The theme is angels in the World of Darkness as a variant. This and similar angel stories of mine present angels and their relationship to Man, God, demons, and each other in a much more dark and cynical perspective than is typical for the subject. Thus it is influenced by the themes found in books like Good Omens, films like the Prophecy, and games like In Nomine. Therefore it might not be suitable or enjoyable for those with strong convictions and beliefs about angels. - This story is part of an ongoing chronicle at my web site (see profile) using a shared character. If you would like to contribute to this particular character's chronicle, please stop by. And of course, any helpful hints and critques are most appreciated. - Cheers, Sol.

Prelude

Winston poked his finger at the hard waxy red skin, his nail leaving an indentation. With all the varieties of cheese and he had to choose from, Winston could afford none of them. He poked more packages, imagining what they would taste like. Feeding his vessel had always seemed strange to him. Of late, it had become a chore since he could never seem to acquire enough currency to manage both rent and food. He could of course go days, weeks, years without eating if he chose, using his essence to fuel his material vessel. But it was good to eat. Otherwise, the emptiness gnawed at his insides. Food was what his vessel demanded. Eating, defecating, breathing, all these things came naturally to his skinsuit while being so alien to what was inside of it. Winston was a being of energy and fire, radiance and power. He felt trapped in existence, impatient, wanting it all to come to some end. What was the point?

Winston watched a woman who had helped herself to an expensive French triple cream brillat savarin. Her skin smelled rich and pampered with exotic creams, dried bath salts, shampoo, and an expensive perfume, all competing to define her scent. A reserve bottle of ZD chardonnay, fat green ranch olives, sundried tomatoes, fresh french bread, dolmas and baklava filled her basket. She glanced at Winston, and gave a somewhat suspicious perusal of the cheese he had marked.

"Excuse me," she said to Winston. He stepped aside and she grabbed a goat cheese and some imported Italian buffalo mozzarella. Winston watched the floating white balls dance in their package as she added them to her hoard.

Since he could not have food just then, Winston had hoped that the mere presence of it, the odors of it so rich in his elohite heightened sense of smell, would be enough. But haunting the market seemed to add to his hunger, robbing him of any satisfaction. He thought about visiting Benefice. There was food there; but any bite he took was one that some poor monkey would not have. Families, children, were going hungry and did not have the option of living off essence. Winston would not prevail upon his angelic kindred for charity while times were lean. Like many of his trade, he would have to eat air. Since the woman, presenting as she did, a cloud of overpowering fragrance that if nothing else, served to quash the smell of food, Winston decided to follow her out. Perhaps she could divorce the hunger he felt. She seemed like the type who could kill hunger.

He found her outside the store. Her bag was torn. Fruit, olive oil and packets of lox scattered in the parking lot, colourful islands of taste in a sea of black asphalt. Winston sailed over and knelt down. Without being asked, he helped her gather her plenty and put it into her other bags. She looked uncomfortable but could not think of an excuse to deny Winston's help. He carried her food with a smile that she could not say no to, and put the bags down next to the trunk of her BMW.

"Thank you." Her hand held five dollars.

Winston smiled and took the money, hoping to ease both her conscience and his rumbling intestines. Five dollars. He earned that much for an hour of hard work when once it had taken him a week to earn so much. It seemed like a lot but it never was enough. Five dollars did not buy him what it once did. And Winston could never keep up with the value of increments. Shekels, dinars, yuan, and now dollars. Though he had trouble with finite numbers, he guessed that five dollars would buy potatoes at the farmers market; maybe even enough to keep him from hunger until the next payday.

The woman stood uncomfortably. She was a prisoner of what she supposed to be good manners. Her mental clock ticked away the minute moments where she could again brush Winston off and leave. Listening to humans as they moved through the Symphony was always fascinating for Winston. Listening to Charisse, Winston felt in her mind the unsympathetic harmonic of future disappointment. It was not certain; nothing ever was with monkeys. But it was likely. If she continued in her path, in a few months, some strings of her life would unravel, playing no more. Her song would be smaller, meeker, from this clash and others before it. Subtle changes now would dampen these new vibrations, though Winston did not think they would end. Perhaps intervention would delay the inevitable, but in time the harmonic would grow and the end would be the same. Still, it was all he could do. Winston understood that humans had to find their own way in the end.

"I wouldn't use this," Winston said, removing a package of meat. Charisse's mouth opened and her eyes flared in anger. She had watery green eyes with hazel flecks. "Chad is a bit of a snob about his food. In public, he only eats grass-fed beef. In private, he eats frozen meat he buys at Costco, but he will look poorly on a meal with domestic beef. Organic Yellow Finn potatoes, imported asparagus, this meal demands you use grass-fed. Even Chad would notice."

The woman blinked and swalled her invectives. She was worried that Winston was a friend of Chad. But she was not sure. "You know Chad?"

Winston pursed his lips, reflecting for a moment. He had never met Chad, but he knew him nonetheless. Chad's was one of an infinite number of vibrations that left cluttered harmonics wherever he went. His was a disruptive force that interfered with the rythems of others, crushing their songs to make way for his own noise. That was his purpose in life, sad, but necessary in the ultimate scheme of things. He was a tester, a tempest of disguised cacophany in which only stronger melodies could emerge once more. Winston felt a small voice, a human vestige of his vessel perhaps, telling him he was about to go too far.

"Yes, I know him. Chad thinks he has better taste than he really does. And he likes to find fault with people. It makes him feel superior. If you really want to impress him, you need to show enough sophistication to intrigue him, but not so much that he will find it threatening. His last girlfriend outgrew him and he still has a soft spot for her. He was attracted to you because you look like her. But in time, that similarity will confuse him and bring up some of the bad feelings he had about his last relationship. He does not want to be hurt again. If you come across as someone too smart, or too classy, he will purposely put you down before he thinks you will do it to him. If you come across as too simple, he will make fun of you to his friends, stay with you for the sex, but will dump you as soon as his ego feels it can handle the challenge of someone he feels is more worthy. In fact, dumping you he instinctively thinks will help him regain some of his lost ego. Depending on which extreme you gravitate towards during this relationship, Chad will either worry about you cheating on him and will therefore cheat on you as a way of distancing himself; or he will be very faithful, treat you sweetly when it is just the two of you together, and yet make fun of you when you go out with friends. Yet those strategic acts of sweetness will make him seem like he is a kinder man than he really is. Chad likes working with his hands, and he is very good at fixing things. He enjoys building and regrets that he cannot maintain a lifestyle to the level he does by working as a carpenter or handyman. Yet, he secretly dreams of leading a simpler life. Chad acts like a liberal but votes conservatively. He likes action movies, yet pretends to like only art house and foreign films. Chad donates both time and money every Christmas to a homeless shelter, as a way to pay back when he was himself homeless. He never admits why he does this and is secretly embarrassed when people complement him on selflessness, fearing what they would think if they knew this aspect of his past. Chad never forgets people who help him and never forgives people who he perceives to have harmed him. Chad lacks a sense of self and he seems more defined by the car he drives than he does by any life choices. Chad is shallow, generous, petty, intelligent, athletic, energetic about his passions, lazy about most everything else, and yet dedicated to ideals that he does not understand."

Winston started to tell Charisse a little bit about herself. That proved to be too much. With a gasp, she clamped her jaw shut, which had flapped down when Winston first began to unravel Chad and then herself. Charisse grabbed her car keys from her purse and was tearing out of the parking lot before Winston could finish. Her scent lingered in the air until scoured away by a warm sea breeze. Winston picked up her groceries. He sniffed the rich bouqet of food and told his stomach that this time, it was not an empty promise. He walked back to his bike, which he never bothered to lock. Sliced tomatoes with basil, mozzarella, and balsamic vinegar sounded good. Even Chad would have approved.

story by Solanio