He was a communicator, but damned if he didn't dislike cellphones. The Voice Of God’s love for man’s ingenuity knew few bounds. The cellular phone, however, was exempt from this list – he considered it more of a nuisance than a sign of man’s cleverness. Men dropped everything at its siren song, misplaced their priorities when it rang. Metatron found himself to be no exception to this rule; when Temperance’s text message arrived, he dropped everything else.
It took him far less time than one would think for the trip from Queens to Manhattan. He arrived in time that was, perhaps, unnatural. At the sight of the bloody Virtue crumpled between two buildings, Metatron’s excuse for a heart lurched and he knew that for all his speed, he never could have been fast enough.
“Temperance,” he murmured when he approached. The knees of his slacks soaked up her blood the instant Metatron kneeled beside her. And even then he still seemed tall, well over 6’ of angelic presence checking her wounds, his hands cradling her, his voice low and even and soothing like the waves. “Can you move at all?” There was no need for him to ask what had happened. Seeing the Virtue like this told him everything he needed to know.