It's true. The bed is Very nice. She's honestly suspicious of this given, well, everything else about the place. Is it important for her spiritual vigor that she gets a good night's rest?

There is—deja vu—a noise outside. Something falling on the ground, perhaps? There is absolute silence for a few seconds, and-

"Awhhuuuu-"

The wailing of the damned echoes through the door to her room. It cuts off as quickly as it starts.

"Páter hēmō̃n ho en toĩs ouranoĩs; hagiasthḗtō tò ónomá sou-"

She bolts to her feet, adrenaline lending her speed, and throws open the door. Is there anyone outside?

Yes.

An angel is prostrated before a broken flower pot, tearfully lost in prayer and taking heaving breaths. It looks a bit scuffed, slightly ashen hair and taped-up fingers.

"Elthétō hē basileía sou; genēthḗtō tò thélēmá sou hōs en ouranō̃ͅ kaì epì tē̃s gē̃s-"

No one else is out here. Hall patrol must be too far away to hear the noise.

It's not safe, not at all. But despite herself, her training, she's leaning over it and wrapping it in a tight shoulder squeeze, fingers threading through its hair and carefully avoiding a too-bright ring of light.

"Hey, hey, it's okay, breathe with me. You're going to be okay. I promise. It's all right."

She doesn't know if she believes it but she makes a good stab at believing. Faith is important.

The angel tenses up, the light of its halo faltering for a moment as it stumbles along the prayer. A sharp intake of breath, and then a sublime mixture of an exhalation and a rapid whisper, syllables in a clear staccato. Apparently this passes for a relaxing breath, and its muscles unwind slightly. The angel gently bangs its head on the floor, as something like an afterthought, to make up for the scandal towards the trainee. Its halo rings like a gong, gently.

"A-acolyte-" It tries to muster a formal tone, unsuccessfully. Sounds like a squirrel with a cold. "I am just- I am only repenting. Please don't concern yourself with my wellbeing."

She wraps her hands around its face, thumbs pressed under its eyes to stem the flow of tears tilting its face up. "The absolution you seek is in repair, not prayer. Go fetch another pot, I'll get a dustpan."

There are a few seconds of stunned consideration as the angel processes that.

"Oh."

It almost bangs its head on the floor again before tabling that motion for later. Gently, it extricates itself from the acolyte.

Not-so-gently, it hops to its feet and wordlessly sprints with inhuman celerity towards the end of the hall, turning a corner, halo burning bright.

Silence.

"Well, that was odd." She turns and begins sweeping up the shards of pottery and scattered dirt.

A distant alarm begins to blare. Some kind of commotion outside. The internal patrolman running, but not in this particular direction.

Somewhere else, the duty officer screams at the reserve guard to rally around a storeroom.

The angel comes back holding a vaguely similar ceramic pot, eyes a little vacant.

"Will this do?"

"It will. We don't have time right now though, follow me."

This would have scared her a lot more a few months ago. As it stands, she places the broom back on the hook, and grabs her heavy armored vest before jogging in the direction of the disturbance. It feels like an anthill overturned in here, stifling and claustrophobic, but she shakes it off. Professionalism.

The angel blinks once, twice, several times, with increasing speed, before setting the pot down beside the mess and following after Electra, dazed.

"Is something wrong? What is that noise?"

She speaks with confidence that she doesn't really feel. "It's an alarm. Responding quickly and following orders is imperative."

An alarm. That sounds... bad? It nods sagely at the prescription. The angel is very good at following orders. Especially following orders quickly.

"I can do that."

They turn a corner-

Another, louder alarm. The local PA system starts with a crackle.

"Steer clear of lockdown system. Steer clear of lockdown system. Steer clear of-"

A metal wall inscribed with runes falls down in front of the two, cutting them off from a few recruits still running ahead. There's a distant shriek of agony. 

"-lockdown system. All off-duty personnel, seek cover and stay put. All officers, Code Silver. I repeat-"

It goes on. It's hard to make anything out over the noise, but there's still some kind of commotion.

She doesn't remember what silver is code for but it does not sound good. Luckily, duck and cover is nicely unambiguous so she pulls the angel into a tight turn and starts jogging back to the dorm.

The angel stares at the runes for a polite interval, before blinking, rubbing its eyes, and turning back.

"This is a strange place. Is this a rite of seclusion?" It frowns, furrowing its brow. "Should I keep silent?"

"Let's go with yes for now. Perhaps we will receive further instructions soon."

The angel abruptly clacks its mouth shut, staring forwards and raising its already-stiff posture into a rigid loom, hands clasped on its back.

OK, that's just uncomfortable. "At ease?" She tries, hesitantly.

It blinks rapidly, opening its mouth to speak, reconsidering, re-reconsidering, and very slightly relaxing. Its halo is now perfectly aligned with the ceiling.

She snorts. "The tension doesn't actually make you more ready for an emergency. Be at ease. Actually at ease."

The angel makes a series of expressions within the space of a few seconds, from confused, to worried, to distraught, before nodding and putting its arms down at its sides.

After a moment of hesitation, it makes a... stitching motion? At its mouth, points at itself, and tilts its head. The stitching motion is oddly visceral, methodically tugging at the length of the lip. 

"You're allowed to talk. With your words. Promise."

It nods. Slowly.

"...Okay. That's good."

It considers, briefly, as a kind of impulse, asking whether its interlocutor has heard the good news about their lord and savior Jesus Christ, before remembering that they're in some kind of monastery.

"...You are an acolyte, yes? I sometimes make mistakes when interpreting the signs here. I hope I'm not interrupting your routine."

"Acolyte is a word for it. I'm here in service of God, yes, but also in service of Country." She pronounces the capital letters.

The angel nods sagely, and recites:

"The power flowing from the West shall prepare the earth for the coming of His Kingdom, so that one shall serve God through Country. Operations 2:3...."

And they're back where they started. The tidy clump of pottery, dirt, and mildly scuffed Kalanchoe stands beside the ceramic pot, waiting.

At least it's not on the verge of a breakdown anymore. "So, uh, I'm Electra. What's your name?"

"Angelic asset two-three-two, second squadron of the Basic Angelic Retraining section."

It glances briefly at Electra, brow tense, before crouching down to pick up the shattered pieces of the pot. Its breath makes the dirt roll away from its hands, as if it were refusing to mar the angel.

"Why Retraining, 232?”

"From the Light I am separation into a celestial shape with a particular function. By His Design that shape... descends to the earth and conforms to a more grounded earthly function. Since I am already conditioned, it is a retraining."

"I've always wanted to ask, how do they get you guys to come here and stay here? I have no idea how they communicate Designs to you, I can't imagine they're very concordant with divinity."

"..There is, ah, um. It isn't my place to dwell on it, but..."

"...I am not sure I could explain the fine points of the theurgy. Much of it I don't understand very well. I'm more of a—what's the modern term? More of a charismatic than a philosopher. By disposition. But I am called down by the great need of very devoted people praying for divine aid. And I am painted with the... the soot of the fire of the earth, so that the earth will cling to me. Like..."

It stares at the pottery.

O...kay. Probably best not to push that one too hard. "Been around here long?"

Clink, clink, clink.

"It is my two-hundred-and-seventh day on the base. I have been on the earth for longer before, but not on this visit."

"Does it hurt? To be stuck here." She imagines that the cooption was no more gentle than her own experience with AetherOps recruiting.

It blinks a few times, again, breathing deeply.

"...It isn't painful. If that's what you mean. Not all of the time. Or most of it. Being... affixed, hurt for a long time, but not anymore."

"What changed?" A hand idly creeps towards one of its wings.

The wings reflect a gleaming white, but are a little frayed at the edges. It doesn't seem to pay attention, though the wings quiver ever so slightly as the hand approaches. They feel warm and... clear, even from a distance.

"Since... since I'm still held in the Lord's grace—that is, as I'm not... Fallen, not totally one with the earth, this body doesn't scar for long. It turns unjust punishment aside. The soot has settled under my skin. They're only warm ashes when they're not acting up."

"...Can I see?"

"...It befits me to reward your grace. Come closer."

She's very close. The angel radiates a feverish heat that prickles on her skin like drying sweat.

"My neck. Pay close attention to it. And..."

Clink. The angel's breath sounds a little labored. It reaches for its throat, a small shard of porcelain held between two fingers.

To an angel full of purpose, the devil is the smallest thing in the world; temptation finds no purchase in them. A sinful thought is something to be gently blown away by the course of breath. Understood and released. As easy as keeping an open hand, that it may fly itself away.

Purpose is being rationed here. Hope is kept in reserve. Certainty in the Plan tends to veer into odd directions, left unattended. "Down to earth", closer to the fallen life, it's easier to understand why humans have more difficulty letting go of sin.

And all the devil needs is one thought.

The halo lights up into a plain white bleeding iridescence. Bright, but not blinding. An immune response.

Runes shine orange-red from under the skin of the angel's neck. A collar of embers, a familiar smell of soot and ash, and a light sizzling sound. Behind it, the scent of floral incense and burning sugar. The runes are jagged, thorny, a harsh and violent script. On its throat, in the place of Adam's Apple, a rounded, spiraling pattern, the soot still flowing under the skin, spinning into nothing and coming from nothing.

The angel sighs, or hisses, long and sharp, like a steam machine. Its face reddens slightly, but its brow doesn't tense. 

It's the most beautiful thing she's ever seen in her life. She wants to gaze at it forever. She reaches forward, fingers snaking towards its throat, and -

The angel's other hand darts towards the human's, a gentle viper's strike clasping onto her wrist. Its expression is calm--a content smile, maybe loving. Certainly not judging.

The lights slowly begin to fade, embers reflecting from their eyes as it stares into Electra's.

"Some fruit were not meant for human consumption."

She coughs, a little embarrassed. "You're - Well, that was certainly a show." The skin contact feels like a freezer burn waiting to happen but she doesn't want to pull away.

The angel lingers, too, sensing something odd. It nods in something like a quiet acknowledgement, a concession to prevent the words from stagnating awkwardly in the air.

Clink. The angel deposits the last of the porcelain that it can see on a neat, clean pile.

"In my nature past, I was a guardian angel. There was more of fire to me than thought, but I was also an agent of spiritual guidance. A protector of conscience. Is there anything you want to confide to me?"

 There's a flash of memory of a ticking package in her backyard back home, and she shakes her head to clear it. "No, I don't think so." Hope it can't read her mind.

"Let there be nothing unsaid between us, then. If I can lighten any of your burdens, please tell me."

It holds up a handful of loose dirt, staring at it for a moment, before depositing it inside the new pot.

"Did you travel? Before you came here. And from whence did you come? Terrestrially speaking."

"Here and there, but not far. They scooped me out of Nebraska. Dreadful place."

She squats and starts scooping up dirt and placing it into the pot. "What do you think that alarm was about, anyways? I thought this place was secret enough not to have much in the way of enemy action."

It considers urging Electra to let it handle the cleanup, but, all told, it's not as if they have anything better to do. Scoop scoop. It also very little idea what Nebraska is, though it has memorized the names and rough borders of all fifty US states. Not as a matter of training, though, just because the map was there and it seemed diligent.

"My condolences. And, I am afraid you would know more about that than me. If I were to generalize from some, um, very distant experience, I would say it could be an... internal matter of some kind? An escaped detainee, or some kind of break in discipline."

It freezes, stopping and staring at a fixed point somewhere behind the dirt pile.

"...I would not, of course, cast any such aspersion on your monastery. Which- which I am assured is most finely-tuned and indeed may well be divinely guided."

Huh. She didn't think that they doubted that kind of thing. "May be divinely guided?"

Its eyes widen a fraction, nails pressing against its palm. It speaks up very carefully.

"There is a point of theological dispute regarding whether... His Church, and by extension His Sword, is continually but invisibly guided by the Mind of God, or whether He has ordained all things by necessity to follow as if by occasion towards his ultimate End. It's- it's only a technical dispute. I mean no injury against the institution."

She steps closer to it. "Interesting. A technical dispute between you and, what was the name of your friend?" She wants to know more about these, heh, creative theologians.

Angels don't have much of an ego to protect. But they do have something pouring out from them that isn't their own; the light that seeps out from their crown. And it's because it doesn't belong to them that they have to ensure it's honored.

"It- it turns on an old point of contention between... between many, concerning the Holy Church and its divine mandate. It's clear... from a proper reading of scripture, that the Church has a divinely guaranteed status. But, ah... since we couldn't ever detect any theurgy guiding the whole church as an organization, it had to be either that the Lord willfully made His ongoing interventions inscrutable to us, or that He simply arranged things so they would follow his designs by necessity. The same question remains... here. A question that could only be answered from the Holy Throne."

"And if you could venture a guess?" She's very close again, little puffs of breath as she speaks warm against its cheek.

It looks at Electra--briefly stopping to consider the greatly reduced distance between them; their breaths mingle for a moment. It swallows. It wouldn't be polite to speak into her face at this distance. I think. It turns back quickly in something askew of but not totally unlike girlish embarrassment.

(the angel's exhalation smells like iron and incense, fresh like cold metal)

"...I should be very clear that this is a point of theological theory. Not authoritative doctrine. And... my opinion is of relatively little import in a matter under contention like this one."

It clenches its hand a few times. In and out.

"...But it suffices for me to understand that all of creation descends from the light of God, and that it all descends from Him, and all his designs are perfect; his guidance comes from Being itself, not from any exceptional intervention. From the ordained Goodness of material and supernal reality, and the paths they were willed to follow in the act of their creation. I am comforted and humbled by the simplicity and perfection of God's action."

The angel closes its eyes, momentarily lost in a blissful meditation. Its halo twinkles slightly, but doesn't quite brighten.

It's breathtaking. True belief is … intoxicating, in a way that she didn't really appreciate before enlisting. She's entranced by the halo - it manages to be bright while not washing out the surrounding area, like it's collimated just for her.

"Isn't that a camouflage issue? Putting out light like that is dangerous when you're trying to hide."

The angel's light winds down, slowly, and its eyes snap open, beatific expression falling into a sheepish grimace.

"Um- well, of course. Yes. We... did not typically have much use for hiding, when crusading? But it is quite a significant point in my... retraining. Certain patterns of thought must be avoided out of turn. And by consequence certain exercises of theurgy. To avoid announcing one's position."

She hides her dismay. How could she make it cover something so beautiful? "I didn't say you have to stop."

The angel pauses, blinking a few times.

"...Would you like to join me in prayer? Or... for me to dedicate one to you. It is not... trivial. At my current state."

"I wouldn't force anything from you, outside of a combat situation."

"...I did not mean that it would be an imposition. Only that it would be... purposeful."

"I would expect nothing less. Your kind are made for a Purpose, no?" A slight smile.

The angel smiles wider.

"As is your kind. Should you choose to walk in step with it. Would you will a prayer, then?"

"Usually something like oh god, let me kill this bastard before he kills me, but not far from the truth. I'm afraid you'll have to lead me in this one, but sure."

"Tell me your graceful heart's desire and I will gladly lead a prayer, acolyte."

" ...Do you speak any Greek."

She shrugs. "Ξέρω λίγα ελληνικά." She hesitates, and then, "That I might see you again?"

Slow blink.

"Joy! That is not a prayer I have ever made before. I am humbled and blessed by this opportunity. Very well. Repeat every verse after me, if you will?"

"I can do that."

Few angels will know enough to teach a human how to pray. It is not that they are so close to God that they know little of devotion in the form of prayer—it is that they know too much. Nevermind the infinite chorus to the glory of God that can be heard all throughout heaven, or the million-word litanies sung by hosts of archangels; an angel might pray not only through its mouth, but by its ears, its tear ducts, its pores... it might pray by tremor or intention. It might bare its body to the light rather than bow its head. It may shriek or sing. It may speak so quickly that it cannot be heard. At best, their routine prayers and spoken but thousands of words long.

A guardian angel is a more grounded thing, meant to live among humans and understand them. It knows their limitations, and has considered how to interface through them. And, still, only the most experienced of archangels would consider themselves truly fit to instruct a human in how to pray, rather than what words to say.

But, by god, they will not run out of verses.

The angel takes a deep breath, mind relaxing, allowing its connection to the Light to flow forth, wisps caressing its muted halo.

"...At your own pace. This prayer I offer to you."

The halo starts glowing again...

She stands at attention - it feels irreverent not to do so, somehow. Her lips feel dry, and her skin clammy. It's not every day that one touches something this close to divinity.

Any angel's prayer is a spectacle. This one takes a bit to pick up: the slow ascent of its light, the certainty of its voice.

It is looking right into the acolyte's eyes, an expression of perfect beneficence on its face; relaxed, kind eyes, fondly smiling lips.

(Its serene gaze penetrates through her skull, as if to search for God.)

"O Kúriós mas pou briskótan péra apó ton ouranó;"

"Díkaios Patéras, pou diatássei ta pánta stē sōstḗ tous thésē;"

"Elpízō se séna, en agnoía tou plḗrous skhedíou sou."

Our Lord, thou who art beyond heaven.

Just Father, who ordains all in their proper place.

I hope in Thee, in the ignorance of Thy full plan.

An angel's prayer is meeting with a self beyond self; an identity as an extension of the other. Placing oneself in relation to God.

The room gets brighter. Angel eyes and angel's crown; angel hands and angel's lips. It begins to glitter. Every syllable scintillates.

1:4 "Kaló Pneúma, ē khárē tou opoíou mporeí na emphusḗsei se ólous;"

1:5 "Se iketeúō, agnoṓntas tē dúnamē tou téleiou eléous."

1:6 "Eleḗmōn Uiós, pou ékhtise to drómo pros ton ouranó stēn plátē sou;"

Good Spirit, the grace of which may be infused into all.

I beseech you, in the ignorance of the power of perfect mercy.

Merciful Son, who built the road to heaven on Your back.

Somehow, despite being bottom of her class in languages, the words touch her ears and suffuse her tongue with meaning, deep and moving. The sound of bells around them, and the room falls away.

Golden tongue and blood-red flesh. Gold-shining syrup flowing from its words, miraculously flowing from its eyes and out the corner of its mouth.

It doesn't stop looking. Witnessing. Emanating love and purity through its eyes. 

1:7 "Proseúkhomai se séna, gia na mporṓ na dikaiṓsō méros tēs thusías sou."

1:8 "Óti ē dúnamē pou dínei sta ouránia sṓmata tēn armonía tous..."

1:9 "Kai to skhédio pou dínei stē zōḗ tē theïkḗ tēs morphḗ..."

I pray to You to render justice to part of Your sacrifice.

That the power which gives to celestial bodies their harmony.

And the plan that gives life its divine form.

She's staggering, the room is closing in on her, she can't breathe, she knows what it is to be strung up  before a bright light, she is one she is many she is whoel.

Comfort. The angel has become more like its former, idealized self, less like its earthly self. Less bound to Earth and the material world. A hand is extended by someone, somewhere, in aid, in support, in kindness.

1:10 "Tha bretheí na katalḗgei se éna sunkekriméno skhḗma."

1:11 "An ē kalosúnē to epithumeí na to epitrépsei;"

1:12 "As sunkentrōthoún dúo se éna gia állē mia phorá;"

It will be found that it results in a specific figure.

If it is pleasing Goodness to grant it to be so.

Let two gather again into one.

Breathe in, breathe out, the strings of the world around her made visible. Hand in un- no, truly lovable, truly loved hand, the concept of divinity surrounding her like the snuggest of silk blankets, sheathed in the light of a warm summer's afternoon.

The light consumes consciousness. Or, rather, occupies it; Local substance begins to very slightly fray, structures relaxing to allow more light to flow through.

1:13 "Aphḗste ta astéria na sunkroustoún se mia ékrēxē ieroú phōtós."

There is nothing else but the Voice and the Light. There is nothing to be heard that is not heard, or touched that is not felt.

Never ask an angel for a prayer.

Let the stars collide in sacred light.

In her defense, she didn't ask for a prayer. In her damnation (blessing?), she did very much say yes. It's hard to feel regret when gripped in the throes of ecstatic divine madness, though.

They're caught in the bliss of a miracle, surrendered to the flow of divine. The angel isn't quite lost in it, or at least not in free-fall; to an angel or saint, the prayer consciousness brings an aware, ecstatic lucidity. It touches Electra's hand, golden ichor sticking and flowing with a tingling burn, dripping.

The angel closes its eyes.

Niki squeezes the acolyte's hand lightly, eyes fading as they open. Another hand goes up to wipe at her lips and anoint the other's forehead.

"A prayer is also a promise to God. You understand?"

She smiles.

She nods, faintly and from so very far away. "I … don't think I quite grasped the gravity or the extent until this moment. I understand now." Her hands hover over the other's wrist, almost touching it to hold it in the sacred offering space twixt her clasped palms.

Niki laughs, for just a moment, loud and joyful, the sound of cheering crowds through ringing crystal glass.

"Not a single mind has ever grasped the full significance of prayer."

She comes closer, hair moving in ways not quite real, moved by the light.

She comes very close. And she whispers, like a hymn pouring out of her lips and onto Electra's:

"But I'm glad to have given you some shard of it."

She's so very, very beautiful, like the shadow of a great oracular contraption of golden gears and silver linkages moving with purpose behind a screen, and her breath tickles Electra's lips with the flavors of frankincense and myrrh. She stands entranced for a moment, then moves closer, purposeful, their lips almost touching, and

LIGHT and SOUND of a different kind smash into their crystal, shining moment. Pain, blind, ringing, deaf. Prayers are screamed away and the smell of incense is replaced with woodsmoke and burnt tires. The two are overtaken by a flurry of shouting bodies and gloved hands, held by the neck and arms as they're pushed to the ground. A task force of military police and fledgling angel operatives, zip ties and iron brands in hand.

Oh yeah. They're on a military base during some kind of lockdown. She had almost forgotten.

A sizzling hiss. A scream. A pain at the back of the head. Darkness.