Is that so? I thought you'd be happy with your box seat. You're up high, just where your kind likes to be when there's real suffering going on with the mortal crowd. Suppose it's even easier here, they're not god's chosen people. Suppose that means they're worth shit.

[John is trying very hard for solely angry, and he's absolutely enraged. But there's sadness still creeping in, he can't help but be disappointed. He just wants for once, just one measly pathetic little time, for an angel to be willing to step out of that box of convenient excuses to help those in need.

Where is the flaming sword? Where is the righteous anger? Where is the guiding messenger? John thinks that these parts of angels are entirely fictitious. But the scared, hurt part of him still clings to the idea of angels that actually do something.]

Doesn't it hurt you, even a little? [John's voice is strained, a bit shaky with anger and frustration.] They're suffering, and there's a whole hoard of fake feathered bastards keeping them subjugated. Even if you don't give a damn about the people, surely that has to make your blood boil. They're a facsimile at best, doing a space fascist's dirty work. [He huffs.] Well, while you enjoy the show, I'm going to actually do something.