Skripatchka Chapter 2

Christopher, second-in-command of the Papal Resistance, was annoyed. It had been twenty-three months, going on twenty-four, since Anastasy, leader of the debacle that was the Resistance, had disappeared. He had left only to fight in the Great War into which he was conscripted, and which had been over for nearly a year. Christopher had no doubt that his mentor was dead by now, but sometimes he still had dreams in which Anastasy would return. Most of these dreams, of course, included the brutal and usually messy murder of the men who had come to vie for his position.
Christopher was interrupted from these thoughts by a loud crash coming from the direction of the herd of men. He heard a guffaw coming from Locke Swift, the undisputable leader of the group of men, and the most likely to get picked for the role. Of course, they didn’t really care about the role of leader. Most of the men had come from the isolated outposts of the organisation – Irkutsk, Sorrento, Ljubljana, and the like. They had only come to experience the incredible wealth of the enormous complex. Christopher dragged himself to the group to see what had broken. He was greeted by the shards of what was once a wine bottle, as well as the dregs of said bottle. The boy groaned, and started to pick up the larger pieces, careful not to cut himself.
Locke smirked as Christopher bent down to clean up the bottle. “You know, Chrissie,” he said, using the childish nickname that Christopher hated, “It’s been nearly two years since Nastya left us.”
“Twenty-four months next Sunday,” Christopher replied, not looking up.
“Whatever. What I’m saying is; it’s been a long time since the Resistance had a leader. And, Miss Inna has finished her brother’s swan song. It won’t be long before she picks one of us.”
Christopher said nothing, and kept picking up pieces. He grimaced and swore as one shard cut him, and quickly stood up and silently hurried to clean his hand up. Locke grinned as Christopher hurried away, and continued talking with his comrades.
It was around this time when the Metatron came in, disguised as an average Russian boy. Christopher, bandaging up his hand, saw the angel, and beckoned him in. Metatron walked in quietly, and sat down while Christopher got him some soup and water.
“Hi. I’m Christopher Delacroix. I’m the technical person in charge here, but to be honest, it’s a complete hellscape. Ever since our leader left, division leaders from all around the world have come here, and a few from Luna. It’s gotten pretty lawless here, you know? But, what are you doing here? Been a while since anybody has come in here, other than…you know…” Christopher gestured towards the mass of men currently staring agog at a dancing girl.
The Metatron gazed at the men for a second, then looked back at Christopher. “Oh, I’m so sorry. My name is Ivan Petrovitch Popov. My home is the great city of Saint Petersburg.” Here Christopher, well-ingrained into Muscovite culture despite his Colonial upbringing, snorted. The angel ignored him. “I’m a merchant of sorts. I sell knowledge and ideas. I sell kernels of information that people want to know. But, you’ve given me food and a reprieve from the endless snow. In return, I will grant you some knowledge.” Christopher looked at “Ivan” sceptically, but the latter continued his spiel. “Your leader, whatever his name, is not dead. He’s far away, in a remote and desolate place, yes, but not dead.”
Christopher sighed. “I hope so, you know? But even if he does come home, what will he come to? A world of pain in what used to be his domain. It might be better if he was dead. Nothing more to be hurt anymore, you know?” He looked around the room. “And I’m not thinking about it as much. God has found new ways to make my life a living Hell.” He gestured to the mass of men. “Such as.”
The Metatron sighed. Christopher certainly had given up. He quickly came up with a better idea. “I’ve got an idea, Christopher. You should make a – what’s it called? – a council, an assembly. Tell the men to leave, to go to their old stations. You should be in charge, you should take charge. Then, and this is a good idea, you should go to some of the other stations. Fuyuki Ito, or, the way he says it, Ito Fuyuki, and his beloved, Park Muhn Dae. They’re in London. But, before that, I believe Arthur Vigneau is who you should speak to. He’s an old hand, content in his position in Prussia. They’ll no doubt tell you all you need to know about Anastasy.”
Christopher thought about this for a moment. “Well, thanks for the advice, Ivan Petrovitch. I think I will do that.” He nodded.
The Metatron sighed. This boy didn’t appear to be very bright, but, of course, he had made more than a few mistakes as well. Without a word, he stood up, nodded to Christopher, and revealed his wings, flying away. Christopher was appropriately dumbfounded. The current entertainer, a masked violinist, stopped playing, and retreated upstairs.