Angel Song

Chapter one: Chaos

This chapter dedicated to Peeve, my dear friend. I didn't realise this until after I wrote the second chapter actually...I guess I'm a bit slow to recognise traits that are at home in my friends. Rated M because it gets nastier later on. Mostly Dietrich centred, and updates will come when they are ready.

Each hot, sultry summer night in Londinium saw the puppet master awake in a coffee-fueled frenzy. One couldn't let their guard down. Not when a certain underling named Radu Barvon ruins your mission in an absolutely idiotic manner. Perhaps if Dietrich made it back to Germanicus alive he could suggest a ban on the Baron's sleazy flirtations…Or better yet, to make him eunuch…

In any case, Radu was long gone now, having escaped with the bulk of their information back to Germanicus. Dietrich was left behind to pick up the pieces. Unfortunately, by that time a foolish priest on mission from the Vatican had ascertained the identity of this young Terran and the 'vampire' he was traveling with. That was seven nights ago; they almost caught him on the fifth night while he was sleeping. Hence the coffee.

This particular motel in which Dietrich was staying tonight was relatively modest, but a little odd too. Pared back decorations; a mediocre still-life, one of those cheap motivational posters hanging in the kitchenette. Despite the uplifting (?) words it offered on the topic of shame, in Dietrich's opinion to be caught here would bring an immeasurable amount of that particular feeling upon himself. Rabbit boy, darting fearfully between one hole in the ground to another, caught by the scruff of his neck, kicking hopelessly in the air. That couldn't happen. Escape was the only matter here, but required the cool, collected wit of his colleague von Kampfer, or perhaps Balthazar. In his current state, however, reason was treading a very fine thread.

Dietrich sat himself down on the very edge of a chair, and placed a pot of steaming black coffee in front of him. In addition, he placed a tea-cup (bone china, flowery) next to it. What an odd motel. A coffee pot, and only tea-cups? Out of his pocket came a small, leather bound diary in which Dietrich wrote down the day's movements, and calculated those of the next. At the current rate, he figured, it would take at least a week before he could reach a safe spot to evac. The diary was shoved back into the pocket, one of only a handful of items Dietrich carried.

One coffee. Two. Another one. Two hours had passed of just sitting and drinking. Each time the pot was lifted, the puppeteer's arm would spasm wildly. What good was he at planning escape when he couldn't even hold a steady arm? Perhaps a shower would calm him. Dietrich placed his palms flat on the table, and with a great deal of muscle spasms and shooting pain pulled himself up out of his seat.

The bathroom was simple, small, and a little…homely? A clean white towel folded neatly over the rack within arms reach of the shower (draped with a see-through white curtain). A lone bench, with a basin, cheap hand wash and a cracked mirror. Dietrich shed his collared shirt (a white one). It reeked of coffee and sweat. Damn summer heat. A bag of washing powder was found under the basin, as Isaak's discourse on personal hygiene made its way into Dietrich's head.

All Dietrich's personal items (watch, wallet, diary, (fake) passport, handgun and holster) were placed on the bench. In the basin swam Dietrich's shirt, pants, socks and underwear. Hopefully they would be clean and dry before he was due to leave tomorrow. Dietrich took a glance up into the mirror. Fatigue was settling in; yawning black bags under the eyes, a complexion more gaunt than could be healthy, and every muscle shaking. A slight but noticeable deformation of his shoulders, and scars running down his hips had already broken the angelic physique. Breathing heavily, Dietrich cradled his own body…

Hell's water rained down from the shower head of the fairly modest motel. In truth it wasn't anymore than forty degrees Celsius, but to the (damned) tired it felt like being burnt alive. Dietrich ran more cold water, and his knees collapsed underneath him. He feared what would come if he were to drop his guard, what would come if he didn't move with care, and what would come if he didn't move fast. The puppet master drew his knees up to his chest and sat motionless under the water, and slowly…ever so slowly…

…asleep…

…and when he awoke the pistol glaring at his face screamed failure.

Unable to see past the soaked auburn curtain of hair flung across his face, Dietrich could only hear the voice of that priest arresting him in the name of those three holy things. That Albionian accent and faint hint of tobacco…The puppet master was hoisted up out of the shower, soaked and naked. A simple modesty, by way of a towel, was wrapped around his waist before his hands were cuffed and ankles shackled...

At least in the back of this strange car he could sleep as peacefully as that lady who tasted the poisoned apple.

Chapter one finished. Chapter two coming soon.

I have never had the pleasure of staying in unusual motel rooms, so this was just imagination. And I could just imagine that the Vatican officers had been 'watching' Dietrich for a while before they woke him up...Nothing suss.

Next chapter: Dietrich is thrown in the slammer, with a not so pleasant cell-mate (OC but who cares?). And Isaak receives a letter from an old acquaintance...