Stars Have Fallen - editing

i - sandals and snow

January 14, 2004: Alpha Bank

London, England

8:27 am GMT.

Ingrid exhaled, lingering puffs of steam drifting in the air, some childish form of entertainment, yet the girl felt enraptured by the wispy tendrils that dissipated into nothing.

Her muscles tightened even beneath the heavy wool blanket she'd draped over her back, her jean jacket doing little to make up for lost heat. The blanket was not enchanted by any means, yet still effectively masked her sleek, golden wings from mortal view, all the while trapping much needed warmth.

Another involuntary shiver made its way down her spine. Ingrid didn't know what was colder; the wintry London air or her short-tempered impatience.

The hell's going on in there? Ingrid kept a sharp eye on the bank across the street.

Christmas decorations still adorned the bank's grand ebony doors, like the London street was still desperately holding onto the holiday spirit in lieu of escaping the dreary winter months, since according to Ophelia's calculations they'd arrived on a mid-January day. It was 2004, Ingrid noted, as she spied a "Happy 2004!" New Years poster that sadly dangled from a storefront's window.

She'd never known what it was like to begin a new year. A fresh start. She could hardly keep up with her age, it seemed, as the years of her life toppled into the thousands. Arcs made it quite difficult to keep track of time.

Ingrid took another sip of the weak coffee. There was little difference between the beverage and the melted snow puddle beneath her feet. Hardly worth the pounds.

If Phee keeps me out here any longer, it's well worth it, and Ingrid gulped down more, as though the heat that slid down her throat might make up for her uncovered toes.

She could only imagine what the onlookers could be thinking as they took notice of her bare feet, her numb flesh covered by the thin leather straps of her sandals.

Sandals, for hell's sake.

Somewhere in the weeks, months, they'd been on the move, she'd left her boots in a closed arc, a place they could never return to.

That's what happened when the world could tilt at a moment's notice, when the beasts of Downside could arrive at any given second, disrupting a precious balance of Chaos and Order. Over the years, the scale had been slowly tipping towards mayhem's favor, with Sayidats like Ophelia and herself scrambling to make up for the imbalance.

Not that Ingrid was supposed to know any of that, but when she had spent the past (six?) months on a wild trip across the globe, she had learned a great deal about the small Council matters Phee had attempted to hide, no thanks to overheard snippets of conversation and a few glimpses at her mentor's private journal she kept, small notes of the world's end scribbled on the worn paper in Arabic characters.

It wasn't enough to piece together the prophecy just yet, but from what Ingrid had studied from the journal, the day of the supposedly prophesied savior was coming soon.

But, yeah, along the way of hunting shadows and Siads and the other soul thirsty creatures that dwelled in the underworld as Ophelia kept them on their toes, Ingrid had somehow lost her combat boots. And she wasn't the most nimble on numb feet, which explained the situation of the peculiar looking girl that stood on the corner of the London street, sipping coffee to pass the time as she glanced every so often at her wrist watch, the black hands tick, tick, ticking over its alabaster face.

She should have been kicking shadow ass by then, but no--her boots had disappeared and she'd volunteered herself for the boring job of 'lookout.'

Twelve minutes had passed yet the bank doors never opened.