Adam Smith (http://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=149383.msg6780449#msg6780449) sat at the bar. He was opening and closing a box of matches, done in the same style in the furniture. It was black and gold, done in a complex pattern as overwrought as the decor. He was wearing his oversized steel-toed boots, a pair of navy blue cargo pants with a length of thick chain as a belt, closed with three padlocks, a white tank top, and a bullet-resistant vest. Leaning up against the bar beside him was his weapon of choice: a steel bar, with a rubber grip affixed to one end, and lengths of reinforced razorwire affixed the end that touched the ground. There were red splotches on Adam's vest and tank top, dry but fresh, and there was the same on the business end of his weapon. Someone had been on the receiving end of a beating before he came to the bar. The man wore his mask. It was not to conceal his face. In fact, it was not to conceal at all. The leather straps wound from the temple and just below the ear to connect at the base of his skull and nape of the neck. His light, light blond hair was slicked up in a mohawk. There were black, fingerless gloves on his hands, made of some sort of leather. The knuckles showed signs of wear and the stain of blood.<br/><br/>He paused, matchbox half open, when he heard the shuffle of angel's feet. Turning his head on a thick, bullish neck, Adam watched the angel moved. Her attire and aura stood out sharply against the black and gold layout of the establishment, but it did not make her appear out of place. The light remained about her, from within her. Was it because, Adam pondered, her choice was so strongly for the light that it would not abandon her? But then, why come here? In the darkness, one's flaws were hidden and one was afforded the luxury of being who they are. A large finger pushed the matchbox closed, and slid it into his pocket.<br/><br/>The masked man got up from his stool, and gabbed his weapon. He did not bother to lift it, but just dragged it along behind him, right arm slack. He approached the angel's dark corner - though it was not so dark anymore for her presence. He sat down, resting his mass across from her. For a moment, there was only the shallow, regular sound of his breathing. Even being able to see through the mask, there was nothing to see on his face, and even less to see in his soul - his brief but brutal life of violence had worn away the spark of humanity within him. And when he spoke, it was in a deep voice lacking the cadence of human emotion, the warm wisdom of empathy for another living thing that was universal in humanity.<br/><br/>"Have you ever been in the presence of God?" Adam asked the angel.