Coat hanger halos don't come cheap from television shepherds with living room sheep....
Upon close examination, the CLF had appeared to have been disbanded sometime before the plagues. Curious, that. Michael, however, managed to find a small, close-knit group that was still active and had promised them that he could show them a way to be successful- an elegant group of warriors against the real enemy, rather than a group of unseemly
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Her wings are out, as they often are, the colours flashing in the bits of sunlight that escapes the clouds. She scuffs her toe on the ground, then bows her head and folds her hands and murmurs a quick prayer for God to take care of everybody who died, and everybody who lost somebody.
When she looks up, then she sees Michael partway around the crater, and squeaks in surprise. "Were you there the whole time?" she asks loudly enough to be heard, before her brain catches up to her mouth and realises that he might be, y'know, mourning, and that it would be rude and thoughtless to interrupt him, but ( ... )
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As she walks over, he turns to face her, clearly nonplussed by her... Existence. "It's fine. I was only looking. I didn't realize so many had died. It's a rather sobering realization." He looks back at the wall with a solemn expression.
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She sighs, then laughs awkwardly and shakes her head. "Sorry, I'm just-- it's been a long couple of weeks." She offers her hand with a smile. "I'm Dusty."
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They should have killed more demons. They had almost reignited his belief in a higher power until they didn't purge this city of all of its scum. He also doesn't believe in mementos like this.
Which is why he has a can of gasoline.
No one worthy of a shrine died. And at least torching it will let out some of his pent up frustration.
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"Have you even the slightest bit of respect for the dead?" Certainly, there are wanderers there, but as he does not have to smell the rank, vile, little creatures when it's just pictures on a wall, he's willing to give the monument the benefit of the doubt.
"Or are you simply a barbarian?" He adds, glowering and not even caring that this man much older than him. It doesn't matter. Michael is an Angel of the Lord and none of God's own angels would allow this site to be desecrated.
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Well, usually. There were always special exceptions to that rule, like in the case of one Robin Rice.
"Respect the dead in revenge. But allowing yourself to get worked up over a corpse, no matter how much you loved or cared about them, will only get you killed in the long run. But yes. Memorial to burn. Mind getting out of my way?"
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Michael sets his jaw and doesn't move. "This town is worth a great many things, sir. It simply needs to be fixed and an effigy is insufficient. God says, 'thou shalt not worship false idols' and if that's true, then one shouldn't substitute a symbol of hope for whatever your warped sense of aggression has deemed an appropriate target... I assume you're an archangel? The barbarian lout attitude suits their single-minded drive. As much as you may think otherwise, I am on your side."
He kills wanderers- abominations- but demons running free disgusts him. He can admire an archangel, for all that their brutes who have despaired and lost sight of Heaven, like all angels, for their extermination of the beasts. The treaty, and he's heard of it, is disgusting and should never have been put into effect.
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We're sorry, Michael.
She's currently sitting with her legs crossed admist some candles, her tongue sticking out of her mouth as she peers at Michael. And then she gets unsteadily to her feet.
"You," she slurs, pointing at Michael with one shaking hand. "You're new." To her, at least, and that's all that matters.
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"...I beg your pardon, miss, but I've lived in this city all my life."
A peculiar woman, to be certain.. And clearly intoxicated. He tenses inexplicably, because the idea of having to engage a drunk woman in conversation is extremely troublesome... They don't tend to respond well to people spurning their attentions.
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"Nooooooo," she says with a grin. "It's okay, I don't bite when I take new kids home. I'm kinda new here tooooo. I mean. I don't know what I mean." She shakes her head kind of sadly, and then she sidles up closer to him.
"I'm Triiiin," she says with a smile. "And I like vodka and rum and jello shots and those little tablets they give you in clubs sometimes... And I like boys and appletinis and, um. Other stuff. And, and, I don't bite. Usually. I mean, even when I do I don't MEAN it, and I only sent that guy to the hospital 'cause I got excited. IT'S NOT MY FAULT, OKAY?" She pauses for a minute, then giggles. "Who're you? What to do you like? Kitties are nasty bitches."
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This is not a situation he likes, not in the least bit. Whoever she is, she is clearly an unrepentant sinner and should be treated like one.
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This is where God gave her back.
She shakes the thought with a shiver, turning to leave and stopping at the sight of the dark-haired boy praying over the offerings. He's striking somehow. It makes Murphy uneasy. It gives her that hair-on-end prickle she hasn't had in so long, the not-whisper that says This. Here. Now.
She reaches back to touch the easel tube she's started carrying her weapon around in again, the motion one of personal comfort. She's not really feeling it. Is she? She's not really getting that itch. This isn't her universe.
God isn't limited by things like that, part of herself whispers. The part that still misses the high stained-glass windows and Latin songs of the faith she's not sure she still has.
Maybe not. She drops her hands to her sides. "Did you lose someone?" she says.
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He holds a hand to his mouth and masks a cough that sounds almost uncomfortably like a gag. "I was fortunate enough not to," he says, his voice husky. His fingers itch for the kill, but he curbs the desire and it cycles back into the nausea and aggravates it.
He spares a look over at her. Tiny, blonde... With an easel tube. Posing as an art student, perhaps? It would be just like them. Pretending like they belong here.
Abominations. All of them. Kill them.
He coughs again. Not yet.
"Did you?" He asks, perfectly polite, for all that he can't seem to look at her for longer than a few seconds.
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"We were both fortunate, it looks like. Are you all right?"
He's pretty obviously not all right. He almost looks like he's ready to throw up. "I could get you something to drink if you want to sit down."
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The lie hits him in the chest like a hammer and this time he does actually start coughing violently. He puts a stop to it as quickly as possible, because God forbid she get too close.
"I shouldn't be out. I know that," he says, sounding every bit a guilty teenager as he looks fondly upon the wall. "However, I felt compelled to send my prayers to the dead in person."
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