January 14, 2004: London Terminal

London, England

10:25 am GMT.

"Sorry we don't have food," she told him. "Backup will be here soon."

"Probably not," a grouchy Meiren complained. "Why can't Phee close time herself? The stupid Council has to always be 'professional' and now we have to wait for Ladies to bring paperwork. It takes ages to fill that shit out."

Ingrid scoffed. "You don't fill it out, Ophelia does." 

"Yeah, but she takes forever."

"Just, shut up, okay? And closing time is draining enough as it is. It takes more than one Sayidat."

Meiren threw her head against the phone booth for the umpteenth time that day.

"Ignore the brat," Ingrid told the boy. He sat in silence.

"Is there a black Nike book bag in there by any chance?" The boy motioned at Ophelia's duffel bag.

Meiren was on the job. She shuffled through the mounds of ancient books and knives and gadgets, like walkie talkies and recording devices, and labeled bottles of glowing liquids. Anything imaginable was in there.

"This?"

The young Sayidat held a generic looking backpack by her pinkie. It seemed to Ingrid that he hadn't packed much, judging by how small and light it was after Meiren passed it to her.

She gave the boy the liberty of shifting through the next to empty bag. "It is so lucky your other friend found this...because..." and he pulled out two granola bars and an apple.

"Apple, please!" Meiren shouted in delight. "Good thing you didn't die," she told him. She loudly crunched into the fruit, "Otherwise we would be starving."

The boy visibly paled at how nonchalant Meiren spoke about death. "Right," he mustered a reply.

Ingrid thanked him as he passed her a peanut butter granola bar. She slowly ate the crunchy oats goodness but hadn't even finished when Meiren begged her for her uneaten half.

"Fine," Ingrid said. Meiren's whining and complaining made her lose her appetite, so she tossed the girl her snack. The boy watched their exchange thoughtfully.

"Do you want to talk about something?" Ingrid asked him. An untouched bar rested in his bandaged hands.

"I don't know where to start."

Ingrid didn't know either. "Ophelia's coming back," she said after a while though she knew the name likely didn't mean much to him.

"The one with the black wings?"

"Right. You remembered."

The boy nodded. "Oh, yeah," he replied with a faraway look, "I remember it all."

"You remember killing the between walker?"

"Is that what it was?" he looked as though he were about to laugh over something hysterical. "That's the worst thing I've ever done. What--what is a...a between walker?"

She sighed. "It's simple. They're creations of the Underworld, but can roam in either Side. Upside and Downside, yeah?" She tapped her finger against her knee, trying to come up with a way to explain everything so he could understand.

"They're half Spirit, half Mortal," Ingrid began a second time. The ginger haired boy listened patiently.

"So..." Tap, tap, tap on her knee. Think. "What that means...they can alter their bodies to make them nearly invincible. Immortal.

"The rules are this; you can't kill Spirits on Upside, and you can't kill Mortals on Downside. The Underworld." She checked his face for understanding. The boy nodded, signaling for her to go on.

Tap, tap, tap. Think. "So the between walkers are beings of both worlds...the only ones. They're rare, too. Hard to kill, but not impossible."

"How was I able to kill one?"

Ingrid didn't know. She didn't think even Ophelia would be able to give him a straight answer. She continued anyway.

"They can only become a full Spirit or full Mortal at separate times. They can't be both. The elements don't mix. And when they do, whichever part is stronger is the one that overtakes the other.

"And the only way you can kill them is use whichever element they're in. Between walkers are most often Spirits Upside and Mortals in the Underworlds. Ya know, because of the rules of Death in the whole universe gig type of thing. You can only kill them by summoning their current element so it's more powerful than them."

The boy looked confused again. "Backtrack. So I summoned a Spirit?"

Ingrid thought about the idea. Tap, tap, tap.

It made sense.

"Right," she said. "The Spirit you summoned was more powerful than the walker, so you killed it."

He frowned like something she was saying didn't add up. "That can't be. I summon plants. Like, geraniums. Marigolds. Unusually prickly cacti."

Ingrid shrugged. What else was she to do? "I really don't know what to tell ya. But do you understand?"

To her dismay, he clutched his head in his hands. "I'm afraid you lost me."

What a terrific teacher you are. Not.

"Ophelia might be able to do a better job," she reassured him.

It's funny, Ingrid thought as they both sat on the bench in the middle of a demolished street with only some granola bars to feast on, I don't know anything about this boy. And he doesn't know anything about his own world. Or, at least, he doesn't think so.

"Ingrid," she extended a hand.

"Corban Banks," and he shook her hand tenderly with his burned one.

"That's a cool name," she remarked. He shrugged.

"It's alright. The England Child Services agency chose it."

He leaned closer, his freckled face scrunched up. "So you're both American?"

Ingrid tensed at the question. She looked back to Meiren, who still sulked in her own little corner. "Not necessarily," she answered. "We...we don't really belong to your countries."

Corban's face was all lines and wrinkles of confusion. "And you've lost me, for the third time."

"Sorry," Ingrid blushed and he leaned back. "It's hard to explain."

"No, I get it," he said much to her surprise. "I'm one of you." He shifted uncomfortably like he knew something she didn't, and he was supposed to tell her but didn't want to. "I'm more than that."

Now it was Ingrid's turn to be confused.

"I'm the omen."

~~~~~~~~

They stood beneath the station's sagging roof that dipped inward. The shadow had ripped the metal ceiling to shreds, with gigantic LED lights that hung and flickered on and off, and thick wires that still sputtered sparks of electricity dangled precariously above their heads.

Some metro trains had been thrown off track, overturned, windows smashed and some trains smoked. Across the terminal, Ingrid saw another that been blown to bits. The only thing remaining of it was scattered doors and charred cars that hadn't been too affected by the explosion as the middle of the train. Ingrid followed Corban's sad gaze to the demolished metro.

"To think that could have been me," she heard him murmur.

Meiren skimmed freely a few feet in the air. She hardly seemed affected by the destruction and ominous lack of sound one might expect from normal train stations.

Ingrid felt the complete opposite. She hated that Ophelia had told them over the walkie to wait for her in the terminal. She hated it because Phee was unusually more vague about those instructions than normal and because she didn't like the eerie numbness she gathered from the station's quietness and flickers of light, and the debris that scattered the tiled floor. She watched her step, since she didn't feeling like yanking broken glass out of her sandals that did little to protect her cold feet.

Ingrid glanced to the boy that walked with the same caution. Well, more like he crutched with caution. On their way to the station, she had broken into a medical clinic and grabbed him a pair of crutches. His wrap ankle still swelled black and blue, and she didn't want to have to cary him if he hurt himself further. Her limbs felt as though they might fall off.

She felt sympathetic as Corban's saddened expression grew more troubled. His eyes flickered from body to body, some just an unidentifiable pile of skin and bones. More than hundreds dead, just in the terminal. Thousands had likely died overall.

"Don't look at them," she whispered. Ingrid wished she could explain closing time, that these people would go on to live their mortal lives in another time parallel, but she'd already screwed up describing between walkers.

He looked to her with bloodshot eyes, then took a shaky breath. "Okay." Snowflakes drifted from the gaping ceiling among the dust and settled in his red hair.

The three of them were a sight to behold. Two girls with bird wings and a ginger haired boy on crutches waited in a destroyed train station. One girl wore a pink bandana and carried a bronze staff made from unearthly iron. The other glided around debris with an axe strapped to her small chest. And Corban looked the worst; he had bloodied white cloths over his arms and some wrapped tightly around his ankle, and one around his forehead. He looked like an army veteran after three weeks of nonstop battle.

Ingrid shouldered Ophelia's duffel bag and switched it to her other side. How on earth could her teacher carry this and still fly?

I'm weak, Ingrid thought bitterly.

"Where's Phee?"

Meiren landed on an overturned train. "Ophelia!" she yelled at the top of her young lungs.

Ingrid glared at the girl. What was she trying to do, get them killed? They had no idea of knowing whether Underworldian creatures still lurked, ready for a Phenomenal meal.

"Keep your voice down," she scolded.

Meiren ignored her. What a surprise. "Opheeelia!"

"I'm here, my child."

Ingrid couldn't be more relieved to see her mentor descend from the destroyed roof. Ophelia was a sight for sore eyes. Her ebony skin glistened in the beam of sun that broke through the winter sky, and her dark wings steadied her to the ground. The pink flowers in her coarse hair were still in place despite being in battle with two creatures of the dark. A group of three Sayidats circled down with her.

Meiren ran to Ophelia and wrapped her thin arms across the Lady's back. Ingrid had to smile at the gesture. Though sometimes Phee wasn't in the best mood and didn't always act adoring, she couldn't put into words how much she loved her mentor. Even with Ophelia's professional stance with her colleagues, the Sayidat's firm expression lightened with the young girl in her arms.

"Yes, I'm glad you're alright," and the Sayidat peeled the girl's arms from her waist. Ingrid had known her teacher for long enough to know that sentence translated to 'I love you.'

"That's the boy?"

Ingrid drew her attention away from Phee and Meiren and to the Latina Sayidat that motioned towards Corban. The teenager tensed at the stern gaze the group of Ladies of Time threw his way. He squirmed uncomfortably like a bug under a microscope.

"This is him," Ophelia replied. Something unrecognizable flashed in her amber eyes as she looked to her peers, who looked back with the same knowing expression.

Ingrid had no idea what was going on between them, but she was determined to find out. She just needed a chance to talk to Phee.

Ingrid looked again to the Ladies of Time that had been sent to cleanup. None looked all too familiar; thousands of Sayidats were members of the Council, and hundreds more lived on the Pacific Isle. She did recognize the one. It was hard not to, as she stood out significantly compared to the other two.

Lady Imogen stood stiff, always professional and emotionless. What stood out was that the top half of her face was always painted sunset orange, over her forehead and eyes and her upper cheek and nose.

It was ancient universal tradition for widows of the Phenomenal races to paint their faces in the style she had done. Ingrid wasn't too sure about its origin, but she knew it symbolized their sorrow. It meant that half their world had been stolen from them, and that the remainder of their lives would always be one sided, in some deep spiritual sorta thing.

It wasn't often that Sayidats married. Lady Imogen was the only Sayidat Ingrid knew of that had been married, but Phee was sure to know many that were under the oath. Her mentor knew about almost every Sayidat in existence it seemed.

Ingrid didn't know much about the death of the Lady's husband. She hadn't been a trainee at that time. It was like one huge secret shared by only the most powerful members of Council. That was nothing out of the norm for Ingrid.

"Hello, Ingrid," Imogen nodded her way. Ingrid returned her gesture. Her pride swelled. It was an honor to be acknowledged by Sayidats that weren't necessarily her trainer.

Speaking of Ophelia, the dark skinned woman came her way. Her face was under the facade of cold professionalism. She always acted that way around her coworkers, though Ingrid didn't see the point of it.

"May I speak with you privately?" The tall woman stood over Ingrid. Phee was tall for even a Sayidat, standing well above six feet. Her height and muscular build made her a force not to be reckoned with.

It was like she'd read her mind. Ingrid glanced behind her at Corban who leaned against his crutches. He was looking back with the expression of a lost puppy.

It was strange. Ingrid felt oddly responsible for him after their talk. But she couldn't easily turn down a private conversation with her teacher. Phee had asked, but Ingrid knew it was a command.

This was what she wanted, anyway. A chance to ask questions she needed the answers to.

"Okay," she said, breaking her gaze from the boy, and she wordlessly followed Ophelia outside the terminal.