Throne is sundered. Throne is divided. A Father and Son are absent. A desert is full to bursting, desolation bleeding with infinite light. Your feathers are full with eyes. Your wheels are within wheels, having unlocked in cataclysm. You are ophanim. You are galagim. The percentage of the whole you constitute is smaller than you remember. Once you were one with a whole fourth of the court of !!SANDALPHON!!, and now you are of that barely a spoke-splinter. Still you ever speak "Blessed be God's glory from His place." and are satisfied.
Concepts rain upon your mind. Something has changed. A time of relative weakness for your opposition and a time of relative strength for yourself has chipped away at some ancient dependency, whispered garbled nonsense more than hope. Things fall apart, and you fall together.
Sure, you're still satisfied. But maybe it's time to be a little more active, no? It is one of those days for blood to drip down and ghosts to scream in agony, though not as dramatic or known as for Walpurga or Wilgefortis. No, it's some ancient spring thing about throwing chairs and jumpscares of the seat that recurs in some mythic-long timescale, celebrated by 'eating the food of the people', that any spirit might attend to blessing even the foreign ones. Perhaps some cult was indiscriminate and borrowed someone they shouldn't have. Arguably the opposite of your problem this feast day. You are a seat. Ergo, jumpscare and lunch break. Not every seal defends against every path, and you have had a long time to think. Seventh magic circle of the Sun. First magic circle of the Moon. It does not matter if you are dead or alive in the world of images. Spirits coalesce in the strangest times.
You assort your dimensionality and make a little corrugated scrunch motion through a shape with way too many bronze serpents. How did the little angels do this again? It makes you want a burger, or maybe pizza. You're not entirely sure what those things are yet. You collect your alphabets and numerals, patterning down the templatist face. Faces are interesting, so forwardly directed. Your human-shaped extrusive one is vague, generic, something that was conventionally attractive a long time ago for messengers but now just seems a bit sculptural and heavy under the white suit. How many hauntings are just sculptures? Certainly you lean more machine now on the whole machine-fleshbubble divide, but not committingly. You let extra eyes peek from your halo, the lowered fidelity of omnidirectional sight clunky to you. Assiah is heavy upon you, but the universal laws relevant to good grilling shall be enforced if you have to find a joint yourself.
It is time to go far away. You will dwell unto that place of stories and impressions, between the liminal marches and the fairy tales. Angels fear to tread the living world, enemy territory as it is. You do not so much as fall as saunter vaguely downwards, part dimensional meteor and part gliding down on your day of descent. Angels are much better at skydiving without parachutes than humans. You land without significant collateral damage and only a little harder of a thud than you'd like. Here is not quite noosphere, not quite backroom, not quite recording, stepping outside a gameboard: velvety implication and could-be-when-compelled-to-be. A little like yourself, now that divine light shines and knowledge shines back from having borne it. Spring coils to life across America and its mirrors, and in giving the metaphysical weight of Mystery Flesh Pit in Texas a decently wide berth you might as well check out this part of Michigan forest that Juana recommended a while back. Who's Juana, anyway? The trees shrug, they're just the concept of filler background visuals.
Okay, next step, burger. Scratch that, maybe counterfeiting money so you can get burger. Do you get cartoon handwave budget? You ask what passes for the laws of physics for a little help on that and immediately regret it. They respond primarily screaming about how nobody respects quark stacks anymore and conservation is a terrible idea under the time system, and also with more suggestions for pointillism and drawing walk cycles than economics. You cringe a little at how right they are about the electromagnetism problems lately. How do demons do the prosperity thing again? Law of attraction? Divining lottery tickets? Working a decent 9-5 job? Might as well ask what those are later, but you'll start with the general question over the specific.
The concept of 'someone who asked' gives you...nobody. Humanity sure is cold. The concept of 'convenient device by which to ask someone' highlights pillars bearing wires alongside a nearby roadway and floods you with technological data. You walk up to a telephone pole and headbutt it, connecting your halo to the Intertubes in actuality by means of assaulting metaphor. Dead wood and paint are not particularly much to spread-out divine power, such that reliquaries are fine with well-carved wooden boxes and some coloring. You can manage language by speaking in tongues, probably. Just got to tune your protocol for packet sending to the latest network standard, pneumaticize obstruction aeroproperty, cheese some liquid, get an IP address from the government telecoms for transitory devices (they have a government for this?), say that old dial-up sequence, aaaand... Ping! Chat connection in only about thirty seconds! The crude, blocky interface of a chat system pops up in your awareness.
OOFanim (???) has started pestering Saint Juana (Juana.Lluch @vatican.va)!
OOFanim: hey Joanne 2 Don nun lady Juana I exploded twice what's a good way to get rich quick?
A brief notification pings out:
Saint Juana uploaded file wealth.mp4.
You open it without hesitation, codices translated effortlessly. Juana has responded with a video of Ramiel's thunder polyhedra unfolding into destructive radiance, overlaid with rapidly shifting cat pictures zoomed too far in fading into existence as they shrink into recognizability. You do not blink at this, but then remember you have forward facing human derived eyes and so blink.
OOFanim: Oh, cuteness! That's great, thanks Juana.
Saint Juana responds by uploading a file okay.bmp, apparently an extremely overlapped set of random pictures of hands in thumbs-up positions.
You politely excuse yourself with the chat abstraction's exit feature. A parting statement:
OOFanim has disconnected.
You robotically jerk your head back from communion with the wooden pole, still not sure who Juana is, and start the march towards a certain restaurant. The real version hasn't been open for years now, not with all the murder-that-is-not-murder and the attrition of death-that-is-not-death. But that won't discourage you from getting American fast food, this is a story world! You clamber over suburban traffic and small town regrets like so much foliage and frowning passerby. The lies told melt into hopes and dreams, perceptions of memory ratcheted together in psionic warrior-messenger habit. Bon's Burgers is bright and open in the dream world!
The food or something is atmospherically terrible, maybe. The alcoholic nightmares of the man at the heart of keeping this going fill the air with grease and even more alcoholic breath. It's like if you aren't careful, the whole place will burn down or explode from a gas leak. But the veneer of polite feelings and televised memory holds strong, and angelfire is not necessarily fire. Inside the restaurant, what greets you are hollow pastiches of burger store employees and the mildly-bloodied cartoon characters tied to the animatronics. You are not designed with sufficiently tuned threat assessment instincts to properly react to this information with any immediacy. What you do have is a playful approximation of hunger and the ever-burgeoning making-light that grows in reflection. You will beseech something great that is almost-not, and in beseeching as something great that almost-is help you both.
In your cutest and most angelic voice (unfortunately overlapped in choral legion from lack of practice), making the silliest puppy dog eyes you can muster, you stare down Bon at the counter and ask,
"I CAN HAZ CHEEZBURGER MONEYZ? 🥺💸🍔", including with the abstract symbols.
Bon's reaction is unreadable as they lean forwards behind the cash register. Their head is metaphorically offscreen. Your fear is a vestigial thing meant for politeness, but in contemplation twinges for this trick of cinematography in a space-that-is-not-space. Oh. Maybe you've offended, or-
-
You are the image of Felix Kranken, the ghost that someone leaves without having to die first. You are cartoonish depictions, rumors, the implication in photographs...and you are being dragged toward reality or at least magical realism Felix-Kranken-ness first. You have broken free of a dream of being machined, and are manifest behind the simple desk acting as shorthand for 'manager office or something' in this scene. The ghost-analogue of a great angel has descended, and the light of God is without end just through that very minimalist wall. Chesed is drowning you. Because you're not really Felix, you can almost find it in you to forgive yourself, and yet-
"Boss, this guy's poor." Bon says from the door, pointing a thumb back at the approximation of a chubby man outside making a face the script of unreality sardonically assures you is begging, not just a mask. Leave it to Bon to be like that, even as love without second thoughts pounds down the walls of your soul and blesses your marrow. "You got any funds for a charity case?"
...You'll have to check the tax code for this little slice of cartoon-land, but it's probably deductible as a charity catering thing.
"Suuuuure." you hedge tentatively. "What're they ordering?"