Chapter Text
“Brother Gallagher?”
Ian doesn’t respond to the voice behind him, doesn’t even turn his head. He knows there is nobody to see. Instead, he keeps up his current task, taking in the beauty that the Art Institute of Chicago has to offer.
“Are you ignoring me, Brother Gallagher?”
“You want me to draw more attention to myself by turning around and talking to nobody, Tony?” Asks Ian, barely muttering under his breath. “I can hardly do what you expect of me from the inside of a padded cell. Trust me.”
In life, Ian had struggled with afflictions that his family treated as mental illness. Delusions. Voices. It wasn’t until after his untimely and violent death that he understood that the messages he heard truly were words from a higher power. Heard, but not comprehended. The divine and semi-divine are not meant to be understood by mortals, just as they cannot see divine and semi-divine beings in their full glory. His ability to even perceive the heavenly communiqués in life unknowingly marked him for the occupation that dominates his afterlife.
It was only after his death that he truly understood the voices. While the soul of the man he died trying to protect ascended to the eternal serenity of Paradise, Ian had a longer road to travel, one that put his gifts to use for the betterment of the world.
To be clear, Ian is not an angel by any stretch of the imagination. Nor was he wicked enough in life to warrant damnation. He is a spirit adrift and granted something mirroring human form so that he can be put to work on the mortal plain. After his passing, he was commissioned by St. Anthony with saving lost souls as he had been, and guiding them towards the good they are meant to do in the world. Someday, he will save enough souls and bring enough good into the world. Like those who have come before and after him with the ability to hear divine and semi-divine transmissions from the confines of the Earth, he spends his hereafter tasked to save one hundred souls before he can finally move on. Others have earned their place within a decade, others have toiled for centuries. After almost thirty years as a Guardian, Ian considers himself firmly in the middle of the pack.
“Would it be easier if I took human form?”
“As long as you don’t wear something outlandish.”
St. Anthony appears in a twinkling, dressed like he is an ad executive in Mad Men, but considering he is centuries old, Ian can understand his fashion being off by a handful of decades. At least it passes for modern attire, even if the three-button suit and the trilby read as a little retro. At least he didn’t show up dressed like just stepped out of the 13th Century.
“So, you have a soul for me to save?” He asks.
“Why do you assume I am only reaching out to you when there is work to be done?”
“Because that is the only reason you ever reach out to me, Tone.”
“Yes, well, with the world being the way it is, there is always so much to do.”
“Which is why I’ve been left to my own devices for the past five months? I could have made it to one hundred souls long ago if you didn’t leave me on ‘read’ whenever I ask for my next assignment.”
“Leave you on what?”
“It’s phone slang.”
“Oh, right. You know I struggle to keep up with all these little advancements they make down here.”
“For someone so keen on making the world a better place, you might want to try keeping up with it.”
“I’m far more concerned with the contents of men’s souls than the toys they have at their disposal, Brother Gallagher.” St. Anthony looks at the vast piece of portraiture that Ian had been looking at when he manifested. “Why are you spending your time staring at dots?”
“Perspective.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Okay,” says Ian, gesturing towards the painting. “See how up close all you see are dots?”
“It’s all just splatters of paint. This is art now?”
“More like a century and change ago. C’mon, close your eyes.” St. Anthony acquiesces and shuts his eyes as Ian takes him by the shoulders and leads his heavenly employer to the far end of the room. “Okay, now open them.”
St. Anthony blinks his eyes open and beholds a beautiful portrait of a 19th century Parisians enjoying a lazy afternoon.
“This is the same painting?”
Ian nods. “The technique is called ‘pointillism.’ All those dots on those own are just little splashes of color up close, but when you give yourself a bit of distance, there’s this optical illusion and your eyes blend the colors together to create the intended vision.”
“So, you need to remind yourself of the bigger picture.” Nods the saint in understanding. “Much like the souls you guide.”
Now it is Ian’s turn to be mystified. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Thirty years as a Guardian and it never occurred to you that you aren’t just saving souls. You’re saving every soul that they in turn save. The bigger picture.”
“Which brings me back to what do you have for me today?”
“A local case. Your childhood neighborhood, in fact. The Back of the Yards territory of Southside, Chicago.”
Ian crosses his arms across his chest. “I’m listening.”
St. Anthony holds out his empty hand and seconds later a manila folder materializes in his clutch. The name ornately written in the tab raises some alarm bells, but Ian tries not to react. “Milkovich, Mikailo.” It’s a name that once and still does has so much meaning to him. The simulacrum of the body he had in life tenses, and he feels like he cannot breathe—which is insane because this form does not need to breathe.
He died in the arms of Mikhailo Milkovich at the hands of his brother. He had the great misfortune of watching the light leave his lover’s eyes before the life drained from his own body. Years have passed since that night. The world has changed so much and his lover missed it all because of his damned older brother. He doesn’t understand. Mikhailo is long dead. And unlike Ian, his soul was allowed to cross over. He has mourned, visited Mikhailo’s grave annually. How is Mikhailo’s name on that file.
St. Anthony opens the folder and hands over an 8”x10” glossy. Ian always finds it entertaining that St. Anthony always provides headshots. And inwardly Ian sighs in relief. This isn’t his Mikhailo. Though there is a striking resemblance in the deep cerulean-blue eyes. The man is blessed with an alabaster complexion that contrasts with a sharp pair of eyebrows and spiky black head of hair. Despite a scowling expression, he has a pair of bowed lips and hollow cheeks that make him look like he was chiseled from marble.
“Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich. Before you ask, yes, he was named in memory of your lover. He prefers to be known as Mickey. Like the raccoon.”
“Mouse,” corrects Ian, who should be used to the lack of pop culture savvy from a man who lived and died in the High Middle Ages.
“He is a petty thief and a bit of a ruffian, but other than that, he is more bark than bite. And seems to have his own unconventional moral code. In fact, the hands of fate foresee him reforming his criminal family upon his father’s death. But that won’t happen if his father dies by his hand.”
“Can I ask who Mickey’s father is?”
St. Anthony sighs. “Terrence Milkovich.”
Ian’s whole body clenches. “As in…”
“Yes, Brother Gallagher. The man who murdered you and your lover.”
“I have to save Terry Milkovich?”
“No, you don’t. Terry Milkovich is a singularly evil man. The Morningstar has a special place reserved in the Realms Below for him. You’ll be saving Mickey. And you’ll be making the world a better place by guiding Mickey towards his destiny. And you do all that by keeping him from killing his father.”
Ian needs to sit down. He practically stumbles his way to the circular bench in the middle of the chamber. “I don’t know if I can do this, Tony.”
“Do you know how many souls you’ve already saved, Brother Gallagher?”
“I don’t know. Fifty?”
“Try ninety-nine.”
“Meaning Mickey will make one hundred.”
“And you know what happens once you’ve reached one hundred?”
Ian gulps. He was starting to think the planet would die of heat death before the finish line was in sight. But here it is. He blinks back the dampness forming in the corner of his eye. “I can finally go to Paradise.”