The Angel of Haven

by

Rodford Edmiston

Part One

Malak walked around the grounds of the clinic slowly, in a deeply contemplative mood, as well as simply enjoying the weather and scenery. Normally, Aaron kept his wings in unless "on the job" or actually flying. However, he was usually in his alternate form when at the clinic, even for a quick visit. He was essentially on the job whenever here, actually, since both staff and patients were reassured by having someone with an angelic appearance being around.

Just now, he was traversing a walkway bordered by trees he had helped plant as part of the initial construction at the facility, over fifty years before. By then he was already aware that he would likely be around for a very long time, and making long-term plans. He'd made sure the trees and many of the other plants were all long-lived varieties, some of them not even native to the region. In spite of their expected life spans, a few had already been replaced through the years, for one reason or another. He stopped for a moment to contemplate a pine planted to restore a gap left when its predecessor was felled in the great storm of 1975. A sapling then, it was a big, healthy tree, now.

Hard to believe that tree is already approaching the half century mark, he mused.

He sighed, then realized what the time was. He turned towards the administration building and walked more quickly.

Suddenly, a cry rang out from high in a sycamore bordering the paved trail. A tree which was actually one of the volunteers among the deliberate plantings.

"Mannequin attacks angel!" yelled what sounded like a child.

Malak turned and caught a hurtling figure, which appeared to be a pre-teen girl, dressed for outdoor play. He held her under the arms, feet well off the ground, peering at her.

"Drat! The angel has defeated Mannequin's most formidable attack!"

"That was your most formidable attack?" said Malak, raising an eyebrow. "I don't think you're a Mannequin at all. I think you're a doodlebug."

"A doodlebug?" said the child, dubiously.

She gave a squawk of protest as Malak tossed her up a bit, with a half spin, again catching her under the arms as she came back down. With her now facing outwards, he began making slow sweeps.

"A doodlebug. Which way is it to the administration building?"

"Beep... beep... beep... Beep! BEEEEPPP!! Beep! Beep... beep..."

"Okay, you aren't actually a doodlebug," Malak admitted. "Since that's exactly the opposite direction."

Mannequin giggled, then squirmed free. She dropped to the ground, spun around to give Malak a quick hug around the legs, then spun around again and ran laughing towards the small playground nearby.

Malak watched her play for a bit with the handful of other children there, then continued on to his destination. Inside the administration building Malak found the chief of staff, who was on his way to the same meeting Malak was there for. The wide, high hallways here were partly a stylistic choice, partly to make transfer of patients in beds easier and partly due to Malak's wings.

"I honestly can't tell if Georgia is getting better or worse," said Malak, as they walked together.

"Better," said Dr. Bunker, firmly, nodding emphatically. "Definitely better. You can thank Dr. Browning for that. He had this idea to have Georgia reenact important parts of her childhood, in the process uncovering several sources of major emotional trauma. By having Georgia relive that age in a friendly, supportive environment - with appropriate gender differences where required - he's made huge strides in creating a foundation for rational adult behavior."

He grinned at the winged man beside him as they reached the doors to the meeting room.

"Fortunately for Mannequin, modern psychiatry considers someone with an active sense of humor to be in the normal range."

* * *

"I hear you're having a special visitor today," said Sarah, through the open doorway to Melody's office.

She looked up, a bit startled. Absorbed in her work, Melody had absently noted the change in office sounds as someone passed by her open doorway, but this happened often during a normal workday and she hadn't realized there was someone actually standing there until Sarah spoke.

"Aaron Labelle," said the seated reporter, expertly covering her surprise. "It's a combination interview and reunion."

"You sure it's not something more than that?" said the office matchmaker.

"Yes, Sarah," said Melody, with a grimace. She wasn't about to explain why that would have been awkward on multiple levels. Or that neither of them was attracted to the other, also for multiple reasons. "Just two people talking. Trust me on this."

The other woman laughed knowingly as she walked away. Melody scowled, but her irritation was minor and short-lived. She resumed preparing for her interview.

Nearly a year had passed since the swearing-in of President Duff, which Melody considered the finale to the events which had begun with the discovery of the plot to frame a group of empowered for a horrible crime. Unfortunately, there were still doubts on the parts of some individuals and groups - doubts which usually involved large amounts of willful suspension of disbelief - that the right people were left in charge in the aftermath of the plot's unveiling and dismantling. Supporters of the guilty, in particular, were causing grief in numerous ways.

Initially after the revelations, the new President had been able to reduce the legal controls on empowered individuals and groups. Unfortunately, following that first bloom of freedom, influential people had supported - through local, state and eventually federal legislation - acts which would have added even more restrictions than had previously existed. President Duff had worked hard against such measures on the federal level, but some of them had enough support to pass despite his veto. As well, some things he supported were voted down in Congress. The courts - including state and federal Supreme Courts - were likely to be busy for years. Interestingly, as elected officials supporting the conspiracy came up for reelection, they usually failed. Leading to repeated calls for the suspension of elections until the "criminals" had been arrested.

The governments of several other nations had also experienced such plots, a few of which had succeeded. However, only three of the new regimes which had been established through these efforts still stood, and two of those appeared to be on the way out. In large part these failures were due to the schedule of the plotters being advanced because of the discoveries of those who had uncovered the plot in the US. From that viewpoint, the good guys had won.

Melody Gunderson had moved on, mostly. She still wrote about the plot, in all its aspects. She and others were still uncovering facts about what happened, though the frequency of significant revelations was currently in rapid decline. Most of those in charge of the criminal effort, and those under them who had performed clearly illegal acts, had been arrested, and many had already been tried and punished. Many were dead, some by their own hands. However, there were many still awaiting trial, and some still unaccounted for. Melody occasionally found herself subpoenaed as a witness. Both prosecution and defense had learned to avoid certain questions about her experiences during that period. The last time she had seen Aaron had been for one such trial, just a month and a half before.

Bizarrely, the owner of her former apartment building had reported several visits from men claiming to be government agents. Every time, they demanded to know why Melody wasn't still living at the destroyed property. That was the address they had for her; that was where she had to live. They had even made vague threats against the owner, trying to blame him for the fact that Melody was no longer there. She and the owner had both filed injunctions with federal courts against the harassment. In response the feds had denied the visits had occurred. Not that the men weren't valid federal agents; rather, that the visits - and threats - were inventions of those filing the complaints.

Since these visitors strongly resembled - in both appearance and demeanor - the men who had kidnapped Melody and burned the building down, she was very worried about this activity. Melody had sent change of address forms through the Post Office, so presumably the valid government agencies would know where she now lived. She just hoped these men didn't find out.

She also still found herself promoting empowered civil liberties. Not so much because she wanted to be a champion of anyone's civil rights as because she was called upon to do so. Often by her own conscience. Repeatedly, she had to point out that while the few empowered who committed blatantly illegal acts had a huge impact, they were a tiny fraction of the total population of those with powers.

Today she actually had an appointment with Aaron. When she arranged this she was surprised to realize the visit would be the first time he had been to her office. She'd made sure to tell the security desk in the atrium of the building to expect him.

* * *

Several of the passersby on the street outside the skyscraper which housed The New York Glory gave Aaron strange looks as he walked from an alley to the front entrance of the building. While they did not recognize him they definitely noticed him. With his rustic dress and friendly smile and nod to everyone he encountered he was quickly labelled as some sort of country bumpkin and dismissed. Though those who gave him more than a cursory glance saw something more. The unusually perceptive saw something much more.

They knew who he was, of course, at the New York Glory. Not just the security personnel, either, and not just because Melody had told them to expect him. Even without the events of eight months previous involving their publication - and closely involving one of their star reporters - those working at the paper would have recognized Aaron Labelle. Though some might have identified him only after prompting.

The security guard took his name and who he was there to see, gave him a visitor's pass and directed him to the elevators. Then called the Editor in Chief.

A middle-aged black man in a nice suit intercepted Aaron as he exited the elevator. He extended his hand to Aaron, and spoke to him in a voice nearly as deep and smooth as the older man's. Several people paused in their usual work activities to look on in curiosity, but none felt a need to seek further information; at least, not just then. Word of Aaron's visit had quickly spread, as Sarah's earlier visit to Melody had indicated. While they were curious - indeed, that was one of their job requirements - they had other priorities.

"Good afternoon. I'm Carl Gadding, Melody's boss. We've met a couple of times."

"Yes, I remember," said Aaron, with a nod and a pleasant smile as they shook hands.

"If you don't mind, I'd like a word before you see her."

"Of course."

Once they were in his office Carl offered refreshments, which were politely declined. Aaron made no effort to hurry him, but editor had the distinct impression the empowered man wanted to get on with the purpose of his visit.

"Melody is doing much better these past few weeks," Gadding said, as he took his seat. "She's writing again, and I mean writing the way she used to; which is very good."

"I am glad to hear that," said Aaron, nodding. "She went through some seriously stressful times last year."

"Her recovery has been remarkable," said Gadding, pointedly. "Some might even say... miraculous. I'm wondering if it's a real recovery, or if she's simply hiding her problems."

"What most people don't realize is just how many of the lingering mental effects of many traumatic events have physiological roots," said Aaron. "Even battle fatigue - what most physicians today call traumatic stress disorder - often includes physical damage to the central nervous system. For example, the effects of repeated nearby explosions can affect the brain severely, on multiple levels. Something which wasn't even detectable by conventional medicine until recently. Melody was... brutalized. Thanks to several empowered healing her that damage was corrected. Something we have done before for traumatized people. We have decades of experience in this field, in fact. Such repairs do nothing for the purely psychological effects, of course, but we have experience treating those, too."

"She hasn't been going to that clinic of yours for months," said Gadding, pointedly. "I'm worried that she isn't getting any additional help."

"Ah, I see," said Aaron, nodding and smiling. "You're worried about her, but she is irritatingly reticent about personal matters. Well, she still has a long way to go but she is, indeed, seeing a local therapist. Someone familiar with the methods we use at our clinic, and who is keeping us apprised of Melody's progress. I can't tell you any more, at the risk of violating the confidentiality between patient and therapist."

"Well, I am very glad to hear that," said Gadding. He gave a wry chuckle. "She is, indeed, far too private with some things. Please, don't hesitate to let me know if you think there's anything I can do to help her. I like to think of those who work here as family."

"Of course."

They stood, shook hands again, and Gadding escorted Aaron to the door of his office. He stood there, thoughtfully watching as the empowered man walked down the hall and turned the corner.