[Angela shoots upright as the rain starts to pick up, the scent of wet earth and decay rushing into her lungs and spurring a coughing fit. Small cuts and bruises cover her body and mud clings to her clothing. She's in...a ditch? No. A grave. An open grave. The hair on the back of her neck stands up as she catches sight of her name on the headstone behind her. It must be a dream, she thinks. Rationalizes that it's got to be, no matter how vivid, because this is not where she was when she laid her head down to rest back at Watchpoint: Gibraltr.]

Hello? [Her voice is small and uncertain. She clears her throat, tries again as she climbs out of the hole she's been dumped in.] Hello? Is anyone out there? I think there's been...

[Angela looks closer at the tombstones surrounding hers. Jack. Gabriel. Cole. Her mother. Her father. She looks away, squinting through the haze of rain at an approaching light.]

There's been a mistake.

[Drugged. She must have been drugged. Drugged and dragged away to this hellscape. That's what Angela reasons as she pushes frantically past the people trying to shove pamphlets into her hands that say ridiculous things like "Where the Werewolves Are" and "Monster Mayhem: A Guide for Not Turning Feral". Monsters. Superstition and nonsense. But she can't deny that this feels real and the fear, the anger, in peoples eyes when they look at her - it makes her feel naked and ashamed, and it makes her worry that there's something to their claims that she'll understand soon enough.

She approaches someone else who is being harassed by pamphlet-wielding locals. Doesn't make eye contact as she speaks.]

Excuse me, I'm sorry to trouble you - have you been here long? Do you...can you tell me where we are?

[She laughs bitterly as she stares at the feathers in her hands. The pain of sprouting six fully formed wings had been excrutiating, to say nothing of the bull horns and tail, and the fluffy white feathers falling from her new (blood tinged where they suddenly burst through her skin) wings seem to mock her. She could deny it up until now. Angela looks up with two sets of eyes into the mirror above the bathroom sink at the diner she's gone to have breakfast in. No doubt they all heard her screaming. No doubt someone will come for her soon.

A broken sort of sigh escapes her as she observes the changes. A halo, cartoonishly golden and hovering above two bull-like horns. The wings, of course, have shredded her shirt and she holds the scraps of her shirt to her chest in an attempt at modesty. She notes she seems paler, like there's light shining through translucent skin. Oh, and the eyes. Two new ones on her cheekbones.

Angela Ziegler slumps to the floor, bull tail falling limp on the tile and six bulky wings folded as close as she can get them to her body. She is, in this moment, utterly lost.]