Pilot Street

        Intersecting West Main to the west, traffic flows heavily through
this busy Beacon Harbor street. This street is lined with businesses and
services related buildings on both sides. The famed Lighthouse Hospital is
located along the north side of the street, its emergency room has one of
the best trauma units in the country, and is often quite busy. Constructed
of steel and black glass, the monolithic Beacon Harbor Police Headquarters
is two blocks west of the hospital and on the other side of the street. At
night, the streets are only a touch quieter than the day, as neither of
these places close. Other businesses, wedged between the hospital and
police, do quite well thanks to the high volume traffic. Northgate Avenue
intersects Pilot to the west of the police headquarters and leads into the
heart of Chinatown.

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                               Today's Weather:

The sort of bracing weather that makes the song "Winter Wonderland" a true
sentiment. Though the air is crisp, there is no wind, the snow is white
and fresh and the sky is blue. The sun dazzles off the white blanket in
the day and the artificial lights sparkle off it like a zillion diamonds
during the night.

******************************************************************************

It's cold and crisp, the kind of chill that has a snap to it, a knife-edge
glitter... a /bite/. Wind howls through the steel and concrete canyons of
the city while the homeless huddle around garbage can fires and cling
together amidst cardboard piles to share warmth and attempt to make it
through the worst of it. Near an abandoned shop, however... formed of
shadow, birthed from the dark to the world of the waking, several shapes
pad noiselessly up the street, walking with a cool, predatorial grace. The
moon's light glances off black feathers, tiny iridescent patterns swirling
chaotically over wings, off of skin, something like frost, fractalled and
sharp, broken. This part of the city itself has changed, /ever/ so
slightly. Seeming so much older, crumbling, decayed, as though the touch
of time has been heavier, here. The figures head toward St. Asta's, dark
eyes hollow, their words coming like faded whispers from thin lips. The
time has come for bitter things.

Well away from the shadowy procession, a faint blur of motion and
distortion can almost be seen descending from the hospital rooftop into an
alley. Moments later, Timothy, dressed in clothes a bit too light for the
cold, walks out of the alley. He's walking with a limp, and a bruise can
be seen adorning his face, just below his left eye. Despite all this, he
appears to be in quite a good mood, though he doesn't quite go so far as
to whistle as he walks up the street, coincidentally toward the cathedral.

Kitty slips out of the hospital's doors quietly, her backpack light on her
shoulder - it's almost empty now; its contents, gift-wrapped with an
almost geometric neatness, have been left with one nurse to be given to
another. Now that that's done, she heads for a certain shop, to make one
of her occasional visits in the hope that someone might actually be
there... and someone, apparently, is. But they're walking even more
quietly than she does. Somehow, that doesn't seem right. She pauses,
stepping automatically up beside the wall of a building, clearing the
sidewalk for the passersby that by and large simply aren't /out/ in this
weather.

Footsteps light and easy, and the black-winged creatures approach the
cathedral with something that could be reluctance; their pace slows, the
closer they get. In their wake, the world seems even ...older. Dead and
dying, it's as though an area half the size of a city block has
deteriorated to such an extent that the beautiful stained glass windows of
the cathedral area shattered, the archways crumbling, the steps cracked...
Down at either ends of the street, the world continues on as per usual,
but here... /here/ things are different. The angels don't change course
toward Kitty or Timothy... yet, at least, though hollow eyes /do/ happen
to track toward either or both, if and when they enter the area that's
seemingly aged.

Timothy's mood dims a bit as he moves into the aged area, and not just
because he feels eyes upon him. "Huh," he murmurs, mostly to himself,
though probably loud enough for anyone nearby to hear and understand.
"Someone's really been letting this place go." He lets his voice trail off
as he spots the 'angels', though he's more curious than apprehensive. For
the moment.

Kitty's reaction, when she sees the creatures more clearly, and when she
comes close enough to make out the details of the area, is simpler.
"Shit." Though she stays close by the buildings she passes, one hand held
out to trace fingertips against the wall, her steps quicken: closer to the
cathedral, to the angels, to Timothy for that matter.

From out of the cathedral walks... another angel entirely. Obscenely white
wings seem all but radiant. Her robes are gauzy, flowing, and her hair is
blond, falling in sweet ringlets to frame a perfectly features face. In
the night, she all but glows, where as in places, the others seem to draw
light in, and never let it go. Within the aged area, the sounds of the
rest of the world seem to fade away to nothing, leaving behind an empty,
dry wind and the faintest sound of children, singing, the voices carried
around and whirling away, muted, changed. Down the steps slowly,
majestically hands out, fingers splayed--I have nothing; I won't harm
you--only to be greeted by the black-winged ones as they draw swords from
nothing; as they slip into aggressive stances, fingers curling around
non-existent hilts, the barest outlines of swords are seen, shimmering and
vague. Threats are issued in their tongue, vile and promising. The world
itself seethes with impending, be it joy or doom. One or two happen to
look toward Timothy and Kitty, baring their teeth in cold, grim smiles.
Watch and learn, if you choose.

Timothy resists the urge to go for his gun when the swords make their
appearance; no point in obvious hostility, after all. In fact, there's no
point in hostility at all, or so one thread of his consciousness runs;
whatever's going on is not his business. On the other hand...well, there's
no other hand, and yet he doesn't seem to be leaving. Indeed, he's rushing
in where angels clearly don't fear to tread, a big smile on his face.
"Evening," he says in his best 'underestimate me, I'm an idiot' tone of
voice. "Sure is old, er, cold out tonight, huh?"

Watching is a little passive for Kitty, too. There's no point in sneaking
when she's already been smiled at. Instead, she breaks into a run toward
the cathedral steps. It's hard to watch her footing; her eyes keep being
drawn to either the radiant angel, or the black-winged ones' swords. And -
there's a - total stranger, being just as foolish as she is. Except that
he's taking the time to talk. Then again, he's closer than she is; he has
the breath to spare.

There's the faintest pinprick of light resting within the nigh-translucent
breast of the white-winged angel; as though what made her radiant came
from a single point, shining and perfect, a piece of Heaven itself. Upon
her face is sadness, gratitude and love as Timmy approaches, she says
nothing, only smiles upon him like saint, like mother, warmth in her
expression. Her gaze is shifted to Kitty briefly, and that same sort of
warmth is given. It's the other seven angels who are not at all welcoming,
and move to try and surround him, their words harsh and cold, deadly and
beautiful, ripped from the air as though speaking them were somehow a rape
of language, incomprehensible to mortal ears, until a rougher, common
tongue is used. "Best that you be on your way," they seem to say in unholy
chorus, the syllables hissed, hateful.

Timothy's own smile doesn't slip as the darker angels surround him, the
bright and dazzling grin of the used-car salesman. "Well, aren't you all
just something," he says, allowing his voice to drawl slightly. "Don't
mind me," he says, adding an interjected "Gosh, you're tall," to one of
the seven, before continuing. "I'm just passing through." He makes no move
to actually get on with the 'passing through' bit.

Distraction's a gift. Getting wandering salesmen killed isn't - Kitty
draws to a halt at the foot of the steps, balanced, ready to sprint. She
keeps Timothy in her peripheral vision, hoping that 'passing through' is
something he'll be allowed to do; and she breathes a question up toward
the white-winged one, her eyes fixed on that point of light. "How can I
help?" Somehow, in the face of these eight, it's hard to feel anything but
small and muddy and very, very fragile. But she asks anyhow, maybe just to
hear a few more words that, like Timothy's, aren't in and of themselves
unnatural.

Three angels advance after Timothy, as though to usher him away from the
scene, since he's only 'passing through' while four turn to advance toward
Kitty. The two groups talk to one another in that awful tongue, laughter
voiced, hardened in the cold, and the three attempt to 'herd' Timmy if
they can, quickly, pushing him along. And don't come back. The other angel
looks to Kitty, her expression almost apologetic at first. I'm so sorry to
put you through this. She speaks, and her voice is music, is adoration and
praise, is an easy, sweet kind of love, comforting and gentle. She offers
out her hands, taking very little notice of the four who come, swords
drawn, murder in their hollow eyes. The church itself is wound about with
thorny rose vines, larger, twisting sections offering up dried and rotted
blossoms, their too-sweet scent beginning to permeate the air, making it
smell funereal.

Timothy steps backwards as the three angels advance, grinning facade not
slipping in the least. He does seem to be going away, the way they want,
but the look on his face suggests that that could stop at any time. He's
vaguely aware of the other interloper, but, far as he's concerned, two
against four are much better odds than one against seven. See? He
*helped*! No need to thank him. "So. This making-everything-old trick," he
says, indicating the area around him. "Have you ever thought of getting
into the fake archaeological relics trade? We should talk." A pause for a
brief interjection of common sense. Of a sort. "Maybe later, though."

Kitty might thank him anyway, later, presuming they both survive this and
retain the capability of speech. Particularly after the 'archaeological
relics' line. She flicks a glance out of the corner of her eye toward the
four coming closer ... this is not a place she particularly wants to be,
especially given the 'at the points of their swords' clause that's likely
to be added in a few seconds. But there are dead roses here, and more to
the point, there's an angel with what might, at least, be a heart. She
draws a deep breath and pulls her gaze back to the white-winged angel,
then lifts her own hands toward the angel's. Not without trepidation:
she's not exactly pristine and without sin. Somehow, from one direction or
another, she suspects this is going to hurt.

The four raise up a cry of distress, which cause the three at Timothy's
back to lunge for him, falling upon him with the express intent of ending
his life quickly so that they might get back to their group and assist.
Blades flash--the unreal beings /have/ underestimated him, but are not
slow, all the same. Arrogant perhaps, but not slow. The wind picks up,
howling and hateful, dry, dead leaves crackling along in whipping
whirlwinds, rose petals and black feathers caught as well, tumbling down
the cracked and crumbling stairs. Hollow eyes and sharp teeth, too-pale
skin and glistening, glittering swords, cold power and unutterable fury.
How dare you defy us; how dare you step in the way? The angel clasps
Kitty's hands, and her touch is gentleness, love and peace. Healing.
Warmth. Need you salvation? Find it in my arms. Are you lost, child? Fear
not; all are found here, all are safe.

Timothy, of course, expected no less. As the angel-things leap for him, he
leaps into the air, his upward passage aided by the compressed-air launch
mechanism in his boots. Aided a bit more than he would have liked, as his
battle-cry of "EEEEYYYAAARRRGGHHHH" could be taken to indicate. He
launches his grappler toward the nearest rooftop, where he manages to land
seconds later. His landing lacks a certain finesse, but it does the job of
getting him back on solid ground. (Well, less than solid rooftop with
slick shingles, but the principle is sound.) His gun is out now, though he
hasn't yet opened fire.

Kitty's felt this kind of peace before, though /that/ angel's not so
visibly radiant. She's not, therefore, passively accepting of the gift.
Adamant, in a sense, though the question's still the same: how can I help?
Let me help you, if there's some way I can. Despite the black-wings'
tangible fury, she's not, at least so long as she has the angel's hands,
afraid.

In a flurry of feathers and rapid downbeats, the angels take off after
Timmy, snarling messengers of death, ready to separate the sometimes hero
from his fear, once and for all. They beckon with threats and taunts,
frost now tipping their feathers, scattered like flakes of snow as they
fly. The other angel's touch is accompanied by the strangest pressure
against Kitty's own heart, as well as encouragement and comfort --
whatever it is she's doing, even as furious as the other angels are, they
don't attack. Can't or won't, it's all the same, no swords are swung
toward the angel and Kitty.

(They can fly? Wait, of *course* they can fly...) o . thinks Timothy as he
fires three shots, one directed at each of the angels. He vaguely wonders
why they aren't attacking the girl and the other angel that they so
clearly despise, but his mind is, understandably, on other matters, so he
doesn't give this much thought.

Kitty holds on - till the pressure eases, or till the pale angel draws
back her hands, or anything else. Gunshots are enough to bring her eyes
open, a glance slanted unfocusedly in Timothy's direction - bullets are
never kind - but not enough to pull her away. And though she phases out of
conditioned reflex at the sound of gunfire... well, somehow Kitty doubts
that she /would/ be intangible to the white-winged angel. She can't pass
through magic, and if demons count, so do angels. And besides, if she
could, she'd be taking the radiant creature intangible with her, not
leaving her behind. For that matter, she's not altogether sure that while
the angel's doing whatever it is she's doing, she /can/ phase. Doesn't
matter. Letting the angel do it, trusting her to: that matters.

Emitting a high pitched shriek of fury and pain, two of the angels
pinwheel from the sky, blackish blood drooling from the entrance and exit
wounds, reaching like ribbons caught by the wind as they spiral down from
the heavens to crash against the pavement, wings crumpling, bones
snapping. The swords seem to disintegrate back to nothing once the angels
have fallen... The third is missed; he dives for Timmy, teeth bared as
though he'll simply devour the young man, words spoken in a twisted
angelic tongue, promising pain, promising fear. And then, finally, the
white-winged angel eases up, her color faded--blue eyes gone grey, blonde
hair gone ash, red lips nearly white--her light seeming weak, seeming
dimmed, releasing Kitty's hands, speaking in a language no mortal should
understand, and yet, for now, for the moment, the words are clear as day,
sweet and loving. "Keep it safe, child -- it's not over yet," she
whispers, her voice fading to nothing. She takes a single step back, and
will fall to the steps, seemingly drained. The four will stalk Kitty and
the angel, nearly like a pack of slavering wolves, hungry, looking for an
opening.

Timothy scrambles up the rooftop, fading mostly from sight as he does so.
It's probably a little late for that trick, but every little bit helps. He
fires another shot or two at the charging angel, though these are fired
wildly, and are perhaps more likely to miss.

"It's never over," Kitty mutters, drawing a shaking breath, glancing to
the faded angel - then turning, still at the base of the steps, holding a
place between where the quartet began and where the fallen angel lies.
(Perhaps that was a poor choice of phrasing, under the circumstances.
But.) She's watching for openings too; the problem is, she's unarmed, and
the one weapon that that leaves her with might not be so useful against
these creatures' swords. Where's the guy with the gun when you really need
him? Oh. Dealing with his own problems...

The four circle, moving to try and surround Kitty, the expressions on
their face ranging from fury to jealousy to simple and supreme hatred, and
the fifth continues to chase Timmy -- right up and to the edge of where
the world flips from aged to merely Beacon Harbor's natural, normal decay.
The bullets streak past the black-winged angel, but there will come a
point where he'll chase no further, and instead cry out threats and hatred
to Timothy, cursing him in the vile language.

Timothy reaches the peak of the roof, and starts sliding down the other
side. Unfortunately, his gun is suffering from a temporary lack of
bullets. Even more unfortunately, he's moving toward the roof's edge a bit
faster than he'd like. At least the angel's not chasing him any more, and
it's only his concentration on failing to fly off the edge of the roof
that keeps him from wondering why.

Surrounding is bad. Kitty backs up the steps, coming even with the faded
angel, careful not to set foot on a wing - she's breathing deeply now,
flooding her body with oxygen so much as she can. Staying calm. There's
only four of them. That means they can only cover four directions. Well,
five, since they'd be far more maneuverable in the air than she would.
It's a problem, but - she'll hold as long as she can, by the crumpled,
pale body. Trying to buy time. Only when they spread out enough that she
can't watch them all will she risk making a break for it. (And where /did/
the guy with the gun go?)

Wheeling back around in the air, the fifth angel drops to his fallen
comrades -- they lay upon the ground, silent, still and cold. Throwing his
head back, he utters a high, horrible shriek; it resonates, throbbing
through the night air. The stained glass that remains in the windows of
the cathedral begins to hum, rattling. In grief and fury, the one angel
keeps this up -- once past the odd 'line' between decay and normality, the
sound turns muffled, and is lost to the wind. The four angels with Kitty
speak at her rapidly, confusingly, but the chorus of their voices makes
one thing perfectly clear. "We didn't come for *you*. Leave, and we'll let
you be," they say, chiming together in vibrant discord.

Timothy hits the ground, and winces, though the wince can't be seen
beneath the chameleon-effect of his cloak. He moves, a barely-visible
limping blur of motion, toward the four angels surrounding Kitty. He
holsters his empty gun, then reaches into his cloak for something, an
object he palms in one hand.

Kitty tosses her head defiantly, clearing curls out of her eyes. Scared,
and that sound is stabbing through her head, and the voices and these
things' eyes don't help in the slightest - but not running /quite/ yet.
"You're not welcome here." Her voice is thin and uncertain in comparison,
no matter how firm she tries to make the words. "Leave, and we'll let
/you/ be." Don't leave, and she'll... probably panic and head underground.

The four are soon able to nearly surround Kitty, one at each cardinal
point, and they answer in taunting chimes, their voices rising barely
above the shriek of the other, "This is *our* home; it's you who's not
welcome." The air is redolent with dying roses, and the laughter of the
hollow-eyed angels is mocking and horrible, scratching and icy. It's then
that the remaining stained glass windows explode, unable to remain whole
under the assault of the horribly broken voice of the angel, sending
showers of shards of coloured glass, pieces of biblical reference, scenes
/everywhere/, onto surrounding buildings, towards the steps and street.
Timmy is either ignored or discounted; the keening angel is absorbed in
his grief and the other four are merely stalking, not yet attacking --
perhaps they like to play with their food.

Timothy continues to creep closer to the four, frowning as he hears the
bit they said about this being their home. And then frowning more as glass
starts flying all over the place, though a little applied telekinesis
keeps any from embedding itself into his body. (Though the empty space
where the glass *didn't* fly is probably a bit of a giveaway as to his
position.) He takes no further action against the angels.

Not yours. She's not yours. She's - And then things start breaking, and so
does Kitty's nerve; she flings herself forward and down, giving herself
what momentum she can. That glass could be deadly by itself, and she can't
protect both herself and the angel; all she can do is run, and try to keep
- whatever it is - safe. Deep breath in the last instant, and then Kitty's
one with the aged and crumbling pavement, vanishing into the ground.
Moving through it is like swimming through thick mud, but she'll make it
as far as she can in that breath, and hope they don't chase her above
ground. Or don't chase her far enough.

None of them so much as flinch when the show of glass explodes, slicing a
few of them in more than one place. They rush Kitty, but she slips away,
melding with the ground, and instead, they go for the fallen angel with
white wings, meaning to savagely tear at her like a pack of wild dogs.
It's here that the moment fades away like something caught in the eye,
blinked out, rubbed away. It isn't falling, exploded glass, but icicles
that have broken from the eaves of the church and shattered on the
flagstones, sending chips and shards in all directions. It isn't an angel,
but a homeless woman, lying cold and lifeless upon the ground, perhaps
frozen to death, there on the stairs, taking her last and longest dream.
There aren't black-winged angels, but crows, and a few of them are pecking
at her, worrying her motionless body. The thorned roses are gone, and the
state of decay has faded, leaving Beacon Harbor as it was only hours ago.
Normal, as it were.

As Kitty vanishes (completely, so far as Timothy's spatial awareness can
determine), Tim fades into visibility and throws whatever it was he was
holding into the midst of the 'angels', shouting a suitably anime-esque
battle-cry as he does so. Hey, it seems like the thing to do. The true
nature of things re-asserts itself just as he releases what turns out to
be a flash-bomb, and while he's on the last syllable of
"DIIIIISSSSSTRRAAACTIIINNGGG SHOOOUUUUUUTTTTT!!!!" So, the flash-bomb
lands in the midst of the crows. Bright flash of light. Timothy looks
sheepish.

The crows are probably very impressed, though. Some distance away, Kitty
climbs back out of the ground, glancing over her shoulder for pursuit ...
that's ... flapping? And confused? And ... okay. She climbs to her feet,
looking uncertainly between the crows and the steps and the, well,
Timothy. At least there aren't any other witnesses around.

The crows are suitably distracted, and flutter off, shrieking and cawing
their displeasure at Timmy. The woman--a bag lady--is left there, on the
stairs, an almost peaceful look on her face. As the black-feathered
menaces manage to get away, whirling and pinwheeling a bit, blinded and
annoyed--two actually careen into eachother, and a third *smacks* into the
side of an abandoned shop.

Timothy stares for a moment at the dead woman, and at the crows, and back
at the woman. He frowns. He shrugs. He turns and limps toward home,
shaking his head. While some people might agonize over what they saw was
real or not, Timothy isn't one of those. Partly because he still
half-suspects that nothing he's seen in the past few years is real, but
mostly because, hey, anything you walk away from counts as a win.

"Hey -" Kitty starts, but ... well, calling Timothy /back/ when he's doing
probably the smartest thing isn't the nicest touch in the world. Hasn't
she seen him before, though? Huh. Cautiously, she makes her way back
toward the steps instead. Checking the woman's pulse is a formality.
Calling emergency services from a pay phone, to report a dead body, is
less of one. Freaking out she'll save till she can get home.