There's a breeze inside the house, which is somewhat unusual. The sound of something falling on the hardwood floor--is the shelf acting up again?

She swings her feet down off the bed, heading towards the living room. This time she'll get the darn thing anchored.

The sound of a switch flicking- a lamp switches on. There's someone sitting on her couch.

"Good evening," It's really night- "Sit down, now."

He has a gun in his hand, currently hanging off his hand on his lap, pointing somewhere between the floor and her legs.

She does not have a gun and is in a bathrobe and fuzzy slippers. She sits.

"That's good. I'll be brief- sorry for the rush, apologies for the scare, whatever. I'm here due to the results of your job interview: congratulations, you're in."

He gives a moment of silence.

"Before you start wondering, no, you have no idea if I am working on behalf of who I say I am, except-"

He gestures, and two men clad in black fatigues appear, one standing up from behind a table and the other stepping in from a corridor. Both have assault rifles.

"-These, and they may as well be Chinese or Russian, but they're armed, so you might as well not make this difficult. Am I understood?"

She nods weakly. "Who should I take you to be working for, then?"

He smiles slightly at that. "The United States of America."

"You have about five minutes to change and stuff whatever you like in your pockets. One of my friends will help you. If I have to drag you half-naked into the van, I will, so be quick. You won't need anything where we're going, though."

She's very aware that either one of those men with the guns could take her down individually, so she nods and moves back towards her room, kicking off her slippers. "I have a go-bag, can I take that?"

"Smart girl. My friend can pick it up for you. You'll want your hands free."

She doesn't know why she'll want that but honestly asking questions seems like a bad idea. She'll ask her visitor's "friend" to get the pack with her clothes from under her bed, so she can run out back and down into the storm cellar where she has some... extra supplies.

The grunt in black fatigues and a wrapping balaclava frowns, looks over the room, and mumbles something into his wrist. Sound of steps outside. Someone laughs, but no one seems to come to stop her when the grunt drops down and reaches for the bag of clothes.

She's looking for a sealed waterproof case that contains five hundred dollars in assorted bills and currencies, iodine, rolled up gauze and medical tape, a lighter, superglue, paracord, space blanket, several knives, and identity papers with a name that is not properly hers, but could be if one was judging by the picture on the passport. She casually presses a button in the floor that should start a timer. Hopefully she'll be back by the time a year's up, or there might be some questions about the collapse of the building. At least she hopes there will be.

She turns and scuffs some dirt over the button and turns to climb out of the cellar.

She's greeted by her new acquaintance crouching in front of the cellar door. "You can just ask, you know. Three minutes and change. Cozy in that robe? Not very scholastic."

She climbs out of the pit, deciding that the time's more valuable than argument. "Where are you taking me, when am I coming back, how much communication can I have with the outside world, who will pay my rent?" She starts to glare but thinks better of it and drops the robe, then the rest of her clothing to the ground. She's not embarrassed of her body. And it's not like these people want that from her or they'd already have taken it. She dresses in layers so she's protected no matter the weather where they end up, leggings and cargo pants and a sturdy t-shirt covered in a hoodie that's worn, but very soft. Socks and steel-toed boots - there are flip-flops in the travel case. She finishes her ensemble with a heavy coat, pockets jingling with with tools and various bits of electronics. It takes her one hundred and eighty seconds exactly, just as practiced. When she's done, she turns to the visitor and gestures to the door. "After you."

He stares fixedly at some vague spot around the nape of her neck as she changes, frowning. I was most clearly not sufficiently briefed on this one.

He speaks, walking towards the door. "In record time. You'll have my good word with the drill instructors. Don't dissapoint." 

They're out. Men remove wedges from under doors as they pass, her entire floor, five grunts in total that she can see. He stays close to her as they take to an alley with a large gray van in wait.

"Just in case," he adds, and swiftly grabs her wrists and tightens a zip-tie around them, nice and tight, no funny business. Leads her in and onto a seat with one hand on her back and another on her wrist.

She is not a fan of having her motion restricted, but she at least knows the trick with these - she manages to tense her wrists and press the heels of her palms together before the tie is pulled tight. It might not let her free herself on demand, but at least the sharp edges aren't digging into her quite as much. She scans the street and is simultaneously dismayed that noone is here to see her little journey and relieved that this means there aren't any loose ends to clean up. At least none that they need to know about.

The ride is smooth and quiet. No one is authorized to speak up except for the seeming leader, who only stares, now, at a fixed point on Electra's right cheek. It's a little unnerving. The whole thing takes maybe ten minutes--getting a sense for the curves, they're heading to the nearby outskirts, and soon enough, the side doors slide open and the grunts inside flow out onto a grassy field. She comes out the same way she came in, carefully guided, and they face the side of an FBI-black Blackhawk helicopter. 

"Is this going to be a long ride? I think I'm losing feeling in my hands."

"Yes," he says, his face slowly edging into a shit-eating grin and then smoothing itself over, "But you won't have to worry about that." 

A light shines-

Beams of golden light bathe Electra, warm rays that carry a pleasant tingle that penetrates under the skin. There's a shimmering in the air, like a star coming down from the night sky. It explodes into two wings the color of the brightest cloud, wide enough to rival the presence of the helicopter and make well up with sheer radiance; long fluttering robes in cerulean, bound tightly at the torso with similarly dyed webbings and a variety of pouches and pieces of equipment, including a prominent radio at the chest.

A benevolent, smiling face, beyond matronly, a genderless, perfect kindness that bares itself directly to the senses, something deeper than pattern recognition traveling through the eyes, implicit understanding, like you could tell it anything and be forgiven instantly. Skin well and truly bronze and hair a shining silver.

20:3 "I present unto thee Charlie Three, mobility asset ready and uncompromised with no complication to report. Is this to be my charge, o Scholar?"

It turns its warm gaze back to Electra, smiling.

"Yes," he says, suddenly speaking in a grave, formal tone. "She is treacherous in the third way and bears unknown curses in her pockets. Make sure she undertakes no preparations for arrival. Be mindful."

She doesn't have curses exactly. These days, tools use ncurses. "Always am." She can't resist the snark, even in the face of something that reminds her of statues at altars and the shape of childhood dreams after a particularly severe beating.

The men give the angel and the capture target a very wide berth, most moving into the helicopter; having more boots on the ground is no use. The asset already has everything under control, and besides, they'd rather not look at it for too long. Standard procedure.

The angel flows closer to the ground, robes caressing the grass. It offers Electra its hands, smiling with the burning patience of the stars.

23:3 "This need not be unpleasant, my ward. I am to be your guardian and chauffeur. My understanding is that you walk now towards the path of light. I am in your service, within my mandate, as I am in service of any being which holds a wisp of the Light of God in its heart."

"You know, when you put it that way, I probably do have the Light of God within me." She hesitates for a moment before grasping its hands - something about it makes her feel like she's melting, though that might be a good thing. Unclear.

25:1 "As do, if only in the least, all the Children of God, my ward."

The angel carefully, in practiced motions, places Electra's hands at its shoulder and waist, before looking at her seriously.

25:3 "I mean to offer comfort, and you are no unconscious body taken from a burning building. I also cannot carry you on my back due to my wings. I hope that you will forgive me the impropriety of the bridal position; let it be known that your good virginal standing will not be tarred due to this. I am not eligible in matters of marriage."

He snickers. His face immediately turns stony again after, tense, but he snickers.

"Oh, we don't need to get married, darling." She snuggles up close to it, ignoring the warning imagery of moths flitting around a lamp in her head.

The angel looks quizzically at her, before swooping her up into its arms, one wrapped around her knees and the other cradling her back.

It's warm. Not like the heat, cumulative, but an adjacent sensation overlaying temperature. An angel's presence.

28:3 "Of course, my ward. And we shouldn't dally."

...It is genuinely unclear which sense of the word that's meant in. Possibly both. The angel flaps its wings, at once moving several feet into the air, spreading a light wind, disproportionately far-reaching and soft at the same time, glancing towards the Scholar, who nods.

They soar inexplicably into the air. Faster and faster, the air starting to shimmer around them; the wind picks up until it's painful, until, suddenly, it's replaced by a slight breeze, absorbed into the shimmer. It's hard to make anything out, but it seems like they've just passed the clouds. The angel's posture changes, and it seems like they're now moving horizontally. 

She's never flown like this before. The angel's flight makes no physical sense, impossibly deft and making fine adjustments and maneuvering that seem a lot more closely tied to it's intent than actual aerodynamics. She draws in a breath. She feels filled with a childlike wonder, with no fear at all of falling. It's the best thing that's ever happened to her.

The angel is content to stay quiet for a while, focusing on the flight, expression tranquil.

Leave the neophyte to be merry, at least for the twilight of her pagan life. Before the works begin.

30:3 "I never was given your name, my ward. Do you intend to adopt a new one after conversion?"

"I've always liked the name Nova - wait, conversion?"

The angel gently furrows its brow at the lady in its arms, before smiling pleasantly and nodding.

Of course they left informing the pagan to me. It's only fair.

32:3 "My ward, unless I'm gravely mistaken, you have not yet been inducted into the Holy Church of Operations. I am glad to bestow upon you the good word if you have any questions; suffice it to say that your induction and spiritual renewal awaits once you complete the initial stage of your Orientation, that you may fight for the Light of God. It is not as straightforward as the baptism, but you have nothing to fear."

"I thought this was for the United States Military, not some kind of rebirth into spiritual enlightenment!"

The angel simply smiles.

I suppose evangelism is my calling.

34:3 "It is both, my ward. The Church works under the guiding hand of the Lord's Department of Defense, the Light's instrument in quelling the darkness. You will be agent and acolyte, hand and heart of the operational unit of the true vine, under the direction of our superior officers."

"And so that it may be on the earth as in heaven, you shall follow hierarchical precedence as you follow my laws. And you shall follow your superior officer as you follow me, and the Ruler in the North of America as you shall follow he who sent me..." (Operations 1:3-4)

She squints. "What's with the numbers? I've never heard of 'Operations' in scripture."

The angel nods sagely.

Pagan.

36:3 "A new piece of revealed scripture has come to our knowledge, my ward; one that must be kept with the utmost secrecy until such a time as the darkness has been repelled. The great scholars of the Department of Defense have found it."

She's dumbfounded. "And you believe them why? Don't you have your own connection to God to check?"

The angel quirks an eyebrow at that, as a mother amused by a child might, understanding.

It's nothing it hasn't seen before, but it never ceases to boggle the mind how mortals seem inclined to opine on matters of angelology. 

38:3 "The mouth of Metatron has been closed for untold centuries, my ward. What I hold that is of the Lord's is an aspect of the Light, that I may channel His form always and forever. His absolute knowledge belongs only to Him, and His voice, should He wish to use it, is invested in the mediator. The divine plan, the path of the Light, has been determined, and is now ours to travel. The Scripture holds the emanation of the Light, and so it is the Scripture. Forever and always, the lens of the Lord..."

The angel goes on like that for a minute or two, flowing smoothly into orthodox jargon. Faint runes glow on its throat and revealed wrist, a deep red. Its expression wavers, and its tone declines from the motherly into the rote, the hollow. It closes its eyes, and slowly, the runes fade. It smiles again, slowly.

38:4 "There's so much waiting for you, my ward. A greater calling than almost any other."

She barely hears its words, focusing instead on where the runes lay shiny against its skin. She reaches out towards them, as if in a trance.

They're hot, in an additional sensory modality to an angel's warmth. Red-hot, but not painful. The air around them smells faintly of ash.

The angel just smiles down at its ward, uncomprehending but patient. 

"What are they?"

A tilt of the head.

The runes disappear into the angel's bronze skin, and the warmth dissipates.

42:3 "What do you mean, my ward? Ah, do you see my marks? They are what binds me to this realm and to the Church, that I may carry on my duty without losing my presence to the heavens. I may well benefit from requesting maintenance from a scholar, if they seem to be revealing themselves..."

She frowns. "I thought that you said your duty was to the heavens?"

It nods.

The runes flare slightly. Their heat feels opposite to the angel's light, wrapping around in a strange, tense sensory knot. The angel's arms tighten.

4̴4̷:̶4̴ "The Son of Man shall reach for the heavens and wrest the light down unto the earth. You will understand soon."

She shudders a bit, despite herself. She's not sure she wants to understand.

The angel is quiet. The runes lightly hiss and fade, until there's no noise but the gentle wind. 

What little blurry scenery can be seen through the cloud cover the angel seems to stick to suggests they're moving very, very fast; interstate, for sure, in the hour or two the trip takes. They start to slow down, and, strangely, the wind picks up a bit, held back just enough not to hurt the eyes. The angel hugs the clouds closer, and reaches for the radio on its chest, taking a curved path.

46:3 "Charlie Three, Alpha Mobility requests entry into restricted airspace. Transport code Sierra Uniform November, standing by for arrival team."

The response only takes a few seconds; there's no confirmation or reading back, permission is simply granted and the controller on the other end says something hard to make out about the arrival team. The angel smiles.

46:5 "Now, my ward, you will be received by a gathering of monks and their warriors. This is a place of many rules and their strictest enforcement, but no harm can befall you, should you simply follow the directions of your handler. It may be a strange place, but you must take it in stride. Am I understood?"

She straightens up. This she can do. "Yes ... Sir?" She ends hesitantly. Do angels even have gender?

Whether they do or don't, the angel doesn't see the honorific fit to comment on, smiling pleasantly back at its charge and nodding in acknowledgement.

The angel spreads its wings as wide as they go, and they descend unto the earth, breaking cloud cover, and with it whatever the barrier that stood between them and the atmosphere. Even this controlled descent is a bit eye-watering, but it's not hard to make out that they're going down to some kind of facility flanked by hills, bathed in floodlights. Blocky concrete buildings painted in white, vertical architecture extending up the sides of the hills, landing pads held up by metal supports. At the center of it all, within a slight depression at the center of the facility, an old stone church, surrounded by glowing forms. ...And they're coming down fairly quickly onto one of those pads...

48:3 "Welcome. And I apologize."

The angel gently tosses Electra into the air just before they meet the ground, slowing her down, and slams down into the steel. It catches her with raised arms, and, within a fraction of a second, lowers her down into the ground. A group of soldiers in black fatigues immediately grab her arms and hold her up, firm. One of them holds a clipboard, a few feet away, and another beside him a bag full of ziploc bags.

"Search and seize," one of them yells. It's hard to focus.

She struggles against his grip. "You don't need to do that, I'm willing to cooperate!" She slips out of the bulky coat anyways, ducking and trying to quickstep back out of reach. It's hard to take evasive maneuvers when she's still shaken from their landing.

Electra might see the angel floating away, smiling sadly, job done. More likely she mostly notices the two soldiers who grab at her legs and hold her up.

"Standard procedure. Don't move," says the man with the clipboard. "If we can't get this done quickly we'll have to make time by making a change of clothes."

This sucks, she hates this, why is this happening, stop touching her! She forces herself to calm, swatting away the nausea and thoughts of violence against the clammy hands on her that threaten to rise to the surface. "Be quick about it, please."

They are, to their merit, very quick. To everyone's chagrin, there is a lot to do. Two soldiers at her sides (by some crink of regulation, both women) pat down every layer of clothes, carefully removing what they find, quickly describing it, and putting it inside ziplock bags, the one with the clipboard frantically scribbling all the while. Two more soldiers watch her extremities with great interest, as if they were expecting her to make a gesture and set them all on fire.

If she could set them on fire she would. That's her stuff.

After double-checking her pants, the searchers get a... certainly not comfortable, but better than zip-ties pair of handcuffs, and she's set on the floor. The one with the clipboard checks a watch and frowns, and they set off in a mild rush towards a large rectangular building set into the hill. They pass some secure-looking sliding doors and enter a sterile reception room.

Even the armed grunts have to check with the receptionist before processing Electra through whatever this is.

"Mr. Valefar is waiting for her at room one hundred and six."

No one seems happy to hear that. The two grunts directly guiding Electra, hands on her shoulders, take her to a door across the hall.

There's a man in the room.

The door closes behind Electra, as if the grunts couldn't stand to be there a moment longer than necessary. Aside from the gray metal door, everything is a bright white. Two metal chairs around a steel desk.

It's hard to focus. "Please, if you'll sit down." Eyes like black pearls.

He's wearing a suit. There's a card clipped on his coat pocket; "Valefar, Head of Instruction" and a picture of his face.

"Let's talk about you."

She hopes that by the end of all this, she'll remember to disarm the timer.

She closes her eyes.

"What do you want to know?"