Dreams of Angels, and the Falling Thereof

Ministration 2.5

I finished setting Poppy's leg. The chunk of broken pew I had used as a splint, cut down to a more reasonable side using my knife arm, was hardly an ideal piece of medical equipment, but it was just about the best I could do, considering the circumstances. I ran through the procedure for a broken leg again and again under my breath as I worked, in part to give myself something to focus on, and in part because I could barely even remember what to do. It had been years since I'd taken a first aid course, and more than ever I was wishing that I could have just paid more attention during it.

Once I was done, I tore up a section of the tarp that had fallen to the ground and tucked it under her head, so at the very least her head wouldn't be left on the hard floor. I stood, brushed off the sawdust and dirt that had gathered on my jeans after all the impromptu woodworking, and turned to face Jack.

"Alright. First: who the hell were you gonna ransom me and Poppy off to?"

The sudden motion of standing sent a wave of nausea through my insides, and black spots danced across my vision. I leaned against the wall and tried to center myself, though the room around me seemed to be drifting further away with each passing moment.

"I don't know all the details," Jack said. His hands were raised in a gesture of surrender, and his nervous eyes kept darting toward my sword arm. "We were honestly getting ready to leave Prior, when some Seraph reached out to us. She told us to stick around, that these mercenaries were coming our way, and that they'd have a girl with them. If we took them out of the picture and nabbed the―um, well, the you―she'd pull strings to get us full pardons."

"What was the name of this woman who reached out to you?"

"Some Mask thing. Queen Godiva, or something, it was real fancy-sounding," he nervously shifted on the spot. "I don't know, I really don't. I'm not plugged into the whole superhero thing."

"But you are a Mask." I hesitated. "Aren't you?"

He opened his mouth, as though to respond, and then closed it again. Mouth set into a grim line and eyes downcast, he nodded his head. Jesus, was this kid really a supervillain?

Regardless, that was one question answered. Godiva was the head of the squad investigating the Coldcase murders, if I remembered correctly. It would make sense to seek the only surviving witness, but to contact people like the Anarchists? There was no way that was being done over-the-table, I couldn't imagine how many rules she had been breaking to make that deal.

But... some things just still didn't check out. The Anarchists had been here for some time before the Huntresses got on their trail, and the bounty on their heads hadn't been made official until after I'd joined up with them. That had been the very morning after Harlington.

Pieces started falling into place, tumbling through the anxious void of my mind to snap into a muddled configurum. Godiva was a high-ranking Seraph official, exactly the type who could officialize a bounty on noted supervillains. There was no way it was a coincidence that the Anarchist's bounty went up the very day after I joined the Huntresses, but that still left other unknown variables. But how could she have known that they'd go after the Anarchists? How did she even know the direction they were heading? And how could she have possibly known that I was with them? And how would she have known any of that so soon after I'd been Harlington?

The most pressing question of all still lingered: if she wanted me that badly, why not just come and get me herself? There weren't enough answers here, not at all.

It was paranoid, perhaps, to presume that this all had something to do with me, but I was feeling more than a little paranoid at the moment. My head was pounding, aching more every second. The light streaming in through the window seemed more harsh than warm, now, the Cathedral itself barren and cold. Our shadows, long and gangly, stretched across the floor like some otherworldly creatures. Mine was swaying, the darkened imprint of myself drifting as though it were a flower in some gentle breeze.