Tiny cracks, little rips, small tears. The Angel’s sword tore through the invisible werewolf with a hesitant heaving. It was hot with his blood and innards, and the area around him and the Angel smelled similarly. The heavenly sword crept from the gaping hole, blood collating toward the edge and dripping. A hefty weight splashed into the wet surface of the floor and sent little ripples around Gabe. The death caused beauty as the ripples sent the clear-crimson liquid cascading outward from where Gabe stood. The Angel, silently albeit annoyed, wiped the blood from his sword on his pant leg, hilariously unaware of the blood which was splayed across his face and which stained his shirt and shoulder.
This invisible canine, whose figure was now clearer, was one of the first souls Gabe has taken since his time on earth began. It was an inescapable, yet ineffable, feeling of power and resentment which filled him now. The resentment lied within him, and was fueled by him. The snuffing of a life, causing death, was something so divine that Gabe, the human, could not help but feel a little like God. Gabe could feel the fear in him welling up like a dry air, it brushed his neck and kissed his cheeks and begged for a place in his heart. Instead guilt pushed that back and forced Gabe to take hold of the situation, he’d need to call Dr. Wilde to sort out these newfound issues.
Gabriel looked around the room and took stock. Everyone seemed to be moving toward the shade gates, from where Gabe had just come but a few minutes before. The people to whom the titular B and H belonged came and went like so many phrases of the alphabet. Everyone was a little worked up, to say the least. Gabe made his way back to his room, jogging, to retrieve his other pistol. Gabe wasn’t sure what to make of this current situation, everything seemed to be going straight into the shitter and Gabe couldn’t tell why. He’d just signed his gun and life over to this organization and they were sure about to get their money’s worth (though they still hadn’t paid him and he wasn’t even sure if they would).
“Fucking werewolves.” Gabe sighed as he opened the door to his room once more. The trumpet was still lying on his bed, the golden surface of it shining like the light of His Majesty. Gabe holstered his other gun, reloaded the empty one, all the while he stared at the gift from god. Why here? Why now? Should he blow it? Gabe answered the last question for himself, no. Gabe knew what the reckoning looked like, as if in a distant memory, and he knew there to be no kamikaze werewolves involved. He extended his hand toward the heavenly brass, but stopped before they touched. The glow from the instrument projected onto Gabe’s eyes and was reflected therein.
An instant later Gabe was out the door and down the hall, grouping back up with Semyon, the only man he could say he knew (though even saying that might be a stretch). His pistols were holstered one at his waist and the other around his leg. His sword was held with a weighted readiness in his right hand. His left came up to wipe some sweat and managed to smear the stain he did not know was there. Gabe sidled up beside the large dead-man and looked around, seeing several wounded individuals, the Angel was lucky to be intact it seemed. Unfortunately the Angel had no powers he could think of that would help the injured parties, in fact, Gabe wasn’t sure he had any powers to speak of at all. “Semyon,” he started easily “where am I needed?” he asked, hoping to be of some use.
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