"Angel"
By Jen the Seafarer
E-mail at gobailey@accessweb.com
Completed: February 21st 1997
     
     Disclaimer: Gargoyles and related stuff belongs to Disney
and are selfishly used here without their written consent. I know
I will burn in hell for it, but alas, so be it.

     Hello once again! I'd like to thank you for venturing into
my little forays of storytelling and I admire you for your
courage (evil smile). This short work is entitled "Angel" and
guess what guys, you don't have to read anything beforehand to
understand the story! Yippee! It doesn't connect to anything else
I've written!
     But you know, it would be nice if you did decide to read my
other little tales. 
     Okay. This story takes place IMMEDIATELY following "The
Journey", like three hours after. It contains no violence or sex,
not even bad words. I'd like to thank Diana R. Flynn for 
inspiration and fantastic storytelling (read: plug). Her stories
begin with one called "Reality Check" and I heartily suggest
checking that and its sequels out. I would also like to thank
Frosta, for her comments, and suggest that you read her stories
as well. Please feel free to comment on my stories, as that is
what keeps me alive (and M&M's):my E-mail is up above.
     Well, on with the show!
*    *    *    *
 
     The coffee shop wasn't that busy. At least not now, but it
was early in the morning and Elisa could see people trickling by,
briefcases in hand. Sunlight drifted though the monogrammed
window in varying degrees of intensity and the smell of freshly
brewed coffee almost drove her mad. All she was drinking now was
a water, and was still deliberating on whether or not to eat.
     She was sitting at the booth alone. It had been an
exhausting night and she fully realized that she hadn't slept in
fourteen hours, but that wasn't bad. What was bad, however, was
the icy fear that had lodged in her spine ever since she had seen
that Quarryman raise his hammer to strike Goliath's granite face.
Or when Goliath's wing was torn from the gun shots of the pursing
helicopter, and the feeling that this time Goliath wasn't going
to be there to catch her. Or when she had stood where the broken
remains of the clock tower stood, watching as another Quarryman
raised his hammer to strike a death blow against the one she
loved. Or . . .
     Rubbing her eyes fitfully, she pushed those vivid
recollections away and sighed. If it wasn't one thing, it was
another. She was acutely aware of what the public thought of
gargoyles, but still, the overwhelming violence of last night
punctured a hole in her heart and she felt sorrowful. The
Quarrymen had so reminded her of her own past, but instead of
black hoods, those ghosts wore white . . .
     "Miss, can I get you anything?" Mildly startled, she looked
up to the fresh-faced waitress who was hovering at her side.
     She pushed her hair behind her ears and looked back to the
menu board above the display of desserts. "I'll have a bagel--no,
make that a turtle brownie with whipped cream. And some coffee.
Black," she listed wearily, consciously looking back down and
staring at a napkin.
     "Sure," the waitress chirped."Miss, mind if I ask-- are you
alright?"
     Elisa focused on the activity outside as a business man
hailed a decrepid-looking taxi. "I'm fine, just . . .exhausted."
     "Okay." The waitress left her and Elisa crumpled inwardly.
Years and years of endless cases had taught her the fallibilities
of her race, fixing in her mind how society ran. She knew she
could probably get her masters sociology faster than she could
wink. But it wouldn't dislodge the feeling of despair in her, and
the knowledge that the gargoyles were probably never going to be
accepted, at least in her life time, was numbing. Of course, she
would still fight onwards, after all, what else could she do? She
was always there for them, whether presumed dead or a gargoyle
herself. Even amidst the weariness and grief in her heart,
something stubbornly remained protective of them.
     But she was tired. No one really could understand exactly
how hard it was to be in her shoes, but they could guess. Her
mother noted some bags under her eyes a couple of days ago and
correctly guessed that it had to be trouble with the guys ~no
kidding, that and a vial full of plague twice as infectious as
red measles~ she thought wryly.
     Hunter's moon. Thinking back, that still caused gooseflesh
to form on her arms. And after, with Goliath . . . Well, she'd
just assume to let sleeping dogs lie. It was a little reassuring
to know the big guy felt that way too, but it was shattering to
know that she couldn't live with herself if anything happened to
him. It happened just last night.
     "Here Miss," the waitress popped back into life, carrying a
cup of coffee  and a slice of heaven.
     "Thanks," she mumbled, twisting her hair back. Really, it
was much too long and she thought about getting it cut. As prone
as she was to falling off buildings, it got annoying after awhile
and the tangles were murder to undo.
     "Hey, hello!" A loud voice broke in all of the sudden.
Startled,  she realised that she had been staring at her caramel-covered brownie and looked up. A young man with dark hair and
pale green eyes was staring back at her.
     "Hello. I've been trying to get your attention for the last
five minutes," he intoned sternly, but there was a hint of
laughter in his voice.
     "Oh, sorry. I wasn't really paying attention-"
     "Now there's an understatement for ya."
     "What do you want?" She admonished quickly, narrowing tired
eyes.
     He sat down and flashed a 1,000 watt smile at her. "I'm a
reporter for WVRN and my name is Shayne Farrell. Nice to meet
you."
     Shayne threw out a strong hand and she regarded it warily.
"A reporter?"
     "Yeah. I'm new to the station, and you're my first
assignment," he said smugly, with pride.
     "When do I get my award?" She asked dryly, eyeing her
brownie. He smirked.
     "I heard you were a funny one. So Elisa Maza, seen any
gargoyles lately?" Elisa looked back to him slowly and stared,
amused, into leaf-green eyes.
     "I could probably ask the same of you. Everyone's seeing
them. Ask the bum on the corner and he'll tell you his got one in
his pocket," she snorted.
     "And it bites like you wouldn't believe," he smiled warmly
and she couldn't help but grin. A little. "Any ways, I think you
know a lot more about these gargoyles than you're letting on,
Detective. Don't you find it, oh, coincidental that the Canmore's
blew up your prescient after finding out that they were roosting
there?"
     "Besides six *supposed* gargoyles, there are over five
thousand people that work there, Shayne. Any one of us could have
been the Canmore's target. That is hardly coincidental."
     "I know, but I was digging through your history and there
are many, many unanswered questions."
     "Like?"
     "Weeellll, lessee here," from out of nowhere, he pulled out
a thick file folder. "When Mr. David Xanatos first installed
Wyvern castle up on the Eyrie, you were one of several
investigators on scene when he had that mysterious *generator*
explosion. You went alone."
     "That's hardly anything to scream about," she pointed out.
     "No, but it says here that you lost your gun and had to be
dispensed a new one. Not cheap, it reads, and curiously, you
didn't give a reason why."
     "Curiosity killed the cat," she snapped, but wished she'd
kept her mouth shut. His eyes positively gleamed now.
     "I suppose it did. Onto the next. Approximately three weeks
later, you were shot badly by your *own* gun and almost died.
According to this doctor's report, the angle of your wound could
not have resulted by self-infliction, and the trigger of your gun
had been scratched out in several places," he noted. She sigh
tiredly and wished that she was in bed, sleeping. "But why stop
here? You were involved in one of the first gargoyle incidents in
Times Square, and disappeared immediately after for two hours,
while you were *still* on duty. Your name has been connected to
every weird case regarding werewolves, flying robots, and
gargoyles. In fact, you were gone for five months without reason
or explanation. And two weeks ago, you were the only human that
entered St. Damien's church that fateful night when the gargoyles
tried to destroy it."
     "Very thorough. I'll answer now. The gun had been damaged
when it has hit with crumbling stone from that explosion, you can
go and check the records kept *securely* by the prescient. When I
was shot, I had dropped the gun without locking its safety and it
caught the corner of a step, setting it off. The Times Square
incident involved two separate prescient, and the two-hour period
in which you claim I disappeared was in fact spent reporting to
my supervisor. She doesn't have to record that and it wasn't
treated like a disappearance. It was, I believe, some type of
robot that caused the disturbance. New York is a weird place.  As
for my five month departure, I had a sick relative in Nigeria
whom almost died from a *spider bite*.  Listen, there are more
crazy people here than cockroaches, and stuff happens that can't
be explained. As for St. Damien's . . ."
     Elisa paused, snatching a glance outside to the now busy
streets. She was so tired.
     "Detective?"
     "How did you know that?" She sighed, running out of things
to say.  Really, it was just after thought, but the reaction she
received was most conspicuous. The youthful reporter paled
slightly, and she swore that his eyes switched to a dull brown.
He fidgeted with the manilla folder and stood up straighter.
     "I have my sources," he amended quickly, eyes bright once
more. Elisa woke up a bit, and shrugged off her melancholy.
     "That's interesting, Mr. Farrell. I wonder what source it
must have been? A ghost, perhaps?"
     "No," he said flatly.
     "Really, I'd love to know. And don't give me the act about
*protecting your sources*. You're much too young to be much more
than an intern, I think."
     He scowled slightly. "I think you might want to lay off the
coffee, Ms. Maza. What about the gargoyles? They're being hunted,
you know. A group called the Quarrymen are just itching to smash
those creatures apart. I think you might have been aware of their
presence."
     She faltered inwardly and clamped down on her rattled
nerves, however under the table, her hands shook slightly. "I'm
beginning to wonder as to your source, Mr. Farrell, not to
mention your state of mind."
     "That would be a shame, hmm? A sentient species as
intelligent as us, slaughtered before they spoke a word," he
persisted, and his remarkable eyes caught a dark light. "I don't
believe you're very comfortable with that, Elisa. What if I told
you that I know where there are, right now? Standing motionless,
fearsome features tamed by unyielding stone. Do you think they
might see the blow coming, maybe even crying out in desperation
as the hammer strikes? Humans cry out in nightmares."
     She glinted her eyes and balled her fists. Out of the corner
her eye, she noticed that the waitress who had served her before
walk by, oblivious to Shayne. Oddly, other customers walked by as
well, not even casting a glance their way.
     "Listen pal, you had better start giving me some answers or
I'm going to detain you for harassment and invasion of privacy.
Believe me, you don't want to spend more than a minute in hold-up
or better yet, the drunk tank. I'll make it happen," she warned.
      Shayne smiled darkly. "Or maybe you'll just sic your
gargoyle friends on me."
     "They wouldn't help you if you begged," she snapped, quickly
wishing she hadn't.
     "And she admits defeat," Shayne said rather loudly, yet no
one glanced at them.
     "Fine. I've seen them once or twice. Big deal. If you don't
tell me who's your snitch--"
     "Calm down, Detective. I'm not after them, never have been.
I'm asking about you," his demeanor shifted perceptibly.  "Is it
hard being their only confidante? Is it hard to teach them that
not everything is what meets the eyes? Is it hard knowing that
they will never be accepted as they are in your lifetime?" Shayne
asked quietly, sombre viridian eyes gently bearing into hers.
     Oddly enough, her anger dissipated and weariness returned.
She realised that she was too tired to argue, and didn't draw
back when the reporter gently clasped her hands, still scrapped
from the night's previous activities.
     "Yes," she shuddered, a long and wrenching sound, flooding
her eyes with angry and bitter tears. He tightened his grip on
her hands, chafing them comfortingly. "I am so alone! Why is
everyone so hostile to them? Always! It never changes!"
     "A great woman  once said that  Man must learn from the past
to deal with the present to look ahead to the future'. Some
lessons are very slow in coming, Elisa. But you know what? It's
people like you that instruct them, nurture new ideas that are
frighteningly unheard of, evolving our people to its next level,"
he whispered low.
     "But the violence . . . it scares me sometimes. Me, a cop,
scared of violence," she choked.
     "But even birds are once afraid to fly," he replied softly.
"You are scared for your friends because you doubt yourself. What
can one person do against a mob? But don't question yourself or
think you are alone. You have Matt, your brother, your family,
and many others yet unknown."
     "The attack last night-- I almost lost him," she cried,
letting out some pent up grief.
     "Hush," he soothed, pulling her a little closer. "It was a
close call. But you handled it, and handled it well. Goliath was
fine, and now you know whom your adversaries are. I know it is
much for you to take, especially after the Hunters, but you will
persevere. I have faith in you."
     Shayne cupped her face and brushed away some tears with his
thumb, like Elisa's father once had, many forgotten years ago.
His eyes held strength and indeed, faith.
     "I'm sorry," she managed, gaining control over her emotions.
Embarrassment started to redden her face.
     "Don't," he said tightly, assuring her. "You needed this
more than you think. You should look back on what you've been
through and be proud. Precious few could  accomplish only  half
of it."
     She smiled wanly and straightened up, taking a deep,
refreshing breath. Her face must have been a mess, but strangely,
not one patron looked at her. Wiping her clammy hands on her
jeans, she took a sip of her coffee and spit it out immediately
as it was cold. Just then, the waitress zipped by, carrying a pot
of steaming coffee, completely oblivious.
     "Strange that no one sees us," she wondered, looking back to
his spring green eyes.
     "Must have been a tough night for all," he said lightly.
     "I-I don't know how to thank you," she offered, feeling a
little shamed but very grateful.
     "By staying true to yourself and your morales, you will."
Giving her a long and encouraging look, he gathered up his folder
and dumped it into his duffel bag. "Oh, and don't worry, I won't
tell anyone about this. You could say I'll take it to my grave,"
he smiled, illuminating his eyes. Getting up, he proceeded to
leave.
     " Wait! Please, I need a number, or something. You don't
understand--"
     "I do, Elisa Maza. I understand all too well."
     And with that, he left, quickly blending into the busy
crowds outside. More than a little stunned, she sat back into her
plush booth and rubbed her temples. She felt much better, more
free and comforted.
     "Oh! I hadn't noticed you at all! Would you like your coffee
refilled?" The waitress peered at her suddenly, menacing her pot.
     "No-- it's alright. If I could have my bill--"
     "It was already paid for, Miss. You're sure about the
coffee?"
     "Uh, yeah. Thanks." Bewildered, she looked at the window,
vainly trying to catch a glance of a young man with sparkling
eyes.
*    *    *   *

     Elisa sat cross-legged, going over reports and cases. Her
shift wouldn't start for another hour, but nevertheless she had
spent the day working, trying to not to dwell on the morning
events.
     "Yo, Maza!" The slightly over-weight man yelled, tilting his
chair back to see Elisa's desk.
     "Yeah Harve?" She called, absently chewing on the easer tip
of her pencil.
     " Member that check you made me run on the guy?"
     "Harve, I ask you to check a lot of guys out. Wanna narrow
it down so I can guess?"
     "That guy who said he was a reporter. Y'know, the one you
gave me this mornin' and put a rush on it," he galled, waving a
small file.
     Elisa snapped to attention and into two quick strides,
snatched it away from the backgrounder. She flipped it open and
scanned through it.
     "Yeah, real important, Maza. I have to figure out the
identities of at least five hundred people, *alive* ones, and you
ask me to dig up something on a dead guy that you could have got
in the database yourself," Harve grumbled, but he grinned,
turning back to his desk.
      Elisa stood in mute silence, stunned. There was no record
of him ever being employed at WVRN News. He had no valid
licences, tax records, or even a birth certificate. However, he
did have a valid death certificate. Shayne Farrell, the man whose
bland face stared up at her in the file's old photograph, had
died thirty-three years ago. He was beaten to death by a mob of
angry white-supremacists at a peace rally, apparently trying to
save a young black girl from it's clutches. Thirty-three years
ago, as of today.
     Sighing shakily, she shut the folder and held it tightly to
her, slowing finding her way back to her desk. However long she
sat there, unmoving, she did not know. She was oblivious to the
spitting hooker that was paraded past her, or the stumbling
drunk, or even the mad rush of officers as the donut man made his
stop to refill the supply in the squad room.
     "Partner! Ready for work?" Matt slapped a rough hand on her
shoulder and she jumped about six feet in the air.
     "Matt! Don't scare me like that!" She gasped, quieting her
thundering heart.
     Matt peered at her, concerned. "Hey, are you okay?"
     "Yeah. I'm was just . . . reading something a little
interesting. Tell me, Matt, in your vast beliefs, do you consider
the possibility of ghosts?"
     He sent her a strange look and sat down across from her. "I
suppose so. Why ask me? You probably encountered a few of them on
your little Avalon trip, which you still haven't told me the
details of," he reminded, but looked carefully into his partner's
tired face. It looked like she hadn't gotten any sleep last
night.
     "Right. Sorry," she shook herself and looked at him,
composure regained.
     "What, did a ghost visit you?" He asked, smiling.
     "More like an Angel," she smiled, a little grimly. 
     "You're okay, right?" He asked again.
     "Just tired, Matt. I haven't slept for a while and I won't
until we get this night over, so let's go." She stood up and
grabbed her jacket as she motioned towards the squad room. Matt
shrugged, and followed.
     The fight against injustice had started.
     The start of the night shift had begun.
*    *    *    *

The End.