Archangel and Friends - Part I

“That we can acquire through the repetition of traumatic events...”

Michael found himself zoning in and out of focus as the English teacher, one Mr. Vivaldi Scalone, gave a lecture on what the class had dubbed Freud and Fiction.

“But it can't just be the achievement of mastery alone, because...”

Vivaldi Scalone was an old man—old being an euphemism that did little describe just how ancient he was. While Michael really had no right to comment on another person's age, at least he could say that he didn't look a day over eighteen. He was even wearing his new clothes. The dark red T-shirt went well with his black pants and shoes.

“That is to say, to keep putting before us, the unhappy nature of what's involved…”

The wrinkles of Vivaldi Scalone's saggy face almost appeared to be alive as he spoke. They moved about, distorting and shaking and quivering, along with his heavyset jowls that drooped down his face like a pair of saggy tits. Michael found the sight of those flapping, sagging cheeks highly disturbing.

“The repulsion to compete, takes the form, Freud argues, to master an advance, through rehearsal the inevitability of death...”

Unable to listen any longer (what use did an angel have for lectures on human literature and theories?), and not wanting to see the strangely quaking flesh of Vivaldi's wrinkled skin, Michael glanced around the room.

Most of the students were paying complete attention to their teacher, their faces rapt and eager, unblinking as they listened and wrote down everything being spoken of. Even Alice's face―especially Alice's face―held a look of such intense focus that Michael feared she might burn a hole through Vivaldi's head.

Michael had not learned this until after his course schedule had already been given to him, but this class was apparently a college course for students who were looking to earn credits so they could skip the class when they went to college. He remembered asking Alice about that, along with his question on why she wanted to take the course, and he had learned that people who want to make something of their lives apparently needed to go to college.

This desire, this need, this striving to prove oneself and rise up from the muck of humanity, once again showed him just how different angels were from humans. In Heaven, no one felt this need to “rise above their station” or “make something of themselves” like people on earth did.

He wondered, though, if the reason for that had to do with the mortality of humans. Was it because of their short lifespans that humans strove to such great lengths to become more than what they were? Or was it just that angels had no need to prove themselves because they had already attained the highest honors possible―entering Heaven―and thus no longer felt the need to prove themselves?

He supposed the answer to those questions was something he would never learn.

When the bell finally rang, Michael couldn't help but heap praises to God as he stood up and grabbed the notebook that Alice had lent him. Class was over, he wouldn't have to listen to Vivaldi's boring lecture, and it was now time for lunch. Could this day get any better?

~The Archangel Michael~

“Yes! Finally, I can get some food!”

“How is it that you're always so hungry?” asked Alice as the two found themselves piling up food from the buffet table. Well, Michael was doing most of the piling. Alice had only chosen to get herself a salad with some chicken and light Italian dressing. “You just had breakfast a few hours ago. And don't put so much on your plate. Even if you can eat all of that, you'll run out of money faster than you can pray to God.”

“Urk!” Michael grimaced as he realized that Alice was right. Slowly, longingly, and with bitter regret, he began putting at least half of the food he'd piled on his plate back. “Right… sorry.”

“I don't know why you're apologizing.” Alice rolled her eyes. “It's your money you're wasting. Not mine.”

The two of them made their way to the cash register, where they paid for their cafeteria fare. Alice and Michael then began picking their path around the tables, toward the nearest exit. They didn't get far before someone Alice had no desire to see appeared before them.

“Michael,” Clara smiled at the not-so-young man. Behind her, Katie and Michelle watched in silence, mere sentinels presiding over their leader. “I was wondering if you would like to have lunch with me. I am sure it'll be much more pleasant than eating with that little girl over there. Oh ho ho ho!”

As Clara threw her head back slightly and laughed a really strange and unusual sounding laugh, Alice grit her teeth.

“Go away, Clara! No one wants to see your face when their eating lunch, least of all me!”
“Oh, Alice, I'm not talking to you.” The expression on Clara's face could only be described as condescending. “I'm talking to Michael.” When Alice's face turned a burning shade of red, the blond-haired senior turned back to Michael, batting her eyelashes at him. “Would you like to eat with me for lunch today?”

Michael found himself staring at Clara. He had stared at her during class this morning as well, and he couldn't do anything less now that she stood before him again. Today she decided to wear a short skirt. A really, really, really short skirt, one that would probably reveal her panties if she so much as bent over, which would have also allowed him to see down her shirt. Her sleeveless shirt showed off her slender shoulders. It had a low enough dip in the neckline that allowed for a healthy portion of her cleavage to be exposed.

“Hey, Clara,” Michael greeted, his voice cheerful but distracted. His irises followed the bounce of Clara's bosoms as she stood back up. While he couldn't be one-hundred percent sure, he was almost positive he just heard a “boing” when her breasts bounced. “You're looking amazing today.”

Clara grinned and winked at him. “I know, right?” She did a little twirl for him, and Michael felt his eyes pop out of his head when he saw a flash of something sacred, something beautiful, something―

“Grayfield Fist!”

“Dabriel!”

“You damn pervert!” The sound of Alice's fist meeting Michael's head was only overpowered by the sound of her shout. “I thought you were getting better, but it looks like you're still nothing but a disgusting lecher! How could you even think of looking at Clara's panties when you can look at mine?!”

… Silence. It was only several seconds after Alice said this that she realized just what it was she said.

There are some shades of red that humans had yet to discover. Shades that were so bright, so vibrant, that the human mind simply could not comprehend their color.
On that day, Alice discovered one of those shades.

“Alice Fist!”

“Baradiel!?”

Michael discovered more pain.

~The Archangel Michael~

Clara and Alice were a complete contrast of each other. Where Cara had blonde hair, blue eyes, and a model-like figure that most girls would kill for, Alice had black hair, dark eyes, and a slender figure. Where Clara was the girl every other girl wanted to be, Alice was the girl everyone, both male and female, avoided like the plague.

All except for Michael, for reasons that Clara couldn't understand.

The thought made her frown.

“You do realize that everyone is staring at you now, don't you?” Clara asked, staring at her counterpart. Alice stood there, her shoulders hunched, her breathing heavy, and her fist smoking, as in, smoke was literally pouring from it.

Lying on the ground below her, his face planted into the tile, which had cracked under the force he’d been smashed into it, Michael groaned. The Archangel looked like he'd seen better days. His eyes were blank and glassy, steam wafted off the ginormous lump of pink flesh on his forehead. His butt was also sticking in the air for some reason.

The young woman with hair the color of ravens didn't answer at first. She blinked several times, the words merely passing through her ears as her enraged mind settled down. Her fist, which had been shaking, relaxed and returned to her side. Alice then looked around, finally taking note of what Clara had noticed before her.

Everyone in the entire cafeteria had gone silent. Each student there stared at her with wide eyes and gaping mouths. The incredulous and shocked looks being sent her way made Alice realize that she had not only made a spectacle of herself in public, but that she had also said those embarrassing things in front of these people.

Somehow, she blamed Michael, who was still groaning on the floor.

“S-Shut up!” Alice hissed at Clara. “This is all your fault!”

She also blamed Clara.

“How is this my fault?” Clara looked smug. “I'm not the one who told you to say all those things. And I'm not the one who reacted violently without thinking.” Tossing her hair over her shoulder, the pretty blonde smirked at her sort of rival. “It seems your hair-trigger has gotten even worse than I remember it. You must have an awfully short fuse these days. Oh ho ho ho!”

“Would you stop with the ‘oh ho ho ho’ already!”

“Nggg...” Michael groaned again, though it sounded somehow more coherent this time. Letting his body stretch out, and his butt also come back down to earth, he lay there on his stomach, getting his bearings before rolling over and trying to sit up. “What hit me... Oh. Wait. I remember now.”

“Oh, Michael!” Clara stopped laughing and rushed over to Michael's side. Her two silent bodyguards followed. She knelt down next to Michael and put a hand against his back, helping him sit up. “How are you feeling? I'm so sorry I let that nasty woman hurt you like that. I just didn't expect her to use such violence.”

“What was that?!” A large vein began to pulse on Alice's forehead. “And don't get so close to Michael!”

“Why shouldn't I?” asked Clara who, in an effort to annoy her enemy, pulled Michael's head down to her chest. A dopey and stupid looking smile soon appeared on Michael's face. It seemed that even though he wasn't all there, a part of him knew that his face was pressing against the heavenly marshmallows all males love. “It's not like you and he are dating. Or are you?” A coy look appeared on Clara's face. “I must admit, that statement you made just a little while ago does make one wonder...”

“Gr! Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Alice raged, well, raged more than she usually did. With her face a lovely shade of “light your face on fire with a blow torch” red, Alice glared at her rival with enough heat that Cyclops would have wondered why laser beams weren't shooting from the girl's eyes. “I don't want to hear another word out of you, boob head!”

“B-Boob head?!” Clara muttered in both shock and anger. “So now we're resorting to childish taunts, Alice? How pathetic, though I suppose I shouldn't have expected anything less from a flat-chested little girl like you.”

“F-flat?!” Alice was irate, and embarrassed, but mostly irate. “How dare you! I'm not flat! Sure, mine might not look like a pair of overgrown watermelons like yours, but they're still there!”

Clara stood up when she was sure that Michael had recovered. She glared at Alice, who returned her look right back at her. Wanting to prove to this little girl once and for all that she was better, Clara grabbed her breasts, lifted them, and let them go.

She grinned at Alice, who stared enviously at her boobs. “Ha! Any girl whose chest was flatter than a billboard would say that! Face it! You've got nothing on these babies!”

“I think you both just need to calm down.” Michael, who had at some point during the growing argument between Alice and Clara, made a miraculous recovery, stood between them. “Why must you two fight over something like this? Neither of you has anything to be ashamed of. It's not the size of the breasts that determines their value, but how those breasts fit on the girl in question.” Michael nodded at his own wisdom. Dang, he was smooth. “Now, why don't you both just settle down and―”

His words were cut off when he ended up eating a face full of two fists.

“Shut up!” the two women shouted in eerie unison. “You stay out of this!”

“Ugh...” Michael, his eyes glazed over again and stars floating around his head as he lay on his back, groaned. He looked more like he'd gone six rounds with a world famous boxing champion instead of two girl's who had probably never fought a single moment in their life. “I was only trying to help.”

~The Archangel Michael~

“I can't believe that hussy!” Alice hissed as she and Michael sat together at lunch. Clara was nowhere to be found, which was just fine as far she was concerned. Alice didn't know what she would do if she saw that skank any time soon, but it wouldn't be pretty. “Showing those disgusting udders of hers off like that! And in a public setting too!” Sure, the other girl hadn't ripped her shirt off or anything, but the way she had groped herself was just wrong. Clara should have shown a little more decency!

“I think you're just jealous,” Michael mumbled under his breath as he ate some of the macaroni and cheese off his plate. This stuff tasted pretty good. Not as good as Alice's cooking, but still good.

“Grayfield Fist!”

“Abasdarhon!”

“I am not jealous,” Alice declared, her face vibrant in color and complexion. “How could you possibly think I was jealous of that woman and her damn cow-tits?”

“I don't know,” Michael let out a pitiful moan as he sat back up. He shook his head once, then grabbed his food, which he'd managed to save from getting sent to the ground along with himself, and set it down on his lap. “You're every bit as pretty as she is, so you have no reason to be jealous.”

Alice stopped short upon hearing Michael's words. “Y-you really think so?”

“Of course I do.” Michael took a bite out of a carrot, swallowing, and then continuing where he left off. “You might not have the traditional beauty that Clara has, you know, the whole blonde hair, blue eyes, and killer figure thing, but you've got your own charm.”

“L-like what?” asked Alice. Cripes, why was she suddenly so embarrassed? And why did her face feel like someone had stuck her head into the center of the sun?

“Well…” Michael thought about it for a moment. “You've got really beautiful skin. It's white and silky and soft to the touch. Your porcelain complexion is prettier than her tan. You also have an amazing pair of legs, and small, shapely hips. While some men enjoy the softer look on a woman's face, I think yours is really pretty. I think the somewhat sharper features suits you, and I especially like your eyes.”

“O-oh.”

Alice's cheeks began to heat up, and not with anger this time. How many people had told her that she was pretty? How many had even given her the most basic of compliments? None. That's how many. Even her mom had never said a single kind word to her, at least that she could remember. For Michael to say this was, in all honesty, really embarrassing. Flattering as hell, but also mortifying.

In a good way.

“Besides, it's just like I said,” Michael continued. “Your boobs might not be as big as Clara's, but that doesn't mean they're not nice. The suppleness and shape of your chest is not something that boobs of Clara's size will ever have.” Michael gave Alice a grin and a thumbs up. For reasons that were beyond the ability of Alice to decipher, a strange gleam, like a tiny star, lit up on Michael's teeth. “Trust me on this, Alice, you've got a grade A chest!”

And just like that, the moment was murdered more surely than if Michael were to have butchered it with a rusty spork and then ran it over with a semi-truck.

Alice twitched.

“Grayfield Fist!”

And then she hit Michael on the head.

“Kakarot!”

“That's not even an angel!”

There is a lesson to be learned here. This guy? Michael? Not very smart.