It was a brilliant, cloudless Sunday in London, and the summer sun was beating down heavily on the two figures that had suddenly appeared behind Westminster Abbey.
Ugh. Thought Arael. My head... she opened her eyes and was blinded by intense sunlight. OWWWW! That did NOT help!
She reached up her hand to block the sunlight and realized something. Hey, wait a sec... I can't feel my wings...
She felt along her shoulder blades to be certain. Crap! What the heck happened?
Worry not. Said a voice in her head.
GAH! Who said that?
Well, me, of course. That is, Metatron.
As her eyes adjusted, Arael noticed that she was laying on cool pavement with her head only a few inches away from a large church. On the ground next to her lay a fairly tall, brown haired teenager with his arm thrown across his face.
As I was saying, you need not worry. Our angelic forms would be far too conspicuous in this realm, so we have been incarnated in forms that appear mortal. In short, we have been disguised as wizards, though we still possess all of our divine energies.
Okay... wait, how is it that you can hear my thoughts?
Um, okay... whatever. Where are you?
Right next to you. Arael cast a surprised glance towards the somewhat scrawny teen, whose arm still covered his eyes.
Hey, why are you a teenager!? Aren't you, like, several millennia old?
Metatron lifted his arm just high enough to give her an annoyed glance. Where you expecting me to incarnate as a small pile of dust? You do know that all angels appear as youths, yes?
Arael looked up and began scanning their surroundings. I guess. It's just kind of strange. I mean, you look my age.
Arael stretched, yawned, and pulled herself up to a sitting position. I think this telepathy is making my headache worse. Can we just, like, talk normally?
"Very well." Said Metatron as he too sat up, hand pressed to his forehead. "Ergh... what is this pounding sensation in my head?"
Arael frowned. "It's a headache, dude. Haven't you had headaches before?"
Metatron shot her a baleful glare. "I am an Archangel of The Lord. Archangels are not supposed to experience headaches."
Arael sighed. "Well, I can tell this is going to be a barrel of fun. Hey, Met-" she caught herself. "Uh, two things. One-what the heck am I supposed to call you?"
Metatron raised an eyebrow. "Can you not simply call me Metatron?"
"Riiiight. I can see that going well." She cleared her throat. "Hey, sir, can I get your name?" She switched to a deeper, gruffer voice. "Mine title be Metatron, angel of The Lord." She looked back at Metatron. "You really see no problem with that?"
"Are you saying I should alter my name?" Metatron looked confused.
"Yeah, sure. Oh, I know!" Arael grinned. "How about... John Smith!"
"No... that doesn't sound right..." The Archangel stroked his imaginary beard.
"I know!" He said, snapping his fingers. "Call me Matt. Matt Eron."
Arael eyed him quizzically. "Matt Eron...?"
Metatron smiled. "Anagram for Metatron. I do love anagrams..." He shook his head. "Anyways, you had two questions?"
"Oh, yeah." Arael looked around again. "Where the heck are we?"
Metatron yawned. "Oh, something like... Westminster Abbey, London, England, United Kingdom of Great Britain and North Ireland, July 1st, 1995. Probably."
"That was oddly specific." Said Arael. "Any idea, then where we're supposed to go?"
"Erm, well... no, not really." He replied.
"Wait, you have no idea where we're supposed to go?"
"No, I do not. However, you would have been the one to specify where and when he arrived."
"Oh..." Said Arael. "Uh... does that mean that anything I might have suggested at the time would be included in this world?"
Metatron raised an eyebrow. "Yes, as a matter of fact. Why do you ask?"
"Oh, no reason." She said innocently. "Anyways, I think I put him in an apartment across town, so we should probably get going and find him as soon as possible."
"Oh, wait!" Metatron said loudly. "What should I call you?"
Arael turned around, a small grin on her face. "Call me Ariel. Ariel Knight. It was my name IRL."
Metatron scratched his head. "IRL...?"
Arael chuckled. "Don't worry about it, dude. Just follow me!" She began to walk... But after a moment she stopped.
"Why have you stopped?" Metatron asked.
"I just realized I have no idea how to get there." She looked around.
They had come out from behind the Abbey and now stood near the edge of the road.
"If only we had a map..." She said to herself.
"Well, there seem to be some right over there. I will acquire one." Metatron said.
"Oh, good job Metaimean Matt!" She turned to face him.
That was when she noticed Metatron was trying to cross the street.
"Wait! Matt, Metatron, whatever, Stop!"
Metatron turned around. "What?"
Metatron was then hit by a slightly out of control transit bus, slamming the archangel into the ground.
"Oh, frak! Frak frak frak frakitty frakking fraktose of frak!" Arael shouted as she ran towards the accident.
"Metatron, you all right? Talk to me!" Metatron lay limply, with a bleeding gash on his head and a small trickle coming out of his mouth. "Fraaaaaaak! Hey!" she turned to the crowd of onlookers that was forming. "Somebody call an ambulance!"
Several hours later.
Metatron felt numb. His whole body, in fact, throbbed with a dull, numb pain. With considerable difficulty he blinked his eyes open.
He seemed to be lying on some sort of bed in a brightly lit room. There was something on his chest, although he couldn't quite make it out.
"Where…?" He asked, his voice rasping.
The something sat up quickly. "Oh! You're awake!" She yelped.
"Where am I?" He asked, a cough coming to his throat. It was a strange sensation, coughing. He'd never experienced it before.
"You're in the hospital." They said, voice shaking. "You got hit by a bus."
Metatron tried to bring up a hand to wipe the blurriness out of his eyes but he couldn't seem to move it.
"My arm… is it still there?"
"Yes! Yes, of course it is, it's just in a cast."
"You… don't know what a cast is?" She paused. "Well…" she looked away. "You broke a lot of bones. You're apparently healing up really quick, but it's still going to be a couple of months before they let you out."
"And… who are you, again?"
She glanced back. His vision must have been starting to clear, because he could make out a strange sadness in her eyes. "I'm Arael, remember?"
And he did. Of course he did. "I'm sorry. I suppose I can't help you in this condition."
"Wait, what are you saying?" Arael's eyes widened. "Are you going to give me the 'mission is too important' line?"
Metatron blinked. "The what?"
"The whole 'you must carry on without me' speech?"
"Well, yes. You must. I am incapacitated. You must stop Lelouch."
"To hell with that!" Arael said, rising from her seat. "It's my fault you got into this mess, it's my fault you got hurt so badly, and it's my job to make sure you get better!"
"I do not see how it is your fault-"
"I lead you here, and you stepped in front of a frakking bus! Speaking of which, why did you do that?!"
"Erm…" Metatron looked down at his cast-encased hand. "This is rather embarrassing… I have never been out of heaven before."
Arael raised an eyebrow. "What?"
Metatron sighed. "I am the scribe of The Lord. In the early days I sat by God's feet and wrote Their teachings, sending them on to Michael or Gabriel to pass to the prophets of Earth. I was never intended to do The Lord's work on Earth. In recent times we have had a great many more angels, and now I am simply the supervisor for the great host of God's scribes. An unnecessary one at that. I have spent the last few centuries in the library of heaven, reading all of he works of earth. I had only just gotten to the eighteenth century when this mission arrived."
Arael stared at him, slack jawed. "So you're telling me… you've never heard of the internet? Or cars? Or Television?"
"Well I've heard of them, of course." Metatron said. "I just haven't studied them in depth. Gabriel and Raphael have pestered me more than once into watching a movie or television show with them." He scowled at the thought. "I never did like how I was portrayed in Supernatural…"
"Well, then, what did you think was going to happen when you stepped right out into London traffic? Speaking of which, how are we even vulnerable to that?"
"It's part of our disguise. If we remained as angels, we would be detected by the ministry of magic's department of mysteries and we'd have to deal with them and Lelouch at the same time. We still have our power, but it has been converted into wizarding magic instead and our bodies are relatively mortal."
"Well crap." Arael said as she sat back down again.
"As I was saying, you should really go find Lelouch and-" Metatron suddenly found a finger covering his lips.
"Shut up. I am not going to leave you alone in a full body cast in a British hospital. Is that clear?"
Metatron could see anger in her eyes, but it did not seem to be directed at him. After a moment, he closed his eyes. "Very well. You realize this means that Lelouch will have a several-month head start on us, yes?"
Arael did not blink. "Yes. I do."
Metatron sighed. "Well, since you're going to stay, would you kindly fetch me a glass of water? My throat is parched."
Arael stood up slowly. "Sure… Mister Fontaine." She grinned.
Arael rolled her eyes. "I am going to have to teach you some basic geek culture, won't I?"
"What is a…" She was already gone.
Metatron looked out the window at the pale London sky.
This does not look good. We are powerless without wands, and if she doesn't go to find Lelouch soon…
He set the thought aside. He'd worry about it if, and when, there was a problem. For now, they could only wait.