September 5th
Benjamin Cross and Sonja Russo downtown San Francisco around 9 p.m. Benjamin's first few days on Earth
Benjamin, for what felt like the hundredth time, stared at his face in the bathroom mirror. The pale face that stared back—with the bright blue eyes and dirty-blonde hair that brushed against the tops of his shoulders—this wasn’t what he had thought he’d look like as a human. He’d expected someone more… muscular, maybe, he pondered, lifting his arms up to inspect them first, and then his legs. He met his own gaze in the mirror again, leaning forward, close enough to see the light flecks of gold scattered through his blue irises. The body wasn’t a bad one to be in, he concluded, although the hair was a bit obnoxious. He reached up and pushed back the blonde wisps that had fallen over his face.
He padded, barefoot and in just his jeans, out into the living area of the motel room. He’d woken up in a field—literally, he’d sat up and come face to face with a herd of cows chewing their cud—and the motel was the first thing he’d come across that wouldn’t question a teenager with shredded clothing who was absolutely caked in mud (Benjamin was thankful that Jophiel had had the foresight to at least give him clothes and a pair of shoes before the Fall). The room was small and sparse, with a twin bed and a television and a faded painting of a farmhouse. He didn’t care about the quality of the room, only that it had a shower with running water that he could use to get clean.
Falling wasn’t as glamorous as it was made out to be, Benjamin decided, sitting down on the edge of the bed. For one thing, it had hurt—he could still feel the burn all of his powers being stripped away as he tumbled through space. And the landing was rough—he’d hit the ground hard enough to bruise. His clothes had gotten torn and his sneakers smelled like burned rubber. He’d stood up and turned, breathing a sigh of relief that his wings were still both attached. Useless, as flight was now completely impossible, but still there. They’d shimmered in the bright sunlight, folding up close to his shoulder blades, rendering themselves as invisible as possible. Of course, an angel would see them there plain as day, but anyone else (who didn’t know what they were looking for—sunlight at exactly the right angle would faintly show the wings in the form of refracted light, acting as a prism) would simply glance right past.
A knock on the door startled Benjamin out of his thoughts—he’d managed to persuade the motel clerk to allow him to pay the rate the next day (which was today) as he hadn’t had any money.
“Jophiel…” Benjamin murmured, glancing upwards. The other angel, while he’d been disappointed and upset (furious was more the word, Benjamin thought), had fought on Benjamin’s behalf to save the much younger angel from getting his wings taken, the equivalent to the death penalty for angels—it wasn’t pretty, having two seraphim coming at you with their heavenly hacksaw. Before he’d Fallen, Jophiel had taken Benjamin aside and had said he’d do what he could to help. And… at the moment, money would help a lot.
A small velvet bag materialized with a heavy thump on the floor in front of Benjamin’s feet. He reached out, lifting it to his lap—when he opened it, there were golden coins inside. Grumbling, Benjamin looked upwards again.
“This’d work if we were in Ancient Greece,” he said with an eye roll. “A wallet with a few hundred dollars and a credit card would really help me out here.”
The coin purse vanished from Benjamin’s hands, and in its place sat a brown leather wallet, used, with exactly $200 and one debit card stuck inside. The television turned on, and in the static Benjamin could make out a distorted version of Jophiel’s face, glaring at him. Benjamin held up his hands apologetically as he stood up, walked to the door, and opened it, paying the clerk with one of the hundreds.
“And an outfit, please,” Benjamin said once the clerk had left, eyes on the television. His expression was hesitant—he was pushing his luck, asking the angel for this much. The jeans he was wearing, and the shirt, socks, and shoes tossed in the corner of the room sizzled as they repaired themselves. The television shut itself off, throwing the room into silence. The painting in the motel room tore down the middle and the frame cracked. Message received. Nothing more.
After he’d dressed, Benjamin pocketed his wallet and left the motel. He made his way to the front desk, frowning when the clerk told him that it was a good two hours to the nearest major city. The bus ran right by here every half hour, though, and the driver often let people ride for free coming from the motel, since the clerk had done him a favor, that he’d gladly tell the story of if Benjamin had time, it was actually quite a funny one because, you see, he came to me and—
Benjamin simply raised his eyebrows. The clerk shut his mouth, pointing towards where the bus was just pulling up.
Two hours and fifteen minutes later, the bus hissed to a stop at a random corner in the heart of San Francisco, California. Benjamin climbed down and stepped onto the sidewalk of the city. He looked around—it was so much more… busy than what he’d assumed. He turned, saw a young girl staring. The sun was out, it was too bright. He needed to get inside.
Inside turned out to be a difficult thing to find. After checking the card in an ATM machine and withdrawing some more money—his allowance, he presumed, feeling like a young angel again as he slid his wallet back into his pocket—Benjamin wandered through the city until he found a relatively cheaply priced hotel. He paid for a few nights, and upon entering his room, he flopped down on the bed and slept.
When Benjamin awoke again, it was night. He peered through the blinds, out at the lights of San Francisco. He felt the urge to go down and explore the city, find a job, meet people... he'd been in the company of angels for too long, and he found himself craving real human interaction.
He made his way down onto the street, wings safely hidden under the cover of darkness—he let his feet carry him wherever they wanted. He was exploring with no end destination. He could feel peoples' eyes on him, and he hoped that it was just because of the way he looked and not because they could tell what he was.