Vargas watched the scene with intense fascination, even to the point of ignoring the flickering from the screen as it slowly redrew itself time and again. The images changed and taken together obviously were meant to imply motion. But it was so slow, he kept thinking. Understanding the intent of the effect, he still wondered how humans could content themselves with such crude art, if one could call it art. But then humans were a crude lot altogether, with less of the art and more of the crudeness than any other animal in the Symphony.

"What's on the tube?" The monkey was trying to draw him into conversation. She was nervous. He could smell her fear; he ignored her.

Since he wasn't really sure how to explain it, Vargas did not try. Near to what he could make of it, it was a morality play about a bear wearing a hat, who tried to steal food baskets but was often thwarted at every turn. Still, there was no real judgement or introspection. Typical of Man, how he could only think in these simple terms. But simple minds had ways to simple answers, never understanding the question. Perhaps that was why elohim were so fascinated with humans. Even those who, like Vargas, tended to deride them for their petty weaknesses, couldn't help but be drawn by their intense self-absorbing stupid wonderful innocence. Even at their worst, they were little more at children playing at evil. But still, even children can learn and that simplicity belied the exceptional minds, both good and bad, found in the vast cesspool of humanity. Sometimes, rare individuals could rise high. Not many elohim would admit it, but some few monkeys could comprehend more of the vastness of the Symphony than could any of the Celestials. And wasn't it this potential perhaps more than Mankind's stupidity that galled the elohim? Vargas didn't wonder if many of the Fallen hadn't started down this road, full of innocent yet burning questions born of pride.

"What's your name, hon?"

Vargas smelled her new clothing, reeking with the chemical processes that had made it, dyes, synthetics, plastic from the buttons. She was hiding in the bathroom, her body peppered with cheap scents of powder and soap bought from an all-night grocery store. Vargas closed his eyes, his mind searching for something. What was it? He saw it inside himself, a resonant darkness, a seed he kept well hidden, hoping that it would grow no larger. He touched a scar on his chest.

"Suppose that ten are found there?"

But that had been the problem, hadn't it? There hadn't been ten, or even one for that matter, not according to the reckoning used by Heaven that day. Gomorrah and Sodom really hadn't been worse than other cities. The depravity there had been found in so many other places. Why had the Boss chosen to put these places to the fire of Her wrath? Was it really just to prove a lesson to a monkey named Abraham? The Boss liked to play favorites, even among Her children, even to the point of saving that ever obsequious monkey, Lot. But even if they were only monkeys, Vargas still felt pain from the screams from their terror as he helped to raze their homes, scourge their skin with flails of fire, and with the rest of the elohite host, guide scorching stones from heaven to flatten their homes and melt the flesh from their bones. The children, hadn't they even counted in the tally? How could the infants among them be thought to have been anything but innocent? Michael had told him, told them all that the Boss' direction was not to be questioned. So they didn't. They just did what they were told. Vargas still remembered the woman of Gomorrah. She had obviously been a very wicked woman since the Boss wouldn't have ordered her death otherwise. But even so, she begged for mercy, not for herself, but for her newborn. When she used her body to cover her child, trying to protect it even while Vargas bore down on her with flaming sword in hand, had she been so wicked then? He had ended that crying soon enough, but its echo was with him still.

The pain he had felt he could not leave behind in the World when he flew back to Heaven. He had tried to cut himself with the same sword, still stained red, the woman, her child, all of them, all their blood. Perhaps if he could feel their pain, share in it, the memory of it would lessen in his mind. Michael had come upon him, seen the scar on his perfect chest and as punishment, marked him with it so that he would be known through all the Host for his weakness.

"You have a scar on your chest." Vargas spoke to the woman. Her name was Meagan.

"Well, the zombie finally speaks." She came out of the bathroom, wearing a grey sweatshirt and jeans. "In case you didn't notice, it's more than a scar. I had cancer. They had to take it off."

"I'm sorry," Vargas told her. Having been the instrument of so much suffering, Vargas was keenly aware of it. He didn't shy away from it, but he learned to respect it. It's resonance was strangely sweet to his senses, and that disturbed him, somewhat. "You've had a lot of pain in your life." He had listened to her call to someone in the night, her child, lost somewhere. He remembered that vision of a mother, trying desperately to protect the life born of her.

She laughed, but then caught herself, perhaps thinking better of it. "Yeah," she agreed to some internal question while drying her hair.

They didn't speak for a while which was fine for Vargas. But unfortunately, Vargas knew she was incapable of respecting the silence in the room. Rather than let the ambient noises of traffic and television fill the room, she had to hear her own voice, or anyone's voice lest her thoughts wander to avenues of her past, as haunting to her as Vargas' were to himself.

"Did you fight in the war?"

"Yes."

"So, was that Desert Storm?"

Vargas didn't think that much of a war, even for humans. "No, I fought in the First War."

Meagan obviously was confused by this reference. Not knowing what he was, her ignorance was excusable but hardly entertaining. "Um, you're not old enough. My great-grandfather fought in that war."

Yes, here it was at last, the link that had drawn him to her. Vargas was amazed he hadn't seen it before. Her face looked like his old servant's face. It was lost years ago for humans, but it seemed only yesterday to Vargas. That was why the Symphony had brought him here. The theme played so long ago had not played out as yet. It had subtly shifted and altered, but it was still the same, but in a different guise, that of this woman, Meagan. Perhaps it was time that he, Vargas, let her know something of herself and what would be expected of her.

"Yes, Michael Patrick O'Neil. He was maimed at Belleau Wood. Not much use to your great-grandmother after that. He came home neither man, nor dead, just somewhere in between. He had lost the battle of the bottle before we found him. We only just managed to save him. He served us well."

She paused, obviously perplexed. The expression on her face was the same as had been on her Grandfather's when Vargas first gathered him to the cause. She could then have true sight, as he did; a rare gift. But if so, like her ancestors, she had buried it deep in her mind, finding reasonable explanations for the strange things she might see.

"You remind me of him," he told her. "You can call me, Vargas." Vargas had been fond of Patrick, as fond as one could be of a monkey. Hopefully this woman, his descendent, would serve as well. Hopefully also, she would end up better than he had.

"You can call me a cab," Meagan retorted. "Look, I'm sorry I got you into my mess. And I appreciate your saving my life from those goons. But I'm tired if this voodoo show. You are freaking me out and are in need of help. I hope you get it but for both our sakes, maybe just let us forget we ever met, OK?"

"I need you to drive me to Santa Cruz. They're expecting me."

"Meagan took out the Gremlin's car keys and tossed them to Vargas. "Take it."

Vargas let the keys rest on his chest. "I need you to take me there. We can leave after breakfast. You should get something to eat."

"I'm not taking you to Santa Cruz."

He got up. "Let's go. Take your things. We can leave after you eat."

He picked up her purse and offered it to her. She shook her head.

It was time for her training to begin. Vargas grabbed her arm, moving faster than her eye could follow, yet. He put her purse on her arm for her, telling her with his strength that she had no choice.

"You have nowhere else to go," he said. This was of course true. He did not know why, but he sensed it, not knowing or caring about the details. He turned off the T.V. and walked out the door. He stood, unblinking, gazing up at the sun, not caring that she might see his shadow.

Meagan joined him outside, donning a cheap pair of butterfly sunglasses. "You like pancakes?" she asked.

story by Solanio