Personal Message from LinkinYM: Hey guys, I'm back with a new chapter. I've been struggling to get over the writer's block I've been having for the past couple of months, in addition to various technical problems such as having to have to recover all of my old hard drive data. (Fortunately, most of the technical issues are fixed.) As a result, I had to purchase and entirely new laptop. Sorry about that.

I'd just like to add that I've updated my profile. So if you guys are interested, feel free to check my profile out. It'll probably answer a lot of your questions, since some people have asked some pretty interesting ones to me...

Anyways, this is the third chapter. Well, if you include the prologue, then it would be the 4th chapter but...you get what I mean.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sora no Otoshimono, or any thing else related to it except for this fanfic. All that jazz.

Introduced Original Character(s):

- Jericho Rodriguez

- Gregory James Anderson

- Wallace Heckler

- Siegel Crowe

- Amst-aaf ibn Clouts (a.k.a. Nomad)

"Angels have wings. They could fly to anywhere in this world. So why do they stay with God?" - Anonymous

Chapter 3: Reunion

The suite room of the hotel was much larger than expected. In fact, it really gave an appearance that it was fancier than the amount of money that the hotel actually spent on it. But to the majority of the men there (with the exception of Jericho and Wallace who were just goofing off on the chandeliers), didn't mind the brilliant lights, or the fancy silk curtains that covered the glass windows dripping with condensation. They were gathered around a polished wooden table in the center of the room, with crystal cups of various sodas and beers on it.

A man in a black pinstriped suit held a map of Japan in his hands, and he was pointing out locations with his pen. A faint German accent accompanied the instructions he gave in English, and he pushed his glasses up before resuming his explaining.

"…you have to take this route, all the way to here. Our kind contact, Mr. Yamazaki, has dropped off the shipping container with our equipment there." He then pointed to another location on the map, and marked it with a black X using a pen. "Any further questions?"

Siegel, with his natural intuitive personality, asked Mixim a question.

"Mixim, what about this circle? Is this another dropoff point?"

Mixim took off his suit, and after scratching his head, responded to Siegel's question. Mixim's brown hair was disheveled with hours of tiresome calculation and processing, his chin was already growing a stubble, and his hands were shaking from the cups of coffee he had just moments ago.

"That is the location where I will transport us to our clients."

"Okay, cool. But is everyone going there or what?" Wallace kicked back on his seat and while he put his feet on the table, he lit a cigar and gave it a good puff. The tip glowed and the ashes of the spent cigar dropped off and fell to the floor.

"I prefer that only three of our team will go. And I will not be accompanying them, as we need to make sure that we arrive at our planned location without much issues or troubles. And please keep your feet off of the table." Mixim rose and after straightening his suit, walked over to the windows and lit a cigarette. The faint glow of it illuminated his facial features, his German heritage showing clearly against the darkness outside.

Jericho ran in from the other side of the room where he was watching the television.

"Hey bros, they're doing a show about dugongs. Who wants to watch?"

After nobody responded, Jericho walked back to the TV in mock depression.

"On a side note, why don't we all introduce ourselves to the new kid. It's probably hard for him to talk to us without names to call us by." Wallace took out his handkerchief and wiped his hands, while gesturing to Greg to stand up.

He raised his bowler hat, and spoke. "Hey kid. My name is Wallace Heckler. I'm in charge of guns and stuff that shoot. That's about it I guess."

Wallace stepped back, and Jericho, who happened to hear all of that and ran in to the conversation, jumped forward with a queer amount of enthusiasm.

"Hi, I'm Jericho Rodriguez! And I'm here, to be the hacker and the general funny asshole of the team! And while you're at it, you can…" It was very clear to Greg at this point that Jericho was trying to mimic Billy Mays. He couldn't help but chuckle at his new friend's joke.

Siegel, however, just snorted, and began to mutter. "Why do we have to do this bullshit every time…" He reached into his suit. Mixim shot a glare at him, but Mixim didn't intervene. He didn't want to.

"On top of all of that fucked up shit, I'll make a pretty cool show of my powers later! Along with that…"

BANG

The unmistakable sound of a suppressed gunshot echoed, and moments later, Jericho fell forward like a sack of potatoes. Behind him, Siegel was still aiming a silver suppressed Beretta 92 at where Jericho was standing only moments before. His lips were curled in slight annoyance, and the dots on his skin were moving around significantly slower.

Greg, on the other hand, was simply horrified. Jericho was simply lying on the floor, silent as a brick. He started to back away from Jericho until he realized…that Jericho was snoring. He went from being horrified to just being confused. Again. "What?"

Siegel knelt next to Jericho and after poking him, pulled a transparent magazine out of his gun, and pushed a transparent round out of it. "This is a tranquilizer bullet. Sorry to scare you like that, but he sometimes goes totally out of control. Take a look." He tossed the bullet to Greg. The bullet was clear, and he could see the clear fluid encased within it. Greg pocketed it, and stood up.

"Anyways, my name is Siegel Crow. And I'm in charge of…low impact kinetic operations of this team. I like soap operas. That's all." With a nod, he stepped back.

"What kind of soaps do you like?" Greg inquired.

Siegel simply responded, "Tragedies."

Mixim turned around to look at Greg, and he approached him. "I am Mixim. Do not question my name, as I have no surname. I am in charge of all of the major and minor decisions made by this team as a whole and individually. In the sense of terminology for you humans, I am the commander in chief of this team." They immediately shook hands, and Mixim went back to the window. At that moment, he noticed something.

"Gentlemen. Have any of you seen where Nomad is?"

They all shook their heads. Except for Jericho, who was still sleeping.

A voice suddenly tore through the room. If felt silent, but at the same time, it felt eerily dominating. "I am here."

A figure, in a brown tattered cloak seemed to fade into existence, and was sitting in the air cross-legged. The cloak fell to the ground, and it revealed an individual who was wrapped completely in bandages, all the way from his head to his feet, exposing only the region from the top of his eyebrows (or lack thereof) to the top half of his nose. He wore light brown baggy pants, which were made out of what appeared to be burlap.

He lowered his legs, and as his feet touched the ground, he strode past Greg, and up to Wallace. He spoke in a noticeable accent of middle eastern origin, although of where nobody was sure of.

"Is it safe?"

"Yeah. I've got it, boss. It's in my suitcase."

"Good."

He turned to Greg, and looked at him. Greg noticed that the man's pupils, iris, cornea, and conjunctiva were all pale silver, but his sclera (the whites of a person's eye) were completely black.

"Are you blind?" Greg asked as he waved his hands in front of the man's face.

The man responded in his resonant voice. "Yes," And then he grabbed Greg's hands with a very tight grip. "But that does not mean that I cannot see, my child." The man never broke eye contact with Greg, and simply stared at him. The stare slowly turned into an impossibly cold glare, and his grip began to become painfully tight. Greg began to cringe, and right when he felt like his wrist will get crushed…

"Nomad. Stop that now. It is enough." Mixim commanded.

"Yes Mixim. I will stop." The man released his grip, but continued to glare at Greg.

Wallace suddenly realized what his bandaged comrade was doing.

He's reading him…does that mean anything significant…

The bandaged man broke his glare and spoke, "I am sorry that that had to happen, Gregory. It was…excessive, and please accept my apology. My name is Amst-aaf Clouts, but you may address me, as Nomad."

"O-o-okay." Greg was frightened, and he slowly backed away from Nomad. Nomad was still looking at Greg in the eyes but instead of a cold glare, it was a look of curiosity. The entire suite was silent with the unfolding drama.

"Wait, how did you know my…"

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

The violent knocking was followed by a harsh voice. "POLICE! OPEN THE DOOR, NOW!"

Jericho suddenly woke up, and started toe yell, "Oh shit brothas, it's the coppers! I've gotta hide my wee…" He then turned to Siegel and screamed at him.

"YOU ASSHOLE, WHY DID YOU SHOOT ME?"

"Because you were loud and you were annoying me with your shitty humor."

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean you get to shoot me!"

"Be grateful it wasn't a live round."

"Brotha, we'll settle this later."

They all turned to the door, and began preparing.

Siegel pulled out his Beretta and loaded it with a blue magazine.

Wallace pulled out a loaded Thompson submachine gun.

Mixim cocked his dual Glock-17's, and opened the windows.

Jericho retrieved his Mac-10 from the table.

Wallace yanked out a Remington 870 shotgun from his sleeve.

Greg got ready to throw some ball bearings.

Nomad stared at the door.

"Leave the room with your hands on your head, and you will be detained, unharmed." The voice on the other side of the door was clearly spoken with a bullhorn.

Mixim turned to Nomad.

"Nomad, about how many men are in the hallway outside of this suite?"

Nomad closed his eyes, and after a few seconds, he responded.

"Twenty. Ten are armed with shotguns, five are armed with pistols, and five are armed with assault rifles. They only have three handcuffs. They clearly do not want to take us alive."

"Well gentlemen, remember our team motto." Mixim spoke out loud.

Everyone except for Greg spoke simultaneously. "An attack on one, is an attack on all." Jericho added with an unnaturally high voice. "I think we took that quote from 'The Three Musketeers'."

CRASH

The door was violently broken down, and police officers immediately rushed into the room. Orders to drop their weapons were being screamed at them, and pretty soon, they were all in a situation of stalemate.

"What now?" Greg muttered to Wallace.

"Well, I can absorb all of their bullets. Not too sure about you guys." Wallace muttered with bitter humor.

"Thanks a lot."

Jericho, out of all common sense, laughed hard for a bit. This did provoke the cocking of the polices' weapons at him, but he didn't really mind. He just grinned.

"Check this shit out, brothas." Jericho stepped forward, and dropped his Mac-10. He then spread his arms out to the side.

The same thought struck everyone.

Jericho, what are you doing?

All the lights in the room suddenly turned off.

"Flashlights!"

And by the time the police officers had their flashlights out, everyone was gone.

The entire team was running down the streets of Shinagawa, and they ran until they turned and hid in a dark alleyway. The alley stank of garbage and cat urine, but it was a good hiding spot. For now.

Wallace walked over and sat on an upside-down garbage can. Jericho tried to do the same with a right-side up garbage can and fell in. Greg was exhausted, and tried to catch his breath by breathing deeply.

"Holy crap dude, that was incredible! What was that?"

"My man, I only told those lights to go out. And they did."

Seeing that Jericho was giving a very bad explanation, Wallace explained instead.

"Jericho can control light and sound. He's a Holder."

"What's a 'Holder'?"

"I'll explain later." Wallace began to have a Chicago accent, which strangely wasn't so apparent before.

"Mixim, what are your orders?" Nomad asked, his bandages now rustled up from running.

Jericho was busy trying to get himself out of the garbage can, while Greg and Wallace were helping him out.

"It seems that it is imperative that we accelerate our original plans. I will be sending four of you to our clients immediately. Greg, Siegel, Wallace. Come here." The four of them walked over to Mixim, who quickly took a peek out of the alleyway.

"I would like the three of you to grasp onto my shoulders. On the count of three, I will transport you to our clients."

The three of them grabbed Mixim. And out of the three, two of them knew indefinitely what was going to happen. Greg didn't.

"Three." The air felt like it began to shake, and empty beer bottles left by teenagers on the ground began to crack.

"Two." Sparks filled the space around them, and the wretched stench of the alleyway began to dissipate.

"One." Right when the final word ended, Greg, Siegel, and Wallace found themselves at Synapse.

"Gentlemen. They made it." And right when he finished that sentence, Mixim collapsed.

Jericho shook his head, and with a heave he carried Mixim on his shoulders.

Nomad touched Mixim on the forehead, and turned to Jericho.

"Mixim has exerted too much of his stamina to teleport three men. We must travel to our destination at once."

With a flick of his wrist, a map flew out of Mixim's breast pocket and it opened itself in midair. Just when he was about to read the map, a voice yelled at them.

"Get out of the alleyway with your hands up!"

It was a police officer. No doubt an ensign, only recently graduated from the Tokyo police academy.

"Oh, c'mon. Not again." Jericho just groaned.

Nomad started to walk towards the young officer, but not to surrender. But to look into the eyes of the first man he will kill in a decade.

"Move, child. And I will not harm you."

When the police officer didn't move aside, that was when Nomad lost his patience, which was a very rare occurrence.

He closed his eyes, and a supernatural event started to happen.

Nomad visualized every water molecule in the alleyway, in the buildings next to him, and in the sewage system. He willed a small mass of water to appear in from of him, and incredibly, it began to spin faster and faster. The echoes of the young police officer's gun firing did startle him; however the water flowed gently like a transparent snake, to stop the bullets from hitting him. As the bullets fell out of the levitating pool of water, Nomad opened his eyes. The water separated into smaller balls, and they unleashed themselves onto the poor officer.

They ripped and tore holes through the officer as they shot through him, and in an instant, the officer looked like he was the one that got obliterated with a shotgun.

As Nomad thanked the water for helping him, Jericho dumped Mixim into the trunk of a red punch buggy in front of the alley. He covered him with a tarp that was in the alleyway, and walked over to the driver's door.

"Yo, I'll try to jack this, so can you navigate?"

"Certainly."

Jericho pulled out a screwdriver, and as he began to hot-wire the buggy, he asked Nomad. "Yo, Nomad."

"Yes?"

"Where are we going anyways?"

Jericho closed the compartment under the driving wheel, and he motioned to Nomad to get in.

"You were not paying attention?"

Nomad sat in the passenger seat and strapped his seatbelt on.

"No, I was watchin' some dugongs."

Jericho retrieved Mixim from the trunk, and quite literally tossed him into the back seat. He got into the driver's seat where he pulled out what looked like a crab fork and shoved it into the ignition key. The engine began to roar, and then settled to a low hum.

Nomad pulled out the map and read the location that was written on it.

"It seems that we will be driving for a very long time."

"Why?"

"Because we will drive to a location called, 'Sorami-cho'."

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