Michael

He likes to say 'The Beginning of Time', but who really knows?

True form is essentially genderless; as a human, though, he takes a male form; he responds to 'he/him/his' the most, but doesn't take offense to any other pronouns

Homosexual - 'cause who gives a damn diddly?

Wings the span of galaxies; a height that dwarfs the Milky Way; eyes of molten fi—

Nah, Michael's just got a regular guy look. He doesn't much talk about his true form, usually because it's not something people can just get, you know? It's hard to word outside of Enochian and even then it's still hard to understand.

So, Michael goes by what he looks like on earth: a 6'1" guy with a nice, muscular build, but not intensely like 'whoa that guy lifts weights' more so, 'that guy's fit; he probably lifts weights'. It's lithe and agile, with a flexibility he definitely likes to boast about. I mean, not ever day you meet a guy who can do the splits for one unless they do drag on the side ^{(katya needs to be stopped)} or can do a back bend to the point where limbo can definitely be defined as a sport. Regardless, Michael's got a fluid look with a solid stature.

By society's standards, Michael's sharp jawline, expressive features, fit build, and sharp facial structure define him as 'Stud' or thereabouts. The soft doe eyes and slightly fuller cheeks tend to act as a reduction to the cut of his cheek bones and line from his jaw to chin. Overall, Michael thinks he looks nice and he's not necessarily there to impress (he wears logo t-shirts and jeans with converse half the time, really not here to impress), so he doesn't overdo anything. His hair is a simple brush back with a hand slightly caked in gel and, really that's it. His voice has a higher lit to it with a slightly gritty quality.

It's hard to explain a myth - especially when that myth's a myth to something already a myth. See where this is going? Yeah, Michael's just a little bit convoluted. There's a lot of stuff in there and not as much room as one would expect of a millenia old being. It's nothing to be concerned about, perhaps; it's more so Michael not willing to acknowledge certain aspects of himself, much less share them.

Perhaps it's best to compare him to human knowledge of the cosmos. There's a lot there. There's a lot to know. Yet, there's still an insurmountable amount of information to even parse before anyone's ever able to delve deeper. Theories are theories (though that's not exactly how science works; thanks die-hard christian extremists, you can sit this one out), but a lot of them are hypotheses due to the fact that, whilst a lot can be seen and recorded on earth, so much more cannot. It's like—it's like the string theory verses Einstein's theory of relativity: they make sense alone - perfect sense, in fact - yet together they contradict each other. That's Michael in a nutshell.

People have a certain idea of Michael - an image, so to speak. A righteous soldier of God, leading battalions of angels into combat. The being who crushed Lucifer underfoot. Then there's Michael to other angels, some of which tend to deify him. Deify or not, Michael would rather not reach apotheosis, but regardless he, among others, is looked toward to at least lead. Which is dumb. Absent leaders do what? Why is that expected of him when thousands of years pass without his or any of his fellow Archangels' presence?

An enigma, if any, Michael represents willful ignorance, disregard for his own rank and title, and the dashing of every concern with an outraging flippancy. Michael stay true to his embodiment of the heavens, the heavens being space and all it's lack of concern for human life. Beautiful to look at from a far; up close, Michael's a disaster, a swirling mass of barely contained entropy. It's awful to say, but Michael's a ticking time bomb and he's forever waiting for that moment that sets the happy optimism ablaze from the all of the issues, problems, and emotions into a small body and letting it fester.

Just waiting. Ticking by. Putting money in a swear jar the size of a shot glass and continuing to "Shit", "Fuck", "Damn", "Cunt" his way into bursting that bubble.

✔ Slow Dancing By Himself _{(pretty eyed, pirate smile, you'll marry a music man)}
✔ Stargazing _{(now it's time to leave the capsule if you dare)}
✔ Heavy Winter Coats _{(who needs a heart when a heart can be broken)}
✔ Karaoke _{(no i never felt this way before/yes i swear it's the truth/and I owe it all to you)}
✔ Standing on Rooftops Watching City Life _{(i wish you would step back /from that ledge my friend)}
✔ Old Movies _{(i was five and he was six/we rode on horses made of sticks)}
✔ Warm Hands; Warm Arms _{(i just wanna tell you how i'm feeling/gotta make you understand)}

✘ Solitude _{(i can't get used to livin' without livin' without/livin' without you by my side)}
✘ Lengthy Silence _{(i don't know what I'm to say/i'll say it anyway)}
✘ Not Moving _{(spreadin' out her wings tonight/she got you jumpin' off the track)}
✘ Feeling Anything But Excited _{(my mother says when you gonna live your life right)}
✘ Outbursts; Losing Control _{(i'm a man without conviction/i'm a man who doesn't know)}
✘ Assumptions _{(all in all it's just another brick in the wall)}
✘ Taking Things Seriously _{(now everytime I go for the mailbox, gotta hold myself down)}

Everything's shrouded in mystery. How scary is that? To have every bit of your existence teetering on the balance of what possibly shouldn't have happened? Feeling that, but not knowing exactly what that is or if it should even exist.

The truth, really, that's too much for anyone to know.

However, since the beginning, it's been perpetuated that his kind - the seven of them, to be exact - take up roles as leaders of their species. That's an odd word to use for beings equivalent to janitors. The really good janitors, you never see them clean up the mess. They come swooping in with their mops and bleach and poof the next day Becky's upchuck is chucking up that floor no longer.

Michael likes to call the Archangels the 'Specialist Clean Up Crew' and, really, there's no argument for that regardless of what anyone else says. It's an awful notion, one that Michael owns up to, but the leadership thing? That kind of power tends to get to people's heads and, well, can't really stop that. It helps that they're never really allowed to hop from their posts unless absolutely necessary. Or, at least, that's what Michael thinks - a few of them probably meld in with the rest of the population, watching Earth rotate by. Michael prefers the detachment not because he's a solitary creature, but because that's the only way he can perceive himself.

It's awful to wade through crowds of people and see nothing but blurred lines of faces and standing there, wings unnoticed but spread, feeling nothing but outside of the world. That feeling, feeling alone in the midst of 7 billion people, making sure certain things, certain people don't completely wipe them from existence, it doesn't do well for even a being as powerful. The stars seem fairly less lonely than earth's sodden ground.

Floating above nebulae, curiously watching a black hole devour entire stars from a (relatively) safe distance, seeing stars wane and die out, that's comfort TV for Michael. It also helps that he can tune into certain radio waves at certain distances - he's gotten the full effect of media culture just from wading around the Milky Way (or, well, at least staying relatively close to the Earth's System itself - nostalgia, maybe?). Unfortunately for anyone in the future, Michael has only seemed to be able to pick up the entirety of Pop from the 70s and 80s, making Elton John and Tina Turner and everyone in between his top 100s.

With another mess to clean up, Michael begrudgingly sets himself in a quiet bar in quiet London, humming quietly to Foreigner's I Want To Know What Love Is while watching the news. It took awhile for their existence to eventually pop up and, well, with all the acceptance going around, the political correctness, Tumblr's existence online, it came as a slight surprise to see how much animosity humanity holds over the unknown. It also makes Michael giddy because that's the only way he knows how to mask his nerves (that and quietly humming Cyndi Lauper's Time After Time).

Well the world isn't going to clean up after itself.

There's a super tiny mole on his shoulder that he calls Agatha Christie - it's a joke cause it's so tiny and melds with the freckles there that's it's a wonder he finds it.

That's not a family member. But, Michael doesn't have anyone he's related to, so... you know.

aaaa dunno which

N/A

Yukiko no Abe. Goes by Yukiko Abe due to time changes now. Yuki most commonly.

1122, April 24th

Female.

Lesbian

Tattoo Artist

Yuki takes a more Korean appearance when she is shapeshifting. Even in her true form she uses a Korean body in order to dissuade would-be hunters from her true origins and tricks. Even if she were to be discovered by someone who wishes her ill-will they may go barking up the wrong den this way.

Yuki’s voice is rather soft and barely contains a trace of an accent – though she finds it rather simple to perform one. Typically she mimics the accent of those around her, and thusly has a small British accent for the time being.

Yuki typically wears her glasses – though they are purely for fashion’s sake. When it’s warm she’ll wear jeans and a tank top, when it’s cool she wears a jacket over top – but it’s largely the same outfit no matter the weather. If she is unsure of the weather she may tie a plaid shirt around her waist – putting it on as her comfort level dictates. Her shoes range about as much as her outfits. She has a couple pairs of the same shoes that she likes and in the colder rainier days she has a pair of rain boots that she has taken a liking to.

Yuki’s hair falls down to around her upper back and rarely has anything done to it – though on some sunnier days Yuki can be seen wearing an old ball cap.

Yuki has a few tattoos, one of a fox on the back of her right thigh, on her back she has a depiction of the Great Wave off Kanagawa. She also sports a sleeve on her left arm of assorted works.

Yuki is typically rather polite and focused in on her own artistic goals and realizing them. Her identity as a Kitsune comes second to her identity as an artist. As such she enjoys the company of those who also appreciate art, especially tattoos as that has quickly overtaken watercolours for her favourite form of artistic expression. She is rather consumed by art, bringing it into most conversations or thinking about it whenever she has off time. When she isn’t tattooing she is photographing. She runs a Pinterest page that she is much too proud of.

Yuki likes wine as much as any girl who appears to be in her late twenties but is much closer to being twenty centuries old does. She tends to drink it a bottle a day, she heavily dislikes red wine however only drinking white wine. She tends to imagine herself eventually settling down with someone, though she has no idea who or what. That being said, she hasn’t slowed down just yet and is consistently waking up beside other women. When Yuki isn’t drinking, sleeping, drawing or taking photos she can typically be found going for walks or finding somewhere nice and secluded to spend some time, like rooftops and creeks.

On an off day Yuki typically just refuses to speak. Communicating with unclear hand gestures and grunts. Unsurprisingly, this is also how she acts whilst hungover.

✔ White Wine
✔ Art
✔ Greasy Food
✔ Seclusion
✔ Old movies
✔ Culture
✔ Attention (One person at a time though)
✔ Fuzzy clothing
✔ Fireplaces
✔ Poorly Written/Acted Soap Operas (as a comedy)

✘ Bravado
✘ Crowds
✘ Small Portions
✘ Intolerance
✘ Electronic Music
✘ The Russian Language (It sounds ‘gross’)
✘ Eisenstein Films
✘ Bears (Irrational fear)

Yuki stumbled in on a rainy day into a home already housing five children. They adopted her without question. After all, it was the thirteenth century how could one not adopt a poor young girl. She barely spoke English after all and while she seemed rather beautiful – she was in rough shape. “Mama too mean.” They remembered her saying when she had first entered the house. The Young’s assumed she was a refugee of some sorts. A war in the East, the poor thing. They cleaned her, taught her English.

Yuki is a trickster. There is no two ways about it.

But, the Young’s were different. They were kind, they taught her perspective. They taught her art. They did not deserve their fate, she believed that above all else. Their daughters treated her like a sister and their sons defended her honour as if she was one of them.

One day, in a market she stole a loaf of bread, she intended to use it to cook her ‘mother’ and ‘father’ a meal that night. A nice stew that she had been given on her first night with the Young’s. They were innocent really, Yuki was already older than the seven of them combined. Yet, somehow she was so unrefined, so immature. She didn’t think of consequences, of implications when she lay her hands on the loaf. She didn’t think about the Young’s in the way they surely thought of her every day.

She gripped the loaf and a balding man around the age of forty grabbed her shoulder. Before she could open her mouth he spun her around and his meaty fist found her jaw.

She’d later admit that while he wasn’t the most powerful man she had ever come across he simply had the best right hook. The thing about a Kitsune is that when put unconscious they typically do not maintain their illusions. At first, men shouted at the merchant. ‘How dare you lay a hand on a woman’, they would cry. At first, perhaps, they were right. But Yukiko was no woman. Her form quickly betrayed the trust of the small town and the Young’s.

By the time she regained consciousness she was being tied to a boulder. “The witch would drown or she’d be a witch, one way ta be sure.” They’d rationalize. It was already too late for the Young’s. A young Asian girl staying in a home at this time period simply did not go unnoticed. Before they’d get Yuki she was a fox. And then she was gone. She escaped that night, but the Young’s most certainly did not. She had warned them when they first met but perhaps even if she hadn’t been speaking in riddles they wouldn’t have heeded her warning.

She had another name once upon a time. Tamamo-no-Mae. Named after the Kitsune of legend. While she isn't quite up to her standards she seemed to be living up the her namesake. Destruction followed where she tread.

As she ran she spoke between breaths. “Mama too mean.” She said, as if to embarrass herself. She was no legend, she was a poor mimicry of one. It was the last time she’d use an anagram. The last time she’d stop and wait in a place like that. The last time she’d allow herself to get close. The last time the Young’s would see their children. The last time… Yukiko ran, and she hasn’t truly stopped yet.

No one notable.

Faraday Court 30B

Art lover, anagram hater. The name of Yukiko no Abe was taken from someone in her past and has since been changed to simply Yukiko Abe in order to confrom to modern Japanese naming standards.