This little girl breaks laws...
Ahhh. Chicago. Heart of the Midwest, if some are to be believed. Certainly not the worst place to come from.
Chance Adams would know, because she does come from the worst place to call your hometown. Peoria is a shithole if you ask her, and even if you don't. She'll probably tell you anyway ( Read more... )
Chance Adams would know, because she does come from the worst place to call your hometown. Peoria is a shithole if you ask her, and even if you don't. She'll probably tell you anyway ( Read more... )
He has a walk light, now. He ignores it.
"You," he says, taking the cig out of his mouth and gesturing with it, "are just about the age, yes?, to think you can do anything. No help, no idea." He shakes his head, still smiling. "It is a very long time since I was so young. Come on." He jabs the cigarette across the street toward a coffee shop. "Hot cider for you, good strong coffee for me, something from the bakery, and you can go see your aunt without looking like you've been dragged out, starving, from the bush." He shows his palms in a disarming gesture, balancing he hook of his cane on the bit of his hand between his thumb and index finger. "Trust me. I am always harmless, except to very bad people."
There's a faint ache at that - "very bad people" isn't quite accurate - but it hurts no more than the constant throb from his leg of his pulled-in wings.
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But she doesn't want to take advantage of him. And... she doesn't know why she's so hesitant to go, except then he says those words and she looks away, at her scuffed-up shoes.
"What if I'm a really bad person?" she half-mumbles, though it's loud enough to hear. Because what if? What if she's really a danger to everyone around her? He's been so nice, and she doesn't want to hurt him because she couldn't control her... powers or whatever.
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...which puts his hand very near her skull, and then he stops.
Heat. Demon.
His hand tightens on his cane, fingers automatically finding the hidden catch that would release the sword inside. His wings itch, pressing at his back. The little girl is a demon, and he's an archangel, and his instints are screaming to Do Something about this-
But he doesn't. He takes his hand away, and takes a deep, deep drag on his cigarette. Seventeen, she said; sixteen at least, and probably not a lot older. Barely time to come into her wings, yet. He thinks back, takes stock of himself, decides that if she's a Teme or a Glays then at least she's not tried anything on him, she doesn't look like a Rak, and most of the other sorts are relatively harmless. If her family goaded her to a life of evil, she wouldn't be playing so coy.
He exhales, blowing a line of smoke toward the street and relaxing his grip on the cane. He's fought in trenches next to demons, he's taken their money to train their offspring, he's not going to lose it over running into a harmless homeless one on the streets. He forces a smile.
"In any case, there is time to learn to be a good person," he says. Even demons can figure out how to become useful members of society. Maybe he can steer her toward the Conrad, or see if that Neq really is (and he doubts it) as wholesome as he seems. Either way, that'd be one less uncontrollable demon on the streets.
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"I... I guess," she says. "I mean... I don't know." She shakes her head. "Thank you for the offer," she says again. "But I... I really should, um, go."
Not that she has anywhere to go, but she doesn't want to be a burdern, and he's already figured out she's a bad person and... she's scared now.
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Inviting a demon straight back to Archangel Headquarters might not be the first thing most people would think of, but Ivan has had long experience in the Russian army. And in that experience, the archangels would much rather the demons were where they could keep an eye on them if not working for them outright.
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She's not entirely sure how to end this. And she feels bad, because he was so nice... even after he figured out she was a... well...
Freak.
"Maybe I'll see you around?" she asks, then winces because that's not really something to say to old(er) men. "Or, uh... Thank you."
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