WHO: The Metatron WHAT: The Metatron arrives on Christmas Eve...and finds himself dropped into the middle of the second plague. WHEN: December 24th; Early Evening WHERE: LA RATING: PG STATUS: Complete; Narrative.
Frogs and flies. The Metatron had been here almost thirty seconds by now, and he was already struck with something horribly familiar. But this wasn't Egypt, and this wasn't 12th Century BC. The skyscrapers were a dead give away on that one. But it couldn't just be a coincidence. There was too much about this that reeked of the Almighty touch. But it was the 21st Century. There had been a reason that all of the Old Testament stuff had been given up eons ago. Faith wasn't nearly as stable as it was back in those days. People wouldn't stand to be abused like this without exercising that Free Will they had been given to the utmost. If they weren't rebelling already, they would be soon, long before She got to Pestilence or Boils, both of which would be ill effective in this day and age. For one, nobody in LA kept animals, and boils were easily dealt with through lancing and modern antibiotics.
You would think if she was going to go back to the Old Testament bull, she would at least have the decency to modernize it a bit.
The squish of a dead frog corpse under foot provoked a twist of disgust to cross his face as he hobbled over to the sidewalk, scrapping the guts off of the soles of his shoes with the muttering of several curses under his breath. This had to stop. He might have been away, but he couldn't understand why the others would let it get this far. Unless someone had been an ass and left Uriel or Gabriel in charge, the prospect of another systematic slaughter of firstborns would have had any of them appealing to Her (much more prominent in AD) maternal side. And given the timing, considering all of the decorations that were donning the buildings that surrounded him, that was perhaps the best plan of action.
Well, they always say that if you're going to get something done, you have to do it yourself.