Keary had tried bringing pets back before.

When he was 6, he sneaked a hamster in his school bag. A classmate’s pet hamster had miraculously spawned several and Keary had snatched one immediately. It was a lovable little chap, smaller than his tiny palm and immensely friendly. Upon re-opening the bag, he found that it had been smashed to a pulp of blood and fur by a math textbook. 

When he was 9, he was tasked by his teacher to take care of the class pet over the summer holidays. It was a magnificent fighting fish, supposedly hardy enough to survive even the end of the world. The very next morning saw it floating at the top of the bowl, bloated and very obviously dead. 

When he was 14, a kitten crossed his path. It was tiny and its piteous whining broke Keary’s tender little heart. He brought it back and fed it fresh milk he filched from the kitchen. Two hours later, it vomited uncontrollably, shat its insides out onto everything around, keeled over, and died.* 

The list went on. Anything that had ever come into his care had ended up dead. He had finally gotten the point and given up trying to bring any living thing back with him. 

Until now.

 Poor, poor Cardin Rasheville, half-dead as it was.

……

Mikka the Cyclone spun around from her rig of computer screens. 

“Nothing! There’s absolutely nothing!” she shrieked. The blue glare from the screen did nothing to hide the dark shadows under her chestnut eyes. “Fuck fuckitty fucking fuckshit fuck! I’ve searched for THREE BLOODY DAYS and there’s NOT A FUCKING THING!” 

She rose in fury and unleashed her frustration on a nearby chair with a scream, kicking it so hard that it splintered into rubble.

Lazily, Keary reached out and picked up a piece of the shattered wood. “Amazing. A person randomly appears and not even our resident computer genius can get anything on him. Perhaps he really did just fall out of the sky.” 

The last of her energy drained from her outburst, Mikka flung herself onto the old, worn-down couch nearby with a loud groan, limbs splayed. “Can’t you give me any more information? Anything else at all?” she whined.

“Nope. Just the name.”

“Cardin Rasheville…” She stared at the ceiling above, lips twisted in a pondering pout. “What’s that, American?”

“French, more likely. I’ve heard him speak it.”

“Hmm…” she sulked. “Who the heck is this guy anyway?”

“Nobody of concern.” Keary tossed the splinter aside and stood, ruffling her blue hair as he left the room. “It’s fine. Get some rest now.”

So the angel remained unplaced, unknown.

……

In the darkness of his dream, the golden-haired, blue-eyed boy floated weightlessly upon waves of music. Each note shimmered silver, surging around him and resounding deep within his ethereal body as if tangible, but when he tried to grasp it, the music flowed through his fingers, insubstantial as the shadows of drifting clouds in the night sky. 

I know this song… but what is it? And where do I know it from?

Hazily, he tried to focus on the notes swirling all around and through him, and as they soared away, he tried to give chase. There was something here, beyond this, that he needed to find.

Where are you going?

He reached out his hand, only to realise that he was no longer in the dream. In the soft black of the night, he stared up at the ceiling through his outstretched fingers. The luminous pearls had disappeared, but the music remained, beckoning faintly through the walls.

Rallying his strength, he pushed away the heavy quilts that bore down on him and slid his feet to the floor. He felt weak, like he hadn’t eaten for days, and a feeling of unease nagged at him from the back of his mind.

Where is this place? How long have I been here?

The walls were bare and the furniture in the room offered very little by way of clues. He decided that he would have to venture out if he wanted to glean more information on his whereabouts. So, with not a little effort, he rose to his feet unsteadily, and cursed when black spots immediately appeared in his field of vision. Merde… Willing them to clear, he looked around the room to find his clothes, but only found a thin robe that had been thrown carelessly across the foot of the bed. That would have to do.

It was a struggle for him to don the robe, and he had to first strip off the thick bandages covering both his arms. The dressing seemed vaguely professional, but a little bit over-enthusiastic. Finally, he managed to rip through the bandages with his teeth just enough to untangle himself from the thick encasings so he could slide his arms through the sleeves. The endeavour left him exhausted, but the urge to find out where he was forced him to resist sinking back into the bed, tie the belt into an easy knot, and step through the bedroom door.

The alluring sounds of a dreamy piano melody floated from down the corridor. A recording? No… somebody was playing. The music soothed some of the tension that came with all his unanswered questions, and led him through the corridor and down a stairway. With each careful step he took, the song grew louder. 

......