<strong>Name</strong>: Michael Sandalphon<br/><strong>Time</strong>: Six months before the plague<br/><strong>Tagged</strong>: No one<br/><br/>"I said get out of here, you little shit!" Michael ducked as the bat, held by a large, angry deli owner, whizzed over his head. "I'll not have beggars bugging my customers!"<br/><br/>The bat swung again and again met nothing but air. Michael had gotten the hint, though, and was making a quick retreat to the exit. He wasn't quite quick enough and the polished wood almost made splinters of his teeth when his battered, wool jacket caught on one of the chairs. Over the last six months, he had spent every moment learning to cope with his gift and this was just another humbling lesson that he wasn't infallible. Still, the blonde dodged to the side at the last second, freed his coat, and slammed through the swinging door and into the busy Chicago street.<br/><br/>Immediately the wind whipped through the dirty rags he called clothes, piercing and frigid as it blew off Lake Michigan's icy waters.  The crowd barely slowed it down, the loud rushing filling and stinging his ears until he couldn't hear anything else. They didn't call it the windy city for nothing, but when you didn't have money, you couldn't dress for the cold. Actually, he'd freeze this night if he didn't make it to the bus depot in time. He'd<em>seen</em>it.<em>Felt </em>it.<br/><br/><em>How many times have I experienced my own death?</em><br/><br/>Slowly, walking against the biting wind, Michael made his way to the nearby Goodwill, the two twenty's and a fifty clutched in his coat pocket. They had been well worth the beating he had almost received, the broken bones and smashed face, the trip to the hospital that would have upset all his plans. The last of the money he needed to go south. To Texas. To<em>them.</em>. All he needed now were some clothes, a bus ticket, and he would be there in time to get the last of what he needed to fit in. So they'd trust him.<br/><br/><em>More, so they'll trust you <strong>more</strong>. You can't save them all. Some die. You've seen it. Don't be weak. You've seen what comes of that, too.</em><br/><br/>Gritting his teeth, Michael ignored the cold and followed the path that flowed just a second before him. Each step a rapidly closing branch where a single misstep meant bumping into people, walking in front of a bike, a car, a bus; a shattered knee, broken wrist, death. He felt it all and kept walking. Sometimes Michael wondered if he was still insane. Or maybe this was all a fruitless exercise in masochism that would end with<em>him</em>triumphant and Michael broken at<em>his </em>feet. Guiding<em>him.</em><br/><br/><em>No. You've seen the light. They'll get you to the light and there will be no more darkness.</em><br/><br/>Pushing the door to the Goodwill open, the warm rush of air left his fingers, nose, and ears tingling with sensation. Michael had  gotten so lost in his thoughts he'd forgotten how cold he was. Letting out a breath, he moved to the men's section and paused. There was a bin of sunglasses and his hands found the pair he had seen in all those visions. A sign? Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, it warmed his heart like the heater was warming his flesh.<br/><br/>Then he laughed. Now all he had to do was figure out what he was going to wear to school.