Calling you Out

((Ah jeez, I got a bit carried away. Sorry x3.))

He’d no stronger desire than to curl up on the ground and sleep for the remainder of this miserable life he’d been given. He probably would, if he had the ability to move.

Ever since he’d arrived, all he could feel were the negative energies of this earth, violent, dangerous, pounding in his ears like an unrythmic drum, pressing up against him until he was convinced he’d suffocate. He was being hit from all angles. Despite the training and the practice, the millenia that he’d devoted to this cause , there was just no denying the fact that he simply wasn’t built to handle human emotions, and the darkness and unholy passion that came with them.

Angels belonged in Heaven, that’s just the way it was. He’d only been in this world a mere few minutes and already he could feel the vibrancy of divine love leaking out the orifices of his soul, escaping the patched-up human body he’d been given to borrow while he completed his mission. It shocked him how dense they seemed, how heavy he felt when he tried to move his arms or his legs, how dizzy from effort it made him feel when he attempted to lift his head. Did they contend with this every day? Being held down by the complexities of humanity? The angel knew that his own problem was not the density of the matter of his body, but the heaviness of the emotions that flooded him. He was vulnerable in his new shell, and emotions he’d never experienced before began to surge through his blood - despair at being left here, anger that he was never properly prepared.

Of course, some might argue that it was difficult to fully prepare an angel - a being of goodness, simplicity and light - for the darkness and weight and waterfall of constant passions that human flesh brought with it, but in his weak state, being exposed to an entire spectrum of new feelings, he was hardly going to be reasonable.

He prised open his eyes, vision foggy, and surveyed the location he’d been dumped in. The lighting (or lack thereof) indicated that it was night, a very dark, dark night. The lack of walls or a roof made him assume he was outside, especially when coupled with the feeling of faint, cold wetness he’d been taught meant it had started to rain. He gauged he was lying on his back due to the vision of sky above him, and the hard, sharp points of pain pressing into his back confirmed this. Pain was a new feeling for the angel, and he wasn’t quite sure what to make of it, though he did know he wasn’t particularly enjoying it. He also didn’t enjoy the cold that was sending shivers up his spine, and so he decided he’d make the concentrated effort to begin his mission, and hopefully find somewhere warm along with it.

The angel sat up within his unfamiliar body, misjudging the effort it would take to shift himself into a sitting position. He managed to make it halfway up before his head when crashing back towards the ground, sending a brand-new, unwelcome sensation spreading across the back of his head. He assumed that this was pain too, though it was markedly different from the sharp, biting sensations that assaulted his back. This business of distinguishing unpleasant emotions was becoming quite frustrating.

After a couple more attempts and failures, he finally managed to get himself vertical, at least in part. His hands gripped a spindly-looking tree in an attempt to help support his unfamiliar weight and his legs shook slightly, not from weakness or disuse but simply because the person that controlled them didn’t know how to balance properly, though he knew it wouldn’t take long to get the hang of. When he’d reached a sort of happy medium between swaying dangerously to the left or right or leaning too far forwards or backwards, he let go of the tree, and after that, learning to walk was easy. In a matter of minutes he had the hang of it, one foot in front of the other, just like that. Once he was confident enough to stop staring at his feet while moving, he took the time to survey his surroundings fully, finding himself in a large expanse of grass, bark and trees, difficult to distinguish through the inky blackness, his eyes as unadjusted as they were. A park. A fairly dodgy looking park, really, which might explain the reason that he was here, because when an angel was sent to earth to give a helping hand, they were sent into the first body that became available. Wounds healed, of course, and if the body was in any sort of decrepit state, it was fixed up a tad before its new spirit was sent hurtling from the heavens and in to inhabit it. A dodgy park, a dead body, a brand new soul before anybody even noticed it was there. Pretty effective system, really. The angel noted that he was wearing a pair of black, baggy jeans but no shirt, no socks and no other form clothing, jewellery or accessory. He didn’t know why the person that had been in this body before him had died, because any wound or ailment the body might have suffered had now been healed. They’d have made sure he was an unknown person - a drug addict perhaps, homeless. You couldn’t have people recognise you walking around on the street.

The angel set off. He didn’t deliberate on any particular direction, simply choosing to move into the space before which he was currently pointed. The sharp bark beneath his feet soon became soft, wet grass, and the change in sensations was welcome. Eventually, after about an hour of walking in a straight line, he exited the park altogether, veering onto a pavement. Soon enough he was passing building with large, neon signs and the notion struck him that if he stopped and looked properly, he might be able to make out his reflection in a window by them through the warped patterns of falling rain.

He stared into the first grimy window he came across, a cracked, large pane. It saddened him to see a young face staring back at him, because it meant it had been a young soul that had died. There were no lines, but the cheeks were gaunt and hollow, probably the result of malnutrition, maybe exhaustion. He could make out large eyes and dark eyebrows, dark to match the wet, black hair that plastered itself in flat strips against his forehead and across his eyes, whose colour he could not clearly discern due to the rain coupled with the weakness of his vision.

The arms that he raised from his sides puppet-style were muscled with decent definition, as was the bare chest that the falling rain pattered across. The legs, clothed as they were, he could only assume were normal like the rest of him. At a guess he would pick his age to be late teens to early- to mid-twenties, the developed body hinting towards the latter. The angel had not been certain what kind of body he would be given, though this fascinating, fleshy instrument was clearly male.

He turned from the window suddenly, a niggling in the back of his brain alerting him to a presence that could only be described as malevolent. What to do in this situation? He couldn’t quite remember. His eyes scanned the heavy darkness, barely able to make out a foot in front of himself. He tensed as he heard the faint whisper of a hiss.

“I am Mathriel,” he said in response to the indiscernible words, using his own unfamiliar voice for the first time. He thought it sounded frailer than he’d like, which was a pain.

“You would do well to depart.” Or else… Well, he’d get to that if it came to it.

When Mathriel finally made out the form of his opponent, he was surprised at the age the demon appeared. A mere boy really, but this didn’t mean anything, obviously. He himself was clothed in a body that had not even reached mid-twenties, and his soul was ages old. Funny, though, how chanelling his thoughts through this young human brain gave them an adolescent edge that he acknowledged, recognised, abhorred, but could do nothing to get rid of.

He focused his attention on rebutting. “Oh, how gracious of you.” His eyes flashed. “An angel does not belong in the playground of Satan. Nor is he intimidated by one of Hell’s puppet-toys. You’ll take your leave, creature, or I’ll banish you myself.” Strong words, he thought, and he hoped they had the desired ring to them. Honestly, he had no desire to get into any sort of fight, especially not at the moment, when his new limbs were weak and his mind addled by humanity.

Of course, that didn’t mean he’d let this foul spirit walk all over him. He did have some pride, and anyway, if he Mathriel did choose to walk away, the thing would probably just come up behind him and bite him in the neck, stab him in the back, do something painful and mean. Demons were renowned for that sort of behaviour.

He knew he had certain tools up his sleeves if it did come to be some sort of showdown. He wouldn’t be relying on this shell of a body completely. But he was confused, unused to the density of his own spirit. Most likely it would not be an even match, not judging from the power he could hear in the demon’s voice.