January 14, 2004: London Terminal

London, England

10:53 am. GMT.

Corban helplessly watched the woman place a dark hand on Ingrid's winged back and escort outside. He hadn't known the teenage girl for long, but she'd been the most helpful in treating his wounds and attempting to answer his questions.

His head still buzzed when he thought too long and hard about what she'd told him and how she'd froze when he spoke to her about his dream. He hadn't gotten very far.

"The omen?" she had began slowly. Her hazel irises brightened as she bit her lip in confusion.

"I..." he had stuttered, unsure of how to put his dream into words. It faded away in his mind the longer he dwelled on it. "That's what someone told me," and Corban had rubbed at his face. Why was it so hard to remember?

"When did this happen?" Ingrid's gaze had him fixated under her thumb, and he could tell by the determined look that settled on her freckled face she wasn't letting him go without an answer.

"I had a dream." That was all Corban knew at the moment. It was like whenever he tried to remember the dream within his mind, it shied away, coming out only when he didn't want to think about it.

"Who was it?"

"Hm?"

The soft, tender Ingrid that had been there for him in the last minutes was gone. She was replaced by the fiery girl that had screamed in his face when he had first failed to kill the smoke demon, the between walker, as she had said.

"Who told you?" Then her eyes had widened as she had seemed to come to the realization of something.

"Is it about a prophecy?" she had lowered her voice, her eyes flickering to the younger girl who'd paid them no mind.

Corban hadn't been able to tell whether she had sounded excited or terrified. He recalled it to be a combination of both.

"Well--"

"I knew it." Ingrid's eyes had sparked, and she smiled to herself, proud she'd squeezed an answer (hardly) out of him. "Ophelia has been keeping things from me for far too long."

Then they had to go, the little girl had urged them. They were to go back to the terminal, back to where his whole life had changed direction in half a minute.

Even as they had wandered the desolated streets of London, passing destroyed building after the other, he couldn't get the eerie images out of his head. The face of a young boy with black hair and pale skin haunted his thoughts. The deep voice of man echoed on replay within the throes of his mind.

The Star awaits you. The Omen. Omen of peace.

The Harbinger walks among coals.

Watch for the Voice of Deceptions. Tread carefully among her brother of Decisions.

The Guardian of souls shall be the last apprentice.

The Star awaits them.

The Bane of Chaos may live again.

The Omen of Peace must unite them. The Omen will unite the Immortals.

You must unite the Council. The prophecy shall be fulfilled.

Or Death will see the world is still.

On and on it went like that, this ominous chanting of senseless words strung together in incoherent sentences, went on while the images flashed of the boy and smoke rose from charred bodies that covered the earth.

Corban shuddered and blinked the memory away.

Despite that one, awkward conversation, Ingrid was the only one he felt comfortable talking to. She was familiar, unlike the rest of the group. And she seemed as interested in the prophecy as he was, even if it were for different reasons. But now he was left alone.

The other winged women eyed him suspiciously from where they stood a few meters to his right. He gulped, unnerved by the harsh glances they threw his way.

The Latina looking woman, judging by her olive skin, coal-black eyes and her sleek, ebony hair that cascaded freely over her white and beige wings, whispered something to an older woman beside her. The constellations could be found in the dark freckles that dotted the Latina's cheeks.

Salt and pepper dreads were pulled into a bun atop the older woman's head as she bobbed her head up and down in agreement with her colleague. Her slanted eyes shone a beautiful shade of grey blue, and her skin was the color of honey. Wrinkled hands played with the thick fabric of her Tibetan robe that had the patterns that depicted the midnight sky. Her ivory wings could blind mankind, he concluded.

Corban drew his attention away from the two and looked to the most exotic of the three. The last woman stood away from her peers. A bone white staff much like the dark woman's was clutched in her grip.

Steely eyes shifted, and her lips were frozen in a tight, professional smile. Pink blush highlighted her sharp cheekbones and porcelain skin. Strands of neat braids nestled in her layered locks, and baby hairs framed her angular face.

What made her stick out was the layer of burnt orange chalk or paint that covered the upper half of her angular face. It was shadowed by the paint she bore on her forehead and over her eyes and at the bridge of her nose

Corban hadn't the slightest idea what it meant, if it meant anything at all. He felt accustomed to it, after three hours of not having the slightest idea what anything meant anymore.

When they continued staring, Corban decided he'd had enough and crutched over to the least patronizing person in the room; whom happened to be nine.

"Hello," he said awkwardly. The little girl glanced at him, uninterested by the solemn face she possessed. He realized he still didn't know her name. Her axe rested between her knobby legs as she sat atop the overturned metro, her speckled wings splayed about her.

"What're you up to?" he tried to smile, gesturing at her weapon. She vigorously rubbed at the black stains that seemed to refuse coming out.

"What does it look like?" she replied sassily.

Corban wanted to groan in frustration. Even after growing up in multiple foster homes with multiple toddlers and elementary level kids, he still couldn't bring himself to like children.

No, he couldn't even bring himself to tolerate them. He feared children.

Instead of having nightmares about clowns, he was always freaked out by little kids.

She's likely the scariest kid I've ever met, he thought. The girl was in the midst of puffing her ruddy cheeks to blow the blonde strands of hair from her eyes.

"Pfffthhhh."

He waited patiently for her to finish before going on again while she still worked on getting the black splatters on her axe to disappear.

"Wanna talk?" Maybe he'd be able to milk some answers from her that would better his understanding of his dream.

She sighed, pausing in her battle against the stained axe. "Thanks, but I'm approaching the age where my vocabulary skills have grown more articulate, and I don't mind conversing over highly controversial political matters. Can you keep up?"

"Uh--"

"Alright, let's talk. I'm beyond bored, anyway."

The girl set aside her cleaved weapon and clasped her hands together in her lap. She looked expectantly down at him. Corban sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"Fine. I'll start. I'm Corban Banks," he extended a hand up to the girl that sat on the metro.

Her nose wrinkled in distaste. "That's an odd name." She shook his bandaged fingers.

Corban played with the edge of his singed jacket. This kid was getting on his last nerve. "Whatever. I guess your name is better?"

"Yeah," and her face grew into a warm, small smile that made her cheeks lift a tiny bit. "I'm Meiren."

"That's impressive."

"I guess so. Ophelia gave it to me."

"Ophelia?"

Meiren pointed across the abandoned terminal at the faraway figures speaking from on the other side of the walls of broken glass. "Oh-phee-lia? The one talking to Ingrid?"

He turned to where she pointed. The black woman was in the midst of a conversation with his other friend with wings. She had saved his butt twice, he remembered.

"She seems cool," Corban remarked. The young girl smiled proudly at the statement.

"Yeah. She's very powerful, you know. One of the highest ranking members in Council. She's the best Sayidat I know of."

There was that word again. It had popped up on more than one occasion in his talks with Ingrid and before that in his weird dream.

"Say it what?"

"Sayidat," she replied. Her neck cocked from side to side and her eyes searched the open room. "Hey, do you think there's any food here?"

"And what is a Sayidat, exactly?" Corban pressed on.

Meiren rolled her eyes at him as if he were asking her what one plus one was. "Lady of Time. Part of the Council. You know, the guardian of Phenomenals. They overrule chaos. They can control time."

"So more mumbo jumbo," he muttered under his breath. He couldn't get anywhere with these people if they kept speaking in riddles.

Meiren didn't seem to have heard him, or had just ignored his reply. "I can't believe you don't even know what a Sayidat is," she giggled. "Guess I'll have to be your designated teacher. Heads up, you screw around in my class, and--" She ran a finger across her throat.

Surprisingly, Corban wasn't super freaked out by her kill gesture. "Okay, deal."

Her eyes brightened. "Really?"

He shrugged. "Sure, if you don't mind."

"Cool," Meiren mused, a genuine grin on her face. He found it infectious. 

Corban had done it. He'd made a kid not hate his guts.

Maybe she's not too bad after all.

Her smile faded as she looked over his head. "Oh god," she murmured. Meiren's eyes clouded over as she caught sight of something or someone behind him.

"Wha--" He moved his head to see what she looked at, but tiny hands grabbed his face and yanked his cheeks so he faced forward.

"Don't look back and maybe she'll ignore us," Meiren spoke through closed teeth. Her worried expression was that of panic.

"Could you let go of my face now?" Corban sighed as she released him from her surprisingly strong grip. A deep, feminine voice spoke.

"Hello, Meiren."

"Dammit," the tiny girl whispered.

Corban disobeyed Meiren's words and faced the speaker. He looked up at the face of the very woman who wore the intriguing face paint. The woman towered over his smaller 5'8" frame. Her black eyes held an intensity that he believed she could shoot lasers at him from there if she saw fit.

"What are you two talking about?"

"None of your goddamn business," Meiren seethed. Her own lightning eyes rivaled with the woman's, her deep scowl etching lines into her forehead. Corban didn't have a clue as to what made her like that. She didn't like this lady, but she was just a kid, after all. Kids could be kinda strange.

The woman ignore her remark and gave Corban the tight-lipped smile she had worn earlier. "I believe we haven't met," she said in a cheery tone, and held her hand out for him to take. He shook it, scared for a moment that her muscular fingers would rip his own hand from his socket.

"I'm the Lady Imogen of the Council," she introduced herself in the same cheerful manner. Corban thought he could feel Meiren's eyes roll from above him.

"Corban Banks," and he gave her a polite smile. She had said she was 'of the Council.'

You must unite the Council.

"The Council, you said," he began, roughly transitioning from the introduction to his growing batch of questions.

"Ah, yes, I'm sure you've heard of it, haven't you?"

He slowly shook his head. Why did everyone keep assuming he already knew of their world?

"I'm afraid not," he told her. "I'm actually very new to all of...this."

He didn't miss the confused flicker behind her observant eyes. "I see," she recovered. "In that case, we're a group of Sayidats--" she paused "--you know what those are?"

"I told him," Meiren interrupted bitterly. Lady Imogen chose not to acknowledge her. Corban noticed her facial features tighten at the sound of the girl's voice.

What was it with those two?

"Sayidats protect Phenomenals," Imogen continued, "We use our time-wielding abilities to build safe spaces people like you can live in, arcs of time, where chaos cannot reach us. We keep peace and order throughout both worlds, the dying and undying, both ends of the spectrum."

Her words and energy reminded Corban of a brochure for a summer camp or hotel.

"So you and Meiren were speaking of our world? What has she said about it so far?" Her thin smile didn't quite make it to her eyes.

There it was again. Corban frowned as she asked for the second time what they'd spoken about. It hadn't been much, but it bothered him that she was weirdly interested in what Meiren had to say to him. It was like she wanted to monitor their conversation.

He wasn't the only one that thought the same.

"It's like I said, Lady Imogen," Meiren's voice was laced in venom, "This doesn't have anything to do with you."

The Sayidat titled her head at Meiren like she hadn't understood her. "You can call me Aunt Imogen, dear," she replied back, the same potency of venom as the young girl's hid behind her cheerful plastered face.

Meiren scoffed and descended from her high spot on the metro to Corban's side. Fury burned from her eyes, and he didn't think he'd ever seen a kid so angry, which was saying something. He worriedly looked to her shaking hands that held her axe in a death-like grip. If worse came to worse, Lady Imogen would be decapitated in no time.

"Why is that? Do you wanna call me insane and torture me, too?" Meiren spat.

Corban had no idea what Meiren had just said or what she was referring to, but her words dug their way into Imogen's skin and he saw her fist nearly fly up to punch the girl.

Whoa. He didn't think he'd ever seen an otherwise composed adult nearly hit a child.

"We've talked about this, dear," she said, her smile gone and was replaced with a scowl as she spoke with clenched teeth. Her skin boiled almost as red as the paint on her forehead.

"No, you just have the whole damn Council under your thumb," Meiren seethed, crossing her arms over her small chest. "Don't worry, Aunt Imogen, I'll find a way to prove what you're hiding. We'll see how the Council treats you then."

Before he had time to register what had happened, Meiren reached for his crutches and yanked him away by the elbow. Corban crutched at the young girl's quickening pace, given no choice but to leave the infuriated Sayidat behind.

"Mind if I ask what that was all about?" Corban inquired as they left the earshot of Imogen.

The girl still clutched his elbow, but now it seemed to be for support rather than her leading him. Her lower lip trembled, and he noticed her bony hands shook.

"Hey--Meiren, are you okay?"

For a moment, the lively nine year old looked more like someone of ancient age and wisdom. "Yeah, I'll be fine."

"Wanna talk about it?" Corban stopped in his tracks and leaned against his crutches, peering down at the winged girl. Her dappled grey feathers ruffled against the coat she wore.

"Yes, but later," Meiren told him. Her troubled eyes stared ahead. He saw the dark-skinned Sayidat, Ophelia, Meiren had called her, walk into the London Terminal with Ingrid close behind.