Even though he doesn't really work for Soldekai it's a good thing to pay attention when he speaks regardless. As the man with a casual brightness about him makes his way off to check into.. whatever it is he's checking into. "Sakir, It's a good name." He says the wayward extra passenger. He leads the small troupe (and carries for Kit) across the dusty plain to where the door of the. He peers into the metal shack and looks around quickly. Corners and ceilings checked. It seems benign enough. "Ok everyone, file in." He says as he stands back and holds the door so Usef and Sakir can make their way in, "Of course..." Jonathan notes further, "I left my bag of goodies in Turkey... I'll have to make do with what's in my pockets.."

     Another mute nod. Sakir walks silently across the floor to the far corner, and leans against the wall. He doesn't truly feel the need to be friendly right now. Or really, even very human. It's almost easy to forget Sakir is standing there, merely a statue. Or furniture.

     As for the lump of young man over Jonathan's shoulders...
     Kit lies quite still. Just the motion of the steady, if shallow breathing. Hard and immediate sleep. The angel within needing more rest, as it happens, than the vessel which sustains him on this earth. But... as goes the angel, so goes the form.
     The snoring's stopped at least...

     Oh great.. not only does he have to try and secure the shed (OK, so that's not that hard) but he has to make conversation too. Usef himself quickly finds a corner and with shaking hands drops the clip from his desert eagle and searches around the case he grabbed for more bullets with which to load it. Kit meanwhile is set down on the ground, on his side with his legs curled upwards for balance and an arm beneath his head for support.
     Jack looks back to Usef who seems to be calming down, even if little by little, but then he looks to Sakir as he opens up the big thigh pockets on his pants and searches through them. He with draws a small plastic case and sighs. "All the shit I have and I think to bring only a pocket knife." well actually it's one of the 'Gerber' multi-tools but who's keeping score? "... and a sewing kit. Well it'll have to do." and with that he pops open the kit and gets out a small spool of black thread. He carefully starts to unravel a select amount.
     Even as he does so there is another look to Sakir, "Well I would imagine you have a lot of questions... If you have any place you'd like me to start or questions you'd like to ask, cause if not I'm gonna go straight into the abridged version."

     "Abridged is fine." He attempts to sound friendly. Hard for rocks to be friendly though. His gaze drifts about the room again -- windows, doors, roof. Each motion of Jonathan's is watched. Wary.

     Usef is watched as well. The shaky hands noted. The weapon noted.

     Kit lies easily, his form curled upon the ground as comfortably as if the floor was all air and comforters. Crumpled, but not in pain. He looks a great deal smaller just now than his 5'9" and some odd. The athletic form does not seem as robust.
     Perhaps it is the robes, the layers of concealment. That in his stillness seem to swallow up his strength...

     Once the thread is measured to an acceptable length he opens his Gerber and folds out the knife blade, snipping it cleanly. "Ok, the short version is this..." he cocks a thumb, "Our friend Usef there is a renegade demon going on his own personal quest for redemption," which includes him selling guns an ordinance to Michael's boys at a cut rate, but that's neither here nor there. "We showed up just hoping that he could put us in touch with a guide so we could do a sight seeing. Sadly, sometimes the will of God puts you in the wrong place at the right time," his words trail off for just a moment and he starts to measure out another length of thread.
     "Apparently someone ratted out Usef's cover and so Asmodeus sent some hunters to clean him up. It was pretty standard operating procedure. Something we call the 'scorched vessel' tactic. Send a team of hunters in to take out the target with big guns and liberal amounts of collateral damage in the process, making sure they get themselves after they take the target. The papers play it up as as a killing fueled by religious fanaticism and Nybbas gets a big rubbery boner at the ratings... but I'm getting ahead of myself." The second length of thread is cut.
     "So anyway the scorched vessel teams shows up and we happen to be there... fight ensues... We put down the baddies and preserve Usef in the process, and Sol sings a song that brings us here." He thought about starting this off a bit slower... sorta ease you into the topic. You know talk about subjective reality a bit, and layers within layers. But then he thought, aw fuck it. "And that's the abridged version. Any questions yet?"

     Sakir slides down into a seated position. Then folds into the lotus. Weird person, but that was already a given. A breath or two, and he seems to regain his humanity. The flush of healthy life. Alabaster skin seeming alive once more, rather than carved stone.
     "Asmodeus? Nybbas?" He nods to himself. Must be a rival terrorist group. "Right. Never mind. I'm sure it all makes sense to you."

     Well he did say the abridged version was alright. Even as you recant your question he goes on to explain. "Asmodeus would be the Demon Prince of the Game. A goofy word to say the least, I'm sure Lucifer thought he was being very clever when he gave it to him though. Basically he enforces laws of the forces of Hell... any demons that come to our senses..." he cocks a thumb at Usef, "like my buddy Usef here." by this time he is calmed enough to give a little salute at the acknowledgment.
     "He tries to hunt people like that down so they can't change sides and sell back any trade secrets... Now as for Nybass.. he's the Demon Prince of the media. If you want to see his handiwork just watch the cable television programming in the United States of America..."

     "Start smaller, Jonathan."
     The voice is ethereal, or so it seems. Just a whisper is what it is. From tired lips, barely parting. "Tell him... who we are... it is..."
     A long pause...
     "Vastly more entertaining..."
     Kit does not move. He does not lift his head, nor open his eyes. But the voice is coming from that direction...

     Sakir's eyes widen slightly. You can almost read his thoughts from that expression: Great, lunatics. I'm fucking trapped with lunatics.
     Then of course, comes the slight pause of consideration. And another expression speaks: Lunatics that can teleport, or have wings.
     With outward humanity, comes inward human foibles. A hand goes to his forehead. "Wonderful."
     "Yes," He responds to that ethereal voice. "Why not tell me who I share company with." Might be worth a laugh, if it is anything close to this Demon story.

     "Well that's easy enough.... Kit, Sol and myself..." He doesn't rattle out full names yet, trying to keep it casual, if that even makes a difference. "We're angels." He pauses. Perhaps waiting for an incredulous snort or laugh or something similar.

     "Oh. Angels. Of course." Sakir says. "I should have guessed after that Demon Prince thing."
     His fingers search along his shirt, finding bullet holes, evoking a vaguely annoyed expression. Occasionally, as he does move, the black marks of some sort of writing, can be seen on the inside of his wrists -- Turned so as not to be seen in full.
     "Go on. This is entertaining, at least."

     "Metaphorically speaking..." comes the quiet voice again. "In comparison to those who would shoot innocents in a quiet village square, yes... we are angels..."
     And again... a pause...
     But no voice follows it. Just a soft snore again.

     "Yes... Angels..." Jonathan repeats and with that he settles back, his back resting against the hut. In a moment, he is eerily quiet. His breath has stopped. His eyes have rolled back into his head. Did he just have a stroke? A heart attack? But even as he sits there very still, a soft golden glow beings to black light the still form of Jack's body. Slowly it grows in intensity and even seems to be taking a shape... like the shimmer of dust caught in a sun beam. The golden light hangs above Jonathan's husk and starts to take a quadrapedal shape, and then like a picture coming into focus details start to take shape. Sleek and powerful legs. Large paws. A feline head with rounded ears and thick mane that ripples in an unseen wind. Almost like a halo of golden fire surrounding it's face. From it's shoulder blades a pair of powerful white wings stretch upwards then curl back to fold along it's flanks. The creature then settles back onto it's haunches and a voice, Jonathan's voice, seems to echo from within it in a deep rumble. "Do not be afraid." Before you stands, quite the classical Judaic portrayal of a Cherubim. Well Soldekai did ask him to explain.

     Another raised eyebrow. "Unique." Is his only vocalized word -- almost a monotone. He doesn't really seem afraid, though humanity leaks away from him again.
     Hard to scare a mountain, so to speak. "Angels." A half laugh, sounding vaguely like breaking rocks.
     "Figures."

     Outside, steps are loud, even more so upon the metal porch. Whoever approaches intends to be heard...just in case anyone is twitchy.

     Jonathan right now is very twitchy... Hearing the footsteps outside with a poof of golden smoke the Celestial shade dissipates and the eyes on Jonathan's body snap open. He sits forward quickly and with a deft motion slides the shotgun from its holster and aims it for the door. Just in case don'tcha know. It's probably Sol but you can never be too careful.

     Of footsteps outside, Sakir seems not to notice. Or not to care. Things really couldn't get that much worse, in his opinion.
     So he remains relaxed, at least in appearance. Watching the door vaguely, to see what next will enter. Perhaps God Himself.

     "Me," calls the voice, the door pushing open. The familiar figure of the photographer peers around the door, then opens it wider as he moves into the archway. As he comes fuller into view, there are few things in his arms. "Be warned, there are a few living in the village. I've counted four," Sol murmurs, pushing the door closed behind him. "An old man in a hut about thirty meters down...he gets his water from an outside pump. There is also a man, who is a guide in the park, his wife, and their young child, perhaps aged three."
     All from the local paper, of course. But Sol's gaze lighted upon Jonathan mostly, as if giving a needed report.
     "Here," he murmurs, three blankets over his arm, a bag of rice in hand, and a pouch twined around fingers. "This will work for now."

     With a nod to Sol as he re-enters, Jack says, "Got it. When night rolls around I'll go take a look around and make sure everything's kosher." The gun is lowered and slide back into it's holster. "I've been explaining things to our friend Sakir here a bit." as you requested. "He seems a bit incredulous, but he's taking it all fairly well I'd say. After everyone's rested I'm gonna try and contact Nimo so we can get Usef out of here."

     He kind of was hoping for something more spectacular. Continue the inertia of the situation. Sakir shrugs, and goes back to watching everyone.

     "That's ideal," Sol agrees, arms empty now. He's still dressed in slacks and shirt, nothing spectacular about it. Hazel eyes come to rest upon Sakir, his brow raising. He pauses, then sighs, figuring he needs to say something.
     "I'll apologize now for all of this..." his hand waves to the room in general, "...it is not how things are to go. Suffice to say, that event...well..." he shrugs, shaking his head. "Someone's idea of something that could be done easily and covered up. But, as usual, they were wrong." About much.
     "I...am called Solomon Decker here," he explains to Sakir. It's easier that way. "And you..." Sol smiles, much like sunlight, "...are...not commonly seen much anymore." A compliment in that, without being so obvious. The young man's head cocks, the reddish crewcut glinting in the motion. His hands come to his hips, parting the jacket he wears and exposing the weapon inside.

     Taking the blankets Jack drapes one over Kit and then in turn takes and offers one to Usef, as well as one to Sakir. As he waits to see if Sakir will accept it he looks back to Soldekai and says, "I'll work on starting a small fire so we can fix the rice..."

     Okay, that was confusing to him. "I'm not commonly seen much anymore? That has got to be the strangest greeting I've ever heard."
     So they truly are insane. As well as being lion headed cherubim. What could be worse?
     "So, I take it that has some sort of special significance to the three -- or four of you." He glances at Usef. A gesture indicates he does not need, or perhaps does not want, the blanket. "No thank you."

     "Well, I should say, seen at all," Soldekai corrects. But he's not one for confrontation, it seems. Nevermind. "What has some sort of significance?" Sol seems confused. He looks around to Jonathan, in case he needs to fill in something.
     "I'm afraid I've missed something," Sol offers politely to Sakir, letting him know his confusion.

     There is no movement just yet from Kit, although a part of him is thanking God for the addition of the blanket. Now, if only he had the energy to tell one of them to make a pillow out of another blanket for his head...
     That will take more time...

     "I think, that I should be the one saying that." Sakir responds quietly. "I know I've missed something here."
     And since Soldekai is looking at Jonathan, Sakir decides to as well. Put the talking guy on the spot.

     "He doesn't understand what you you mean by he's not something that's not been commonly seen anymore." Jonathan says to Soldekai. "He's wondering why that matters to us. Me I'm not sure what our friend is, though I have my theories." He kneels down and as if on cue, lifts up Kit's head to tuck the unwanted blanket beneath his head. Standing up he reaches into his pocket and produces a a small zippo lighter. He flicks it a few times.. and nothing happens. It is flicked more vigorously then and a small flame comes to light. Looking then to Sol and Sakir he frowns. He has to do more explaining doesn't he? "Like you asked I've been explaining things to him as best I can..."

     "Oh, I believe you have," Soldekai twists, looking at Sakir again. "But sometimes, too much is...too much. So, let's start at the beginning. What is the line? Ah, yes," Slovakia's arms rise, "Fear not, for today is born unto you..." and he blinks. "Wait. Wrong speech." That brings a chuckle. He glances at Jonathan and then to Kit, but Kit sleeps. Darn. He'd find that funny.

     Of course, the humor is lost on Sakir. It just confirms in his mind that these people are crazier than he originally thought.
     So he sighs slightly, and goes back to finding bullet holes in his shirt.

     Just as well. Soldekai's arms drop and hands return to his hips. "You are sitting near what is called Uluru by the people who live in this part of Australia," he explains, accent American. "Last time you checked," he says evenly, "...you were in what is called Urgup by the locals there. I will let you figure out how you arrived here...from there. If you decide to ask a question," Soldekai moves to pick up and open the pouch, "...I am happy to answer that. We..." he looks around, "...will see that you are kept safely and returned to where we ran into each other. Other than that, we are content to leave you be and give you our apologies for this all."

     "I know where I am." Short words. Perhaps a bit annoyed sounding.

     "Excellent," Soldekai nods, keeping to the basic issues. "It will be a few hours while a cleanup squad ensures that all is well in the town of Urgup. We'd rather not have you arrive there and someone expect you or put anyone in danger."
     "Once things are secure there," Soldekai smiles politely to Sakir, "...we will be informed, and travel arrangements made for your return. Is there anything else you might need?" If you're content to ignore the blip of the time-space continuum, so is Soldekai. Why explain what no one needs explaining? Certainly, it makes life easier for him. "If we can, we will manage to secure it."

     "A new shirt. This one is shot full of holes." How can a man's shirt be bullet ridden, and not the man? On the other hand, given what this guy could theoretically ask for, his demands aren't exactly extravagant. Why ask questions then?

     "A new shirt," Soldekai smiles, then looks at Jonathan, "I may be able to fashion that for you, yes. Or," he looks at Kit, "...if the Master awakens, I believe he might fix your textile quicker than I could."
     And then he looks in the pouch. Soldekai winces and tosses the pouch towards Jonathan, "I think that is supposed to be dried meat." But who really knows?

     The lifting of his head woke him, and eyes of soft, steel grey open. No glint of silver now. Kit half-lifts a brow. But then his eyes close. "Water would be nice. Maybe some wine. Wine would be better. A little white wine, from grapes crushed under the small feet of Tuscan women..."
     "Or a cold cloth for my head. This would suffice... who needs a shirt fixed?"
     Eyes open to that...

     The pouch is opened and, Jack sniffs at it once, "Yes I'm dubious as to whether or not this is meat...." He then looks to Kit. Brows knitting together as he talks about a damp rag and his heretofore unknown fetish for Tuscan feet. "I can't get you the feet, but I'll stop by the pump on my way back and wet a rag for you." He then looks to Usef and says, "C'mon.. we should head out a little ways were no one will see so we can try and contact Nimo. We won't be able to send you back to Urgup." The pouch is tossed back to Soldekai after that.

      Well that seemed to go over well. Apparently angels are also seamstresses. How fitting. I wonder if they can houseclean too.
     Perhaps they have a temp service.
     "You people are all very strange." Sakir mentions idly. "I hope you realize that."

     You've never been around the women of Tuscany...
     They say the grapes of that region are divine, that it is the soil and the water. Well, these things help. But that is not where the magic comes from...
     "You are then in good company," says Kit, sitting up slowly, a hand going to his head. Vertigo. "Bullets pass through you like sand through the fingers of a child... let us call it... providence, friend. Good fortune and God's grace. Even though it was not our most graceful moment..."
     And so he sits for a time. Each movement costs him. He pays for it now, he'll pay for it later. But... there is work to be done. Such as, perhaps, he is best equipped to do.
     Yes, this meeting calls for the gift of gab...

     "Oh trust me Sakir..... You ain't seen nothing yet." and with that he waves on the currently somewhat timid, Usef to follow him and he heads out of the shack. The good work is seldom done.

     Soldekai watches Jonathan and Usef rise. He is a soldier, that Jonathan is. He knows what to do...and what not to do. But all the same, Soldekai nods, "Keep vigilant." Always a good thing to do.
     At Kit's comment to Sakir, his visage turns. A point brought up. "You miss the point, sandman. We are not...people."

     "My name is Sakir. Please do not call me Sandman." Well that provoked a response at least. "And I figured you weren't entirely human. The lion headed thing kind of gave that away." His accent is slowly becoming Australian in tones, the more he speaks.

     Lionhead? Now Soldekai quirks, but it is quick. That was the noise he'd heard rippling across the Symphony. "Sakir," he nods, "...a pleasure. Solomon Decker," he repeats from before. "I will presume the others made themselves known? Kit, Jonathan...Usef departing," he half-nods to the door. "Again, my apologies for this."
     "How are you?" Sol asks of Kit, finally looking his direction. "Improving?"

     And it is time for Sakir to fall silent again. After a second round of introductions. Angels can be repetitive, it seems.

     "Tired. To the quintessence."
     But he rises anyway. And as he rises, one last thing of magic will he perform today. And then the Master will need to sleep. Herald to no one. Not to his dreams. Nor to anyone else's. Not to Aspiration. Not to anything save rest. "I will need more rest..."
     He kneels before Sakir and his eyes close. Words and song leave his throat again. Whispered. Murmured. It reminds one of lotus. Of palm leaves.
     And of sand brushed over stone by the slow motion of a hand...
     A minor song of creation. It can mend torn fabric. It can restore a broken glass.
     Kit sits back on his haunches. "Now... you will not look like you have been the victim of ravaging moths..."

     Ravaging moths. Soldekai grins at that, deciding to set himself upon the edge of the rickety table. "Kit...has a way with words." And dreams. And hearts. "And textiles."

     He actually smiles at that. "Moths, they do such horrible things to the latest fashions."
     Perhaps a tone of respect. Hey, its one thing that an Angel can do the will of God, but it is entirely another when an Angel can mend a shirt by singing at it.
     Certainly worth a bit of admiration.
     He visually inspects his 'new' shirt, checking where the holes used to be. Another smile. "Nice workmanship."

     "Thank you," says the voice. Soft, from where he now lies. Eyes close, and do so with brows knitting together. "All it takes is one...that is the mystery of it. Like how one clothes hanger can multiply into the hundreds, yet one only has one each of a pair of socks. Mysteries, Sakir. We are all mysterious creatures."
     And then he's out again.
     The rise and fall of breath is slow, rhythmic. There's a song to that as well. It is the one that Eli hums...
     It is the one that Allah sings...
     It is the one that Christ whistles...

Posted by rowan at May 15, 2003 09:48 PM