After World Chronicles: Angel Awakens

Documents from the Artist

ANGEL:

I come fully awake with a jolt. My heart is racing and my breathing is heavy. Sweat beads in a sheen across my skin, making me feel clammy. For a few moments I lie still while I assess the darkened room around me with my sharpened senses. Ever since the Watcher touched me, seeing in the dark poses no problems. Slowly I remember where I am, and how I came to be here.

I'm resting on a flat mattress on the floor. There are other people all around me. Some are snoring softly, others sit on their blankets quietly. The room is packed with bodies and the scent of unwashed humans surrounds me. It's the smells of dankness and desperation that have me on edge. I don't know why so many humans have the need for fake documents, but apparently many of them are in hiding or on the run also.

I wrap a cloth over my lower face in an effort to block out the smells. The overload of senses has my stomach roiling. From the doorway, I see the artist beckon to me. I'm careful as I rise and gather my things so that I don't disturb the sleeping mass around me. While it wasn't an ideal spot, it was a safe place to shelter over day. I acknowledge my blessings as a join the artist in the next room. He shuts the door behind us, leading me down a narrow hallway to another cramped room filled with papers and art supplies.

The artist is an elderly man, but he's not frail. No, this man is very fit and hardy for his advanced years. He has a shock of white hair, and many lines grooved into his dark skin. His large hands are steady and strong, and his steps are sure. Eyes the color of mud are filled with intelligence, and caution. I don't know if he allows so many to sleep in his home slash workshop due to kindness, or to ensure his business. With this many clients he could be living in wealth within the inner walls of the city, but instead, he's remained in his modest dwelling in Shanty Town, surrounded by huts and hovels, many thrown together with mud and sticks.

The artist's house has walls of wooden planks hammered together. The ceiling is low, and the few odd rooms are tiny with few furnishings. His cramped workspace is the largest area in the home. The windows are tightly shuttered in the daytime, but swing open to allow fresh air at night. All cooking takes place in a fire pit outside. Two women, maybe his daughters, do the cooking, using food brought in trade for the man's services. Those who provide their own bowl and a few precious stones are allowed to share the meal.

Like everyone who requests his services, I've paid in advance. He presents me now with his efforts - a set of perfectly crafted papers and an identification badge. I take my time carefully inspecting everything. The artist offers me a magnifying glass, which I take and pretend to use. I don't need it, but he doesn't need to know that. The steep price I've paid is worth it. The documents appear completely genuine, and are even aged and have use marks on them. I compliment his talent, and thank him for the quality of his work on my behalf. The sun is setting outside, and I'm ready for the next leg of my journey.