Dreams of Angels, and the Falling Thereof

Remission 1.4

The building stood, a rotting carcass on an unpaved road. I couldn't tell what it might have been, had it been completed, but it was evident from the exposed rebar and concrete that whomever had begun the process had come nowhere close to finishing construction. My attention caught on a familiar-looking pickup truck parked beside the building. There was another just across the street, distant enough that one couldn't see both in their gaze at the same time. To think, that just hours earlier I'd been in the passenger seat of one of those trucks.

This was where my captors had lead me, through the winding alleys tucked between small businesses and townhouses, until we had reached this picture of small-town America. My mask had been taken from me, tucked into the pocket of the tall girl calling herself "Bebop." Proletariat, Rudee, whatever I was meant to call her, occasionally tugged on the invisible chain connecting my collarbone to her hand, seemingly out of nothing but spite. I endured it, instead focusing most of my attention on suppressing my arm from manifesting itself.

I glanced at the sweater-wearing girl marching alongside Bebop. She would be Naamah. I suspected that was a Mask name, considering that Bebop had called her such when introducing them to me. I couldn't help but wonder why they'd used it in the cafe, though, unless... unless they were trying to bait out people who might have heard it somewhere? People like me?

No. Stay focused.

They knew I was a Mask, and I knew they were engaging in some matter with the local Seraphs. I'd have to flex my lying ability, I knew, but there were options, routes I could take. I wasn't sure what they were, admittedly, but I was certain they'd come to mind. I sincerely hoped they'd come to mind.

Bebop pushed open the door to the dilapidated old structure.

Sunlight filtered into the building through holes in the roof, and cracks between the planks composing the boarded-up windows, illuminating the single large room in a soft light. As we stepped out of the sun, into the shade, goosebumps rose along the surface of my skin.

There were three individuals milling about in the building. Two were gathered around what looked to be a foldable table, talking to each other in hushed, but clearly argumentative tones. Both were oddly familiar. One stood tall, a cream-coloured, porcelain mask covering the entirety of their face. The only features of the mask were crescent-moon eyes, and a wide, toothless smile. A dark mesh covered the holes, obscuring whatever may have been behind them. They were wearing a black, silky, blouse-looking shirt, with wide hanging sleeves that fell almost to the figure's knees, beneath a shawl that wrapped about their shoulders, itself also covering the tops of two long, flat, white fabric tails that fell from their shoulders to their waist. I couldn't help but notice the fact that they were wearing stilettos, which doubtless accounted for their height. There was something regal to the ensemble as a whole. Deeply impractical, but stunningly eye-catching.

The other figure by the table looked practically pauper in comparison. They wore a camo jacket over cargo pants, a greying tank top, black gloves, and tattered combat boots. Their own mask was fabric, and covered the top half of their face.

The final figure had no mask or outfit, save for a well-fitted pantsuit. She was a woman, looking to be in her late 20s, with a river of golden hair that cascaded around her shoulders, and two tired eyes that turned to face us as we entered, shock quickly lighting up her face. Hurriedly, she reached behind her, producing a small white mask that she quickly affixed to her face. It was some sort of heavy plastic, clearly molded to her face. It was plain, stretching from ear to ear, around both her eyes, and possessed only a single notable detail: a red cross over her right eye.

The hooded Naamah shook her head free of said hood as we entered, letting a river of golden hair, quite similar to the woman in the corner's, flow freely behind her. She hurried over, and the older woman embraced her. I paused a moment, trying to parse that out. Mother and daughter? No, the older woman looked too young. It could very well be the age-dampening effect creating that appearance, however. If that were the case, that certainly recontextualized some things. Few villainous groups were hereditary, given that the vast majority of people with powers were infertile. Nonetheless, I made a mental note, deciding the older woman was Naamah's mother. I'd have to re-evaluate that later.