#I want to see botiful art

[zhurnalproliv]

I wanted to find art 'bout scp-049 and scp-035, but in the end I look at some idiots lead the most stupid rp channels, and spam with some stupid and idiotic jokes not fitting into character

[wordacrosstime]

Especially When It Snows

by Michael Spring

This is a brief and true story of heartache and injustice, a tragedy that stretched over generations. It is one of those stories that prods at your sleep, etches itself into views and places, and finally leaves you shouting at the moon.

My part in the story is simply that of an observer. I have traced down some of the links, read some of the poetry, wept silently at the rank injustice that surrounded these few connected individuals. The only good thing to come out of it was the poetry – a few desperate quanta of light, somehow not gathered into the black hole - but let me begin the story where I started.

The Only Blonde in the World is a painting by an artist called Pauline Boty. It’s part of the collection of works held by Tate Britain, and its subject is Marilyn Monroe. I’d walked by it a few times, liked its confident presence and its understated enthusiasm for a woman who in her own lifetime became more legend than reality.

I was reminded of it when I – by accident – wandered around the small exhibit dedicated to Marilyn Monroe at the National Portrait Gallery in 2012. There was a photo there of Pauline Boty with her painting. I decided to try to find out some more.

Pauline Boty was beautiful, like the subject of her painting (Michael Seymour and Lewis Morley’s photos of her are in the National Portrait Gallery). Her friends called her the Wimbledon Bardot for her resemblance to the legendary Brigitte. She was talented too, and followed up her time at Wimbledon Art College by moving to the Royal College of Art. And there she started painting and drawing her contemporary heroes – Monroe, Jean-Paul Belmondo, the Rolling Stones – as well as assembling collage and other multi-media works that emerged from her course, nominally concerned with stained glass.

In London, she took wing. Her work featured in an exhibition, Young Contemporaries, with Robyn Denny, Richard Smith and Bridget Riley. With her fellow artist Derek Bolshier, she was accepted, after auditioning, to appear as a dancer on the TV Show of the moment – Top of the Pops. She got to know Peter Blake, later to design the cover of the Beatles’ Sergeant Pepper LP, Bob Dylan, Kenneth Tynan, David Frost. She was one of the few women amongst the pop art movement, and she was also an actress, good enough and photogenic enough to get a cameo role in Alfie as one of Michael Caine’s girlfriends.

And then she fell in love.

After 10 days of knowing Clive Goodwin, they decided to get married and in 1965, unexpectedly and at the age of 28, she found she was pregnant. She also found that she had cancer.

She refused all treatment, and instead determined to have her baby, a girl, who became known as Boty Goodwin. Pauline Boty died five weeks after the birth.

Boty was brought up by Clive and her grandparents, often staying with the family of the left-wing poet, Adrian Mitchell, whose daughters became firm friends.

12 years after her mother’s death, her father (the publisher of Black Dwarf and a successful TV and film producer) was in Hollywood, meeting with Warren Beatty in a big hotel there to discuss the forthcoming film Reds. Clive Goodwin felt unwell and in the lobby was sick and collapsed. Hotel staff and police who were called thought he was drunk – he’d actually had just one glass of wine – and threw him into a cell where he died alone, of a brain haemorrhage.

Boty grew up and emerged as a talented woman like her mother. She completed a first degree at the University of California in Los Angeles. (The eventual settlement from her father’s death had made her financially independent). And when she came back to the UK, she stayed with Adrian Mitchell and his family. She was offered post-graduate scholarships at UCLA in two subjects, literature and fine art.

Returning to California, she was given heroin at a party, and died of an overdose in her sleep.

In response, Adrian Mitchell wrote some heart-wrenching poetry, the best of which is Especially when it snows, which should be read in full, but contains these lines of heartbreak:-

especially when it snows and down the purple pathways of the sky the planet staggers like King Lear with his dead darling in his arms

It would be hard to make up such a tale of injustice and suffering, a tale in which so many bright lights are extinguished with a callousness that makes me think that if there is a god, I want nothing to do with him.

The Only Blonde in the World is part of the collection at Tate Britain. The poetry of the late Adrian Mitchell is published by Bloodaxe in the UK. You can search on YouTube to see and hear Adrian Mitchell reading his anti-war poem, Tell me lies, at the Albert Hall in 1965.

Image (c) Estate of Michael Seymour 1962, from National Portrait Gallery Collection NPG x88193. Extract from Especially When It Snows (c) Estate of Adrian Mitchell / Bloodaxe.

Michael Spring

wordsacrosstime

15 January 2021

[not-a-space-alien]

Into the Unknown, Part 9: Satan, Redefined

Art by @petimetrek (link)

Prologue | Dramatis Personae | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8

Series masterpost

On AO3

AN: before reading this please know I promise everything will be all right in the end okay oHo

Hell was different.  There was no blood, no torture, no fire and brimstone.

But the strange thing was, it wasn’t better.  Everything was still underground, but the cave aesthetic had been replaced by sterile white walls.  And eyes, eyes everywhere; he felt that ever-present gaze on him from the necks and arms of his fellow demons, from eyes imprinted above doorways, from watchful sentinels at the enormous stone gates.  It was oppressive, the constant feeling of being scrutinized, being judged, of being directed and controlled.

The demons here were much, much more inclined to be helpful to one another because they seemed to work as a hive-mind.  It was staggering and horrifying in a way Crowley hadn’t expected. There was nowhere to hide in this Hell, nowhere to escape and scuttle away to be alone.  It was open, empty, and brightly-lit.  It was the polar opposite of what he was used to Hell being like, and Crowley had always thought that would make it better, but it didn’t.

Was this what Heaven had always been like for Aziraphale?  What was Heaven like here, if this is what Hell was?

Botis could tell vaguely that Crowley was unsettled as they entered the gates, but he had no idea why.  They were like ants from two different species meeting, sensing some level of familiarity and sameness between each other, but utterly uncomprehending as to what could be the cause of the ever-pervading sense of difference there was between them, trying to use their limited map of the world to guide their interactions with each other and failing to understand each other properly.

The gates of Hell boomed closed behind them, and Botis escorted him to an elevator cart.  Crowley had the horrifying realisation that the light emanating from the walls came from disembodied human souls shoved into compartments at intervals like a filing system, each one tagged sorted.

Crowley was understandably distracted.  He had already thought up a lie to try and dig his way out of this situation as fast as possible, but it was slipping out of his mind repeatedly as he tried to take everything in.

Botis held his arm out to an eye on the door of the elevator, and a red light shot out and scanned his tattoo like a bar code.  A pop-up display read ACCESS GRANTED TO NINTH LAYER.

The elevator doors slid open, and Botis corralled Crowley inside.  The doors shut, and the cart began to sink along with Crowley’s stomach.

The screen in the cart showed their current floor, which began to tick towards nine.  Crowley scrambled to secure his slippery lie, like he was chasing a fish on a dock that kept flopping about.  “Botis?”

“Yes?”

He desperately tried to think of what scrap of information he could glean that might arm him in the coming encounter.  “What was Satan’s—”

“Our Lord Satan.”

“What was Our Lord Satan’s angelic name? Before she fell?”

Botis’s lip peeled into a sneer.  “You forget yourself.  Do not speak with such impudence about our Lord.  Remember that she is always listening.”

Crowley zipped his lips.  The eye on Botis’s wrist flickered to life and made eye contact with him, staring straight through him.

He didn’t dare say anything else on the ride down.  It seemed like it took an eternity for the cart to reach the bottom floor.

The car finally jolted to a stop, and the doors slid open, revealing a chamber with hallways radiating off like spokes in a wheel.  It was reminiscent of the ninth layer of Hell with which he was familiar, but the elegant red carpet leading up to the throne room straight ahead was laid upon a marble white floor instead of the traditional stone-grey architecture that had always dominated Hell.

The whole place smacked of the way Heaven was, too bright, too sterile and bare.  The Satan he knew would have never built something like this.

The eye on Botis’s arm flared to life again, and the disembodied voice rang out, “Escort him to me, Botis, and stay for a few minutes.”

This time, Crowley could hear an echo of the voice faintly nearby, as though the speaker were physically present somewhere here.  It was coming from the throne room.

“Yes, lord,” Botis answered, and prodded Crowley to step forwards.

As Crowley did so, the doors to the throne room slid open, not a booming set of ornate, stone-carved monstrosities as they always had been, but a simple, functional blockade that opened nearly silently on greased hinges.

The red carpet ran up to the throne of Hell, which was a simple white pedestal.  On the left side of the throne was a demon wearing the face and aura of the archangel Victoria, a hardened, sneering simulacrum of Heaven’s most noble warrior. On the right of the throne was the archdemon Mykas in his most bestial form, a hunched over bear of a figure. He looked exactly as Crowley was used to him, except his body was knotted with the scars of a thousand battles which hadn’t been kind to him.  His left eye was clouded under a gnarled white tear that didn’t seem to have healed quite right, and a heavy metal collar kept him chained to the throne. Both of these archdemons had the eye tattoo on their necks.

And in the center, sitting cross-legged on the throne, was Satan. She was dressed in a plain white sash, which contrasted sharply with the ribbon of black hair tucked over one shoulder. In place of a crown, an eye sigil pulsing with occult energy sat atop her head, radiating power.

The space between her nose and forehead where her eyes should have been was smooth and unbroken.  Instead, the pair of silver wings spread out behind her was lined with eyes from joint to tip.  They were all lolling to the side in every which way, unfocused, until Crowley’s footsteps echoed in the chamber at which point all of the dozens of pupils snapped to him attentively.

“Fuck,” Crowley whispered, because now he had the answer to his earlier question.  The aura was unmistakable, even tainted as it was by the Fall.

Satan’s smile spread wide, too wide, and this visage of eyes and cruelty and blinding perfection said, “Welcome.  So good to finally see you with my own eyes.”  Said eyes fluttered and blinked rapidly as she fanned her wings slightly, spreading them wide to look at him fully.

“Uriel,” whispered Crowley.  “You?  But…How…?”  Now he regretted not running when he had the chance, Botis’s reaction be damned.  Uriel and Satan, combined into one.  Uriel as Satan, instead of Lucifer.  It was unthinkable.

Mykas leapt forward until he slammed into the limits of the chain around his neck, barking and growling madly, mouth foaming.  Crowley took a terrified step back.  Botis didn’t flinch.

“Heel,” Satan commanded, snapping her fingers.

Mykas, hackles still raised, mouth crunched in a snarl, slunk back to his spot beside the throne.  The archdemon who bore an uncanny resemblance to Victoria eyed Crowley curiously and critically.  

Satan unfolded her legs and stood on the pedestal, towering over Crowley, who at least had the sense to kneel.

She did not seem impressed by the unprompted display of supplication. With a small leap, wings extended, she drifted down to the floor in front of Crowley.  Even without the pedestal, she still stood head and shoulders above him.

“What a strange anomaly you are,” said Satan, exposing her mouth full of perfectly pointed, needle-like teeth.  “All of my demons have been marked since the very beginning.  You could not have fallen, could you?”

Crowley shook himself and dug up the lie he had thought up on the way down to put up some semblance of a passing story, finally catching the slippery thing. “Yes, Lord.”  He hadn’t addressed anyone as lord or master in decades, and it tasted foul on his tongue. But he swallowed it as a necessity. All he had to do was get through this so he could get back up to Earth, where he stood a better chance of getting away. “I’ve abandoned Heaven and fallen. I wish to join your ranks.”

Satan pivoted and gracefully sat herself back on the pedestal, legs crossed. She swiped the air in front of her, and a huge, huge book materialised, settling itself onto her lap.

Crowley gaped.  It was the Book of Life, turned infernal.

No, that wasn’t right.  Was it? The book pulsed with magical energy, sure, but it didn’t seem to have the gut-wrenching, reality-altering power that the true Book of Life had.

Crowley watched as Satan leafed through the Book.  “This represents a deviation from the usual Order,” said Satan. “Surely you must understand that.”

“Er, of course, lord,” said Crowley.

“So how do you explain yourself, then?” Satan demanded.  A quill appeared in her hand, and ink dabbled from the tip of its own accord.  She pressed it against the page, ready to write.

“Ah…” said Crowley.  “Um, upon what detail, exactly, would my master wish me to give further explanation?”

Archdemon Victoria snickered.

He felt Botis showering him with a hateful glare from the side.  “Don’t be stupid,” he growled.

Crowley sweated, wanting very badly not to be stupid, but having no real idea how to keep the charade going.  He felt the glares of Botis, Fallen Victoria, and Satan burning into him keenly.

Satan inclined her head.  Her wings fanned once, the eyes blinking out of sync with each other.  “No new demon has fallen in six-thousand years.  It is unprecedented for an angel to be kicked out after the rebellion.”

“Ah, yes,” said Crowley, palms moist.  That made sense, considering Uriel was the one who kicked people out.  Maybe nobody could touch the Book of Life up in Heaven anymore?

So then he had to spin up a lie to explain how he had fallen if he wanted to stick to the same story.

He was about to weave a tale of Heaven appointing a new Keeper of the Divine Aura before Satan interrupted him.  “Tell me, what was your name before you fell?”

Shite.  If he gave his real name, Satan might find out he hadn’t just recently Fallen as he’d said.  If he gave a fake name, he risked it not being in Satan’s book at all.  Either outcome had the potential to make everyone in the room angry at him.

He could give the name of an angel he knew hadn’t fallen yet in this universe.  It would be in the Book, but not recorded as already having fallen during the rebellion. “My name was Aziraphale.”

He was relieved that Satan seemed to swallow the lie, the pages of the Book whizzing past under a wave of her hand.  It snapped open to a certain page, which Satan scanned.

She inclined her head.  Crowley didn’t know why she kept doing that.  Eye contact was impossible.  “That’s very interesting, newcomer, because according to my notes, Aziraphale is a field agent class principality currently stationed in Great Britain.  While you were obviously a healing class angel.”

Crowley sweated.

“Did they change your class when they kicked you out?”

Crowley opened his dry mouth to answer.

“I’ll give you one more chance to tell the truth.”

Crowley swallowed.  “The truth is, my name before I Fell was Cralael.”

The pages of the Book whirred around again.  Uriel scanned another page, then sneered.

“Now that’s also interesting, because according to my notes, Cralael fell at the beginning of time, and was killed by his angelic counterpart—who, interestingly, happens to be named Aziraphale—several hundred years ago via holy water.”

Crowley let out a shaky breath.

“And yet here he stands before us, alive and well.”

Botis eyed him strangely.

Satan snapped the Book shut, and it disappeared under a wave of her hand. “You may leave us now, Botis.”

Botis bowed, turned on his heel, and exited quickly, leaving Crowley alone to face the three nightmares on the other end of the room.

Satan stood once again, hovering a few inches in the air.  “Your opportunity to tell me the truth has passed, little demon.  Vycra, hold him.”

Fallen Victoria—Vycra—marched forwards towards Crowley.  He backed up, holding his hands out.  “Now hold on a minute, we don’t have—"

He shut his mouth as Vycra grabbed his arm, yanking him down.  He tried to worm his way out of her grip, but he knew in his heart there was no way he could fight his way out of here.

Satan fluttered down to the ground.  “I shall pick the answers directly from your brain.  Lower your defenses so I may make the connection.”

Despite Vycra’s overwhelming aura right on top of him, Crowley managed to slam his aural defenses shut, as high as they would go.

“That was not a request,” Satan said.  Crowley felt a tendril of her aura reaching outwards, prickling the back of his neck.  It was the same aura he had felt when Uriel was on the verge of tearing his wings off.

What had always made Uriel worse than any of the other archangels was that she could just manipulate aura directly.

Crowley whimpered as his defenses lowered without his consent, exposing him.  Satan reached out and brushed a gentle finger on his forehead.  He felt the aural tendril creeping into his brain.

It stung a little, but not quite as much as when Camael had done it to him all those many years ago.  This Satan had a practiced hand, surgical in its precision.  Crowley gasped at how fast she came in and retreated.

Satan’s rows of eyes along her wings betrayed her bewilderment, rattling about like craft googly eyes in an earthquake, despite her impassive facial expression.  She lowered her hand from Crowley, folding her arms in front of her body.  “Hmmm….”

Crowley panted, sweating a little.

“Let him go, Vycra.”

Crowley felt himself deposited summarily on the floor.  He curled his legs under him as Vycra strode past him back to her place by the throne.

Satan strutted back to the simple pedestal that served as the throne and sat, petting Mykas on the head a few times.  “Now that was very interesting,” she said, voice low like a rumbling storm cloud.  “Do you care to explain what I just saw?”

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut.  He wasn’t entirely sure what she had seen, but it had definitely included his most recent memories about meeting God and falling from the sky for sure.  How much further back did she get?  Had she seen his love for Aziraphale?  All the way back to the beginning of time?

What would she do if she found out about the other universe?  If she reached it?  Did Crowley have to doom himself to keep it secret and protect his home?

“I’m waiting,” Satan growled.  “You have one opportunity.  Do not lie to me.”

He didn’t have much of a choice.  He shakily got to his feet, straightened his suit, and looked Satan in the face.

“I come from a better world,” Crowley said.  “One where angels and demons don’t have to fight anymore. There is no war.  We worked hard to make peace with each other.”

Vycra’s stare on him was hard.  Her face contained a frightening amount of hatred.  Or…jealousy?  “That’s absurd.  Angels and demons are hereditary enemies.  They’d never make peace.”

“It’s true,” Crowley said.  “Where I come from, Vycra, you’re still an angel, and Mykas—”

Mykas’s bestial face was still crunched to expose his massive teeth.  He wasn’t hearing a single thing Crowley said, he realised.

What a damn shame.

“Vycra is right,” said Satan.  “The natural order of the universe is such that angels and demons will always be diametrically opposed.  You’re still lying to me.  I want the real explanation.”

“You saw it,” said Crowley.  “In my head—you got snatches of Aziraphale, surely.  You—Satan—where I’m from, Uriel never fell—”

“That’s enough,” Satan snarled.  “If you won’t tell us the truth, I’ll have to decide on my own what to make of you.  I don’t know who you are, or what you are, or where you came from and how you got here, or if you’ve tricked me—”

“I’m not—”

“—and if so, how, but you are now under my control, and you will be silent unless I tell you to speak.”

Crowley clamped his mouth shut, tears threatening to well up in his eyes. This wasn’t going well at all.

Satan’s chest heaved with rage.  “You are a demon, and as such you belong to me, you are under my control, and all my servants must have a mark. Vycra, hold him.”

Vycra’s hands were gentler this time, probably because Crowley wasn’t desperately trying to fend her off.  Satan waved her hand and materialised a pointed implement, dripping with ink. “Since I am feeling generous today, I will even let you pick where on your body it will go.  You may choose from your neck or either wrist.”

She hovered over to him, dabbling the excess ink onto her own hand. Crowley’s eyes darted around her body and the room.  “Hold on a moment, can’t we—”

“If you do not pick, I will pick for you.”

“Wrist,” Crowley spluttered, thinking that body part would be easiest to lop off.  “Wrist, please.”

Satan peeled Crowley’s right arm off from his defensive posture and began to draw on his wrist.  The ink sizzled into his skin like a brand, but it was curiously painless.

The ink still glowed red hot when Satan removed the tattoo gun, leaving the crisp image of an eye on his skin.  The molten pupil began to move about in sync with one of the eyes on Uriel’s wing.

Crowley bit his lip.

“There we are,” said Satan, sounding curiously relieved.  “Now you are as you should be.”

“Um,” Crowley said.

Satan waved the implement away.  Her anger had all but dissipated instantly, her cool smile returning, at ease at being in control.  “I’ll make sense of what you are eventually, little demon.  I’ll have to think about this a little more.”

She stared at him with all dozens of her eyes, this time including the one on his wrist.

Crowley began, “Lord, if I may—"

“You may not,” said Satan.  “The time for your input has passed.”  Satan floated back over to the throne and sat on it primly.  “The only question that remains is what should be done with you.”

“Perhaps he could be employed in the field as a healer,” said Vycra. “Field post thirteen is short one healer.  It would even out the numbers.”

“Yes,” said Crowley.  “That’s an excellent idea.  I would be a great asset in the field.”

Satan stared at him, head tilted onto her first.  “How many times do I have to tell you to be quiet?  No.  You are an anomaly in the Order.”

Vycra looked at him with pity.

“You should be kept down here with the other anomalies.”

Crowley did not like the sound of that at all.  “I would be much more useful up on the surface.  I saw how many wounded there were up there.  Is where I came from really such a big deal?”

Satan’s face was mild now, as though she were relaxed due to the impending resolution of something troubling her.  “No…You shall stay down here, where I can control you.”

Vyra strode over and plucked out a handful of Crowley’s feathers.  “Ow!”

Satan swiped at the air, and a row of jars appeared, moving so fast as to be a blur, until it came to the end of the line.  The last one was labeled “Anomaly #392” and had a handful of green feathers in it.

Another jar appeared next to it, labeled “Anomaly #393,” and Satan took Crowley’s feathers from Vycra and deposited them into it.  She screwed the lid shut, then swiped to dismiss the collection.

“That is plenty of feathers for a summoning spell,” said Satan.  “This way, I may call you up from where you’ll be stored if I need you.  Otherwise, you’ll be safely quarantined from the order of Hell where you can’t mess things up.”

“Uhhhh,” said Crowley.

Satan crossed her hands, and a yawning black portal opened in front of the throne.

Crowley’s eyes widened.  “You’re going to throw me into the Pit?”

The Pit was where demons went when you needed them to be locked away forever. There was no escaping from the Pit without concerted effort from someone on the outside of it.  It was where the misbehaving archdemons under Maltha’s rule went when they refused to cooperate.  Even she disliked using it and only threw anyone in there as a last resort.

Crowley pivoted and made a break for the elevator.  Vyra was behind him immediately, yanking him back by the arm, pinning the limb behind him and forcing him to his knees.

“I said you shall speak only when spoken to,” said Satan.  “And yes, that is where all anomalies go.  You have no place here in this world, so you shall be kept separate from it.  But first you must be cataloged.”

Satan summoned the Book again, and she flipped it all the way to the end. She materialised a quill and began to write.  “Anomaly number three-hundred and ninety three.”

There was silence in the room for a few moments while Satan’s pen scratched on the paper.

“What is she doing?” Crowley said in a strained whisper.

“She is merely writing down all the details about you to reference later, if needed,” said Vycra.  “Since you’ll be in the Pit and not convenient to retrieve if we need to reference you.”

Crowley’s arm was still twisted behind his back, forcing him to look at the floor.  A few tears dripped from his face onto the white stone.  “I haven’t done anything.  This isn’t fair.”

“I wish life were fair, anomaly.”

“At least give me a trial.  We sometimes at least got a trial.  I don’t deserve this.  I don’t deserve punishment.”

“This isn’t punishment,” said Vycra, almost gently.  “It’s just where you belong.”

Crowley stared down into the gaping blackness of the Pit, heart wrenching. “No.  That’s not—”

“And I’m taking down a note that you simply will not be quiet,” said Satan, with an excessive motion of the quill.  “‘Continues to argue ad nauseum.  It really is quite counterproductive.”

“I belong…”  The arm Vycra didn’t have pinned behind his back was curled against his chest.  He extended it, looking at the silver ring there. “Aziraphale…  Home.”

“I’ll have to do some further investigation into this matter,” said Satan, snapping the book shut.  “But we’re done with you for now.  You are dismissed.  Vycra.”

“Please don’t do this,” Crowley wept.

“Sorry,” Vycra said.

She hauled Crowley up by the belt and tossed him into the abyss.

[ahaddm09]

Star Wars Replica Lightsabers

Could the epic battle between OB-One Kenobi and Darth Vader go wrong for the first time? George Luka could misunderstand the whirlwind sound of the lightsabers during the time in front of two opponents in the space drama? You've seen that scene more than a trillion years ago, a local buster.

The first creator of the light service was George Lucas. He wanted to create a weapon that would have to be answered by both the rebel and the imperial army from ordinary confrontation. So he formed a sword for a local, that would support a certain quality of response and command of this militancy. Like the old crusaders, the lighter is the desire to be a symbol for Jesso, which centers the entire galaxy on four locations and their vow to maintain peace.

In the immortal words of OB-One Kenobi, "Anyone can use a blaster bouncer - but using a lightsaber well was more of a sign than usual". This is the JD weapon of choice and I want to use the power to wield it and support you. Unfortunately, not only the Jedi Masters could wield this weapon - the Sith Lords were quite adept at mastering this blade tract.

The story and video is a video, a lightbar describing a weapon with a sticky plasma blade, which is fixed in the case of a ball control. The handle of the blade is metallic and about 30 cm long. The pure blade comes to power from the jeweled handle on the hilt at the power of a button. Made as one of the metal candidates by Lights or Sith Master and given them to practice them fully. This weapon is so much, it is said that it can answer anything other than other lights up blades.

George Lucas needs to use different technologies to create the lightsaber in the video. He had a model that had a rotating blade with a motorized diamond that was wrapped in reflective material. But this version was fragile and difficult to navigate. As far as sparring weapons go they were terrifying and resulted in an inconsistent and colorless aura.

Finally, a message was introduced on the frame of the Lucas film, where it was shown, to use rotoscoping to draw the sword. Although it was time-consuming, it is a technique that creates visual effects we see in new hope and Phantom Menace.

Following in the footsteps of George Lucas's Epicstar Sirister movie and the light service featured in the book, you can now create your workforce FX service. The Blade Workers series consists of blades of a specific character. You can make tea from a variety of different styles. You can do Anakin Skyker's Blue Blade One, as seen in Revenge of the Seeth. Maybe you can hold the green plaque of Chairman JD Master, Yoda. Perhaps you can, instead, use enemy red blades in the battle of the Darth Vader. You can convert a blade to a double-blade blade lightbar.

The Forks FX Blade features state-of-the-art technology that makes this lightsaber a real workhorse and a surprisingly versatile form of large-scale weaponry. Motion sensors can do anything that they are communicating with. The Force FX Lite service creates digital souffles from movies to create a completely realistic sound and video of your blades. When you see your light service on copper boti boti and heme, your blade will go up and start humming like a movie. And while you're not doing that, you can use your blade to save on custom designed displays.

Check out more information on Purple Lightsaber.

[hauntedfragments]

artist inspiration for scroll

http://www.nyartbeat.com/event/2017/1FF5

I remember researching Dawn Clements in Year 10 after seeing her at the Saatchi gallery. She writes about the embracing paper as a material and this turning her drawings into powerful objects which alter time and space in a room. 

I really like how she describes her process as starting from one small piece of paper and drawing and expanding outward by gluing more and more parts onto the first drawing. I particularly like the idea of her huge wall drawings of tables and things. altering scale in order to present the monumentality of the mundane ‘things’ whjich clutter up our lives . 

https://artcritical.com/2018/12/23/david-brody-on-dawn-clements/

I love how in this article the TV becomes a portal through which Clements escapes the mundane still lives of things in her interior and is whisked away into other interiors eg in hollywood films which intrigue her. My favourite line is ‘The TV in Clements’s studio was her portal from domestic still life into ancient mythopoeic saga’. 

I like the idea that her drawings - because they use film as subject matter - show a strange distorted fragmented space and time. I want a similar sense with my work in reflecting on the way our everyday surroundings mix together places, times, bodies, memories, minerals from places so beyond our own everyday bodily sensations and environments. 

I don’t really understand why I am making very pop art style work even though I have always been so dismissive of pop art. I’ve listened to a few podcasts on Andy Warhol to try and work out why I don’t like him. 

He hoarded things as well and was concerned with mass production and just left behind SOOO much stuff which means. 

Malcolm Gladwell - Hoarders and Museums 

World Service podcast on Warhol 

Edward Paolizzi’s screenprints were suggested to me as inspiration by Tom in print. They do look like better versions of my screenprints and I love the bright colours. But i guess it is full of an optimism and playfulness which I hope my scroll won’t be. I don’t want the scroll to be a celebration of hyperobjects - more like a record of bewilderment and confusion in a world of excess things and interconnections. 

I also listened to Ali Smith talking about Pauline Boty. I love how her paintings combine collage. 

she is a painter but she uses collage and found images. I love the flattening of the surface and the magic of colour in comparison to the mass produced images. 

[inkantation18]

Turning Suffering into Artwork -- The Astonishing Color of After Review

Photo by Amaury Salas on Unsplash (edited by me)

"Believing is a type of magic. It can make something true." Leigh's mother is a bird. At least that's what she believes and she's trying her hardest to get everyone else around her to see what she's witnessing. Emily X.R. Pan's debut, The Astonishing Color of After, tells the story of the young artist's time in Taiwan as she discovers her heritage in wake of her mother's suicide.

Pigment is in everything we see, but have you ever thought about color as more than just a typical descriptor of an item? Leigh and her best friend Axel constantly ask each other "What color?" when they want to know how the other is feeling. The words are a secret language between the two. From the deepest shades of blue came sadness and the purest of whites signified an emptiness. Dandelion yellows radiated happiness while red expressed rage. "Naphthol red - the color of an angry pen marking the errors I've made." The deeper the hue, the stronger the emotion. Pan's usage of color is brilliantly crafted to help us better understand the characters in the emotionally driven story. 

Leigh is the daughter of a white man and Taiwanese mother. Two halves may make a whole, but she has never felt complete. At home boys ask if she is mixed because she looks exotic and overseas, where she is finally surrounded by a culture and family she has never been fully exposed to, strangers point and stare and refer to her as a hunxie (mixed blood) in surprise. Though she struggles with the frustration of not belonging in a foreign country that should feel like home, she doesn't allow the language barrier between she and her grandparents to drive a further wedge between them. 

At some point in our live, we're asked the dreaded, "What are you going to do with you life?" Leigh knows that creating art is her life's purpose. Charcoal and paint run through her veins, yet her father believes she has a different calling -- one that will bring in a steady income. She never allows herself to give into his wishes. When he sends her to sleep-away camp, she escapes. When he gifts a book to encourage her finding a more fruitful career path, she can barely contain her disdain at Christmas. Her stubborn nature is encouraging for readers, especially those in the YA target range to follow their own passions, not the ones other try to force upon them. 

Through Leigh's travels and battles with grief, we are reminded that this is much more than a story about a mother's suicide. We are walked through Leigh's stages of grief as she leaves a home that suffocated her family and enters a vast country with air to breathe and more land to cover in search of her mother. "My mother's dying soaked down through the carpet, through the wood. Now it's staining everything, leaking the blackest black into the rest of the world." Though she is only a fictional character, the pain she experiences is too real. The scene between she and her father towards the end had me in tears. There is an author's note explaining that she once lost a family member to suicide too. Leigh's story came from a place of heartbreak and loss that was translated into the perfect combination of words. 

The Astonishing Color of After is about more than just a suicide and a woman's struggle with depression. It is more than a girl learning to let her mother go. Whether you are a YA reader or not, you will be moved to root Leigh on and cry with her as she follows the red bird. This book alone has inspired to to give the genre a second chance and after 5 minutes of crying and a phone call to my significant other to talk about the particular scene, it is well deserving of five stars. If it doesn't make a BOTY Finalist this year, I want to personally speak to everyone who doesn't vote for it.

[cookinguptales]

update: lmao I am so fucking doped up right now. sorry to the world that I got behind on shimamatsu translations, but have you ever tried to translate while on muscle relaxants? it’s a bad scene. god, I’m in a lot of pain rn.

gonna talk about some of the movies from the film festival below the cut. doped up af but I’ve seen like 14 movies so far, hella. tomorrow I probably have to skip bc I just took two cyclos and that is gonna fuck me the hell up.

movies I’d recommend:

thelma a norwegian film which is basically a coming-of-age story for a fundie christian girl who goes to college and realizes she’s a lesbian. oh, and that she has insane supernatural powers. (it’s kind of carrie-ish but with canon f/f, but imo a lot better than carrie.) the love story is really interesting, if incredibly dark. like if you’re in the mood for dark, kind of mindfuck-y f/f, this is your film. despite the very long upcoming list of potential triggers, it’s not as scary or brutal as it sounds. lmao. highly recommended, probably the film I’ve enjoyed most so far. (tw: violence, nudity, drug use, death, [spoilers] child abuse, possible mind control, child death)

custody a french film based on a short film that I saw a few years ago, and it’s fantastic and gut-wrenching. the short film was about a woman running away from her abusive husband with her children; this feature-length film is about what happens when a stupid judge ignores what both the wife and children have to say and gives him joint custody. (spoilers: it doesn’t end well.) interestingly, it has all the same cast as the original short film, though the kids are markedly older. idk if it’s meant to be a straight sequel or if one just inspired the other. really well done, tho, I was fuckin white-knuckling it in the theater. people were like. yelling. the climax of that film is INTENSE. probably the best quality film we’ve seen so far, though I think the plot could’ve been tightened up a little. (tw: very explicit depictions of physical and emotional abuse, very terrifying moments. [spoilers] but no child death.)

I, Tonya tonya harding biopic. I’m not really a big one for biopics, but this was a good one. it tried to explain how harding’s life led her to where she got, but didn’t necessarily paint her as some innocent victim. it was sympathetic where it needed to be, empathetic where it needed to be, but rarely let her get away with bullshit. lot of good performances here, but Margot Robbie (even though she looked way too old for the part) did a great job. (tw: explicit child/spousal abuse)

the villainess Korean lady-gets-revenge-on-shitty-men bloody action flick. not really my genre, admittedly, but I feel like anyone who likes this kind of movie would really enjoy this one. very Kill Bill-esque. it’s the story of this girl who basically gets passed around between illicit assassination organizations, in-fighting, revenge on all those who wronged her, etc. it is Very Bloody and many people die. the action scenes are HQ if you are into that kind of thing. I was mostly invested in the huge amounts of f/f potential. like at one point she joins an assassin organization where all the operatives are female and that whole part of the movie!! was very gay!! the actual canon relationships are het, but there is a strong potential for dark f/f murderwives here. (tw: haha oh boy if it’s a problem it’s probably here. implied CSA, child abuse, creepy relationships, violence, gore, nudity, child death, everyone else death, non-con facial surgery...like it’s bloody af okay...)

love means zero this is a documentary about nick bollettieri, who’s this super famous tennis coach. (apparently.) I knew next to nothing about the world of professional tennis going into this documentary, but I still enjoyed it bc wtf this guy is a piece of work. it’s basically all about how he fucked over a ton of people (especially kids) when he was trying to make tennis champions. and how he succeeded! by fucking over a ton of people! the interviews with him are honestly kind of wild bc he’s just such a crazy narcissist. this was especially weird for me to watch bc I grew up in the sarasota/bradenton area and never even knew all this shit was going on there. it was weird seeing my hometown on the screen like that, but also interesting. (tw: child abuse, just generally being a fuckboi)

MOVIES THAT WERE OKAY but like I had Issues

brimstone and glory I feel like I really recommend going out to see this one if you can see it on the big screen. it’s a documentary about a fireworks festival in Mexico and honestly the cinematography is stunning. it’s just so, so, so cool. but the actual documentary part is kind of boring sometimes, and you gotta have a strong stomach bc it also shows some of the injuries people get at this insane festival. like I don’t think showing that is a bad thing; I think it’s the only responsible way to make a documentary about this festival. like it’s amazing, it’s so cool, but also these people are like. going blind, losing hands, dying. and taking their kids!! like if you cannot handle watching kids in dangerous situations, don’t go!! dad was freaking out, lmao. (tw: graphic depiction of real-life injuries)

radiance a Japanese film about a woman who writes audio description for blind movie-goers. the same director made An (Sweet Bean Paste) a couple years ago, which was notable for its depiction of what Japan does to its citizens who have Hansen’s Disease. (leprosy.) it was weird to me when that movie came out that none of the reviewers really talked about that aspect of the movie; they were all like “UGH IT WAS SO POINTLESS AND CLOYING” and I’m like “did you miss the point of the movie?? which was critiquing the social ostracization of these people in Japanese society??? did that completely go over your heads????” anyway, I appreciated the depiction of PWD in Japan bc having lived there while disabled, I know that shit isn’t easy. that’s why I went to go see radiance. it was...okay? I think the most interesting part was when they let the blind characters talk. the movie was otherwise pretty pretentious and self-indulgent. lmao. like... it’s a rent, don’t buy situation.

marlina the murderer in four acts this movie was not bad! it’s an indonesian film about a woman whose home is invaded and she kills all the invaders. it’s definitely a film that critiques misogyny in indonesian culture, but I feel like it undercut its own message by showing such incredibly graphic rapes. like honestly, I don’t really ever recommend movies that have very graphic rape scenes, but I guess she does end up killing her rapists during the rape scenes. I just. I feel like it could have been done in a way that won’t get people all sexually excited while watching a violent rape. : / y’know? other than that, though, I really liked the female characters in the movie and sympathized with marlina’s journey trying to get society to help her and realizing she had to just go it alone with her female friends. bc like. she’s attacked by men, but she’s also revictimized by shitty ordinary men all the time she’s trying to get to town, report the attack, etc. and so are the other female cahracters. so they just. have to be vigilantes. (tw: GRAPHIC rape, violence, mild gore, spousal abuse)

newton Indian film about a guy going out to the jungle to get votes in the main election. but like. none of the people out there even know who the candidates are, there’s a lot of anti-government violene, the villagers are caught between anarchists and the police, it’s just a mess. and I do think the movie was good at showing the futility of it all and showing how the people who really end up getting fucked over are the poor people in rural areas, but at the same time like. pacing was uneven, tone was ???, and I found the protagonist irritating. and there was what appeared to be some pasted on het which made no sense. (like honestly I cannot figure out why she ever wanted to talk to his dumb ass again.)

blade of the immortal it’s takashi miike making blade of the immortal. I mean. I feel like if you are familiar with those names, you already know if you want to see it or not. if you aren’t, idk how much you’d like it anyway. after already having watched miike’s ace attorney adaptation, I sense a pattern. the guy just looks at a HUGE corpus (like a VG with 5 cases, or a manga with 40 volumes) and is like “welll....then I guess we better make things fast.” so you have Big Bads being introduced in the same breath that they get killed, 30-second backstories, just a frenetic pace and a huge amount of information, and it’s confusing and overwhelming if you don’t already know it. and honestly, I haven’t read BotI so I can’t say how faithful this was. but if you already love the characters and just want miike’s trademark bloody action flick style, then I mean. fair enough. this here’s a bloodbath. I had a hard time getting emotionally invested as a fresh viewer, tho. highlight of the evening: an old man walking out grumbling about how he only likes classy martial arts movies, and apparently this did not qualify. having seen a lot of classics of the martial arts genre, still unsure what a “classy” martial arts film looks like. (tw: offscreen rape, death, blood, gore, just an unreasonable amount of killing honestly like it was funny by the end, attempted CSA)

gemini this is a “neo-noir” thriller. so essentially a murder mystery. unfortunately, the title of the movie basically gives away the entire story lmao. so while the build-up wasn’t bad, the entire last 15-20 minutes of the movie are a total letdown. it was nice to see canon f/f, I guess, but I feel like the movie never went in hard enough on that. like were they trying to make a point about how hard it is for celebrities to have same-sex relationships? I’m not sure!! I can think of a lot of things that would make this plot more interesting, but they just didn’t do them. acting was fine, I guess. John Cho was in it, even if his character was pointless. Zoe Kravitz is always fun. (tw: I mean it’s a murder mystery. so...murder.)

DID NOT ENJOY

scaffolding (israeli film, boring af)

the workshop (french film, kind of boring, makes questionable points about neo-nazis)

[au-royaume-du-timbre]

Charles Perrault (1628-1703). Series illustrations tales. Digital art, French man of letters, Made in France. unique model

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Go to the shop on a ETS

Yall my creations 

☞ https://www.etsy.com/fr/shop/FrenchPhilatelicArt

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or directly ☞

With all the details.

https://www.etsy.com/listing/544684789/charles-perrault-1628-1703-series?ref=shop_home_active_1&frs=1

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Charles Perrault (1628-1703). Series illustrations tales. Digital art, French man of letters, Made in France. unique model **************************

Gift for all, and for fans of wonderful stories.

**************************

𝟏) 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐨𝐟 𝐉𝐅𝐁 This creation is a unique piece as everything I create and it is a gift idea for those who appreciate letters.

To better enhance it, I did a search on the Web a solution likely to agree; you can discover my choice on the first image that appears.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐚 𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐝:

Boti wooden frame; turquoise

with Backing Boards for photo  A4 size: 21x29.7 cm (8.26x 11.69 inches)

I introduced digital editing inside to give you an idea of ​​the rendering.Of course this is only a suggestion, because you have to take into account your existing decoration, the colors of framing that suit you, their material, their shape and the budget that you want to devote to it.

In short, the choice is yours, we must take this suggestion as a beginning track to follow.

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐖𝐎𝐑�� 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐁𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐬  𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐒𝐔𝐏𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐃. The other reason is that I do not manufacture frames and it's not my job; I would have to charge you fees that are not mine.

However, I can give you the links allowing you to find the frame that is part of the suggested presentation.

The goal is to show you that everything can be used as decoration in an entrance, a living room, a library, a dining room or a room. It will be a work of art at reasonable price, that you can offer, offer you, whether you are a collector or not.

************************** 𝟐) 𝐈𝐭𝐞𝐦 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐚𝐥𝐞: Views 2 and 3 show you the delivered item.You see how easy it is to highlight a beautiful photo print if you compare the first 3 views; and yet they are the same images; it's up to you to improve them in your own way.

************************** 𝟑) 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: Charles Perrault rocked our childhood for some of us; Here are some stamps that illustrate his work: - cinderella - the puss - The Sleeping Beauty - donkey Skin - little Red Riding Hood - Blue Beard - Tom Thumb - Riquet at the hoop - the fairies

He is known for his tales of my mother Goose.

The series of stamps is complete, new; they are engraved intaglio 13.

As usual, they are encapsulated in a bag that holds them and from which they can be extracted.

For more details on the process used, see the presentation of the shop. It is neat work and quality that will be a gift idea for any occasion, collector (he will not have this presentation because unique) or not; it is first and foremost the fruit of a digital creation.

Views 2 and 3 show you the finished work, with the protective bags; these are the items for sale. It should be noted that the background appears slightly green, it is much less supported in reality; in the same way the blue is less supported and tends more on the purple, apart from the photo on the fairies.

In any case, the effect is superb.

I am of course available for any further information.

--------------------- Some philatelic information:

350th anniversary of the birth of Charles PerraultTale Illustrations - Soft Cut - Serrated 13

Series issued by Monaco in 1978 ---------------------

As an indication 2010 quotation: 11,00 € 

the series of new stamps

Weight of the cardboard envelope: 90 g

[cilverstephen-blog]

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[samiraahmeduk]

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A version of this article first appeared in The Big Issue magazine in January 2017. Journalism worth paying for. Available weekly from street vendors or subscriptions here.

History rarely falls into neat numerical decades. I would assert the 1980s (yuppies, power suits, a money obsession) didn’t really end till the mid 1990s when a new generation of politicians began to take power. Policies and attitudes take a while to gain momentum and once they do (as with equal marriage and attitudes to homosexuality) they can make a seismic impact.

Similarly since the US Election and the EU referendum there’s a major debate about whether supposed liberal progressive values have been rejected and the alt-right is in the ascendant. But go to the cinema, turn on the TV, read some books, and you’ll find that “mainstream” doesn’t change that fast.

Shortly after the US presidential election I went to interview the directors of the smash hit Disney film Moana and found two boyishly smiling sixty something white men dressed in Hawaiian shirts. Ron Clements and Jon Musker joined Disney as young art graduates in the early 1970s and trained under Walt’s first generation of animators who made such classics as Pinocchio. They pioneered technology with early CGI in Basil the Great Mouse Detective but also changing attitudes. Encouraged by conversations with their female storyboard artists, they’ve written strong women like Meg in Hercules for years. “We started this movie 5 years ago,” points out Ron Clements, “but,” Jon Musker jumps in, “if it’s an inspiration for young women to follow their own inner voices and feel that they don’t have limits and if it’s an inspiration for people to celebrate diversity and culture we like that result.” I realized two things. The first was how much joy there was in their work (Duayne Johnson’s character’s tattoos show all his feelings however hard he tries to hide them).

But I also realized this is the frontline. This is what Susan Faludi has called the Thirty Years War that many who support Trump are waging against social change. But the fact remains that a major American corporation like Disney now instinctively wants to make inclusive films that don’t patronize girls or boys. And it’s normal that older white men, as much as anyone else, get it.

In short the progressive stuff that had been going on for 30 years hasn’t just stopped. In fact it’s all the more noticeable.

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Jane Seymour reminded us last month that her long running TV show Doctor Quinn: Medicine Woman (1993-98) was no guilty pleasure, but essential Vitamin C in the fight against prejudice and environmental short sightedness: “Pollution in the water, intolerance to different cultures, medical choices of whether to go to a doctor of believe in faith medicine, dealing with immigration, book burning, fear of people’s sexuality, the history of what happened with the native people – you name it, we touched on it,” she said in an interview with Metro in December 2016. “I knew it was a good show when I did it, but looking back on some of the issues we dealt with is phenomenal – and people have been dealing with them for a long time.”

Hamilton opens in London this year. The new Wonder Woman film has high expectations for Gal Gadot’s performance. Marvel comics are selling well with a number of female stars; 7 foot tall, green super-attorney She-Hulk , Thor, Captain Marvel and the young Muslim-American heroine Ms Marvel.

At rehearsals for Everyone’s Talking About Jamie (l-r) Front Row producer Hannah Robins, me, Jamie Campbell,composer Dan G Sells, writer Tom MacRae

Theatre is full of inspiring celebrations of the power of great music and social progress. Motown, Strictly Ballroom, the forthcoming Everyone’s Talking about Jamie launching in Sheffield this month, inspired by the true story of 16 year old Jamie Campbell and his plans to be a drag queen. You can hear more about it on Front Row next Wed 25th Jan.

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Dreamgirls is a celebration of how African American music transformed America, and a personal love letter to Etta James. Composer Henry Krieger told me how he used to sneak off to the Apollo theatre in Harlem as a teenager to watch the acts.

Sanjeev Bhaskar, Nicola Walker in Unforgotten

Closer to home in a crowded TV landscape of police procedurals, many that celebrate torture and female abuse under the false flag of a female lead (The Fall, most Scandi-noir) there are shows like Unforgotten that celebrate the essential decency of our criminal justice service and the calm dedication with which its civil servants – police, forensics, prosecutors try to solve crime.

Culture matters. Not because I disagree with Peter Cook’s line on Weimar Germany: “Those wonderful Berlin cabarets which did so much to stop the rise of Hitler and prevent the outbreak of the second World war.” But because we all need fun to escape misery, and shared joy binds us. Frank Cottrell Boyce, who co-created the 2012 Olympic opening ceremony wrote recently “A nation is not an opening ceremony. But it’s not a referendum either. A nation is a project.”

So go and see stuff to escape and make yourself happy, but think about how much of it actually celebrates equality and diversity and entertains while reminding us how far we’ve come. Rogue One as much as Ali Smith’s novel Autumn. And not just for its post Brexit zeitgeist, but for Autumn’s reminder of how pop artist Pauline Boty was written out of 60s cultural history and our need to challenge the agendas of those who write the official versions of things.

Pauline Boty

Be cautious too of those films that masquerade as progress while protecting old privileges. Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them, as others have pointed out, is in that odd genre (like Doctor Strange) of erasing people of colour, and indeed gay people, while exploiting their experience.

One of the last deaths of 2016 that might have slipped your notice was Disney artist Tyrus Wong born in China in 1910; one of Walt’s pioneers, who worked on Bambi.

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One of the many citizens who made America great. “He had a gift for evoking incredible feeling in his art with simple gestural composition” said the corporation in a statement on New Year’s Eve.

In the war to define who we are I’ll be seeing films, shows, exhibitions and reading books to collect cultural reminders of what defines the best of us through the year ahead. I urge you to do the same.

How to win the coming culture war in 2017 A version of this article first appeared in The Big Issue magazine in January 2017. Journalism worth paying for.

[not-a-space-alien]

Falling Hazard, Part 13: The Second Rebellion

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16

Series masterpost

On AO3

Art by @petimetrek (link for better quality)

Holy water cannot help you now.

A thousand armies couldn’t keep me out.

I don’t want your money. I don’t want your crown.

See I’ve come to burn your kingdom down.

And no rivers and no lakes can put the fire out…

The atmosphere of Heaven seemed to be a little darker now.  The gates were not shining quite as brightly. And the gatekeeper, leaning boredly against her post, was the first to smell the trouble that was about to unfold that day.  She would have been a fool to miss it, since the portal opened up right in front of her and disgorged a smattering of angels who had all been reported missing.

“Hey, where have you all been?” said the gatekeeper, trying to sound annoyed instead of uneasy.  The feeling of unease turned out to be justified when one of the warrior angels muscled her out of the way and began to pull the gates open.

“Hey! What are you doing? That’s my job!”

“Stand aside,” said the warrior.

The gatekeeper looked at the group with uncomprehending eyes.  With a final clank, the gates sat open.

The gatekeeper moved into the center of the wide-open gates and stamped her foot.  “Now listen, you better tell me what’s going on right now.”

“Get out of the way,” said a principality.

She stopped as she heard a sound that heralded another arrival from the portal. She turned.

There was something coming through to approach the gate, something puffing billows of black smoke.  It held a healing staff in one arm, but the tip burned with a red and black light of death. Its aura rivaled that of any archangel or archdemon, but instead of one singular aura, it seemed to be made up of a thousand fragments of angels, as though sutured together from a patchwork of angry wishes and prayers.  She had never seen anything like it before, and thought it must be from the deepest, darkest depths of Hell, except for the fact that it stepped out accompanied by an escort of angels.  

“For your own sake,” said the angel beside her.  “Get out of the way.”

Gabriel had called Kris into his office, and Kris had an idea why, but Kris did not want to get his hopes up and so remained humble as he took a seat across from the archangel’s desk.

“Do you know why I’ve called you in here, Kris?”

“I have a suspicion, sir,” said Kris, trying to hide a smile.  “But I won’t say it before you.”

Gabriel dropped a mound of paperwork onto his desk, then tented his hands and peered at Kris.  “With Michael gone, we need someone to fill the role of warrior archangel.”

“I thought Victoria was chosen for that.”

“Everything I’m about to tell you is classified, and you are forbidden from sharing it.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Victoria was chosen to fill Camael’s position.  We may be demoting her back down to a power and promoting a clerical angel to take her place. We are certainly not going to reassign her to fill Michael’s position.” Gabriel scratched his chin.  “Your loyalty to Heaven has proven in my mind that you would be a perfect replacement.”  

“Pardon me,” said Kris, “but would it not be more conventional to promote one of Michael’s warriors to replace him?  What did the other archangels say when you suggested one of your subordinates replacing him instead?”

“The other archangels don’t know yet,” said Gabriel.  “But I’m positive I can strong-arm Uriel into agreeing to it. The others don’t matter.  I’m going to take things into my own hands. Now that Michael’s gone, we can get things done with an archangel who actually does as he’s told.”

Kris was practically vibrating with excitement, but he did not say anything.

“We will carry out the promotion ceremony at sundown.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Some things are going to be changing around here,” said Gabriel. “We’re going to be doing things a little differently.”

“How so, sir?”

“I have here on my desk a list of names.  It’s mixed angels and demons.  As soon as you’re promoted, I want you to kill these individuals, starting at the top of the list.”

Kris took the list, flipping through pages.  “Sir,” he said, trying not to sound dismayed.  “This includes that demon under the other archangels’ protection.  Surely this will cause problems.”

“That’s why nobody is going to find out you’re the one doing the killing,” said Gabriel.  “The game has changed, and now we can play it however we want.  I’m the Overseer of Divine Affairs on Earth, and it’s recently come to my attention that our agents on Earth are no longer functioning in the appropriate capacity.  I have pinpointed a group of individuals whose elimination would purge our ranks of focal points for inappropriate behaviour.”

Kris scanned the list.

Crowley (infernal field agent, Great Britain)

Aziraphale (celestial field agent, Great Britain)

Oryss (infernal field agent, Libya)

Botis (infernal field agent, Egypt)

Adramelech (infernal field agent, India)

Lirach (infernal field agent, United States of America)

Abraxas (infernal field agent, Ireland)

Paula (celestial field agent, Ireland)

Angelo (clerical agent, third division)

Vincent (guardian angel, Canada)

“Hold on, Vincent?” said Kris, stopping partway down the list.  “Sir, I don’t mean to question you, but how can he possibly be on this list?  He’s a warrior, not a field agent, not to mention he’s been missing for a couple of weeks.”

Gabriel opened his desk drawer and tossed a photograph towards Kris.  He peered at it to see Vincent with a small human girl on his shoulders and a woman on his arm.  They were all laughing.

“Vincent’s place on this list is well-earned,” said Gabriel.  “He has gotten inappropriately involved with his charges.  Notice her stomach.”

Kris looked at the human woman, squinting at the photo in his fingers. “Is she…pregnant?”

“Yes.”

Kris looked up at him sharply.

“After he’s out of the way it should be easy enough to dispose of the unborn child.  And as much as I hate to say it, the human daughter will have to be eliminated as well. Nothing of this kind has happened since the fiasco with the original nephilim, and we need to destroy all the evidence.”

“How old is the daughter?”

“Seven.”

Kris bit his lip.  There was no way to refuse when he had just been rewarded so highly for his obedience.

“None of what I said leaves this room, understand?”

“Of course, sir.”

A sound began to flap into existence around them, the sound of sandals smacking on the polished floor as their wearer ran in a panic.

“Big changes are coming, Kris.  Soon the….who is that?”

A messenger skittered to a stop inside the doorway, chest heaving and looking in absolute disarray.  “Gabriel, sir, we need you outside.  Now.”

Gabriel stood, alarmed.  “What is it?”

“There’s something outside.”

“What?”

“Please come outside, quickly.”

“Kris, come on.”

The list and associated grandiose plans were left on the desk, forgotten. Gabriel and Kris hurried out, beckoning a group of Gabriel’s warriors that had been loitering in the lobby to follow.

Gabriel came out onto the steps to see that the street was empty, except for a lone figure planted in the middle of it, facing the building façade.

It was Vincent.  And he was smiling wickedly.

Gabriel’s warriors appeared, streaming around him down the stairs to move between Gabriel and the street, weapons drawn.

They stood that way for a moment.  Tension swamped the air for reasons he could not identify.

“So where have you been?” said Gabriel.  

Instead of answering, Vincent raised something straight into the sky, a tool with a barrel on it, and pulled the trigger.  With a huge pop, some projectile soared up into the sky, where it exploded into a shower of green smoke.

Gabriel’s eyes followed it up, then snapped back down to Vincent, who had done nothing else.  “Was that supposed to scare me?”

A volley of principalities appeared in the street behind the warrior, jogging to stand beside him.  Vincent shoved the gun back into belt.  “I’m definitely not the scariest thing you’ll see today, sir.”

“Why are you in attack formation?” said Gabriel as another smattering of angels streamed in to line up with Vincent.  “There are no enemies.  Stand down.”

There was suddenly a booming hissing sound, like a pressurised machine venting steam, accompanied by a laugh that sounded like the crackling of something on fire.  “Oh, there are enemies nearby, all right,” said Vincent coolly.

A burning, wraith-like creature with a healing staff in its hand appeared, feet melting the golden bricks beneath its feet as it came to a stop behind the group of opposing angels.

Gabriel’s eyes were wide.  He could find no words.

“Here I am!” it said.

Gabriel had not heard that voice in person for a very, very long time, but the context of the staff was enough to job his memory.  “Maltha?”

“The one and only!” said Maltha, raising her arms.  “You told me to come at you with everything I had!”

“I meant through the war,” Gabriel fumed.  “You can’t be here!  What...”

A howl sounded nearby, some infernal creature the likes of which Gabriel had never heard.  He turned to the messenger who had brought him outside.  “Go find Uriel.  Tell her we need the new warrior archangel now. Tell her my choice is Kris.”

The messenger stood frozen with fear.  “Now!” Gabriel shouted.  “Go! Go!”

The messenger spread their wings and took off.

Simultaneously, a dozen angels from the opposing side drew their bows and fired a dozen arrows, which all hit their marks.  Four speared the messenger’s wings, five their legs, and three in the arms.  The poor angel plummeted back to the ground before they could get clear of the site. No one volunteered to replace them.

Gabriel’s disbelieving gaze left the downed messenger and returned to the group of rebel angels.  “S-so what?  You’re going to kill me?  Is that it?”

Maltha laughed.  “No, I don’t think so.  I have other places to be right now.”  She motioned to her escort, who took to the air.  “As for who will be killing you, I think I shall leave it to him.”

There was a booming growl. Maltha disappeared with a flurry of wings, revealing a hunched, bear-like figure behind her, muzzle crunched in a snarl, drooling saliva, eyes aflame with hunger.

“Jesus!” said Gabriel, jerking backwards.  “Michael?”

Another unit of warriors had rushed onto the scene to move in between Gabriel and the interlopers.  Gabriel did not want to admit how relieved he was to see them, because it bolstered his guard’s numbers so that his force was larger.

Mykas reared to stand on his hind legs, the tip of his sword trailing on the ground, waiting for the battle to start.  Vincent threw himself into the air and yelled, “Do not lay your lives down to defend Gabriel, brothers and sisters.  He deserves his fate.”

Thoughts of all the secret actions Gabriel had tried to bury suddenly came crashing back into him.

“For all his talk about rules and order, he has broken one of the foundations of Heaven’s cornerstones of kindness to humans,” said Vincent, sounding very angry.

“You have a little secret broken cornerstone yourself,” said Gabriel, who realised far, far too late that no amount of threats to the messenger would protect himself, because the next sentence out of Vincent’s mouth was:

“Gabriel destroyed the Lord’s Temple in Jerusalem.”

Stunned silence fell on the company of angels by Gabriel’s side.

“How many of you did not already know?” said Vincent.  “Well, you know now.”

“Come on,” scoffed Gabriel.  “I destroyed the Temple?  Does that sound like something I’d do?”

Slowly, the warriors began to part from in front of Gabriel with mutters of disgust.

“Hey!” said Gabriel.  “Resume your posts!  Come back here!”

Mykas watched the blockade in the path to his adversary dwindle until the defending force was barely half its previous size.

“Y-you all!” said Gabriel.  “You would betray Heaven?”

“You are not Heaven,” said Vincent.  “You are corruption and disaster.  You would sacrifice the Earth, Michael, and all of us if it meant getting your way.  You have brought this upon yourself, and Creation will be bettered with your passing.”

Kris drew his sword and stood in front of Gabriel.

“Kris,” said Mykas.  “Brother, you would still choose this even knowing you had a choice?”

Kris’s face contorted into anger.  “Unlike you, I accept my role in our Heavenly Father’s Plan.  Anyone who refuses to fulfill their intended purpose has no honour or respect from me.  You are no brother of mine, beast.  Even if it means I have to die here on these steps, I will—”

Mykas threw his sword and decapitated Kris.

Threw is not really the right word to describe what Mykas did.  The sword moved so fast it was an invisible blur, seemingly propelled by force of anger alone.  And decapitation is not really the right word to describe what happened to Kris.  One moment he was standing there talking, and the next his head had disappeared completely in a red mist, the sword still shaking embedded in the marble stairs behind him.

Kris’s headless body toppled over and rolled down the stairs.

That was enough to start the battle.  First blood had been drawn in Heaven.  And the first attack on the Heavenly Kingdom in six-thousand years had begun.

Maltha’s feet had not touched the golden streets of Heaven for a very long time. She did not want to admit that she missed any of this.  But when she had seen the infirmary with its insignia on the front that had been stripped from her millennia ago, a pang of some strong, unnamed emotion had seized her.

She had forced herself to walk past it without lingering, because it was the future she wanted to preserve, not the past.

Vincent jogged up to join the formation her escort made as it carried her away from the battle brewing in front of Gabriel.  “It’s this way.”

A gaggle of frightened healers rushed to get out of their way as they went down one of the offshoots of the main street.  That was about as much resistance as they met; they were moving quietly, and the sounds of battle in front of Gabriel’s courtyard were now raging so loudly they could still hear it even across such distance.

Heaven would be otherwise occupied for a few minutes.  Which was all they needed.

“Almost there,” said Vincent.  “This way.”

He led them around a corner and into an elegant courtyard with fountains and pools and pristine white limestone pillars.  And standing in the very center of it was the archangel Victoria.

Puffing smoke, Maltha approached.  “It’s nice to finally meet the new archangel.  Well met, Victoria.”

Victoria drew her sword.  “I don’t know what you’re doing here, but you need to leave.  Now.”

“I’m done waiting around,” said Maltha.  “If you think you can stop me, go ahead and try.  But I see you haven’t even brought any support with you.”

“What are you lot doing?” Victoria shouted to the angels behind her. “Have you all lost your minds? Escorting a demon into Heaven?”

The angels drew back slightly behind Maltha, as though shame-faced.

“What’s wrong?” said Maltha.  “Are you afraid of her?”

“Victoria is honourable,” said Vincent.

Maltha’s coal-red eyes roved from her angelic support back to Victoria, finally understanding the problem.  Victoria was honourable.  She had never been a target.  But now she was standing in the way.

“I’ll take care of this,” she said, waving them back.  “I wouldn’t see you pitted against your sister-in-arms.”

The six angels withdrew, looking unsure.

“Look, Maltha, I have a lot of respect for you,” said Victoria.  “That’s the only reason I’m trying to talk to you first.  If you were anyone else, I would have struck you down on sight.  You understand that, right?  You understand the gravity of this?”

Maltha clucked her tongue.  “So serious.  I’m just walking about, Victoria.”

“Get out!” Victoria shouted.  “You desecrate the ground you walk on!  Nothing good can come of you being so close to our Heavenly Father!”

“You were doing so well,” said Maltha, twirling her staff.  “I thought perhaps we might have been able to settle this without violence.”

“Your very presence here is violence.”

“Victoria, surely you must know that the current leadership in Heaven cannot stand.  You took Raphael’s side, so surely you must know they were willing to sacrifice Michael. And surely you must have heard about who actually destroyed the Temple.”

Victoria was stormily silent.

“You didn’t know.”

“Don’t pretend you care about the Temple.”

“It was Gabriel.”

“You’re lying!”

“She’s not lying,” interjected one of the angels.

Victoria glared at him, but did not lower her sword.  “Heaven’s leadership isn’t the business of a demon.”

“It is my business when they meddle in my affairs to further their own agenda,” she snarled, stalking forwards, huffing glowing cinders out of her mouth.  “They did everything in their power to hurt me in the deepest, most personal way, because they thought themselves safe in their holy fortress and wanted to watch me rampage from a distance.  No more. I’m done. Now stand aside.”

“I’m afraid I can’t let you go any further.”

“Why are you so dead-set on sacrificing yourself for a meaningless cause, and for people who would not ever dream of doing the same for you?”

“Because this is all I have!” Victoria screamed, voice warbling.  “This is who I am!  If I don’t then what am I?  What good am I?  How could I look at myself in the mirror if I just let you?”  

“What am I if I can’t fulfil my God-given purpose?”  Maltha smiled sadly.  “Doesn’t that sound familiar.”

“Don’t try that.  I’m nothing like you.”  Victoria wiped her cheek, then put her hand back on her sword. “This ends now.”

“I don’t want to fight you, Victoria.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t want to fight me, either.”

“Please, Victoria.  Just stand aside.”

“If you don’t want to fight, then don’t!” said Victoria, lunging forwards. “Then just die!”

Victoria launched herself and cleared the space between them in the blink of an eye, propelling herself on black wings spread wide.  Her sword clashed mightily against Maltha’s staff with all of her momentum.

Maltha slid back with the force of the blow, arms trembling with the effort of holding back that sword.  Any weapon less than that of an archdemon would have shattered under the attack.

Maltha’s foot barely cleared the water of one of the pools as she broke off, spreading her wings to stabilise herself.  She flipped over the pool, trying her damnedest not to touch it, because of course she knew what would be in it.

Victoria lunged to chase her, splashing over the pool and thrusting her sword again.

They locked onto each other, becoming a blur of motion, weapons bashing against each other with a series of clangs like gongs ringing out in the open space.

“You can still run,” Victoria said between grunts, not breaking her concentration.

“So can you,” steamed Maltha.

Maltha slipped up.  And Victoria’s sword punched right through her gut.

Maltha exploded into a fit of hisses and shrieks, sizzling out into human form and pulling backwards, hand over the wound.  Stumbling, she fell to her knees.

The six warriors rushed to her side, drawing their weapons hesitantly, prepared in case Victoria tried to land the killing blow.  Maltha gave a moan of pain, blood welling from between her armor where the sword had slid in.

Victoria stood back.  “I told you to give up.”

Maltha squeezed her eyes shut.

“I’ll ask one more time, demon.”  She pointed her sword at Maltha.  “I’ll give you one more chance to escape with your life.”

Maltha pressed her hand into her wound.

“You’re skilled, Maltha.  But you’re not a warrior.  You’re…”

Victoria’s eyes blew wide as she realised what Maltha was doing with her hand on her wound.

“You cheating bitch!” said Victoria, flying into a rage, bringing her sword down on Maltha’s head.

The staff came up with one hand to meet her, shaking with the effort.

“If you think…” Maltha growled.

Still with one hand clutching the wound, she shoved Victoria back and got to her feet.  Victoria tried to attack again, but Maltha blocked.

“…that I’ve come this far, just to be beaten by some upstart power…”

Victoria frantically tried to land hits, but Maltha kept her staff tight to her body, blocking with one hand and healing with the other, blue light feeding out from her hand back into her.

“Then you’ve got another thing coming, you whelp!”

“A dishonourable thing to do, to take advantage of someone giving you a chance—”

“All’s fair in war, love,” said Maltha.

The wound closed up.  Maltha’s second hand flew back to her staff, and then she was on the offensive again, getting closer, working to push Victoria back.

And now Victoria slipped up.  Maltha’s staff swung low and crunched against Victoria’s knees, and the archangel collapsed with an exclamation of pain.  Maltha crushed Victoria’s hand, evoking another cry, and kicked her sword away.

The tip of Maltha’s staff came down into the center of Victoria’s back, slamming her into the ground and overcoming the archangel’s attempts to right herself.

Panting, the two of them just remained as they were for a moment.

“You wear the mantle of archangel well, Victoria.  But I can see you’re not quite used to wielding it yet.”

Victoria let her head fall to the floor.  “I suppose there are worse ways to die than this.”

The weight of Maltha’s staff disappeared.  “Die?  I’d never hear the end of it if you did.”  She began to hobble away, moaning about her aches and pains.  “Better get those legs looked at after I let Raphael out of Hell, hm?”

Victoria sprawled out, groaning.

Maltha’s escort formed up behind her, giving Victoria sympathetic glances in passing.

“Lord,” said Vincent, jogging to Maltha’s side.  “Your performance was admirable.”

“Let’s just get out of here before someone comes along and fixes her up,” Maltha sighed.  “I know this is going to bite me in the arse.  Hurry up.  Where are we going from here?”

Vincent pointed to a construction in the distance, something surrounded by a huge wall.  “All the humans in Heaven are behind that wall.  I know she is in there.”

Maltha stopped, putting her hands on her knees, winded.  “Of course.  All right.  And how do you propose we gain entry?”

Vincent smirked.  “Kris isn’t the only warrior who figured out how to use his aural weapon as a bomb.”

Olivia and Kyleth had been left to guard the gate. Guard it from what, no one was sure, but everyone in the party had agreed that it was a good idea to leave two angels at the gates.

If Olivia and Kyleth had not been distracted by arguing with Aziraphale, they might have noticed a certain someone, whom no one had counted on joining the war party, sneak up and fly over the gates.  But this certain someone had done it very fast, and Olivia and Kyleth were both very angry at Aziraphale, so they didn’t.

“Look, I’m an angel the same as any of you!” Aziraphale shouted.  “I have just as much right to be here as you!”

“Go back, you idiot,” said Olivia.

“Now you listen here!” said Aziraphale indignantly.  “I’m Maltha’s friend!”

“Didn’t sound like earlier,” snorted Kyleth.

Aziraphale flushed red.  “Never mind that!  It’s very important that I talk to her.  I might still be able to convince her this is a bad idea before she does anything to get herself and all these angels with her killed or worse.”

“And do what instead?” said Kyleth.  “Have a nice chat over a cuppa instead?  I’m sure that’d be lovely. Imagine Uriel and Maltha having tea together. Just wonderful.”  

“Aziraphale, what is your problem?” Olivia said.  “You know as well as any of us how—”

She was cut off by the sound of an explosion from somewhere deep in Heaven, so forceful that the ground shook beneath them.  All three angels turned to find the source, and saw a towering billow of black smoke rising up.

Aziraphale took the opportunity to slip past them, spreading his wings and somersaulting over the gates, landing on the other side.

“Hey!” said Kyleth.  “Aziraphale, you jerk!”

“Let him go,” said Olivia.  “Not our fault if he gets himself killed.”

Aziraphale hurried away before they changed their minds, jogging along the main avenue, trying to decide on a course of action.

There were two immediately obvious destinations:  The black smoke in the distance, indicative of something having been destroyed.  And closer, a pall of green smoke hung in the air.

The green signal was closest, so he began to scramble towards it.

The streets were quiet, as though everyone were holding their breath. Aziraphale didn’t like it one bit.

He rounded the corner to the courtyard before Gabriel’s headquarters. And stepped into a mess.

Bodies were strewn about in front of the building, the ground slick with blood. At the focal point of this scene was the archangel Gabriel.  Or what was left of him.  His body was lain out on—and all over—the stairs and main walkway.  And standing over the remains was some enormous beast, one with the aural strength of an archdemon, but cloaked with the aura fragments produced by the angel dust spell.

It was fallen Michael.  It had to be. Aziraphale had seen Michael do a lot of things as a Heavenly warrior, but he had never seen Michael look quite as scary as he did now.  He was still tearing at the archangel as though they were in combat, growling savagely, blood soaking his muzzle and neck and flinging everywhere.  It was not the fight of someone who knew what they were doing.  It was the manifestation of millenia of pent-up anger.

A group of angels nearby were trying to tell him the fight was over and he could stop now.  A second group was trying to tell him he had performed admirably, although it represented a deviation from his usual combat style.

Aziraphale watched for a few seconds before backing away.  Hand on his chest, breathing hard, he staggered away and tried not to throw up.

So…green signal, nothing there for him to do, it looked like.  What else could he try?

A second coloured signal went up in the sky nearby, this one yellow.  And it was coming from behind him, nearer to the gate.

He began to backtrack.

Maltha ran.

She started running as soon as the wall fell, because she had waited for what seemed like forever for this moment, being as patient as humanly—or inhumanly, as the case were—possible, and now that it was so close, it seemed so much more unbearable than before.

Her escort yelled at her to slow down, that they knew where Beth was and should take the lead, and they needed to be orderly to get out as fast as possible, which was of paramount importance since they couldn’t see the signal flares from inside here.

Despite the chaos and Maltha’s excitement, they managed to find their destination eventually.  Disembodied human souls with indistinct faces floated out of her way as she pushed through; they registered mild irritation at being disturbed and nothing more.  The atmosphere was hazy and bright, bathed in a white, sourceless light, and the air was filled with a musical humming that reverberated, as though all the humans within were joined in perpetual song.

“Beth!” Maltha called, stumbling through this.  “Elizabeth!  Where are you?”

The path finally cleared, and there she was:

Beth was currently in the middle of a circle of sprites, small glowing human figures bobbing up and down around her, laughing lightly.  She had a placid, euphoric look on her face, and did not seem to be aware of anything around her.

“Beth!” said Maltha.

Beth’s eyes snapped from the sprites to Maltha.  Slowly, as though with great effort, Beth’s eyes widened with recognition.  “Hey,” she said.  “Hey!  Oh, you’re finally here. Wonderful!”

She wobbly got to her feet, the fae-like creatures around her bouncing up and down and giggling.  Beth, her expression one of intense happiness, took Maltha’s hand and pulled her closer.  “Come here, I want you to meet someone.”

Beth held her hands out, and one of the small human souls drifted down into her arms.  She held it like a toddler, taking it back over to Maltha. “This is my daughter.”

Tears began to well in Maltha’s eyes.  “This…this is Penny?”

Beth nodded.  The creature giggled, holding its amorphous limbs out, pulsing with light.

“She’s…she’s beautiful.”

“I know,” said Beth.  “I’m so happy I got to see her again.”

“Beth,” said Maltha.  “I came to take you back.”

“Back where?” said Beth.

“W-well,” said Maltha, suddenly acutely aware of how things might look to a human perspective, “back to Hell.”

Beth’s face fell, very slowly.  “I can’t take her down there.”

“Well, no…”

“Can’t you just stay up here?”  Beth took Maltha’s arm.  “We could all just…stay up here together, and be a happy family.”

“Lord Maltha, please hurry,” said one of the warriors.

Maltha bit her lip.  “Beth, I can’t.”  Her voice almost cracked.

“Why not?”

“I’m a demon.  I’m not welcome here.”

Beth’s face was blank, as though she were having trouble processing the statement. Then, finally, comprehension began to dawn on her face, like she had forgotten everything that existed outside of this room until now.  “Oh.  I guess I didn’t think of that.”

“Beth, would you rather stay here?”  Maltha’s hand shook in Beth’s, and tears rolled down her cheeks.  “It won’t upset me.  I want you to be happy.”

“Maltha, please, hurry,” said one of the warriors.  “Dina just came back and says she saw the yellow signal go up outside.”

“Noah,” said Beth quietly.  “How is he?”

“He cries at night because he misses you,” said Maltha.  “I can’t sing the lullabies the right way, apparently.”

Beth looked from Maltha to the soul in her arms.

“It’s up to you,” Maltha said tearfully.

“She’s happy here,” Beth finally said.  “She doesn’t need me.”

Beth opened her arms, and the soul drifted upwards to rejoin the circle of other children.

“Goodbye, sweet pea,” said Beth. “I’m so glad I could see you one more time.”

Maltha had already lost track of which was Beth’s daughter.  None of them seemed particularly bothered by her departure.

Beth took Maltha’s hand.  “Okay. I’m ready. Let’s go.”

They hurried out of whatever that strange place was. The moment Beth’s feet hit the rubble of the explosion that had opened their entrance, she got an irritated expression on her face.  “What…What the heck?” she said, rubbing her eyes.

“Are you all right?” said Maltha.

“Yeah, I just…”  She looked back behind her.  “That was fucking weird.  What happened?  Where have I been the past few weeks?  Last I remember, Gabriel was there. That asshole. And then there was…light…”

“I’ll tell you all about it later,” said Maltha.  “Right now, we need to get going.”

This last statement by Maltha was prompted by the appearance of the blue smoke signal in the sky, layered on top of the yellow one.

“What does that mean?” Beth said, peering at the signal.

“It means someone’s in trouble,” said Maltha, motioning her guard to follow her. “Come on.”

“Wait, hold on,” said Beth.  “Crouch down for a second.”

Maltha did so.  “Why?”

Beth clambered up onto Maltha’s back, wedging herself between her wings. “This is a rescue right? You’re supposed to carry me.  Don’t you know anything?  Oh, and once we get going, can you take me past Gabriel?  I want to flip him off.”

Olivia was still fuming.  She walked over to Heaven’s brass gates and started kicking them with her boot.

“Olivia, it’s fine,” said Kyleth.  

“We shouldn’t have let him in,” said Olivia with another savage kick at the gates.  “I ought to go find him and kick his fat, cherubic ass.”

“What is he going to do, realistically?”

“He’s going to get his ass kicked, that’s what he’s going to do.”

A few more kicks to the gate sated her need for violence.  “That fucking guy.  Who does he think he is, huh?”

“Just be glad it was him and not Crowley,” said Kyleth.  “What a disaster that would be.”

A portal zoomed open in front of the gates, stretching far wider than traditional.

Olivia and Kyleth both leaned forward to peer into it.

A pair of headlights flicked on from inside it, and an engine growled.

Kyleth and Olivia barely had time to dive out of the way as a black car came barreling out, rocketing directly into the gates, smashing them open and chugging along for a few dozen metres before coughing and dying, skewed at an angle with tire marks under it.

“Oh my God,” said Kyleth, climbing over the wrecked gates.  “Please tell me that’s not—”

A foot kicked the driver’s side door open, and Crowley rose up amidst steam rolling off the engine.  “Damn,” he said.  “I was really hoping that would get me a lot further.”

“Crowley, holy shit,” said Olivia, rushing over to him.  “Are you using the powder version of the spell? You’re going to get yourself killed.”

Crowley clambered over the wreckage of his vehicle to get away from her. “Now don’t try and stop me, Olivia,” he said, while engaged in an awkward half-run away from her.  “I’ve got to find Aziraphale.”

“Leave him to whatever he gets himself into—Crowley, dammit, would you listen to me!  Kyleth, stay at the gate, I’ll handle this.”

They played an awkward game of chase.  Olivia was faster, but she was afraid to touch him.

“Crowley, you stupid idiot!” said Olivia, trying to round about and step in front of him.  “Maltha will kill us if anything happens to you.”

Crowley skittered to avoid her overtaking him.  She finally managed to corner him against a fence of some sort.

“Now listen here,” she panted.  “You’re important to a lot of people.  This won’t do.  You need to—”

She broke off, her eyes jerking up to a point in space somewhere above his head in the distance, an expression of utmost horror overcoming her features.

He spun around.  Uriel was diving towards him, wings spread like a hawk.

“Fuck!” said Crowley, darting away, in no particular direction but away.

“I should have known you would have something to do with this!” Uriel’s voice rang out.  “Didn’t I tell you what I would do if I caught you up here again?”

“No no no,” said Olivia.  “Uriel never comes this close to the gate.  She—she—she was supposed to be further in.  She was supposed to be second.”

She watched as the second green signal went up into the sky behind Uriel, its explosion illuminating her wings faintly.

“Fucking—” said Olivia, yanking her flare gun out with a shaking hand. “Perfect. Perfect.  Okay.  Fucking—”

Olivia fired the flare gun at Uriel for good measure, but the archangel dodged it easily, and the signal climbed up into the sky at an angle and exploded low over the buildings.

Crowley, meanwhile, had made an impressive attempt to haul arse away, but Uriel was already in the air, and she gained on him far too fast to overcome.

Crowley turned to face her as she touched down, a hand outstretched to grab him, an expression of disgust and anger on her face.  Olivia stood where she was, looking panicked but making no move to help.

Crowley was going to die, or something worse, right here, right now, unless he could keep Uriel off him.  And for once, his fight or flight instincts landed on fight.

His healing staff materialised into his hands.  And the split second before Uriel’s hand landed on him, he smacked it away with his staff, pushing out with his aura with all his might, trying his damnedest to copy Maltha.

And he heard a bone crack.

Uriel shrieked in surprise, withdrawing her arm and clutching it. “What did you do, you little scorpion?”

“I…I broke your arm,” said Crowley with triumph.  “I did it!”

Reality came crashing back down on him as Uriel’s undamaged arm lashed out, too late for him to respond, and grabbed his throat, strangling him and lifting him up so that his feet dangled.  She decked him with one of her wings and knocked his staff out of his hand.

“Somebody!” Olivia yelled.  “Jesus fucking Christ.  I can’t fight Uriel by myself.  Somebody.”

“You think you can engage me in combat?” Uriel sneered as Crowley vainly kicked at her. “Me?”

Olivia, hands shaking, raised her flare gun again and fired a projectile that released blue smoke.

“I’ve had just about enough of this,” said Uriel, tightening her chokehold on Crowley.  “You think you can get away with so blatantly abusing your power right in front of me?”

“Come on come on fucking come on,” said Olivia.  “Somebody get your ass over here, come on.”

“Nobody respects the rules,” said Uriel, fire burning in her eyes.  “So why should I?  Hm?  Maybe it’s Uriel’s turn to play God.”

Crowley’s thoughts suddenly rushed back to what Aziraphale had said. That they could be punished with something worse than falling that hadn’t been invented yet, and he had a very, very bad feeling that he was about to witness its invention.

Uriel slammed him face-first into the ground, planting her foot into his back. “Now you’ll see what happens when Uriel uses her powers however she wants to, the way you do,” Uriel raged.

She brought her hand up, and Crowley gasped as his wings tore open from his back of their own accord.

“Uriel, don’t!” Olivia shouted, waving her arms and circling around in front of the archangel.  “Here!  Me!  Attack me instead!”

“You’re next,” said Uriel, fanning her wings.  “Stand back.”

Six-thousand-year-old fear kept Olivia from drawing her sword.  “I hate you!” Olivia shouted.  “You were always the worst out of the lot of them!”

Crowley felt invisible, steely hands grip the base of his wings, and he suddenly knew what might be worse than falling.

Losing your fucking wings.

“Oh God!” Crowley screamed as the hands began to tug.  “Uriel, don’t!  Don’t! Please!”

“You would dare call upon Our Heavenly Father for mercy?” Uriel said.

The pull became worse.  “Wait! Don’t!  Please!  Please!”  He felt a tendon snap and gasped in pain.

“Accept your fate,” Uriel said.  “You pathetic creature.”

A figure with sandy wings appeared, moving so fast as to be a blur, ramming into Uriel with the full force of its body weight.

Crowley felt the pressure on his wings mercifully disappear, and rolled over to see that Aziraphale had tackled Uriel off of him, and the two were now righting themselves from the ground.

Aziraphale scrambled back to Crowley.  “C-Crowley, what are you doing here?”

“Trying to stop you from getting yourself killed!”

Uriel pushed herself up with her wings.

“How’s that working out?” said Aziraphale.

“Honestly, not so great,” said Crowley.

“You would dare attack me!” hissed Uriel.  “Traitor!”

“Then I guess I’m a traitor!” Aziraphale shouted.  “I don’t care!”

Uriel began to lumber towards him.  “Crowley, I was just about to say that you were right,” said Aziraphale.  “But I’m starting to think this was a bad idea after all.”

“Aziraphale, I was about to say you might have been right too, but maybe we can talk about this later when we aren’t about to get the shit totally kicked out of—”

Aziraphale just barely managed to step out of Uriel’s grasp as she tried to grab him.

“You idiots!” shouted Olivia.  “Run!  What the fuck are you doing?”

Aziraphale drew his sword, Crowley retrieved his staff, and they backed up, linking hands.

“Aziraphale, I love you!” said Crowley.

“Likewise!” said Aziraphale, squeezing his hand.

“You morons!  She’s going to murder us!” Olivia shouted.

“Then run,” said Aziraphale.

Screaming in frustration, Olivia ran in front of Aziraphale and Crowley and yelled in Uriel’s face, “This is exactly why I joined this mission!  I can’t wait for you to die!”

The tap tap tap of something with clawed feet running at top speed suddenly sounded nearby.

Uriel looked at Olivia with steel cold eyes.  “Me?  Die? In your dreams.”

Mykas came barreling around the corner, a ball of blood and fury, and before Uriel could even turn to face him, his teeth had sunk into her face.

She staggered backwards, screaming as Mykas bit down, tearing the skin off her cheek, raking teeth marks down her neck.  Mykas slipped off her, and she used her wings to push herself away, flapping frantically to get into the air.

Mykas’s accompaniment of rebel angels streamed around him, fanning out. Aziraphale could not help but notice that, far from losing numbers to casualties, it had actually grown in size.

“Traitors!” Uriel shrieked, clutching what was left of her face. “Vile creature!  Get out now!”

Mykas exploded into a howl of delighted laughter, sticking his hand out and materialising his sword.  “Hey, Uriel!”

Uriel had materialised a bow and leveled it at Mykas, several dozen arrows floating in a circle around her.

“Do you have any sympathy for me now?” Mykas shouted.

Uriel’s bow released, launching the volley of arrows.

The assembled angels materialised shields, taking cover.  The second the volley was over, Mykas stood up from behind the angel who had shielded him.

He threw his sword.

Uriel almost moved out of the way in time.

It sliced clean through her leg, severing the limb to a painful cry drowned out by the boisterous shouts from those assembled below.

Trailing blood, Uriel zoomed off.  

Almost directly into Maltha.

The archdemon appeared squarely in Uriel’s intended path.  Beth was on her back, both hands thrown up in a rude gesture.

Realising upon what scene she had just barreled, Maltha took a swipe at Uriel, who zigzagged out of way and took off deeper into Heaven, escaping on already-laboured wingbeats.

Mykas went after her with keen concentration, like a bloodhound, tearing forward on all fours.  Maltha’s group merged with Mykas’s, falling in behind him.

Aziraphale and Crowley had been standing there dumbfounded this whole time, weapons still at the ready.  The support that had poured in left just as suddenly, on Mykas’s tail.

Aziraphale lowered his sword, pulse still hammering.  “Are you all right, my dear?”

Crowley panted with his hands on his knees.  “Ahh…dammit, I think something’s torn in my left wing.  But I think that can be healed.”  He shot back up.  “I completely forgot to say the reason why I came up here!  Kabata is here and he’s tagging along with Maltha’s plan!”

“What?” said Aziraphale with alarm.

“He stole the last jar of angel dust and I’m positive he’s here to do something awful.”

“Come on,” said Aziraphale.  “We need to catch up and tell Maltha.  Wait.”

Crowley had started to move forward, but stopped at the command from Aziraphale.  “What?”

“The…the angel dust.”

Panic flared inside Crowley as he suddenly became conscious of the fact that his coating of angel dust had shifted under Uriel’s attack.  He looked down at himself, patting all over his body frantically.

There was a patch of bare skin on his neck where Uriel had grabbed him. Most of it had been wiped from his arms too.

“I…I’m not burning,” said Crowley.  He looked up to Aziraphale, eyes wide.  “Why am I not burning?”

Aziraphale returned his gaze with equal alarm.

There was a ram moving among the inner circles of Heaven, stepping carefully, hugging buildings, moving with caution but also with speed.  And when it reached its target, it shifted into something vaguely man-shaped, holding a sheathed sword.

Kabata looked at the massively ornate façade in front of him and pushed the doors open with one meaty claw.

The Metatron was already waiting for him at the far end of the room, right where the red carpet stopped at the door leading to the inner chamber, arms crossed.  Kabata loped in, his hooves tapping on the floor in the silence.

“I see you knew exactly where I’d be coming,” said Kabata, stopping halfway into the room. The cavernous space was so massive, the ceiling soaring so high, that he still had to shout.

“We thought it would have been obvious what exactly your intentions were, considering the circumstances of your fall.”  Metatron waved a hand and materialised a bow and arrow.  “And this is your plan?”

Kabata pulled his sword out of its sheath.  “Yes.”

“Maltha plots the downfall of the whole Heavenly Kingdom by coordinating an entire faction of angels, including one whose fall she had to facilitate herself.  And your plan is to…Walk in behind her and stab God with a big knife?”

Kabata tossed his head, flicking his ears.  “It’s a short-sword, actually.”

Metatron’s face was stormy.  “What?”

“A short-sword.  It’s not a knife.”

“We do not care if you had the audacity to walk in here with a pointed stick!” Metatron exploded.  “You’ll die here!”

“It’s Him who’s going to die!” Kabata shouted, pointing with his sword to the throne room behind Metatron.  “Now get out of the way!”

Metatron drew their bow back and launched an arrow, which Kabata dodged expertly, then charged.  Metatron fired a volley of arrows at him, all with similar failure.  Their bow morphed into a sword when Kabata reached them, and Metatron brought it up to deflect the blow that came next.

Holy metal clanged against the infernal weapon with a shower of sparks. Metatron scowled.

“You were never very good with a sword, my sibling,” said Kabata.

“Neither were you, brother,” Metatron sneered, pushing him off.

They came at each other full speed then, the awkward, graceless back-and-forth of two out-of-practice swordsmen who were very angry with each other and sincerely wished to see each other die.

“You do realise—” Kabata said in between the deafening clangs of their swords “—that we’re both dead the second Maltha walks in here.”

“You’re not with her?” Metatron replied, not breaking their concentration on the fight.

“She hates my guts.”

“It’s not hard to see why.”

One misstep from Metatron, and Kabata knocked them off balance, then seized the opportunity to smash into their chest with his horns, breaking ribs and sending them to the floor.

“I think she’ll be much less likely to kill me than you,” said Kabata, trotting over to the heavy door.  “After I do this.”

He paused in front of the door, still awed by it.  Then, he put one paw on the handle.  “Time to die, parasite.”

He suddenly felt a weight on his back, and he tumbled to the ground, Metatron’s arms locking around his neck.  And then they were fighting like schoolchildren, with fists and teeth and, in Kabata’s case, a wicked pair of horns that he could not get enough space to use.

“Metatron!” screamed a voice, moving rapidly towards them.

Metatron, who happened to be on top as that happened, looked up from Kabata. They saw Uriel running through the doorway.  One of her legs was completely gone, and she spilled blood with each hobbling step, using her wings to stay upright.  “Michael is coming!”

“No,” said Metatron.  “No.”

Kabata cursed and began to thrash anew beneath Metatron.  “Let me up.  Let me up!”

Uriel collapsed to the floor, dragging herself back to give the door some clearance, then materialised her bow and arrow.  Metatron left Kabata, kneeling beside her and morphing their sword back into a bow.

“You can’t beat him, you fools,” said Kabata.  “You’re both dead.”

“Do you think you’re any less dead?” said Metatron.

Kabata grimaced.  He looked at the door to the throne room, then back to Uriel and Metatron.  Then, he cursed, withdrew his own bow, and knelt on the other side of Uriel, arrow pointing to the door.

The three knelt there with shaking hands on weapons trained on the entrance.  A snarl echoed out from the doorway.

When Aziraphale and Crowley finally caught up, the war party had come to a halt.

“Why’s everyone just milling about?” said Crowley.

They pushed their way to the front, where Maltha and Beth were standing at the precipice of a doorway.  The sounds of combat and Mykas’s enraged barking echoed from inside.

“What’s the matter?” said Aziraphale.

She looked at the two of them tiredly.  “I would ask how you got up here, but I suppose I should have realised there was no point in trying to imprison you.”

“Hey!” said Beth, waving to them.

They both waved back.

“Mykas charged right in without us,” said Maltha.  “But the angels do not want to follow him.”

Aziraphale peered up at the façade and suddenly realised why as recognition dawned on him:  They were in front of the hall of God’s throne.

“They’re fighting in the antechamber to God’s throne room?  Surely they’ll be killed!” said Aziraphale.  

He looked back down at the accompaniment of angels, seeing the fear on their faces. This was it, the limit of their rebellion.  They would gladly face Uriel and Gabriel without a second thought, but God Himself?  No, apparently not.

“I’m going to go in,” Maltha said, raising her voice.  “Unless anyone has any objections?”

“Lord Maltha,” said one of the warriors.  “When we made our bargain, we never expected you to step into the throne room without support, even with the angel dust.”

“No,” said Maltha.  “I understand that.  But this is why you asked me to come with you.  Because you needed help.  You needed someone to be strong when you couldn’t.  You need someone to spit in God’s face.”  She whirled around. “I’ve done this before.  I’m practically an expert.  We can’t leave Mykas fighting alone.”

The angels drew back with expressions of solemn respect.

“You don’t have to go alone,” said Beth.  “I’ll go with you.”

Maltha planted a kiss on her head.  “Beth, please.  Just this once.  Please listen to me when I ask you to stand back.  Just this one time.  For me.”

Beth stood on tiptoe to return the kiss.  “All right.  Anything for you.”

Maltha stood and faced the doorway, where a fresh scream rang out.

“Wait,” said Aziraphale.  “I’ll go with you.”

Maltha smiled sadly.  “Trying to make up for your comments earlier?  Don’t you think that’s a bit overkill?”

“Bloody Hell,” said Crowley.  “If he’s going then I guess I have to also.”

“Aziraphale, Crowley.”  Maltha held out her hands.  “My first friends.  Will you face this with me?”

They took her hands.

“All right.  Then let’s go.”

They stepped across the threshold and into the holiest antechamber in the Heavenly Kingdom.

The hall was already a mess.  Uriel was the first thing their eyes fell to, because she was closest to the door, lying on the ground in a puddle of blood, either dead or dying.  Beyond, closer to the carved door leading to the throne itself, the Metatron was struggling against Mykas, whose jaws were snapping precariously close to their face.  Kabata, looking like his head had been bashed into the wall, hovered in the corner clutching his wounds, as though afraid to try and move.

And Death was there, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets, just watching.

Maltha let go of Aziraphale and Crowley and rushed forward, around Uriel, and menaced Kabata with her weapon.  Kabata held out his hand, like it would keep her at bay, and backed up.

Aziraphale looked over to see that Crowley, of all the things in this chaotic scene, was staring at Uriel.

“Crowley,” he said, squeezing the demon’s hand.

Crowley let go of him and knelt beside Uriel, putting his hands on her wounds and letting healing power out through his hands.  Grimacing, Aziraphale knelt beside him to help.

“She’s alive, but just barely,” said Crowley.

“You can let her die,” said Aziraphale gently.

Crowley did not respond.  Aziraphale figured.  He had never been able to talk Crowley out of showing anyone mercy.

Death let out a sigh and ambled down the red carpet, out of the hall.

Mykas was still in the process of beating the shite out of the Metatron. The archangel made an attempt to get out from under Mykas and dart away, but the archdemon’s mouth came up and closed around their arm, wrenching it out of its socket and hurling them into the wall like a rag doll.  Metatron hit the floor hard, then tried to scrabble away, but Mykas was on them again in an instant, stomping on them and snarling.

Maltha looked up from Kabata, who had made no move to attack. “Look at this,” she said, her lip peeling back in a sneer.  “His most loyal servant is fighting for their life a few feet away from Him, and still He does nothing.”

She stalked away from Kabata and moved towards the door of the throne room.

“M-Maltha, what are you doing?” said Aziraphale fearfully.

“She’s not going to…?” said Crowley.

“You’ve never lifted a finger to help any of us,” said Maltha.  “All powerful?  All knowing? So you must have seen this coming, and you chose to do nothing about it.  You would rather let your three most loyal servants be slaughtered than do a single thing to help anyone.”

“Don’t,” shouted Aziraphale. “Maltha, don’t.”

“He has not seen fit to interfere before this point!” Maltha yelled.  “Why should He start now?”

“It’s ineffable,” fumbled Aziraphale. “Ineffability.  Ineffa—blast, Maltha!”

Mykas had seized Metatron’s neck in his jaws, and the Metatron, immobilised, watched Maltha’s advance towards the throne room with pained resignation, unable to even turn their head to look away.

“War and famine and death and rape and torture and murder and you just sit there,” Maltha raged.  “It’s what you’ve always done.  And when anyone dares to challenge you, you cast them out into darkness, and in the same breath claim to be merciful and loving. The one who has unwarranted arrogance is you.”

“Don’t,” said Crowley.  “Oh, somebody, Maltha, don’t.”

Maltha’s hand was on the door handle.  “Our Heavenly Father.  Your prodigal daughter is here.  Come out and face me.”

And she pulled the doors open.

AN:  The lyrics at the beginning of this chapter are from “Seven Devils” by Florence and the Machinem

[not-a-space-alien]

Aziraphale’s Legion, Part 10: Feast

Art by @petimetrek (link for bigger version cause tumblr compresses it)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12

Series masterpost 

On AO3

Crowley excused himself from the clean-up job halfway through and did not return.  Aziraphale thought he had probably found some excuse to get distracted and stay inside the shop, since he had been complaining that Aziraphale wouldn’t let him use miracles to get most of it done.

When the job was finally finished, everyone joined him to go back inside, dirty and sweaty.  As soon as he opened the door, a delicious scent wafting through the air hit his nose.

Aziraphale went upstairs and popped his head into the kitchen in the adjacent flat to see Oryss at the hob stirring an enormous pot.  Crowley was there too, tossing a salad, as well as an angel who was balancing two trays of dinner rolls on his arms and seemed to be listening to some directions Oryss was giving him.

“What’s this?” said Aziraphale.

“Angel!” said Crowley. “Oryss wanted to cook dinner for everyone tonight.  Thought it would be nice to celebrate and all that.  Wouldn’t do to leave her in the kitchen all by herself with all these mouths to feed.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “That’s wonderful.”

“My lord,” said Oryss shyly, and with her gesture Aziraphale realized he was in the way.  He stepped to the side, and Adramelech came into the kitchen past him carrying an enormous bag of potatoes, which he set about washing off.

“Ah, anything I can do to help, then?” he said.

“You could take a bath,” said Crowley, gesturing with the salad fork.  “You’re filthier than those potatoes.”

Aziraphale did as he was told, drawing a nice hot bath and finding it so relaxing that he accidentally fell asleep in the tub.  He was only woken by Botis’s concerned queries as to his wellbeing.

It was starting to get late by the time he came out, and they were still working in the kitchen. There was only one oven, and he suspected they must be cheating judging by the amount of food coming out.

“Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to help?” he asked Crowley, who was rolling croissants on a tray.

“Aziraphale,” he said in a low hiss.  “You shouldn’t help cook.  You’re the lord; it wouldn’t be proper.”

“Oh,” said a disappointed Aziraphale, who had been picturing a small accident in which Crowley smudged something sweet on his face and Aziraphale was responsible for cleaning it off, perhaps with his tongue.

He shuffled out of the kitchen, not feeling much like a lord of anything.  He eventually lost himself in a book in his study, although he found it especially difficult to concentrate when they started dragging furniture around.

When it began to grow dark, Botis appeared in the doorway, still fully dressed in his armor.  He saluted.  “Lord, I was sent to inform you dinner is ready.”

“Thank you, Botis,” said Aziraphale, sliding his chair back, quite hungry by now.

He followed Botis into the flat next door.  The dining room had not been big enough to hold such an enormous banquet table or this many people, he was sure.  Angels and demons lined the table and the walls. The demons all cheered when he came in.

“Goodness,” he said to Botis quietly.  “What are they cheering me for?”

“Our lord has kept us alive and safely seen us through a battle with an archdemon,” Botis answered him.

“I didn’t really do anything, though.”

“Lord,” said Botis, directly into his ear, pushing him towards the head of the table, “it is a rule of thumb that one never gets anywhere in Heaven, Hell, or Earth without taking credit for things they are not responsible for.  Let them celebrate.”

He noticed with astonishment that everyone was here.  The entire garrison of angels had gathered alongside his demons, and they were mingling.  Rosia and Rava were feeding each other pieces of fruit, and the angel and demon Aziraphale had caught in the closet before were getting just a bit too handsy for public view.  Adramelech was trying to explain something about the food to the angel next to him, who listened with the bare minimum of polite interest, more focused on the turkey leg that was just barely out of reach now that someone had moved the tray.  Even Victoria, who had been in the habit of staying relatively aloof, was there in the kitchen doorway helping Oryss bring in the remainder of the food.  Maltha and Beth were squished together in one chair, their words lost in the general buzz of conversation, but looking very content with each other.  Noah was sitting on Adam’s lap, drinking what Aziraphale sincerely hoped was apple juice out of a wine glass.  And Michael was in the corner, holding Angelo’s hand, and for once nobody looked nervous around him.

And there was Crowley, his beloved demon, smiling at him with those glittering yellow eyes, in the seat next to the head of the table. He felt his heart swelling.

He took his seat and watched as the last few trays of food came out. The table was, if anything, too small. It reminded Aziraphale of a feast he had been to in ancient Greece.  It was the only thing he had been to that rivaled this atmosphere.  

A few years ago—even a few weeks ago—he would never have believed this were possible.  And here they were.

“That’s everything,” Oryss said, nudging a wine bottle aside to make room for a bowl of rolls.

“Let’s give our compliments to the chef, everyone,” said Aziraphale, and the room erupted in cheers and applause. Oryss gave a slightly embarrassed bow.

As everyone scooched their chairs in and piled food onto their plates or poured drinks, Aziraphale felt like it would be proper for him to say something.  He tapped a fork on his wine glass until everyone settled down, looking at him expectantly.

It was only then that he realized he did not know what to say.   “Ahm…  A toast!”

He lifted his glass, and all the angels and demons followed suit.  “A toast to…” he continued.  “To, ahm…”

He looked over at Crowley, who had amusement dancing in his yellow eyes.  Aziraphale knew then what he wanted to toast.

“To love,” he said.

Everyone murmured low approvals, tapping their glasses against each other, and drinking.

Aziraphale regained his seat, preparing to tuck in.

“Hold on,” said Michael. “Aren’t we going to say grace?”

The room fell coldly silent. Aziraphale had no idea what in Michael’s fever-brained mind would have made him think that was an appropriate suggestion.  Even Victoria was cringing, waiting for the reactions of the demons in the room.

“Actually…” said Oryss. “I wouldn’t mind that.”

Murmurs and whispers peppered the room.

“If the angels are used to saying grace before they take their meals,” said Adramelech, “then we can suffer through it for their sake.”

“Really?” said Aziraphale.

“Why not?” said Abraxas. “It’s merely a formality.  It’s not like He actually pays attention to it.”

Nobody made any objections.

“All right, then,” said Aziraphale cautiously.  “Let’s join hands.”

Hands reached out and found each other, from beside one another, across the table, across the aisle, occult and ethereal beings partaking of a gesture that had probably never occurred before in history.  Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand in one and a second angel’s in the other.

Aziraphale bowed his head, and everyone else followed suit.

After a few seconds of silence, Aziraphale lifted his head to look at the room

Everyone had their heads bowed and their eyes closed. Except Maltha.  She was holding Beth’s hand, but she had flatly refused to take the hand of the angel next to her, and she was staring straight into Aziraphale challengingly.

Aziraphale gave her a pleading look.

He felt a tentacle in his brain as Maltha inserted her thought directly into his ears without speaking.  I’m the only one here who looked God Himself in the eye as I fell, and I will die before I bow to Him even one more time.  You’ll be waiting a very long time indeed unless you proceed without me.

Aziraphale looked at the faces of the lesser demons around him, heads bowed in respect for someone who had rejected them, and he could sense that perhaps they had wanted to do this all along, but like Oryss approaching Michael, they had been too scared and needed his help.

But Maltha.  She was too proud.  That was just who she was.

Aziraphale nodded at her. That’s fair.

He bowed his head once more and began.  “Bless us, O Lord, and these, Thy gifts…”

The generic grace prayer seemed ill-fitting for this group. But what he really wanted to say, he could never say aloud in this company.  So he started a separate prayer in his head, sincerely, that maybe God would listen to.

Lord God, I know I cannot question your ineffable judgement.

“…which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Be present at our table, Lord.”

But I care very much for those around the table with me here now.  They are kind and merciful and so good.  I do not know why you would cast them out…

“Be here and everywhere adored.  These mercies bless and grant that we may feast in fellowship with Thee.”

...But perhaps you could find it somewhere, in your infinite mercy and grace, to forgive them—forgive us all—and to bless this strange gathering.

“For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful.  In the name of God, the gracious, the merciful.  Amen.”

“Amen,” everyone murmured.

Angels rarely pray directly to God, because they simply get their directions from their supervisors and few of them have anything important enough that they would dare speak to God about. And God does not really speak to one, per se.  When He wants to communicate with someone, He puts His words directly into the recipient’s brain, similar to what Maltha had just done, except He does not put words in, because that would not be ineffable enough.  When one hears from God, they more are left with a sort of impression that they just suddenly remember hearing Him speak a few seconds ago, and are now left with whatever thoughts and feelings they would spawn from hearing that, since He presses it directly onto their brain in a way that’s hard to describe.

And the feelings Aziraphale had as soon as he finished his Amen were associated with the following message God sent to answer his prayer:

Fuck off, you disgusting little creature.

Aziraphale’s hand clamped on Crowley’s, so hard Crowley flinched.  Whatever opportunity there might have been to say something to the group as a whole after the prayer was lost as the meal finally began amid the clinking of silverware and the buzz of conversation.

“Angel, are you all right?” said Crowley.

Aziraphale’s eyes roved the dining hall, then finally came to rest on Crowley, bewildered. Crowley’s serpentine eyes grew serious with concern.  “What’s wrong?”

“I-I…”

“Did…”  Crowley returned his grip just as fiercely.  “Did He answer you?”

It was a mistake. Just a mistake.  He had gotten a message intended for somebody else.  Haha.  Of course God wouldn’t have said something like that to Aziraphale.  Not to him. He was an angel. That kind of talk was only reserved for demons.

Right?

“Angel?  Talk to me.”

Aziraphale’s mouth opened and closed.  A demon nearby put down their silverware and looked at him with concern.

“He said something I rather did not expect,” said Aziraphale quietly.  “But I would prefer not to share it.”

Crowley squeezed his hand again.  “Okay.”

“Now why don’t we enjoy this delicious meal our friends have prepared for us?” said Aziraphale.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Aziraphale’s phone rang.

Aziraphale’s phone never rang.  His number was not really a secret, but there were not many people who wanted to get ahold of him.  He had thought all of them were here with him.

He still had on the generic ringtone, and its beeping was barely audible in the loud room, but it was insistent.  He felt his stomach sinking deeper with each ring, as though the call would be from God himself.

“Angel, you’re phone’s ringing,” said Crowley.

“I-I’d better take this.  Please continue on without me,” said Aziraphale. He stood and wobbled out of the room unsurely, holding the vibrating device in his hand.

Crowley watched him go, concern growing in the pit of his stomach.  In his absence, Crowley made do with sucking down the hors-d’oeuvres.

Relax, he told himself.  Just relax.

Crowley had no idea what response to his prayer Aziraphale could have gotten to unsettle him, but surely it couldn’t have been that bad, right?  Otherwise God would have smitten them all by now.  Surely it was just something that startled him.  And that phone call could be from anyone.  A human customer, even.  There was nothing to worry about.

He should just enjoy the meal.  Everyone seemed to be having a good time already.  He took a breath and steadied his nerves, determined not to be shaken so easily.  He reached for the wine, poured himself a glass, and began to drink it, resolved to enjoy the evening if it killed him.

Botis appeared in Aziraphale’s seat.

“Botis,” said Crowley, eyeing him strangely.  “You can take your armor off, you know.”

“I’d rather keep it on, sir,” said Botis.  “I’m going to keep watch after I’ve eaten.”

“….all right,” said Crowley, thinking it was rather unnecessary, but knowing personal defense of his lord seemed to be Botis’s hobby.  And with that phone call, who knows, it might be a good idea…

“Sir,” said Botis, colouring.  “I…um, I didn’t recognize you until I saw you in your armor.  With your staff.”

“Recognize me?”

“The healer.  The only healer besides Maltha who fell.”

Now it was Crowley’s turn to flush red.  He had never been treated very well once other demons found out he was a healer. “What’s your point?”

Botis ran his fingers along the hilt of his sword.  “I…I was among the group of angels who pressured you to join the rebellion in Heaven.”

A shockwave of recognition flashed through Crowley.  Take away the horns…Yes, he had known him as an angel.

“You must hate me,” said Botis.  “I’m so, so sorry.  If I had known what would happen, I wouldn’t have done it.  We were all young and stupid.”

Botis had a look of genuine sorrow and distress on his face.  Crowley could tell it had been eating at him.

He put a hand on his shoulder.  “Botis, that is quite literally ancient history.  I think you’ve redeemed yourself by now.  The way you threw yourself in front of me and Aziraphale when you thought we would have to fight Agares is plenty.”

Botis’s face dissolved into relief and happiness, but he suppressed it with a serious expression soon enough.  “Thank you, sir.  I’m just doing my duty.”

“Of course you are.  Now, why don’t you get smashed while you have the opportunity?”

Botis saluted and marched off.

Aziraphale did not come back for a worrying long time.  Crowley sipped his wine slowly, tension building in his stomach.  Victoria caught his eye, staring at him from down the long table.

Crowley broke eye contact and went back to his wine, but Victoria got up and navigated the crowded space to him anyway.

“Is everything all right, Crowley?” she said, slipping into Aziraphale’s empty seat.  “You look nervous.”

“Aziraphale got a phone call,” he said.

“Oh,” said Victoria, “is that all? For a minute I thought you were concerned Michael was going to start a fight.”

Crowley looked over at Michael. He could not help but notice the archangel was not eating anything and was starting to look like he was enjoying the meal progressively less and less. Crowley hadn’t been concerned about that before Victoria mentioned it, but he was now.

“I wanted to reassure you I’m committed to making sure everything stays peaceful,” said Victoria.

Crowley nodded. “Thanks.”

Victoria’s fingers idly reached out for a handful of grapes on the table.  “So why is it so concerning that Aziraphale got a phone call? Who’s it from?”

“I don’t know.  Not many people have his number.  I’ve just got a bad feeling.”

“Intuition?”

He shook his head, then occupied himself with emptying his wine glass to avoid meeting the power’s eye. She had taken another handful of grapes by the time he set it back down.  “Hey, Victoria?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t think I ever thanked you.”

“What for?”

“For saving my life when Kabata attacked us. When we showed up in Heaven and you took me back down and got Raphael to treat me.”

“Oh, that?  It already feels so long ago.”

“Yeah.”

“I was just doing my duty.”

Crowley peered into his empty wine glass, swirling the remnants on the bottom.  “To be honest, Victoria, when I opened the portal to get into Heaven, I didn’t expect anyone to save me.  I figured the odds of anyone in Heaven being both willing and able to treat a demon’s injuries and being available right then and there were low enough.  And that was assuming the person at the gate cared enough about me to try and keep me alive, if they didn’t actively kill me first.  When I saw you come out, I half expected you to take Aziraphale off me and then leave me there to die on Heaven’s doorstep.”

Victoria flushed with embarrassment.  “Crowley, you really think I’d do that to you?”

He did not dare look up to see her expression.  “It wouldn’t be the first time Heaven’s gates closed on me when I needed help.”

“You thought Heaven would let you die, but you still went there?”

Crowley looked away, pretending like he was trying to find a refill for his wine glass.  “I knew you’d save Aziraphale.  He may not be very popular, but he’s still an angel.  I figured at least one of us could survive the attack.”

Crowley took the ensuing silence as a cue that he should finally look up at her.  He was shocked to find that her eyes were watering.

“Crowley, I had no idea demons were capable of such selflessness.”

He could have been insulted by it, but he knew she had meant it as a great compliment.  He did not know how to respond.  So he lifted his wine glass and tipped it to get at the leftovers on the bottom.

“Crowley, you are a creature of great honour and nobleness,” said Victoria, holding out her hand. “I’m so glad that I could get to know you.  I’d save your life again in a heartbeat.”

Crowley looked down at her hand; it took a moment to realize she wanted him to shake it.  He took it, slightly embarrassed, not feeling very noble at all.  “Erm, thanks.”

After the handshake was over, they both just sat there, slightly awkward.  Victoria sniffled and pushed her chair back.  “Well, I’d better—I’d—Look, your friend wants to talk to you.”

He saw that Maltha was motioning to him to come over.  

“I’d better go see what she wants.  Thanks, Victoria.”

“Hey, um, Crowley?”

He turned back towards the angel.

Victoria refused to meet his eyes.  “Your friend. Beth.”

“Yes?”

“Will you tell her it’s orange?”

“What is?”

“My favourite colour.”

He smiled.  “All right, Victoria.”

Crowley navigated his way through the packed room until he could wheedle his way into the space in front of the archdemon.  “What is it?”

“I was just talking to Beth,” said Maltha.

“Maltha told me that all demons have an animal form,” said Beth.

“Er, yeah,” said Crowley. “Nobody’s really sure why, it just kind of works out that way.”

Maltha downed an entire glass of wine in one go and then continued, “Yes, and I told her—”

“I asked her what your form was—” Beth slurred.

“But I didn’t tell her—”

“She made me guess—”

“She thought—”

“Shh, babe, I want to tell him!” said Beth, slapping Maltha’s arm.

It was at this point that Crowley noticed the gaggle of empty wine glasses surrounding the pair and their flushed faces.  “Are you two drunk already?”

“Yes,” said Maltha, while Beth simultaneously answered, “No.”

“How are you finding the wine?”

“I’m going to be honest with you Crowley,” said Maltha as more wine appeared in her glass.  “Of all the things I put effort into learning about in my time on this plant.  Planet.  Alcohol was not one of them despite my fondness for it. Once I tried to get drunk off of sparkling grape juice.  Beth had to explain to me why it wouldn’t work.  That’s why I keep her around.”

“Awww, babe,” said Beth as Maltha shook her with drunken revelry.

“My point is I don’t know good wine from grape juice,” said Maltha.  “Anyway, that’s not important.  I made her guess what your animal was—”

“I thought you were a cat,” said Beth between bouts of laughter.

“A cat?” Crowley exclaimed. “No, no, no.  If anyone were a cat, it would have to be Abraxas, wouldn’t it?”

Maltha sloshed wine out of the glass in her hand as she leaned in closer to Crowley.  “Abraxas thinks I don’t know what her animal form is, but I do.”

“Erm…” said Crowley. The two of them apparently found it totally hysterical, because they were having trouble breathing between fits of giggling. Abraxas was across the room letting Mittens eat turkey off her plate, too far away to hear them.

“Tell him,” said Beth.

“A mouse,” said Maltha in a strangulated voice.  “She’s a mouse.”

“What?  No!” said Crowley.

Maltha nodded and waved her wine glass.  Beth had been trying to give her a refill and missed.

“No wonder her cats like her so much,” wheezed Maltha.  “They’re probably waiting for her to turn her back so they can eat her.”

“And I wanted to ask you,” said Beth.  “Crowley, since you’re a snake—”

“Whatever it is you’re about to say, don’t say it.”

“Have you ever eaten a mouse?”

“Well of course!” said Crowley, a tad irritated.  “I had to eat while I was in a snake’s body, didn’t I?  Couldn’t exactly prepare a sandwich with no hands, could I?”

“No, no, I meant while you were in a human body.  You suppress those reptilian instincts all the way?”

Crowley grabbed the wine bottle out of Beth’s hand as she spoke and took a swig from it.  “I’m not answering that.”

“You did, didn’t you!” said Beth, unimaginably delighted.  

“I’m not answering that.”

“Hey, Crowley, are you all right?” said Maltha.

“Your girlfriend is harassing me.”

“No, seriously, though. You look a little…”  One of Maltha’s red pupils drifted off to the side drunkenly while the other remained fixed on Crowley.  “On edge?”

Crowley set the wine bottle down.  “Maltha, you’re the only one in this room who can protect us, but you’ve gotten too drunk to walk straight.  I’m sorry, I’m just a little nervous.”

Maltha put a hand on his arm.  “Crowley, I can sober up at the drop of a hat.”

Crowley flushed with embarrassment; he had nearly forgotten about that.

“Nobody can get in at us.  And I’m sure by now word of Agares’s death will have spread, and that will make everyone think twice about coming after us.  I wouldn’t be surprised if even more came over to our side because of it.  Nobody is going to attack us so quickly after that. We’re as safe as we can be right now. Relax.  Enjoy yourself.  You’re always so tense.”

“You’re right.  I’m sorry.  It’s just that Aziraphale got a phone call.”

“Why is that a problem? Expecting trouble?”

“Only because it always seems to chase me.”

Maltha agreed that was fair enough and left him in his tension.  Beth also remarked about Michael’s apparent decline with concern, which did not help his nerves at all.

As time passed and the food disappeared, the wine bottles emptied and refilled multiple times, and the drunken merriment climbed higher and higher.  At one point, when there was enough space on the table, some board games came out of the closet and appeared amidst the food, and those nearest entered an intense competition.  Maltha and Beth decided to play as a team, but they wanted to use the dog token, which one of Michael’s angels had.  The angel said he would only give up the dog in exchange for the hat token, but Adramelech had the hat piece and wasn’t willing to part with it no matter what. Maltha ordered him to give it to her on her authority as an archdemon, but Adramelech said the sacred ritual of dibs was of utmost important on Earth and superseded even Hell’s authority. Maltha looked taken aback and believed him, and Beth couldn’t explain anything to her because she was laughing too hard.  The Monopoly game started considerably later than the game of Sorry! across the table, which was already in full swing with several murderous eliminations in the bag by the time someone had purchased their first property.

Crowley found himself unable to take Maltha’s advice and let himself relax.  Michael got up halfway through the festivities and exited briskly, Angelo chasing after him a minute later.  And Crowley kept his eye on the door, hoping Aziraphale would come back soon and tell him the call had just been a wrong number or something.

Aziraphale moved to the bedroom to answer the call, but it was too late and it went to voicemail.  The caller did not leave a message, but his phone vibrated in his hand with a call from the same number a few seconds later. He had to steady himself for a few deep breaths before flipping it open.

“Hello?”

“Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale’s blood turned to ice.  He knew that voice.  He had taken orders from it.

“Camael.”

There was an animalistic hissing on the other end of the line.  “Do not call me that.”

“Kabata, then.”

There was silence, as though he hadn’t expected getting Aziraphale to use his preferred name would be so easy.  Aziraphale felt like he wanted to catch up.  Haven’t spoken in a while.  How’s it been?  How’s life as a demon?  But he thought that it would be inappropriate.

“I know you have the antichrist,” said Kabata.

“I’m not denying that I do.”

Another pause. Perhaps Kabata was struggling because he was still new at being evil.

“Give him to me.”

Aziraphale actually had to stifle a laugh.  “No, I’m afraid you won’t get him that easily.”

“What happened the last time we met wasn’t personal, Aziraphale.”

“‘What happened’?  You mean when you tried to murder me and Crowley?”

Another hesitation. “Yes.  But I don’t have any interest in getting revenge on you, Aziraphale. I want the throne.  Now that Agares and her crew aren’t lurking about, you and I can talk about it.”

Aziraphale choked back laughter again.  “Kabata, you just fell.  Doesn’t that seem a bit…ambitious?  You’re competing with archdemons who have served under Satan for millennia.”

“I’m aware,” snarled Kabata. “Which is why I need the antichrist. If I can ignite the apocalypse with his son, Satan’s forces will have no choice but to recognize me.”

“You’re seriously trying to convince me to just give him to you?  Surely you must know that won’t work.”

“Well, I’m not just asking for him,” said Kabata.  “I’m offering you a deal.”

“…a deal?”

“You can be my second in command in Hell.”

“Not a chance.”

“I’ll let you keep all your demons.  Unharmed. Just as they are now.  I’ll personally guarantee Crowley’s safety against any of those still thirsty for his blood after what he did.  I’ll even let you keep any of those angels who strike your fancy.”

Aziraphale considered it. Just for a moment.  He wasn’t proud of that.

“Ahh…” said Kabata. “I see I’ve struck a chord.  I know what it is you want.”

“No, Kabata,” he said.  

“I’m not going to hurt Noah. I’m going to give him power. Aziraphale, there’s so much we could gain from this.”

“I will not ever participate in any plan that involves the destruction of Creation, do you understand?” Aziraphale shouted.  “That’s always been the point.”

“Please reconsider.”

“Kabata,” he said through gritted teeth, “I am currently sitting in a building laced with occult sigils that bar your entry, surrounded by a legion of Heaven’s finest warriors, including the archangel Michael—who I might add has been raring to kill an archdemon for weeks now—as well as a horde of demons that would die fulfilling my commands if I needed them to, and the archdemon who almost bested Satan for his throne while he was still alive. And you are alone, newly fallen, and have made enemies of everyone powerful in Hell already since you’re competing for the throne.  I very much doubt you have any ace up your sleeve.  If you want the new antichrist so badly, you are free to come and try to take him.”

Aziraphale sucked in a deep breath after this outburst.  Kabata was silent.

“Even when I had authority over you, you never did as you were told, Aziraphale,” said Kabata’s voice, which seemed to ooze out of the telephone and prick his neck with a slimy tendril.  “And when you’re at your lowest moment, when you’re asking yourself why things turned out this way for you, I want you to remember it’s because you do not do as you are told.”

The line went dead. Aziraphale kept the phone at his ear for a few extra moments, his mind racing.

He snapped it shut, wishing he had not gotten quite so mouthy.  Kabata had deserved it, but still.  He lay back on the bed and sat there for a while, his head in his hands, feeling positively overwhelmed, not sure what to do.  

He lost track of time as he lay there.  He heard heavy footsteps thump in the hallway, and he levered himself upright just in time to see Angelo scurrying past the room looking concerned.

“Is everything all right?” Aziraphale called.

Angelo stopped.  “Oh. Um.  Yeah, everything’s fine.  Michael’s just not feeling so well.  All the noise was getting to him. We’re going to keep watch on the roof.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, thinking that might be a good idea.  “All right.  Thank you. Let me know if you see anything.”

Angelo disappeared. Aziraphale flopped back onto the bed, then suddenly realized the time.  He’d better go tell everyone about the call so that they could be on alert.

When he walked back into the dining room, he saw that the food was mostly gone, and that several board games had appeared.  The group closest to him was boisterously fighting over candy-coloured money and small plastic houses and metal tokens in the shape of shoes and cars.  

They were all drunk and happy.  He could not bring himself to interrupt them.  He turned back around, going down the stairs quietly, the loud noises and warm smells fading with the distance.

He found Botis in the main shop standing facing the door, silhouetted against the night through the glass shopfront, weakly illuminated by moonlight.

“Evening, lord,” he said. His cheeks were slightly flushed, obviously also a bit drunk.

“What are you doing down here?”

“He’s keeping watch,” said Crowley’s voice behind him, appearing on the staircase.  He padded down the stairs and across the shop, coming up beside them.  “I told him to relax for once, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“I just want to be sure my lord is safe,” said Botis.

Aziraphale grabbed his shoulder and squeezed.  “Thank you. Botis, Crowley.  Will you help me strengthen the anti-demon sigils on the shop?”

“Of course,” said Crowley. “Is something wrong?”

“I’ve gotten a call from an old friend.  Nothing to be alarmed about.  But I’d rather make sure he can’t get in.”

Crowley seemed to immediately understand who he meant and did not ask questions.  Botis did not see any point in asking too many questions of his lord, so he also did not ask questions.

They tightened the glyphs so that no demon was able to enter, full stop.  He was sure that Kabata wouldn’t have somehow grown to love the Earth so quickly, not someone like him, but he wanted to take no chances that he would be able to exploit any loopholes the exception might allow.  Aziraphale was sure that everyone was already inside the perimeter, and Botis assured him he would make certain nobody left that evening.

He could have a talk with everyone tomorrow about the change.  There was no way Kabata would be able to get in, no way he could make good on his threats.  And they could pass the night in safety, laughing and drinking, and deal with him tomorrow, whatever pathetic move he decided to try and make.

The universe would have to pull out a lot more than this to scare Aziraphale.

“Michael.  Michael, look at me.  Look at me.”

Michael was panting, his wings drawn out, his eyes half lidded, covered in sweat.

“It’s okay,” said Angelo. “You’re okay.”

“I wanted to kill her,” said Michael.  “Me, I should have killed Agares.  I’m the bearer of divine wrath.”

Michael seemed to have a bit too much wrath built up inside him. Angelo took Michael’s head in his hands. “It’s okay.”

“Metatron said this was going to happen,” said Michael, wiping an eye with his palm.  “That my bloodlust was going to get worse the longer the war was put off.  That I would start to deteriorate.   Because I’m…I’m…”

“How can I help you, Michael?  What do you need?”

“I need to kill something.”

Angelo could only say “It’s okay” so many times when it obviously wasn’t true.  He moved a strand of hair out of Michael’s face.  “I’m here.”

They both caught a spark of light and a fizzle out of the corner of their eyes.  A piece of parchment fluttered down, landing seal-upright.  It was from Gabriel.

Angelo picked it up. It was addressed to Michael, but he opened it anyway. And then he tried to hide it from Michael, but it was too late, because the archangel had been reading it over his shoulder.

“Michael, don’t.”

Michael pushed him off and drew his sword.  “Get out of the way, Angelo.”