Arc Angelical Series : Michaels Story, Archangel of Protection

Seeking Michael

22 years later

Jene, Michael's chosen angel warrior sidestepped around the piles of long-dead weeds and broken rusted parts on the grimy streets of Michaels's hometown. The sweltering Australian sun heated his dark skin to an uncomfortable temperature as he shrugged on the basic jacket he had purchased at the small town's only store. His sharp eyes were peeled to the dilapidated road as he avoided ankle-breaking potholes.

The occasional farmhouse; wooden and battered sat hunched like old men against the flat yellowing wheat as far as the eye could see.  As he followed his angelic instincts towards Michael he couldn't help but doubt. In human form, his emotions crippled his normal angelic confidence, the pains of the human ego.

How was he, a simple warrior angel meant to protect the Archangel of Protection? As well as wake up his divine soul? It all seemed a little far fetched to him, even as an angel.

Despite all his training, he could not help the anxious thoughts whirling around within him. He was thankfully broken from his stressed state at the sound of shuffling footsteps ahead of him. He looked up swiftly, his dark hair brushing his shoulders softly as he observed the stranger.

The young man in front of him wandered towards his still figure. His chestnut short hair glowed like amber in the blazing sun as he wandered lazily towards Jene. The young man had a certain swagger to his walk, his light green singlet with worn black shorts flapping in the dusty wind kicking up over the endless pastures. His clothes only highlighted the speckled state of his skin, an unnatural brown from years of painful sunburns and farm labour.

Bright green eyes etched with suspicion, curiosity and surprisingly a muted darkness met his own somber silver ones. His peeling skin created a curious pattern of dark and lighter skin on the young man's face. Like the colourful coat of a wild animal. Scars of survival and hardiness.

" Whatcha doin' here. Who are ya mate? " 

The local's gravelly voice shook Jene out of his studious observations. 

" Hi, my name is Jene. I was wondering whether you would be so kind as to show me where Michael Shield is. My aunt requested I stay with them for a while. I'm his cousin they're expecting me." 

Jene internally cringed at his tone. His voice rushed out quickly yet still sounded too clipped and polished, his accent was a little off. Years of training on human culture and language could not prepare him for rural Australia. Neither could a day in the human realm take away his divine realm accent.

The young guy coughed and took a wooden toothpick out of his worn shorts before chewing on it and raking his piercing eyes up and down Jene's person.

" You ain't look like Mike's cousin. You ain't act like him either. What's with the outfit Sherlock?" 

The guy continued to stare at him. Suspicion burning in the deep green, yet oddly enough maliciousness lingered there.

Jene looked down at himself. Dark trousers, dark jacket.  He had simply bought what he found comfortable.  The hot discomfort he realised was coming from his lack of dressing to the conditions. This was simply comfortable. The closest to his training gear he had found.

" My apologies. The plane was cold over, I did not realise it would be so hot." 

Jene spoke calmly. He would not let a young human male mess up his mission. He was a chosen protector for goodness sakes. He could do this. He looked to be this guy's age in human form. He could blend.

To his relief, the guy in front of him laughed heartily yet his energy was still off. The darkness within this male was something not quite human. Jene mentally shook himself at his suspicions just as the other male spat the toothpick out onto the cracked tarmac beneath them. 

" Man, you must be a pom."

Jene's training kicked in and he forced an easy laugh. His voice sounded too melodic, even out of the divine realm.

" Yes, I suppose you are right. I am from England. I do enjoy a good Sherlock episode here and there."

Jene stammered out, attempting to keep calm. The half-truths were getting to him yet he had barely been in the mortal realm for 10 minutes.

" Whatever mate. Follow me ya? Shields aren't home. On a family trip. Left Michael to take care of the property. Shitty parents ay?" 

The guy turned around, his blackened soles thumping steadily across the rough tarmac. Jene followed quickly. His runner clad feet thudding quietly against the mottly road.

" I'm Al. Michaels's best mate. Welcome to Dusty Creek, South Australia. Population 17. Yet most are away holidaying. No one wanna stay in the shit hole and look after their farms. Animals are independent ya." 

The guy loped along, his figure easily the same as Jene's 6ft.

" Mike's probs out with the tractor. God knows when we will get rain though. So why is he bothering? That's the million-dollar question." 

Al stated blandly.

Jene winced slightly at this. You mention God's name. He watches you. Like summoning. Jene really did not want him to see this. It was pretty embarrassing trying to be human.

Al's auburn hair glimmered softly as he quickly turned and looked out over the expansive horizon.

" Bugger !" 

Al's voice was equal parts alarm and boredom as he pointed a tan peeling arm towards the left of the dilapidated road. Jene followed his gaze, not noticing anything other than a few old remains of long-abandoned houses and rusted machinery. Fields of yellowing wheat and a light blue sky. A sunburnt country. 

" What's wrong?" 

Jene asked calmly. His voice was devoid of emotion. Al huffed angrily. 

" Friggin city slicker. We got a dust storm coming. Big one at that. See the brown cloud line." 

Jene looked closely at the horizon and gasped quietly as he assumed what was a darker field was actually the startings of a swirling dust cloud headed their way. His eyes were human down here and it was a significant change from his usual angelic senses. He felt like he was walking around half-awake.

" Aight, well we probably have 20 minutes at best. These things are the devil himself." 

Al huffed, briskly walking away. At the mention of the devil, Jene's dark skin blanched. Samael wasn't to be mentioned at home. Fallen archangels were never spoken about, especially so candidly. 

2 minutes later Jene found himself standing on a sweet woven doormat saying 'Home is where the dogs are.' Stomping over the top of it Al swung the frayed fly screen open to the aging house with a large banging noise and a metallic croak from the abused door. White paint peeled on the outside like ribbons revealing the pale mottly wood underneath. With a deep breath, trying to ignore the sweat that trickled down his nervous form he followed Al's turbulent energy into the older cottage.