notes Matthieu in a passionate voice.

Beatrice has cast: [Barrier]

A glassy, prismatic wall appears between them, shooting out of the ground. Matthieu yelps, barely pulling his arm back in time before the window shoots up between them.

“The only ‘calling’ here is me calling security if you don’t stay on that side of the wall,” she remarks, gesturing to the ground with a dull look in her eyes. The priestess sighs, walking through the divided tent after her boss. Matthieu shrugs, his hands in the air, as he shakes his head with a confident smile and closed eyes.

“Both of you, mind yourselves,” instructs Father Alaric back to them. “We are in the house of the gods,” he warns them as they move past an altar, currently being used as storage for a crate of artillery shells.

“Yes, Father,” replies Beatrice, lifting her nose.

The air feels stifling, heavy with expectations and the weight of everything. It’s quite the time to be a person of the faith. The buzzing of distant gunfire outside filters through the tent walls, blending with the murmured prayers of a few scattered soldiers kneeling at makeshift altars, Alaric scans the dimly lit interior.

“Do you feel that?” Beatrice murmurs, inching closer to Alaric.

He nods, and unease settles in his chest. “Yes, the air… It feels… energetic,” he admits. The sound of their boots crunching on compacted dirt mixes with the low murmurs of conversation as they approach a pair of guards standing there with rifles at the ready. "There's a charge in it. Magic. Powerful magic."

The two men eye the approaching priests, and then one of them grabs a flap, opening the connected second section of the large, modular tent.

The priests step inside tentatively, looking around expectantly. But whatever they expect to see isn’t there; instead, an odd, alabaster creature perches on a hastily assembled altar, crude and makeshift. “What is… that?” whispers Matthieu, staring at the entity. It looks nothing like the divine figure they imagined; instead, here is a bizarre thing: a twisted avian presence with ragged feathers and bulging eyes that dart nervously like a chicken that has been moved into a hawk’s nest.

Alaric stares, shock washing over him. Beatrice gasps. “That’s not an angel!” she exclaims. “...Is it?”

The creature squawks at them.

Matthieu laughs bitterly. “Goodness, really?" he asks. "It looks more like a malformed crow than a heavenly being,” he mutters, but Alaric can’t shake the icy grip of fear. The creature twitches, wings flapping erratically, and the tent shudders in response, filled with tension as the blown air has nowhere to go.

“What is it doing?” Father Alaric asks quietly. The bulb lights above them flicker.

Matthieu scoffs. “Maybe it’s trying to lay an egg?” he jokes as the creature’s massive eyes dart over them.

“How… unusual…” Alaric states as the creature tilts its head ever so slightly. “I have studied much of the old word, but I have never come across… this,” he remarks, gesturing to the angel.

The creature flaps its wings restlessly, hopping from leg to leg on the makeshift altar, feathers ruffled, seemingly oblivious to the confusion brewing among the priests as their voices rise in the cramped confines of the military field tent. “Are we sure this isn’t just some kind of spirit world dove?” asks Matthieu.

Father Alaric gestures sharply with each word, “No! Look! It must be divine, sent to guide us; how else could you explain it, Matthieu?” he asks. His conviction is loud, ringing against the tent walls. But there’s a tremor in his voice that betrays his uncertainty as he watches the alabaster thing scramble, its odd eyes blinking innocently as it twirls around almost childishly.

Sister Beatrice bites her lip, her brows knitting together. “But look at it, Alaric, it’s… it’s a bird, or something like one; can we really call this an angel?” she challenges him, pointing at the flapping creature. It screeches again, a noise that grates against her thoughts, causing her to flinch. "If we take this back with us to the city… people will lose faith. I mean… "

Matthieu rolls his eyes, arms crossed, as he leans over sideways toward her. “The only angel here is y-”

“- Wall!” snaps Beatrice, shoving him away and cutting him off before he can finish. She snaps her fingers, and a second later, a new magical barrier appears between them.

Beatrice has cast: [Barrier]

Matthieu sighs, leaning against the glass wall.

“But what if it truly is a messenger of heaven? Look how it flits about; full of life, it must have a purpose if the gods sent it to us,” Alaric counters, his voice rising, enthusiasm battling against disbelief as he still gazes at the odd creature that scratches at the altar’s surface as it excitedly looks at the projected, colorful magical wall Beatrice had created with her holy spell. If one didn't know better, they might assume that he almost sounds desperate.

“You could say the same about Matthieu, but we haven’t found him useful yet either,” remarks Beatrice quietly.

Matthieu huffs a laugh. Alaric glares at them both, tangible frustration swirling in the small space. The air feels thick and electric, laced with the weight of their bickering as the creature abruptly takes flight, wings flapping wildly. The priests cover their faces, ducking for a second as it jumps over from its alter, perching at the top of the projected magical wall now instead and looking down at them from above.

“Another point for the dove theory,” Matthieu taunts, his smirk widening.

Alaric shakes his head vehemently. “Nonsense, boy. It’s just… it’s trying to communicate!” he insists, stepping forward as the creature lands beside them, tilting its head. The way it watches them is curious, almost unsettling. “We must interpret it’s actions as signs for us to follow.”

Matthieu scoffs again, arms wide open. “You’re grasping at threads, old man,” he remarks. “A sign? A sign that we’re in a circus tent rather than a chapel, maybe,” he quips. Beatrice snorts, but then immediately chokes it down and resumes her standard frowning grimace as he lifts his arm to point at the ‘angel’. "It’s ridiculous!”

The angel reaches down, touching its fingertip to his, making a series of excited squawking sounds.

The tension builds among them, with their voices clashing as the men argue. Alaric shakes his head fiercely. “Ridiculous? What’s ridiculous is ignoring the miracles that are placed right before us!” he shouts. The creature flaps its wings again, hopping closer as it scoots along the wall, its twitchy gaze darting between their faces as they struggle against it themselves, the three of them starting to yell between each other. The angel squawks and screams with the priests, although it doesn’t seem as unpleasantly moody as they are.

“I don’t understand. The reports said they were saving the lives of our men,” remarks Beatrice quietly as the two of them argue, looking at the bird-like entity that is trying to twist its head around like a curious owl.

“Well laughter is the best medicine,” notes Matthieu quietly, appearing pretty proud of that one. Beatrice sighs.

“Matthieu. Enough!” snaps Father Alaric at the younger man. “Let’s have a closer look at it. Beatrice, get rid of this wall so we can get it down from there,” he barks.

Beatrice opens her mouth to speak, but then stops herself. “Wait… Father, this isn’t my spell,” she notes after a moment, knocking on the glassy wall. “My barriers only last a few seconds.”

Matthieu nods, his arms folded with a smug smile. “That makes tw-”

“- Don’t,” she interrupts, pressing a shushing finger against the glass. “Just don’t.” The priestess lifts her eyes, looking at the angel. A soft glow is coming from its long, taloned fingers that are wrapped around the magical glass. “Wait a minute…” she mutters to herself. “It’s copying my spell!” remarks Beatrice after a moment, realizing what’s happening. “Hey!” she calls. The angel quickly snaps its head sharply her way, like a surprised creature, as its large eyes adjust to stare at her. She looks over toward Father Aleric. “The reports said they like to engage in mimicry, right?” says the priestess excitedly, looking back at it. “Hey! Can you talk?” she asks, pointing to her mouth. “Talk,” repeats the priestess slowly, mouthing the word out.

No response.

She sighs and then shrugs at the other two.

“Maybe try a different spell?” suggests Beatrice. The magical wall starts to flicker and then fade away. Before it dissipates, the angel, seeing that its footing is becoming loose, flaps its wings and flies over to a stack of unused pews lined against the wall, where it begins to preen itself. “Matthieu, heal that bruise on your arm,” she says. “Make sure it’s watching.”

“But I don’t -” begins Matthieu. A loud thawk fills the room, followed by a sharp yelp. Matthieu grabs his shoulder, hissing through his teeth. “See? I always knew you couldn’t keep your hands off me.” Beatrice lifts her fist again for a second strike.

“Brother Matthieu,” starts Father Aleric, the younger man lifting his hands in surrender as he walks over across the small room.

“Hey, Feathers,” says Matthieu.

“Brother Matthieu, you will address a messenger of heaven with respect,” warns Father Aleric.

Matthieu gestures up to it with both hands. “Come on, Father. It’s just some sort of spirit-world harpy. Nothing more,” he argues, looking back at his hands a second later. The angel, from its perch on the pews, has reached down and grabbed both of his raised hands. “...What’s it doing?” he asks in an unimpressed tone. The angel and him stare at one another quietly before it starts to squawk around again. Beatrice laughs, holding her gut as the man stands there, both of his hands grasped like an escorted prisoner’s.

“Beatrice,” warns Father Aleric sternly. She falls quiet, straightening up immediately. “Matthieu, cast a healing spell. I want to see what it does.”

Matthieu looks back at them. “Fine,” he relents, worming his hands out of its grip.

A soft glow begins to fill his palms as the signature prismatic glow of radiant magical energy starts to collect around his fingers like a fog. The angel sleeks its feathers, pressing them more tightly against its wings as it pulls them back in and watches the man with large, yellow eyes, almost in a curious excitement. It begins to chitter, clicking with its mouth as it looks at the energy collecting in Matthieu's hands. “Look!” says Beatrice. “It’s doing something!”

A wave of warm energy rushes through the tent like a summer breeze, all of the fabric swaying and rustling as Matthieu casts his healing spell. A soft glow washes over his body, dissipating into a crystal mist a second later. “Just like new,” says the young man, dusting his hands as the three of them watch the angel hold its hands down toward him, a glow of the same nature shining around its talons. “It’s copying his spell! Father!” says Beatrice, grabbing the priest and shaking him excitedly as the glowing light begins to intensify. The room begins to shine, a warmth rising up from the ground over them. The fabric walls begin to quiver, just like before.

Beatrice holds her breath, fear and anticipation hanging heavy as the air crackles around them. The tent flaps rustle and whip violently, a mix between a crow’s caw and a gentle cooing fills the supercharged air.

And then it gets hotter.

And hotter.

And the air becomes even more electrified.

The tent, not able to hold the pressure inside of its waxed fabric interior, begins to buckle as an exterior wall becomes unanchored, ripping open wide. A surge of power rushes out, but then is replaced immediately as the spell in its hands glows even stronger only a second later. “Father…” calls Beatrice nervously. A chaotic, energetic crackling fills the room as the magic becomes so dense in the air around them that it begins to fight within itself for space. “GET DOWN!” she shouts, the three of them diving to the compacted dirt floor at the same time as the angel pulls its arms apart.

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The spell releases. A shockwave of oven-hot heat blasts out at once in all directions, the tent flying apart, pieces of it launching into the sky and around the rest of the camp as if a bomb had exploded. A magical wave, like rippling water from a stone dropped into a pond from a mountain, launches out in all directions at once. The rush of healing magic washes out in all directions at once in the span of a section, like the surge of a bomb.

The three of them slowly lift their heads silently, in contrast to the rest of the camp, which is now on full alarm, thinking that they’ve been attacked. Soldiers run in all directions, trucks driving and carrying weapon emplacements to improvised battle positions, as a siren begins to blaze all around them.

A shadow comes from the sky.

The top of the large tent crashes back down to the ground with a final thud, settling into a chaotic pile of fabric and bent metal struts. A vastness opens before them where the tent once stood, and a strange silence wraps around them like a fog as the three priests lie there, looking up at the angel that seems entirely unbothered as the world around it — caught in otherworldly sunlight — shifts in shape and form. Instead, it spreads its massive wings out wide, holding them out almost idly as if it were second nature, using them as barriers to shield the three from falling debris.

In fact, it almost seems to be having fun as it, instead of being alarmed, watches the camp around them spring to life from its slumber. It opens its mouth and begins mimicking the call of the alarm siren in a shrill voice, like a child annoyingly copying a fun noise it can’t get out of its head.

Father Alaric stares wide-eyed, barely able to process it all. But then he smiles, getting up and pulling Brother Matthieu off the ground. “Well, what do you have to say now, Matthieu?” he asks with a smugness too sharp for his age, his voice nonetheless hoarse as he coughs out some dust. The old man wipes off his robes.

Before anyone can answer, the angel, still perching nearby, resumes its odd antics, flapping its wings joyfully as if nothing has happened, bouncing from one leg to the other, letting out silly clicks and squawks, and the mood shifts again, turning from shock to a surreal mix of confusion and reluctant laughter. “Okay, I concede that there may possibly be something to your theory, Father,” Matthieu concedes, shaking his head as if to clear the anarchy from it.

Beatrice can’t help but let out a weak laugh that is either amused or terrified as the creature hops around the pews, head bobbing, entirely unphased by the chaos it wrought, as it looks toward the broken sky.

Then, a second later, it spreads its wings wide, begins to flap them, and flies away.

The three of them stand there, watching it go, and then panic, shouting and waving their arms as they chase after it.

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- [M.S.V., H.S. Present Redemption] - Hospital class, fleet accompanying medical vessel

It’s like a floating city.

“Never seen much like it, I reckon,” says the soldier, leaning onto the edge of a railing up on the top deck of the medical cruiser on the balcony outside of the bridge. His wrapped arms hang halfway over the rounded railing as he watches people move over the deck. Medical experts, ranging from priests to field-medics, transport the freshly transported sick and wounded from the ground assault around on gurneys. It’s like watching a road from above. Bodies diverge in all directions, unloaded from a chain of smaller motor boats that latch onto the side of the Present Redemption like small fish sticking to the body of a whale. Some stretchers are pushed toward a critical operating theater; others are pushed to lower-intensity stations. Many of the injured aren’t in such a terrible state and are capable of walking, gathering together in a glass-sided hall where they are treated one after the other by casters in healing magic.

Those who are already put back together are sent on fresh boats, on the other side of the vessel, back to the shore. Those who are too injured or broken to continue serving the war-effort because of the nature of their injuries are sent on a separate vessel that is returning back home through the portal to the old world. There, they’ll be allowed to recuperate before being assigned to any other duty they can manage to contribute with on that side of the war. The rest stay here, aboard the hospital vessel, until their injuries are treated.

The healing of wounds with magic is a more complicated matter than one would expect. A spell can easily close a cut and stop a bleeding wound. But deeper internal injuries, severe maiming, and such things cannot just be ‘magicked’ away. A man filled with shrapnel from a half-track that exploded next to him needs to be carefully operated on. All of the debris need to be removed before the wounds can be healed closed. But wounds also need to be healed properly. Healing a man’s ripped open skin is no good if his liver is still cut in half inside his guts. Add to that the dangers of improper healing magic use. It is a delicate, indiscriminate process. If done improperly, skin can be fused together in wrong ways, making the body immobile in horrific ways. Bones can be forced to heal in their broken shapes if they hadn’t been straightly realigned by hand before doing so.

Depending on the severity of a person’s injuries, it takes a full team of field surgeons and priests twenty minutes to really hack-job fix just one man. But the wounded are coming in by the boatloads and healers are spread thin between the hospital ship, the front line, and the few who are still needed back home. So all manner of crafty field fixes are needed to keep operations moving. Healing potions are being poured into rations like water, and the alchemical brews alleviating many more minor internal and external injuries. Surgical teams are always just one healer, together with a team of assisting nurses, in order to stretch their numbers across the bodies needed. The hospital ship is equipped with dozens of fully metal operating rooms, where people are worked on to repair the damage as well as the results of the quick field triage often applied out on the shore before the wounded were sent out to the water. Each operating room is on the outside walls of the vessel, with two solid steel walls. One wall has a metal door. The fourth wall, being on the outside, is actually an operable mechanism that resembles the closed slats of an air vent. In order to quickly sterilize the spaces after each operation, a sorcerer with fire magic turns each room into a furnace, sending waves of fire into every corner, before then operating the venting mechanism and blasting any ash and debris out into the open ocean.

After a moment of cooling down and a good swab of fresh alcohol, the room is ready to be used by the next person, all within the span of a few minutes. Bodies are the most valuable resource in the war operation, so every process to preserve them has been streamlined as far as resources will allow. On the hospital ship, food is of a higher quality than on the other vessels, with a focus on diverse nutrition rather than raw caloric content like the field rations are.

The man up outside of the bridge watches the swarm disperse, moving in all directions, and then, after what was maybe only a minute, the entire deck has been cleared barring the secondary triage center, which is covered by a series of fastened tarps near the loading zone. A handful of assistant hospital staff work around, preparing the area for the next wave of people to come.

The ship has everything, even a small indoor green space that is maintained by a staff of druids at the behest of the world tree’s caretaker, who insisted on it. Natural, beautiful environments facilitate the healing of the sick.

— But it sure is the first time he’s seen trees growing inside of a ship.

He turns his gaze toward the distance, looking at the main vessel, the Breathless Chaplain. The light cruiser really pushed the available size constraints of the deep lake it was constructed in, being a notable size larger than this ship or the supply ship, which is also accompanying them.

“Captain,” calls a woman’s voice from behind him, waving through the window glass of the bridge as he looks over his shoulder. “Orders.” He rolls his shoulders, straightening his back as he walks back inside the bridge, grabbing a cap from the top of the console and setting it back onto his head. “The admiral wants us to diverge from the fleet and float in the central bay, here,” she passes onto him, pointing at a spot on the map. There’s an inland bay pushing relatively deep into the landmass. “It’s as close as we can get to the front."

He studies the map, looking out of the window at the command vessel. “And them?”

“They’re rounding the shore, providing fire support and command for broad ground operations,” she explains. “Gunboats three and four are coming with us as protection.”

“Water’s deep enough for us?” he asks, pointing at an impasse in the map they need to cross to enter the bay.

“Logistics tested it. We’re good to go if we do it right,” explains the navigator.

The captain nods, adjusting his hat. “Understood. Bring us in,” he instructs, walking across the bridge and giving a flurry of commands, causing the hospital ship to break free from the small armada and sail toward an opening in the shoreline. “Let’s do it right,” he says, eyeing the shoreline of the strange world they’ve arrived in.

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- [Corporal Pitchowski] - M.S.V., H.S. Present Redemption

The hospital ship sways gently against the waves. The interior is dimly lit; the air smells of antiseptics mixed with something metallic; and a wounded soldier lies on a narrow bed, his body bandaged and bruised. Corporal Pitchowski can’t move, and fear lingers in his eyes. He glances down at the foot of his bed, where a paper-white-bodied angel inexplicably perches and watches him in silence.

“...Sister?” he asks, lightly rolling his head over the hard pillow.

The nearby priestess he’s looking at, changing out a metal pan by someone’s bed, lifts a hand to shush him. “Just ignore it, Pitchowski,” she says sharply. “It’ll move on,” explains the overworked nurse, rising up again and continuing with her work.

Pitchowski rolls his head back forward, looking at the two large yellow eyes staring at him.

— It’s leaned in closer than before.

“Um, Sister, are you -”

The door closes behind her as she leaves, the echo of its slamming shut carrying around the large hall full of beds, each separated by blue rooms made from weighted curtains.

Pitchowski recoils, sitting back in further than before, the back of his head resting against the metal bar frame of the floor-welded hospital bed.

These things are starting to pop up everywhere now.

It’s unsettling with its crow-like appearance, feathers ruffled, and glaring at him with sharp, beady eyes. It doesn’t move; it just sits there, appearing casual yet menacing all at once, and the soldier’s unease grows with every second it remains. He wants to shout, wants to push it away, but the words die in his throat. Around him, healing priests bustle about, checking wounds and whispering reassurances when they catch some soldier's fearful gaze, but when they notice the angel, anxiety flickers across their faces. “What does it want?” whispers another priestess to another as they walk past Pitchowski's bed, their eyes darting nervously to the angel that seems to watch every movement.

“I bet they go to the beds of people about to die,” whispers the other one.

“Excuse me?!” snaps Pitchowski, gripping his mattress. “I’m fine!” he protests, pointing at himself.

The angel lifts a hand, mimicking him and pointing at itself in the same way. “I’m fine,” it squawks.

Pitchowski reaches out, grabbing a priest. “Father! You gotta get this thing away from me, man! Come on!” he pleads.

The priest pulls himself free, backing off. “We can’t just chase it away; it could be a sign from heaven,” he argues, but the soldier shifts nervously beneath the sheets, feeling every ounce of tension in the air.

“It’s a sign that I’m going to freak out if it keeps staring at me!” murmurs Pitchowski.

The angel seems to just bob up and down. “Staring at me!” it mimics.

“SHUT UP!” snaps Pitchowski, receiving only a loud squawk and a flapping of wings in return.

“I think it’s kind of cute…” mutters a priestess to another, the two of them peeking in from the curtained room next to his. “Ugly-cute, you know?” The other priestess fervently nods in agreement.

Pitchowski's arms flail, gesturing between the two of them and the lanky, skeletal state of a being lurking at his feet, feeling as if his point is made clear without words. The angel copies his movements, flailing around wildly in all directions, causing Pitchowski to scream, grabbing his pillow and covering himself with it as he thinks he’s being attacked.

“Settle down, Corporal,” says the priest. “Many others here would feel blessed at the fortune of having such a heaven-ordained visitor.”

“WELL, TAKE IT TO THEM THEN!” yells Pitchowski out from the side of his scrunched-together feather-filled shield.

“- TO THEM THEN!” mimics the angel, squawking loudly.

The priestesses laugh, everyone returning to their duties.

Pitchowski slowly lowers the pillow.

The angel is even closer now, sitting on top of his legs and staring directly at his face. It’s feather light; he didn’t even feel it moving from the metal foot of the bed.

The soldier screams, throwing the pillow at it. The angel screams and throws the pillow back, but it seems to have more fun doing so than he did.

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- [Rider] - Deck of the Breathless Chaplain

“Just hold it steady,” he says, his leather-gloved hand wrapping around a thin wrist as he lifts its arm and points it to the distance.

…Is this a good idea?

He stops, thinking about it for a second.

After exactly one second, however, he decides that he’s in too deep to stop now.

Rider looks at the one-armed angel, holding a compact sub-machine gun out toward the open ocean. “Then you just pull the trigger,” he instructs.

“Is this a good idea?” asks a voice from the side, as if he hadn’t just covered this ground.

This other voice, he ignores.

Rider, holding the angel’s hand, lightly presses against its finger, activating the hair-pin trigger of the sub-machine gun. It lets out a surprised shriek, with bullets flying out into the ocean in a fast burst, bringing misfortune to some fish with exceptionally poor tactical positioning. The angel’s thin arm flies back from recoil, only held steady by Rider’s grip on it. The angel, standing on one leg like they so like to do, wobbles around in panic until, a few seconds later, the magazine is empty.

He lets go, patting it on the back. “Nice job, Pookie.” The one-armed angel makes a series of satisfied clicking noises with his mouth as he walks to the man sitting next to them.

“I do not think it is advisable to teach the angels how to use guns,” notes the other man, pointing with a pen. “Or to call them… Pookie.”

“Why not?” asks Rider, looking with genuine curiosity. “Way I see it, we got the same enemy, so -”

— A surprised shriek and the clattering of metal come from behind them. The two of them look, watching as the angel lets out a series of noises as it scrambles, flapping its wings and running in a circle on deck. The gun has fallen to the floor, with a damp spot on the hot barrel that it had stuck in its mouth and burned itself with.

Rider turns his head back. “Way I see it, we got the same enemy, so it only makes sense that we can learn to work together.”

The other man, some bookie from H.Q. sits there, tapping his chin with his pen. “Mr. Rider, while everyone is buzzing about these new…” The two of them watch as the angel holds its hands over its mouth, casting a healing spell on itself. “- creatures, they hardly seem applicable as any sort of useful assistance for our cause.”

Ride grabs the metal folding chair, turning it backwards as he sits facing the man, his arms laid over the rest. “Naw. They’re plenty sharp when they need to be,” he disagrees, nodding his head to the one-armed angel. He lifts a hand, counting fingers. “Smart enough to set traps, build shelter, communicate, and fire a gun. Makes better recruits than some of the ones we got right now.”

The back of a pen is pointed his way. “I will remind you that we just watched it lick your gun.”

“We’ve all had days like that,” replies Rider, grabbing the back of the pen and pulling it out of the man’s hand.

“Look. I just want to know what they are and if they’re a threat,” asks the official. “You’re the first man to encounter one, and the only person we have right now who seems to have a… shall we say…” Rider lifts his hand, the angel standing behind him. It takes the pen from him and then mimics what it had seen before, pointing it at the official. “...Repertoire.”

“Rep… repeta!” says the angel, doing its best to copy what it heard.

“No fancy words,” says Rider dryly. “I think they got bad ears.”

The official folds his hands together, leaning in as the two of them look at the one-armed angel standing there and still pointing the pen. His eyes run over its white, featureless, skin-taut skull of a face, covered in golden blonde hair. “Mr. Rider. It does not have ears.”

Rider shrugs, slapping his hands onto his lap as he leans back. “Look, all I know is that this thing saved my rear out there,” he explains. “Lost my bike, but I would’ve been eaten by whatever the hell was out there if it wasn’t there. They’re okay in my book,” he remarks. The one-armed angel pulls its second leg in, squatting down next to Rider with a sharply bent knee, as if it were sitting. It looks at him for a second and then adjusts, copying his posture as it holds that position. “...Just a little quirky.”

The two of them stare at it, watching as it holds the pen out toward the official. Its eyes watch in confusion as its finger floats around below the pen. “What is it doing now?” asks the official.

“Well, if I had to reckon, I think she’s trying to shoot you,” remarks Rider, reaching over and taking the pen. “That ain’t a gun, Pookie,” says the man, sliding the pen back across the table.

The angel lets out an almost defeated squeak.

“They’re good fighters when they wanna tussle,” explains Rider, ignoring the sour look on the official’s face. “But let me tell you,” he adds, leaning back toward the table again. Rider points out to the shoreline. “Whatever the hell is out there… it’s way worse. Way, way worse,” he explains. “These guys — call ‘em ‘angels’ or whatever you want — are all on the run. They’re all hiding from whatever is out there.”

The official nods. “And what do you think is out there, exactly?” he asks. “Apart from the undocumented creature encountered during your mission?”

Rider exhales and shakes his head, getting up to his feet. The angel rises from its squat again next to him. “I suppose whatever we’re after too,” he replies, walking over to pick up his sub-machine gun and sliding it back into the holster. “Tango.”

“Tango,” repeats the angel, copying his movement as it pretends to holster a weapon next to him.