[center][img=http://baku-panda.org/images/Titans_Spawn.png][/center]
[b]S A M A R[/b]
[i]The Visaya Islands, Philippines[/i]

The girl's name was - [b][i]is[/i][/b] - Maria. Her family lived on the far side of civilization in a quaint town where people still got most of their news by radio. Working televisions were rare, along with working cars or trucks. It was the precipice over which one could see the third world, and yet million dollar hotels were quite literally just down the road. And, yet, the young Hellspawn could feel that people were happy here. There was a genuine sense of [i]community[/i]. Everyone knew each other, knew their parents, knew their children, knew their sins... and their graces. Knew their charities and their debts.

It had been three days since Chris had saved Maria. He'd wound up at her family's home, a meager hovel which housed a multi-generational branch of the family tree. They hadn't asked him any questions, but it wouldn't have mattered if they had. Chris didn't speak Tagalog and they didn't appear to speak English. But they were eager for him to stay as their guest. He could understand that much. They called him [b][i]anghel[/i][/b].

Even not speaking the language, Chris thought he might get the gist of to what they were referring, and didn't have the heart to correct them. Had he, he still wouldn't have known the Tagalog word for [i]devil[/i] anyway. And he wasn't all that certain it was accurate. Not then, and maybe not now. That was part of what he'd been trying to sort out in his mind when he'd been distracted by Maria's near death. Now, she was safe and he was still as uncertain as he'd been when he'd started walking along the beach.

No, that wasn't right. He was even less certain now. About [i]everything[/i]. Who he was. [i]What[/i] he was. [b]Why[/b] he was.

What it had all been for. 

Or even [i]who[/i].

Some rational part of his mind had the idea that, maybe, when you were dealing with the cosmic machinations of [b]gods[/b] - angels, demons, higher beings - that maybe it just the nature of it to be beyond comprehension. Wasn't faith the great unknown, the undiscovered country? It was irony, perhaps, then, that young Christopher was quite unsure as to whether he had any faith or, if he did, what in. Faith in Al? If that were so, he'd have to get another name. [i]Al bless you[/i] was never going to catch on. And, on the more theocratic dictatorship side, [i]kneel before Al[/i] was similarly lackluster. So as a religion that seemed to fail on the sides of both charity and wrath. And wasn't that what [i]God[/i] was? One-half mercy and one-half cast you in the lake of fire, where there is weeping, and gnashing of teeth?

The sound of Maria giggling broke through the young boy's brooding, as the fair haired Spawn woke from out of his own dark reverie with the realization that he hadn't touched the bowl of rice that they had set in front of him. Maria and her brother, Marco, were playing some kind of game back and forth, laughing. Surveying the communal dining table, Chris realized that the adults had all migrated around the radios in the house - the women talking among themselves with the radio going in the kitchen, the men around bottles of beer and a deck of cards at the dining table with a radio propped on one end.

It wasn't music, it was a newscast... but of what, he couldn't tell.

A crack of thunder, drew the boy's sapphire eyes out of the open window to the beach just outside. He could see a breeze whipping through the trees, as white caps tipped the dark waters crashing against the shore. 

There was a storm brewing.

There wasn't room for Chris in the house. The first night, they had doubled up the kids in order to make a spot for him, but he'd demonstrated the ability to do something aside from rescue girls from drowning; he formed chains from out of his body and the tattered, red cape that seemed to be his wings to craft a hammock between the house and the porch. Each night in turn, he did it again. On the third night, as with the first or second, the family said nothing. They merely whispered about their [i]anghel[/i]. He left them to their religion and they left him to sleep.

[i]To sleep, perchance to dream. Aye, there's the rub.[/i]

Chris did neither. He lay in that hammock, staring up at the stars, and wondering who or what was up there. He thought of his own grave and wondered who or what was in it. And he thought of Al, of Hiroshi and Kumiko. But, most of all, he thought about [b]fear[/b]. Maria was afraid of thunder. Marco was afraid of the dark. As night fell and the storm grew worse, Chris could sense their [i]fear[/i] from outside the house. 

No, he didn't just [i]sense[/i] it. He could [b]taste[/b] it. And it was addicting. Not just their fears, but those of all the children in the town. It was like a snort of cocaine, he breathed it in and felt a rush of blood to the head.

[i]Anghel[/i]. Not very likely.

A flash of light illuminated the sky as though, for a moment, the sun had come up. The ensuing clap of thunder seemed to shake the foundations of the house as a torrential rain suddenly broke, pummeling the roof as it poured down onto dirt streets that were rapidly becoming rivers of mud. Grabbing hold of the edges of his cape, Chris drew the tattered, red cloth tighter around his body, before the door to the house was flung open.

Before he could so much as turn his head, Maria's small form had pounced upon the makeshift hammock. The girl struggled to work her way under the tarp-like covering, as Chris pulled back the cape and extended it over the child's small frame. The young girl huddled tightly against him. Chris could feel her heart beating, and yet, she relaxed as she hugged against him. It was as though she felt [i]safe[/i] with him. She was muttering something in Tagalog and it was a moment before Christopher realized what she was doing.

She was saying a prayer.

He hoped she was saying one for both of them.