God's Gone AWOL

[2] Rainfall

Paris, France.

Unfortunately, there weren't a whole lot of safe places around. Earth and Purgatory were technically labeled as the neutral realms, however Earth was in more of a 'No-man's-land' sort of situation. Although it didn't belong to Heaven or Hell, it was historically used as a battlefield between the two. And Purgatory was off limits to everyone except for the dead. So the only places they could really hide were either: a pre-established common ground where fighting was prohibited, or somewhere that had been heavily warded with spells in order to keep angels and demons out. Atticus had enough time to cast a weak warding on himself, but it would have to be renewed every twenty-four hours. Warding an entire building would take a lot more time, effort and persistence, so he had settled for the easier option.

Luckily, the Cupboard was exactly the right type of place. Because it wasn't loyal to either Heaven or Hell, it had a very strong code of conduct which prohibited any sort of fighting beneath its roof and it was warded with anti-surveillance spells, making it a very safe common ground.

Fights between gangs rarely break out in grocery stores. Because grocery stores are common spaces that just about everyone needs to visit at some point and to start a fight in such a place would be shameful and inconvenient for everyone. The same logic was applied to the Cupboard, making it a sanctuary in the war. After the war had been put on halt, it still remained a safe space. And now that the fighting was starting up again, it was still the best place to hide someone.

And that someone in particular had been standing outside for nearly half an hour before Atticus joined her.

"You've taken care of Hazel?" Bentley asked as he closed the Cupboard's door behind him.

Atticus nodded. The two were standing beneath the awning, watching the continuous evening drizzle.

"Why did she have to be Haniel's descendant? Of all the millions of angels in existence, why does she have to be related to him?"

"What's the relationship between you and Haniel?" He asked.

"Not a good one," She replied. Then quickly added, "I didn't kill him though,"

"I know you didn't kill him. However, I would like to know who did,"

Although Haniel and Atticus were both angels, the former had been of an older generation. He could put a face to the name, but really nothing else. The two had never interacted much, and when he heard that Haniel had died, he had originally paid it no thought. After all, they were at war back then. Angels and demons were dying at each other's hands constantly. There was no way Atticus could have known Bentley was involved somehow.

"I can't remember," She said, watching the raindrops bounce off the concrete in front of them.

Something about her tone was off-putting.

"I don't believe you,"

"I really can't!" Her big, innocent eyes turned to his, "If you really wanna know, Haniel died the same day as my sister. Don't blame me for cutting some memories if they don't do me any good,"

Oh. If it had to do with Lilith, Atticus wouldn't press any further.

He glanced at her, but she wouldn't look back at him again. Her arms were crossed and her lips were pressed tightly together. After everything that had happened in the past few hours, from being stabbed to kidn*pped, there was no way Bentley wasn't at least a little upset. The memory of her holding the knife against his throat was still haunting him. Especially since he couldn't figure out if it had been an act or not. Ever since she had reappeared, the energy between them had been quite hostile on her end. Atticus desperately wanted to know what was going on inside her head.

"Bentley, tell me something," He said softly, "You're angry at me for my involvement in your death, and yet you seem so reluctant to live with the second chance you've been given. By your own philosophy, I've done nothing wrong,"

"I have no problem with dying. I'd just rather do it on my own terms than on yours."

Ouch.

"Alright, that's enough talk," She said abruptly, "I need a drink. It's been years since I last got smashed,"

She ducked out from under the cover of the awning and into the drizzling rain, leaving Atticus where he was.

"What about the other people you need to find?"

"They can wait,"

Behind him, a gentle ring announced that the Cupboard's door had opened again. Frances poked their curly head out just in time to see Bentley trotting off and an abandoned Atticus watching her go. They had just come up to flip the 'open' sign, but seeing the sight on the sidewalk, it seemed their curiosity couldn't be suppressed.

"Who can wait? Why are they waiting?" They asked.

Atticus didn't answer, he was too busy thinking about that red silhouette gradually shrinking off into the distance.

"She's a total mess, isn't she?" He asked himself –out loud.

"Yeah, but can you really blame her?" Said Frances, following his gaze, "C'mon, just let her go off, okay?"

"I don't want her to wander. She'll attract trouble wherever she goes,"

"That's all the better reason to leave her to her own devices. Don't worry about her, I think she knows where and where not to go at this point,"

After saying their fill, Frances disappeared back into the Cupboard. Their words, however, didn't disappear.

"After all these years," Atticus said quietly, "How could I not worry?"

...

Cars passed by somberly, their yellow and white headlights reflecting off the haze of continuous, rhythmic raindrops and drenched concrete below. A white umbrella bobbed its way down the darkened Paris street. The one holding it kept his head lowered. On any other sort of day, he'd be handing out miracles left and right, causing flowers to blossom and fruit to fall. He'd be out doing whatever angels do. But today, he was much more in the mood to sulk in the rain. Appreciate the darkness and temporarily let that heavy weight in his heart bear down for a short while.

Because he was worrying. He was always worrying.

Although the night was still young, Atticus was the only one who seemed to be out embracing it. The weather may have been a bit forlorn, however that meant the air was clearer. The crows were out. The plants were being watered. Rain always had a beauty of its own. It never fell in Heaven, making it another one of Earth's signature pleasures.

Atticus continued walking for some time, until a distant pair of voices caught his attention. One was boisterous and loud, almost artificial sounding. The other... was soft and light. Something about it seemed universally familiar, yet Atticus could not place it anywhere in recent memory. Something was very strange about the two.

He followed the sound until he reached an electronics store. It was closed for the night, but the stack of display screens in the window were still running mindless English television, in order to continue drawing attention to the storefront even after hours. The scene on the screen was a typical evening talk show broadcast. With big minimalist couches and a shiny but overall underwhelming studio set, accompanied by a graphic of the host's name.

"Did you know I was going to say that?" The host had been the one with the more energetic voice.

As soon as he finished speaking, an obnoxious studio laugh track rang out from the screen's little speakers. So grossly false and artificial it annoyed the angel listening to it.

"Yes, because I read the teleprompter," Said the other person.

Another empty laugh from the audience. For no reason.

The guest on the show, the one with the softer voice, was a man. That was all Atticus could determine about him, but other than that, he was very hard to describe. He didn't seem old, but he didn't seem young, or even middle-aged. His hair wasn't exactly long, but it wasn't short either. He was beautiful, but not in any particular way, feminine or masculine, sexy or sophisticated. However something about him radiated so much elegance and wonder that Atticus couldn't even bring himself to look away. The energy of this person was something he hadn't seen in well over a thousand years.

There was truly something extraordinary about this random person on this random talk show. Although what it was seemed impossible to determine.

"So that's your secret, is it? And here I was thinking you were a government agent or something!" The host exclaimed.

More laughter. What were they laughing at, anyway?

"Seriously though. You've accurately predicted –With extreme detail– every single major world event that's happened in the last five years. From the Coronavirus to the new ABBA album The books you've written in that time have been just as terrifying. And I'm sure every single person in this theatre, myself included, is really curious. What's the process? How do you know all this stuff?"

Beneath his umbrella, Atticus tilted his head and attuned his ears with great interest as the host continued.

"Because from what I've heard and what I've read, you actually attribute your abilities to angels and Heaven. That you believe this is an actual... Biblical thing. Am I wrong?"

If he had been paying attention before, it was nothing compared to how he was listening now. Psychics in the mortal world were not unheard of. Sure, there were also plenty of fakers out there, but Heaven always knew the difference between an authentic fortune-teller and a fraud. Although Atticus himself had never been involved with the business of prophets, psychics or otherwise, there had once been a whole department in Heaven dedicated entirely to that exact type of thing. It had fallen out of style after God Almighty had disappeared and Heaven lost interest in the affairs of Earth. So seeing someone claiming to be a prophet on television –it was definitely something worth paying attention to.

Especially because of this person and the vibes he sent into the world around him.

"Yeah, so basically what happens is my predictions are directly given to me by the angels of God. I'm not a psychic, I'm just a prophet. I'm a mouth, not a mind,"

The show host seemed a little put-off by this response. Which was understandable, as this kind of exposure to religion wasn't usually done so shamelessly on television anymore, lest the individual's words be compared to the aggressive and often offensive way of televangelism. Luckily, the host just played his own puzzlement as a comedic shtick.

"There are plenty of skeptics in this world who would say all that just sounds crazy," Said the host, "That angels aren't real and that you're... Well that you're also just another crazy religious person. What do you have to say to those people?"

The "prophet" didn't even hesitate in his answer, replying swiftly and elegantly without a hint of shame or shyness.

"I think everyone is crazy, religious or otherwise. But as for your question... Really, there's nothing much I can say," He told the host, "If anyone else can offer an explanation as to why I am the way I am, I'm happy to listen,"

"Well because the predictions you've made," The host offered, "They've always been right,"

"That's not always something to be proud of, I'm afraid,"

Atticus blinked at the screen. Then immediately pulled out his phone and called Frances. He could have just as easily popped back into the store for a second, but this way, he could stay and watch the interview play out, so as to not miss anything.

"Yo?" Said Frances' voice. "You get lost already? I thought you said you knew Paris–"

"What do you know about somebody named Micaiah the prophet?"

...