Sooner or later, everyone that lives at the theater realizes the Angel has claimed the roof as an aerie.
When the hearth needs hearthing, that's where they're told they can find the Hearthmaster. Or if anyone's wondering why the fridge is empty or if a meal is being cooked for everyone. Or maybe just wondering why the mop disappears and reappears down the hall that leads to the stairs so often until curiosity finally gets the better of them.
So of course the Post-It note stuck on Varyx' door simply said 'Roof', signed with interlocking and mirrored triangles to form a six pointed star.
A pair of plastic Adirondack chairs, thirty-five dollars on sale at home depot, face east-ish into the white and gold dazzle of the rising sun. The Angel lounges in one of them, thing, gangly limbs spilling out of the plastic like a spring-snake that's been freed from the confines of a can. He's dressed in black: black pants, black tennis shoes, and a black short sleeved shirt... topped with the white tab of the clergy. Dark sunglasses sit below the slicked-back mop and make his nose seem even larger. The morning sun sets the ring on his finger on fire as a glass full of some concoction is lifted and finished.
The murky green liquid is, oddly enough, almost the exact same shade as Avis' eyes.
A soft rush of wind carries the sound of the city, and intermittent cracks of a bat from Railly Field's morning practices. The Ziggurat and Tower Bridge rise in the distance.