Demons In Buffalo, Erm...Yah. Pretty much self explanatory.

[russfuzzy125]

I've always wanted to fly.Ever since I was a child, the idea of being able to touch the clouds thrilled me. But I guess that hadn't been in the cards for Emmanuel Cavanaugh. Wings were made for the messangers of God, not lowly minions of Hell such as myself.

I had been twenty six when I died in late December of 1990, nearly fifteen years ago. By that time in my life, I had two murders under my belt;that of my partner's and the woman he had been cheating on me with. I should have known he wouldn't stop after the first time I caught him cheating five years prior, but what can I say. I'm a softie for redheads. I dont know how I could have produced the rage to kill them; if I hadn't been completely hammered, I doubt I would have. I tracked them to a small apartment in the slums of Buffalo's Harlem, and I suppose I shot them. Well, I know I shot them; it was replayed for me at Judgement. I just don't happen to remember the actual event, for I passed out cold right afterwards. I woke up groggily many hours later- I know it must have been, for I was sober by that time- in the pool of blood that had collected in the low point of the floorboards. Horror struck and guilt ridden at what I'd done, I...well, let's just say what I did involved my head, the gun, and a bullet.

Obviously you aren't going to get into Heaven by murdering two people-three, if you count myself. Though it was unpleasant, Judgement was the closest I ever got to my beloved clouds. That last sight of beauty will be etched in my mind forever, to be called upon whenever I am in need. An everlasting sunset, hues of gold mixing with pale lavender and cotton candy pink. Truly a beautiful sight; it took my breath away. I didn't get a long time to look, however. Judgement was passed rather quickly on my personage. Straight to Hell, do not pass go, do not collect two hundered dollars, heh heh. I didn't see Bryan or that girl at Judgement, so I don't know whether they were condsidered victims or sinners. Either way, I haven't seen him since then.

I didn't have much of a chance to enjoy the exotic locale of Hell, thank the Gods. I was sent almost immediately back to the surface to take up my duties as a tracker.

What's a tracker, you ask? They're demons who are sent to Earth. They hunt after certain people who might somehow do something extremely good for the planet, or thwart some of Satan's plans. Not the best of jobs, I'll be the first to admit that, but it keeps you from getting burned. One of the problems with the job is the fact that trackers are a dime a dozen. You're easily expendable. If you screw up...Well, let's just say you don't want to screw up.

Another problem: Angels.

Of course there are guardian angels. Not for everyone, just the important people, which means you probably don't have one. They're always tagging around after our victims. Damn tough things too, always ready for a fight. They also have the unfair advantage of being able to fly. Give me all the more reason to loather their pure white guts(I know for a fact they're white; I've held them in my hands). My current count is one thousand twenty nine human targets killed out of two thousand one assigned, plus five hundred fifty one angels. Not bad for a rookie(in this business, fifteen years is a snap compared to most), but I've still got a long way to becoming indispensible.

This will be number one thousand thirty. Hopefully I can get through this without too much guilt. Oh yes. I still have a conscience. I've retained most everything from my human life. I will never age, however; my body will always be tht of a twenty six year old man.

I walked the daylit streets of Buffalo. Yes, I was back here again, though I was told this was a better place than the one I died in that cold winter night. Either way, I kept my guard up. No good getting lazy. Paunchy lawyers rushed by packs of loitering teens, ravenous for a good fight, eyes gleaming like a feral animal's. I gave them a wide berth. My temper was never all that good; it was best to keep my distance and not provoke a fight. My eyes roved the street signs; yes, here it was. The man I was to track this time, Daryl Smith, would be somewhere on this street today. All there was left to do was sit here and wait. I retired to a bench, running my hand through my shoulder length hair that was cut choppily, eyes roving the street. Any second now he'd come, hopefully. I don't want to be waiting around forever.

((-winces- Don't kill me! This ish my baby piece.))

[JackSpikyFruit]

ooc: AaaaaaaaaHhhhh!! I'll RP ( ^^)b We need more active members -.-'' Ah, I'll post tomorrow, though TT I need to think of a reply and make up some crappy character description of my angel--or devil thingy-ma-bobber ... . I can't really choose which one I want to RP XP !!! Devil or angel--hum--dee-dum...I don't want to ruin your plot X_X

[russfuzzy125]

((-squees and tackleglomps- Someone replied! That's all right, take your time.))

[JackSpikyFruit]

Another newbie on the street, Amadeus—or, if one happened to be a close friend of his, one would call him Ami, but since he was rather new, most referred to him as Amadeus, or that ‘damned angel who can’t wear his robe correctly’—was patrolling the streets in a stern fashion that was characteristic of amateurs who hadn’t yet realized that being a Hound of God was a title of great ennui.

But he was young and the amiable type, if not a bit ignorant. Like many unfortunate Guardian angels, he had died at a young age. A product of a broken family, a mother whose lachrymose nature had rendered her pitiful and an alcoholic father who vented his anger on his son, Amadeus had inevitably died when his father had buried the bullets in his skull. But the youth hadn’t lamented, because it had been a quick death, and there surely were worse ways to die. Unlike the other teenagers that had been murdered by their parents, Ami was elated that he had been separated. He had detested his family with great fervor, and being removed from them was a blessing that he thought would never be granted.

And so he attended his classes with alacrity and a bounce to his step, and after he ad passed his exam, he earned his rightful title of a Hound of God. This interval of time elapsed for two years or more, so that Amadeus was perhaps eighteen or so by the time he had graduated, but because the factor of time does not exist in heaven his visage remained youthful.

Afterwards came the Changing, when Amadeus’ hair was bleached the stereotypical blonde, and his eyes, originally the color of dark pewter, were melted into two balls of sky blue, but because black leaves a rather nasty stain and is difficult to wash out, Ami’s eyed tended to be a blue of a darker hue, the color of a sky enshrouded by gray clouds. And after his physical features had been changed to fit society’s ideal guardian angel, Amadeus was then adorned in the typical roman influenced robes that he only wore in heaven, or while lounging.

But they were complicated pieces of parcel to get in and out of. Amadeus often found himself entangled in the cloth, but the brooch that clasped one end of the robe to another made the outfit worthwhile. For, while the robe itself was a dull cotton white with purple bordering, the brooch was of gold with Ami’s name carved into it. And it was adorned with many jewels.

Then there was his spear, a weapon that all angels used. The spear was at least as big as Amadeus was, but thankfully had the ability to fold on itself and appear smaller than it actually was. The spear had elaborate etchings of vines and oak leaves that twined all the way up to the finely honed tip.

All angels were to carry their spears at all times, for it was not unheard of for Trackers to appear and attempt to convert humans to sin. And for the moment, Ami was especially glad that he had heeded the master’s words. Call it a sixth angelic sense, but Amadeus felt a malicious intent nearby.

Clutching onto his spear, the angel, who was currently adorned in the modern jeans and typical white t-shirt, verified his surroundings, his head snapping back and forth and rattling the trinkets that were woven into his shoulder-length hair. Ami narrowed his eyes and stood on his tip toe, keeping his certain human, Daryl Smith, nearby.

[russfuzzy125]

"They will see us waving from such great plains...no, that's not it, hold up."

I'll be the first to admit it: I was sloshed. Again. Entirely my fault, of course(much like verything else in my pitiful life), but if your job was to go around killing people on your employer's whim, wouldn't you want to drown the world out? Exactly. Alcohol is a wonderful buffer between you and pain, emotional or otherwise. Unfortunately, my tolerence level for the stuff seems to shift every day. I never know when to stop, which leads to situations like this.

I hadn't been back to my tiny apartment for a few days(Trackers very rarely have the time to get back to Hell between assignments, so they are given meager lodging aboveground). This was evident by the state of my clothes. An extremely wrinkled black teeshirt clung loosely to my torso, accompanied by a pair of element-battered jeans, whose cuffs were greatly mangled. Overtop the shirt was a worn leather jacket, which underneath the dried patches of mud was a caramel color. The lining was still well intact, a silky blood red material, covering a layer of padding. Not exactly very good for agility's sake, but it got very cold around here at this time of year. I suspect I would have been taken for a bujm if not for the suspicious lack of stubble.

"They will see us..." Oh, screw it," I moaned exasperatedly, burying my face into my hands. These damn emotions were going to kill me someday.

Looking up after a few minutes, I saw my target, loitering around the door of the bar I had exited around two last night. An indescisive look rested on his face as he jumped from one foot to the other to keep warm. Excellent. Even easier to try and lure him into sin. Come inside the bar and have a drink, come on. One won't kill you. WHo cares if you've been sober for two years, you deserve a drink. I made to stand up, but something stopped me. I sat back down, aghast.

A damned angel, lurking in the shadows of the alley a few yards away from the bar. My lip curled as I saw him, and my eyes filled with a mixture of fear and anger.

If you could see them, you'd know why I hate them so. Perfect blond hair, perfect blue eyes the color of a clear summer sky. Even their physique has been changed to fit the rigid standards of the Almighty. Clones, that's what they are. Perfectly made replicas of what He wishes He could be. Makes me sick.

However, on a second look my fright lessened considerably. Why, he couldn't even have been past the age of twenty when he died, and he was probably even younger. As the youth moved his head back and forth agitatedly, I saw shallow indents scattered across his head. No one can remove all the signs of death, not even God. This kid probably died from gunshots. Lots of 'em. I winced and unconsciously put a hand to my own death scar, just above my right ear. The thick black hair that covers my head shields it from view most of the time, but it's still there.

I went back to my scrutiny of the angel's appearance. I vaguely wondered what he had looked like before he was emobdied in Adonis' likeness. His eyes were different, at least. I let my face stay frozen in an expression of fear and disdain, but my mind was for the most part at ease.

[JackSpikyFruit]

People were looking at him strangely, and Amadeus could feel their awkward stares grazing over his flesh, but there was something on the back of his mind that bothered him, like an irritating bug bite that just happened to be located in an impossible spot to reach. He knew there was danger nearby, and clutched tightly onto his tiny pole, that, at any moment now, could become an impaling spear.

Yet, as quick as that feeling had come, and just as unexpectedly, it disappeared in a flash, leaving the angel a big dizzy and even more confused. There was a vacuous void in his conscience where the feeling had been present, but now it had left him. Perhaps the danger had made a furtive exit? Ami seriously doubted that option, but since the crowds made it impossible to sort out demon from human, the angel would just have to stick close to his Chosen and guard the lawyer until he was certain that Daryl would be safe.

Then his expression twisted into a loathing grimace as he spotted Daryl’s shifting figure. The bar, Earth’s symbolic form of hell. Ami had never gone to a bar in his lifetime, in fact, he had never gone any farther than his school, and the teachings of purity and whatnot in heaven had emboldened his prospect that drinking was bad. Drinking was what sinners did to make themselves feel better after committing an awful act.

Pouting almost indignantly, Ami marched right up to the lawyer and attempted to stop the man from doing the corrupt before the Trackers could get to him. But—to late!—Daryl, after several failing cases, let out a sullen sigh, heaved and dragged like a sick man’s cough, and dragged his body into the bar.

Which was when Ami dug his sneakers into the cement and skeetered into a halt.

“Oh, how could you!” The angel glared at Mr. Smith from behind the green-tinted window. “Of all the places, you had to come /here/! /HERE/!” He was shouting now, more in disbelief than anger, and was drawing attention from the passerbys. Shooting a look over his shoulder, Ami gathered himself up, tucked his stick in the hem of his pants, and took three hesitant steps into the bar.

He visible flinched when the dim lighting enveloped him and when the smell of alcohol hit him in the face. It was obvious that he disliked the place and would rather lounge someplace else, but the duty of a Hound was to protect its Chosen, so protecting was what Ami did.

Noticeably younger than many of the other occupants of the bar, Ami unconsciously drew attention to himself. It was difficult to be inconspicuous when heaven molded you into the perfect being—more or less—but somehow the angel managed, finding a spot several seats away from Daryl’s at the counter.

[russfuzzy125]

((Sorry it's taking so long, I'n having a bit of a brain meltdown.))

[russfuzzy125]

I groaned inwardly at the man's decision to go into the bar; I was still recuperating from that damned hangover, and truth be told, I wasn't the most popular person to ever walk through that bar's doors. Honestly, you start a few minor fights and you're branded for life. Bartenders have no sense of humor. Ah well. Nothing to be done about that. I pulled myself to my feet slowly, wincing as my head gave an impressive throb. Aspirin. That's what I needed.

My condition improved as I walked into the dimly lit front room of the bar, and my shoulders relaxed. I've never been sunlight's biggest fan. Night time will always be far superior, no matter how many starry nights are marred by screams for mercy, my harsh, barking laugh, followed by a shot in the dark, lighting the night for a single, terrible moment. I let out a sigh of relief as I surveyed the scene, looking for empty seats. Well, I've found him, at least. That's the easy part. I stiffened again as I saw that damned angel sitting a few seats away, trying to look inconspicuous. I snorted and slid into a chair two seats down from Mr. Smith. Let him try and start something here; with this many mortals, it would have to be a fist fight. I could tell by a single glance that he wouldn't be any use in a fist fight. God may make them to be beautiful and all that moralistic crap, but they don't have a muscle on 'em, half the time. Pulling out a bottle of aspirin, I chewed a few tablets meditatively, wondering why this Smith man was so important. I'm never told beforehand what the reasoning is behind killing these people. Sometimes I find that it was just a whim killing; it makes me feel a bit sick, to tell you the truth. I didn't think it was the case this time though; otherwise, why would he have a Hound? I glanced surreptitiously to my right. Did the kid know any more than I did?


((Sorry. It kind of really sucks, but...))

[russfuzzy125]

-prods-

[JackSpikyFruit]

ooc: Give me some time to think ;_; I'll post in a few hours... >>;

[JackSpikyFruit]

Amadeus didn’t have the tongue or the head for alcohol. His tolerance was unbelievably low. One shot was enough to knock him out senseless, leaving him with a pulsating hangover that made it seem that his eyes were about to burst out of his sockets. It was for this reason that he wisely shook his head when the bartender approached him, raising a caustic eyebrow when he noticed how young the angel looked. But the burly man said nothing and turned his head the other way.

So who was this Daryl Smith, this middle-aged man who had tired wrinkles about his sable eyes and creases about his high brow? He was a lawyer, of course, but a lawyer who would eventually lose his job to live in the dreaded life of imminent poverty, where he would settle down and begin his novel that would eventually change the rotation of the earth. Why should he live in the slums while other prospered? Never before would the rich class and the poor class be anymore separated. Daryl Smith, with his compelling vocal abilities, would sway the masses and lead a revolution that would shake the very mountains and cause them to shatter beneath his bellowing decree.

But he was such a simple looking man. He hadn’t the looks or build of a leader. Thin, fragile, slightly hunched at the shoulders. Amadeus looked at the lawyer with quiet, staring eyes. He didn’t know anymore than the tracker. He merely did his job blindfolded. God wouldn’t lead him down the wrong path, now would he?

Then he squinted, catching the glint of some sort of malicious intent from the corner of his eye. A tracker. He was an untidy being, as most were. It was the first tracker that Amadeus had ever seen. From an initial standing, the Hound couldn’t see what the twenty-six year old could have done to be condemned to hell. Carefully, he watched the other entered, knowing fully well that the tracker sensed him as well.

He sighed. He wasn’t quite up to fighting just yet, perhaps he could talk the tracker out of attacking the human? A naïve thought, but he was still only sixteen, nineteen…actually. So he left his seat to take one beside the other celestial being. “I think you should go, sir.” He gazed hard at the greasy table. “You aren’t wanted here.”

ooc: bleh. Didn't know what to write >>;