He kept the same cloak he had always worn. Tattered as it was, only the midsection was still somewhat intact. The years had faded the once black color to a dark gray sheen. This color shared its prospect with the rest of his clothes. His shirt, hidden mostly by the cloak, was solid and showed no design. The long slacks that fell to the bottom of the back of his plain shoes seemed to never be creased or disorganized. These, however, were not what had changed.
Surno had equipped himself with a white theater mask. The eye slits were just wide enough for him to see through with his dark eyes. The nose was slightly pointed and covered most of the mask. A smile was carved into the bottom portion. Eerie as he looked, the silence added to that effect. The long strands of his hair covered most of the mask's forehead, spilling over the crest and casting the illusion that the mask was his real face.
At length, after Michael started to pursue Peter, Surno stirred. "It's rude to stare." Lily turned away, facing the direction Michael went off to. She pushed her hair to the side, clearing her view. Surno returned the stare Lily had given him. Reluctantly, she faced him. "I know."
Lily blinked a few times, racking her brain. "Know what?" she questioned, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.
"Michael's emotions. You want to know what I did with them." For Surno, this was a long conversation already. Lily wondered why he had started to grow more talkative. Patiently, she awaited the next sentence. Surno's sight was beckoned to where the two Soul Angels where headed. Slowly his head swiveled away from Lily to meet the horizon. Lily, growing impatient, tapped her foot.
"Well?"
Surno spread his wings wide. The edge of his right wing almost struck her in the face. She stepped back, arms spread apart. Another few minutes passed.
"Mine." With the single word reiterated, he barreled into the terrace's floor, phasing through the material and disappearing from sight. Lily stood aghast; moreover, she began to quiver. The thought of a Soul Angel, a being meant to be forever silent and unfeeling, possessing emotions? Only great power, such as Surno's, could have stolen that large of a prize. She regained her posture gradually, waiting patiently on her lonely terrace, closing her eyes to see into the events unfolding around Taylor.
---
The bass of the music thundered loudly across the whole house, stretching to the backyard and to the neighbor's. Cheers and laughter seemed to be heard as the pop music rolled on. Splashes from the pool reached up to nearby party-goers, soaking shirts and shoes. A soft sizzling sound was heard as an adult grilled rows upon rows of burgers and hot dogs, flipping them monotonously every once in awhile. Young teenagers danced and chatted or ambled about casually. A large group, of eight or so children, stood out amongst the rest as they moved with the blasting music, cheering all the while. Others nearby clapped their hands to the beat, watching the group enjoy themselves.
In this group, Taylor resided. She swung to and fro, waved her arms about, and grooved to the sounds engulfing her ears. A simper was stamped upon her face that flashed her shiny teeth. Worry escaped her mind and her heart, leaving her free to be controlled by the music.
She slowed to a stand still. A nauseating feeling began to overtake her, and she trudged out from the group, finding a chair to ease into. She began to breathe heavily and sweat profusely. A concerned boy stepped to her side, kneeling down and holding her hand. "You alright?" he prodded. She gave a quick nod, and the boy withdrew to stand by what was obviously his friends. The odd feeling was not exhaustion, and she knew this.
Her eyes darted around the room, looking for a sign. Was the air conditioner turned on? Did the weather start to turn warmer? Her search was fruitless, and she came to the conclusion that she had tired herself past normal exhaustion. The bass still thundered and the music still roared in her ears as she closed her eyes to rest.
Michael landed before a crowded house, folding his wings close to his body. The teenagers reminded him of the life he never had; he blocked out the pity and trudged into the house menacingly. If anyone saw him, they would have probably said he looked bad-ass. Well, no one did, and the oblivious humans partied on. Michael sent furtive glances around the room, searching for that other 'Soul Angel,' or so he had learned what he was called. Peter, that was it, his name.
The boy came to a stop, analyzing a group of rambunctiously dancing teenagers in front of him. He cocked his head to the side, curious. He noticed their familiar faces. Realization struck him upside the head. His eyebrows shot up, trying to reach the top of his head. "These are... Taylor's friends, right? Shit; they are! That means..." How could he forget? The rage that had overtaken him to chase down Peter brainwashed him of the reason he even followed Peter.
Taylor is here.
He had ignored the gnawing feeling at his stomach. Turning to his left as the gnawing told him so, he saw familiar brunette hair. Beside that brunette hair stood a smiling, sword-wielding Soul Angel.
"No!" he screamed, loud enough to send the whole house to a stand still - if they could hear him. One leap, then a lunge, and he pushed his hands in front of him. Peter took notice a little too late, barely raising the sword to defend himself. Together, the two Soul Angels collided, bursting through the house out onto the street; the force of Michael's tackle was strong enough to knock the wind out of Peter. The assassin lay panting in the middle of the asphalt, arms spread wide. Michael recovered first, and brought his fists up to bear.
Peter sat up to face him. "Hey, Michael! By killing the love of your life, I meant, uhm..." he fumbled for an explanation. Michael started to walk, flexing his lean arms to the point where the muscle seemed to pop. Peter swallowed down a lump in his throat. "Can't you see that I'm trying to make Taylor a Soul Angel too!?" he blurted. Michael's face calmed down a bit, and he stopped moving.
"Taylor, a... Soul Angel, too?" he whispered, thinking over it.
Peter nodded his head profusely. "Yeah yeah, make her a Soul Angel. All she has to do is die to become one! Oh wait, oops-" Michael rushed forward, lashing out with his gloved fist. It struck the other in the chin, sending him three feet away to the side from its brute force. Michael started to enter a maddened state.
"Taylor should never suffer," he spat. "She will never suffer. Not while I'm around. I want answers." Peter coughed, bringing a hand to his mouth.
"I'm not at liberty to discuss those with yo-" In a flash, Michael was holding Peter up by his throat. He choked, trying to free himself from the iron clad grasp. The anger Michael had, or what was the closest thing to that emotion, gave him strength to seize the bigger man tightly.
"Tell. Me." Peter gurgled, trying to talk.
"Okhay, ohkay!" he moaned. Michael dropped him to the ground. In a weakened state, it seemed, Soul Angels were unable to phase through solid objects and feel them as pain. Michael observed this, and turned to the side. A metal lamp post stood dimly at the end of a curved sidewalk.
"Screw the answers. I need to do a little... testing. I'll figure them out on my own."
"Testing?" Peter groaned. Michael nodded, and lifted the injured figure. "No wait, I'll give you those answe-" Michael threw him with all his force towards the lamp post. Peter hit with a sickening clang that echoed loudly. He fell to the cement sidewalk under it, rolling over in pain. He coughed in agony. "Why don't you let me ever finish my sentences...?" he mumbled.
"Simple answer." Michael flexed, examining the muscle on his forearm. "I just don't like you." The sword had fallen to the ground where he had first tackled Peter. Stooping to pick up the blade, Michael caught a glimpse of Peter flying into the sky shakily. With an inventive mind, Michael ripped a strip of both his rolled up sleeves and tied them together, just long enough to be fashioned at his pants. He looped the thread through two belt loops, pulling until it was taught. A small space, just wide enough for the blade, allowed him to hold the weapon steady. He pushed the edge through, careful not to gash his clothing. Satisfied, the Soul Angel walked, whistling all the while, towards the party.
He entered with a smile. The kids looked so... happy. He scanned his brain for a memory of happiness. "Oh, that's easy," Michael said to himself as he found a place to stand beside the now-at-ease Taylor who sat in the chair she had been in. He looked down at Taylor, saw a wide smile, and mimicked it.
"Every moment I have with you is happiness," he answered himself.
No comments:
Post a Comment