Chapter VI - Asunder

[IamLEAM1983]

Helena smiled again, the gesture evoking patience. "All daughters who serve the Balance are related,"  she said, "but yes. Blood is of a lesser concern to my people, and I sometimes forget this was our cradle."

She looked off to the side, towards a few smoke stacks near Renton's exclusion zone, and sighed. "Dark space held such wonders for us; coming back to the place of our birth to find it like this is... humbling."

Speaking briefly became impossible as the shuttle's thrusters briefly roared to life, fighting against gravity as it negotiated its landing approach. That done, the cockpit popped open with a hiss, and out of it climbed another purple-skinned beauty, something to her features marking her as about half of Helena's age. Her hairdo was far more provocative, with its partially shorn scalp and the rest kept to hatchet-shaped locks of purple on black in a decidedly Punk display. She also packed a skintight flightsuit, but removed sunglasses from her eyes as she strode forward, her almost bubblegum-pink lips parting for a nonchalantly blown gum balloon. Her accent was similar to Helena's, if slightly Americanized.

"Fuck," she said, pouting as she looked at the horizon line. "So that's Earth? So much for the Paradise Karthians talking up their achievements in Sol, huh?"

Helena's sigh was almost quiet. "Provincial evils are still deserving of respect, daughter. Their demons have not ventured beyond Sol out of simple economics. Why claim drifters and wayfarers when settled borders are easier to corrode from within? Remember what caused the Akari's Great Pilgrimage, Zoraya."

Alphonse kicked a mound of demon ash. "Did someone else get the shaft too?" he asked.

Helena's eyes hooded themselves. "Protis will be with us shortly; you will have opportunities enough to ask him yourself, mister Biggs. The Akari's history was only inherited by the Vanguard; it is not mine to tell.
- There's someone else in there?" he asked, looking back to the shuttle. Again, Helena mutely sighed, more out of concern than irritation.

"Yes. His Ether is not quite your via, but his kind's metabolic processes can adjust over time. It isn't unlike a compression chamber for deep-sea divers."

Nergal's curiosity was muted, comparatively. "Interesting," he said, as he adjusted his gloves. "His kind metabolize magical energies?
- It is more a case of the Akari's native form of magic being inseparable from their homeworld's atmospheric composition. Yours courses through channels not unlike lymph nodes in this world, theirs was free-ranging, breathed in and exhaled by every living thing. There are no mundanes among the Brood. In fact, what is a statistic to you is a grave illness to them."

The gargoyle etched the motion of shoving hands down pants pockets that didn't exist, briefly looked self-conscious as a result, and settled with a shrug. "Friendly fish-demons, skeleton-demons with a thing for automatics, wizards from space... Sure, let's just go with mundane existence being lethal for a bunch of alien bugs; we probably won't run into anything weirder."

Samigina cackled uncharitably at that, but turned away to holler at his men in the Dutchman's shrouds. Before long, the rest of the Walpurgis ordnance was brought down and carefully inspected - and yet another figure came down from the now-extended gangplank. Something to him might remind Aislinn of what Tom's body was - a warthog's body corrupted by Infernal magic - if the starting point had been an aging human and the junk genetic data added to him had been a bat's. With flaring ears, a batlike snout, two rows of fine teeth and what looked like a neckbeard that had been made into something respectable by wizarding standards, you would've been forgiven for thinking he would've packed Thomas Quint's spastic gestures and animal snarls. The old Teutonic bone armor slipped over a Warlock's robes didn't help things, but Nergal and him greeted each other with perfect civility. The demon, in turn, opened these greetings to the others.

"Friends, I'd like to introduce you to Otto Geier, one of Walpurgis' patriarchs, as well as my summoner and close friend," he said, as eyes so black as to almost reflect the light in purple tones turned to Aislinn.

"Good afternoon, young Warlock," he told her, bowing slightly. His voice was a bit heavy with German undertones, but his diction was perfect, only slightly touched by your standard Houstonian's accent. "I've hoped to meet both you and Tom ever since your power flared, over two months ago. Considering its source, I debated against putting the event to a calendar, but Erin insisted I do so. So few of us can channel the Dark Arts for the good of all without losing our way."

* * *

Understandably, Wormsworth didn't answer immediately. In the seconds that followed, he'd settled with sliding a cool glance in her direction, like a glare's friendlier cousin, and waited until they were back in the limo, after shouldering and No comment-ing his way past the now-unfrozen reporters who clearly wanted to make some sense of a bridging ceremony gone cryptically wrong. The Freaks had their thoroughfare, the masses had their way back out or in, and it would hold until the Goat decided the proverbial olive branch had been extended for long enough. The Slab would soon be populated, which would offer much-needed relief to the metropolitan area's current glut of trans-planar refugees.

Once shut back inside with Chopin and the quiet whisper of the road outside, Herbert lowered his guard some. He stuck a finger between his neck and shirt collar but didn't actually loosen anything. It seemed to suffice on a psychological level, anyway. 

"To answer your question, my dear, I should confess that most of us Pitspawn have never heard of Lucifer's original proclamations. We all know of what the Princes themselves have claimed and all suspect their stated goals to have been grossly misinterpreted or twisted out of shape to serve personal objectives - but the Lightbringer's intent for us is better left for the Sammelite and Seducer philosophers to discourse upon. Are we meant to be exquisite Evil made flesh, or are we made to embody this evil so that mortal souls could confront their own venal failings and Ascend on fresh wings of realization? Are we betraying the nobility of our wickedness in ascribing to higher paths, or are we meant to show that Humanity at its worst is still crushingly, deeply human?"

He shrugged as he dug inside a jacket pocket, pulling out what had to be the priciest E-Cig imaginable, all in sterling silver and diamond inlay for its single button. Clicking it, he took a drag, what had to be flecks of gold dancing in the condensation chamber, swirling around a tiny heating coil that looked to have been painstakingly handcrafted. If the smell of his E-Juice came with a branding, it probably would've been something pretentious and self-reflective, like Gentleman of Good Taste or Avowed Connoisseur.

"I imagine my pride in understanding that I can still reach for the zenith of my Vice while developing the mortal virtues of kindness and equanimity would come across as insulting to other Pride luminaries - but it makes for a chicken-or-the-egg scenario: is my bloated Ego worse because it somehow has a niche carved for others to occupy and reach into? What of the Goat's? Whose Pride is the best by any serious metric? Someone else might say yours works better, seeing as you obviously have no need for artifice like I do. You're a woman of good taste, your sartorial experiences give you pleasure, but they do not subsume your sense of Self. You fix yourself up in a mirror, I almost deliberately preen and it takes every ounce of the Goat's power to pry himself away from his own magnificence. Someone might only chuckle at the Goat's fawning and misconstrue your gussying yourself up for a minute or two as marks of self-importance. Eye of the beholder and whatnot."

He flicked his wrist. "Or Tom and Lust, for that matter: is his Lust magnified by love, or is it instead stomped on or withered? By whose metric is Tom Magnus an incubus of renown? We're both biased, so we'd say ours in unison - but untold droves of Pitspawn would vehemently disagree."

After a second or two, he rolled his eyes. "That, at least, is the standard discourse. None of us can find out what Lucifer's true intent was, we weren't there, so on and so forth. Anyone with half a brain, however, would understand that the Princes were originally designed to understand their Vice, not embody it. The most heretical of hypotheses tends to state that Hell's original plan didn't involve Pandemonium simply because there was no need for it. The Fallen would pay their penance by warding the Damned off from the vices they had succumbed to in life, and setting their course right. That, in turn, would further isolate Ptah's old, unspoken master and give a bloody, ruddy reason for all these eons of suffering."

A tongue click followed. "Ah, but Lucifer left, foolishly enough, and the cats came out to dance... That way lies more rhetoric, some condemning the Lightbringer and more trying to bring light to his reasons for taking to the mortal plane's most remote fringes. I'm of the mind that it was all inevitable, the seed of it all had to be in the Princes from the very beginning. They'd sinned against Humanity and their Creator, they resented your kind so utterly and perfectly that conscious reasoning had little left to do with it all, and had every opportunity to lose themselves by throwing thematic fits because Daddy Dearest didn't give them the Garden of Eden to play with."

Another vape drag. "In any case, the hatchet's buried. It's their nonsense, not mine. I bear Pride's marks, but I'm far from being the Black Goat. You ask me, the Earth is better off with mortal concepts of sustainable development than with my kind's delusion that we'll just be able to force God into making us a new paradise."

* * *

The Veiled goat huffed. "Spoken like an impetuous young hireling, I'd say," he said. "You'll be lucky if Allocer so much as remembers your name in a few weeks!"

The embarrassment they practically radiated was palpable, forcing the other workers on the floor to look away or cough nervously. That made it easy to huff and puff their way into the offices shared by Allocer and his secretary, showing how Doherty's presence had been hastily scrubbed off of the surrounding walls. A pile of framed clippings, photographs and a single oil portrait could be found next to the secretary's personal bathroom. The previous mayor seemed to look on from the painting, giving the pair a half-mocking and half-conspiratorial smirk. The painting had been commissioned in 2020 and showed Doherty in his leaner years - or at least as lean as anthro walruses could be expected to get. He had a tiny bit of a visible neck, huge dimples on either side of his mustache, and a little less pudge to his hands.

At best, this was worth a single glance for Leonard. He handed Miranda his USB stick, vituperating all the while, and then reached over to close the door's blinds. Once the lounge area was also cut off, both Veils and the covering argument were dropped. He was hovering over her like a hawk within a heartbeat, golden eyes scanning the screen.

"Makes me wish I'd listened to Thomas and had actually taken those Goliath OS seminars," he groused. "Call me wasteful, but I've always been an Apple fan. They were pricey and over-designed, but the software made sense. This is just... youngsters' stuff to me, now."

He scoffed. "A word of advice: don't ever commune with Rhadamantus' body of knowledge, much less the unquiet dead. I felt old in a refined country boy sense before the Goat did his number on me; now I'm simultaneously feeling supercharged and like I couldn't seriously lift my spirits with all the whiskey in the world. Like a bad caffeine jolt that won't go away."

Still, something to his posture suggested he was more making an observation than complaining. Miranda might not have needed top-notch hacking skills, the lawyer seemed intent on watching her click through the file explorer or shuffle windows around.

* * *

The Curator eyed the Scotch glass he'd conjured, sighed and set it on the table. "There really is something to this place, isn't there?"

Nereus, at this point, was more intrigued than worried. "How are you getting that notion if you've never visited our sanctum before?"

Squid Ike' friendlier twin stood up and fixed his suit jacket. "I don't know, and that intrigues me as much as it does you, I think. It's something to the frames and the color tones, something that just makes me want to nod my head and say Yep, that's Meris' style, alright - and then just kick back. Like I've just found the one and only place in the breadth and depth of the Darkhallow where I'll forever be safe..."

He looked out the window as if in a haze of his own thoughts. "There were plenty of things I used to not mind not knowing, considering what I am. Half-mad Squids with partial amnesia and dead bodies back in the Real are a dime a dozen in here; and statistically I'm just one of them, but..."

The old clinical side to the Augur's duties was back in full swing, at least judging by Nereus' careful sideways glance at the Curator. "We'll have to discuss this in greater detail later on, I think. It's not the first time I've seen memory engrams of lost Prelates cling to dream fortresses, but it's the first time I've heard anyone outside of myself attach importance to the Augur's Consort..."

The Curator grimaced. "I liked it better when stumbling around didn't mean I'd end up in my allies' personal plotting grounds...
- Everything happens for a reason," noted Nereus. "The Loyalists might believe in destiny, I've always preferred causality. You didn't come here because you stumbled through our barriers, Curator - you knew your way through them on some unconscious level."

He drew in a long breath and sighed deeply. "The last thing we need for the moment, at least for now, is irrational hope, however. Let's focus on what you saw in Chambers' sanctum."

The bowtie-wearing Prelate nodded, seemingly grateful to be brought out of a series of difficult inquiries. "Right. Let's head out; I'm not comfortable with simulating that prick's personal hidey-hole so close to yours - the last thing I want is to ring the dinner bell for Chambers or the Speaker...
- What's he like?" asked Nereus. "The Speaker, I mean. Chambers kept me confined to the surface world, I only managed the occasional tele-presence ritual with contacts in Dalarath - basically Eldritch Skype..."

As they walked out, a beige wisp about the size of Meris came into view, gliding down the stairs as they did. It coalesced into another Void Weaver's form, skin almost Caucasian in its details, if not for its faint gleam of subdermal mucus. Almost human eyes stared ahead as the Speaker's double walked in pace, both unconcerned and focused. Nikolaas Buck's soul had had ages to get used to a new body and brain, with its old madness only perceptible in the smallest of degrees. The Speaker wore a black suit and silver necktie, something to it making Nereus grimace.

"I know this is our son's body," he told Meris, but - seeing him gussied up like a nineties' James Bond villain is just..."

The Curator grimaced. "Hey, you asked what he was like, remember? He's everything Chambers wishes you were," he told Nereus. "Charismatic, charming, utterly devoted to Their service - and madder than a March hare on PCP. He's just had centuries to learn to cover it well." 

His grimace turned a little more sour. "Your rank-and-file crazy person is easy enough to dismiss; someone who's mad and who almost knows it, though? Yeesh. Fella gives me the creeps."

* * *

"Of course it will," encouragingly added the pig, "I've got the best helper on the block, here!" he said, giving Andrea a smirk and a little push on the shoulder. A few minutes then passed as the pair got to work. Andrea hadn't exactly been a slouch in the cooking department even before the invasion, but John had still managed to show her how to make the most depressingly frugal of meals much more appetizing. As for the pig, he might've been an old acquaintance of Biggs from across the pond; he packed a kind of rugged craftiness you wouldn't have suspected out of a mere mob boss.

"So," he soon asked Crystal, as plates began to be passed out to the other refugees and survivors that had started to trickle in, "any news on Central? Last we'd heard, they were still trying to find replacements for you lot."

A haggard-looking woman rolled her eyes as she soon headed away from the bar and towards a table, plate in hand. "I'm sure they haven't wasted any time, John," she said. "I can think of a good five or six prospective toadies who would've jumped at the chance of having just a shred of power, and that's without mentioning the new locals and their own stock. Even without the demons, Orcs have been having problems with their ride-alongs since the invasion. Considering how inclusive we've been, that's a lot of Pitspawn with home-grown professional connections or a genuine education. Makes for some scary stuff."

Beliard shrugged. "Eh. Last I checked, the Orcs' demons were still free-willed. I'm sure Belial's lost a handful or two to Magnus or Shield. You come to in the body of a consciousness you've finally consumed, you parse its brain and realize that, whoa, maybe violence isn't the answer!"

The woman rolled her eyes. "That's cute. I worked for Social Services back before all this, and I saw one or two cases of Orcs losing it permanently. The result either ends up in a nursing home or in a straitjacket.
- Never say never," amended John. "I mean, from what I understand, a lot of people didn't even know Tom Magnus had been an incubus, before the Pitspawn spoiled the whole Quint's actually dead thing for us survivors."

Someone else looked up from their plate. "Speaking of, why isn't he back, if he packed his bags and went to Hell almost a year ago?"

The pig shrugged as he focused on grilling strips of meat. "Beats me," he said, then looking up to Crystal. "You're the celebrity cop, Crys - what's your expert opinion? Why do people sometimes scarper and never show up again, even if they had every reason to?"

* * *

Three checked his watch, at that mention. "If I've learned anything from Squid naps, it's that the longer they go, the more they reveal. We're bound to have a few other game pieces to place on the board by the time she wakes up."

Nickar then set Aspasia's armor pieces down. "Right - well, we're left with your standard mundane stuff and your angel-grade material. Drake, if you'll remember events from a few months back, we learned that the Fae had been studying you. You're tracking with one of their old prophecies, the Dragonrider. Half-human, half-Fae, with his Eldritch half diluting over generations until there's just a trace of it left in you, at least in theory. The demons put a major dampener on Titania's ability to fund or conduct that kind of research, so we're left with more questions until peacetime rolls around again.

Drake nodded. "I remember. I've got a Fae sword, now, and the Lexicon lines up with part of the powers the Dragonrider was supposed to possess. He was the first Archmage, the first mortal human who could shape via as well as dragons could. His bloodline seeded practically every living Archmage, which technically makes me related to Meris."

Nick nodded and grimaced. "By one or two genetic markers; don't get your nipples in a twist, dear. You're as much related to Auntie Meris as I am to Lucifer, so you can can whatever Harry Potter fantasies you might've had."

Three scoffed in amusement. "Don't worry, I'm way past my Junior High years of forcing myself to squint past Arcane Fundamentals textbooks out of sheer jealousy for a few friends. I'm superhuman and proud, just not a mage."

That seemingly amused Melmoth. "Oh, so you're proud, now? It's a good thing Anton's not around to hear you!
- I still don't like the how of it all," admitted the human, "but I'm starting to be at peace with the why. I've never had so much structure in my life, so much drive, until after my service in the Army. I used to be a stupid kid, now I'm a stupid kid who's at least got a clue."

[TennyoCeres84]

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Geier," Aislinn responded, as she offered him her hand. "Thankfully, I haven't had the time to dig into evil relish," she joked with a brief smirk, though seeming quite grateful she hadn't fallen into the traps that beleaguered most warlocks.

"Seriously though, I don't want to end up like my counterparts. Maybe I've got a good support system to keep me lucid and grounded, maybe I got enough of a glimpse early on under Tom's tutelage I gained some insight, who knows? Right now, though, making sure this complex stays functioning and livable until we possibly gain some headway to beat back the Goat's presence is my main focus," she admitted.

***

"And I'm glad to hear that, in comparison to what's happened with initial incursion's effects on some of the local greenery," Neasa commented.

"Still, aside from returning with our finished task, we now need to figure out how you'll rise to become Pride's new rep," she mused. "Angel Time being what it is, Valefor's obviously looked ahead, discovered your new role, and sent his first attempt to remove the competition from the equation," she noted.

She grimaced. "I asked about Lucifer to see if there was some playbook in how each of them took their positions as Vices. If we could somehow reverse-engineer that, we might have something, but I don't know enough about Infernal political dynamics. The Goat and the rest probably made the "might makes right" Sophists look pithy in comparison," she said.

***

"If I ever get to again, I'll just stick to high school volleyball matches or the occasional round of paintball for an energetic high," the teenager responded casually.

Since she didn't have the Veil over her any longer, Miranda used the hem of her hoodie in lieu of a glove to to cover her fingerprints as they came into contact with the touchscreen. She began searching through the computer's documents folder and quickly scanned for anything that fit the criteria for what they were looking for.

***

Meris made a face of distaste. "Something tells me there was something in Nikolaas Buck's character that made him an appropriate subject for the Chamberlain's plans, even prior to being corrupted," she grumbled. "A bit like the mortal targets demons focus on when they typically wanted to procure themselves a fitting body."

She glanced over at the Curator as they left their home. "Where would you prefer to show us your intel?" she asked.

***

"Word is that Elizabeth Bathory has my seat," the werewolf muttered. "Leave the Goat to put a vain countess to run a precinct; if I didn't know any better, I'd say he's a prissy cartoon villain. The next thing you know she'll be asking for young girls as tribute, if it hasn't happened already."

Crystal then shrugged. "Quint? I don't know for sure, but maybe Belial or some other demon used his soul as currency or food, for all I know," she suggested.

***

Aspasia smirked fondly at the young man.. "You've come a long way, Drake, since I first met you at the Last Round. You seemed so unsure then, and you couldn't fib your way out of a wet paperbag," she chuckled as she recalled his gigantic food request for Bucky.

"You have a purpose now and the abilities to fulfill that purpose," she observed. "That is in itself a healthy type of pride. I'm sure the Goat would find it disgustingly naive or completely alien to what he considers his norm. All of your experiences, your knowledge, everything is yours. Take it and own it; it's your own badge of courage," she proclaimed. "It's what I've learned, and I like to think it's served me well over the years."

[IamLEAM1983]

"As it should be," nodded the batlike being, somehow managing the act of looking slightly grandfatherly despite his Fantasy MMO-worthy robes and his decidedly atypical facial features. Hands behind his back, he glanced about at the few sad remaining clumps of demonic ashes and sighed.

"We all make sacrifices, and I first gave everything I had to avenge my family's death under Napoleon's crusade. I gave more once I came to America, or what would become the America you know. I was lucky enough to have sought Nergal's patronage, and not Belial's or the Goat's. It twisted me, as Infernalism does twist its practitioners over time; but I learned to make the most of it. Some Fiends do deserve to be made afraid, and many innocents welcome the sight of a bulwark of arcane strength."

He looked down on his own hands, and then back up to Aislinn. "Physical markers can sometimes come in handy," he admitted. "I think you'll be safe from any undue mutations, however: you haven't pledged yourself to any Prince or empowered demon. Reciprocated and genuine love also doesn't count, so I don't imagine your relationship with mister Magnus could lead to physiological changes."

They then started to make their way back inside, freeing up space for Yelena to supervise Protis' eventual decanting as well as for Samigina's dock hands to finish unloading Nergal's ordnance and tools. Space in the elevator being limited, Al made the dubious decision to go back down first, alongside Helena Nasir. He still looked and felt awkward, she clearly had no interest in further dialogue. 

"Now that we're out of harm's way," started Nergal, "we can disclose how Walpurgis intends to assist this country. Otto bonded myself and Erin to his own soul, so we're both somewhat ambulatory, for the time being. We'll eventually have to return to Texas in order to replenish our connections to the mortal plane. As of now, we both have two weeks before our returning home becomes imperative."

Erin nodded slightly. "The country's rightful administration's partially survived. President Jones wanted to return to his true form in order to assault Washington personally, but he was quickly talked out of it by virtually every surviving cabinet member. Homeland Security and the Pentagon's surviving senior staff are hard at work on two projects. The first one focuses on tunneling a sufficiently wide enough Gate through to Pride's main staging ground after its final assault on Hope. The plan is to incite the Goat into attempting to silence dissent once and for all, so his ground base is effectively emptied. Then, using Otto's power and Walpurgis' own cadre of Infernalists, we sever the Earth-based Pitspawn's arcane connection to Hell. They lose their powers, their edge withers away. It won't affect Individual One, but the goal is to clear the way for one of your own assets," she said, looking back to Aislinn.

They stepped into the elevator. "Your Rhadamantus," added Otto.

A few moments passed, Nergal then speaking. "Our second plan involves preparing America for our allies' advent. The Gentlemen have started leaking a few edited documents and garbled video footage of their operatives taking part in various attempts at resistance throughout the country, along with a few consenting Rothchild family members' own escapades. We've set a trail for what's left of the pre-invasion CIA to follow, one that should lead the Jones administration to understand why Texas was so willing to extend a hand to an almost staggeringly Progressive party leader. Concurrently, we've been using our re-established contacts with both Lucian Rothchild and Nereus Marinos to try and devise a White Speech-based universe-wide sonar spell. It's high time Lucifer heard the proverbial alarm bells and came back to see the mess his once-trustworthy aides made."

He handed a USB stick to the roane. "This brings me to what's probably unusual field work for a practitioner, miss McConmara: I need you to find a suitable space for you to wear your pelt and vocalize a few standard seal calls for us. The Gentlemen are trying to devise a set of cogent sounds in the White Speech that both carry the intent of a warning, along with enough amplitude to sustain the White Speech's power output. Standard White Speech doesn't cut it, but some of Whitney's men want to try encoding the White Speech inside a carrier sound. Standard human languages garble the signal, and we weren't at liberty to simply pick from a library of pre-recorded animal calls. It's impossible to goad a wild stern, or a lion or a whale into producing sounds that exactly mirror the carried signal's intent."

The weaponsmith shrugged lightly. "You're sapient, and you have the luxury of having a second, fully functional vocal organism entirely identical to a harbor seal's at your beck and call. If we expose you to a low-order form of the base data in the White Speech, you should know the exact emotional range and intonation to impart to your calls as a seal. We've obviously brought recording gear along."

Geier seemed to approve, but then looked slightly hesitant. "Why didn't we simply use one of NASA's high-band emitters to send a radio signal?
- We need the Lightbringer to take notice now," noted Ereshkigal, "not in thousands of years, once the soundwaves reach the outer borders of the observable universe. If we had the slightest clue as to where to look, I guarantee someone at Angelic Command would have left for the fringes under Gabriel's orders, already."

* * *

Herbert shrugged lightly. "The nobler Vices have some leeway, perhaps brains enough to realize that decimating us all is counter-productive. Asmodeus needs Mortalkind in order to sate his endless and most base desires, Gluttony needs us to fashion what it wishes to consume, and Belphegor's Sloth is nothing without comfort. Out of the three of them, two are working with us in some capacity. Gluttony was, until poor old Zeke was unceremoniously deposed. Seeing as he was killed here, it stands to reason old Ezemial could be summoned back, or would even desperately wish for it to happen. There might be risks involved, but that is certainly a man who would kill for a ham-and-mayo sandwich. Your mileage definitely varies, however: one desperately thankful Pitspawn would be someone else's uncontrollable scourge, a slavering beast of endless need unable to keep itself from tearing through friend and foe alike..."

Wormsworth's partial warning gave way to the flick of a wrist. "Never say die, as the saying goes. Tom went from a particularly tricksy spirit of Lust to what seems to be a devoted lover. Squid mental hacks aside, I have a hard time imagining him giving anyone a sideways glance, now. If incubi can turn out to be model boyfriends, maybe gluttons can turn into bon vivants."

Still, he clicked his tongue. "Then, there's Pride. Again, mileage. I'm effectively riding on a surfboard of lucidity atop hurtling waves of self-satisfaction - and I know how that last bit sounds, Pretentious is my middle name - but I'm not alone in that posse. Melmoth's Douglas Heathcliff channels Pride through his accounting prowess, and he still hasn't seriously insulted any mortal. Allocer reads like he might be just on the cusp of understanding what it is we do, but the occupation is like some sort of finely-wrought project he has to work on; a fastidious task that demands precision and looks absolutely smashing on any resume."

He took a few drags on his E-Cig. "We're human, darling - much like you. We have the same emotions, hopes and dreams, but they're brought out of focus in the same sense that we are out of focus. Mortals balance everything out even at their absolute worst; whereas I literally am a walking trope on two legs. I'm every stuffy Ivy League-educated big city lawyer you've ever seen, the type who gets shot down in a master courtroom filibuster by the plucky and fresh American Bar Association inductee with strawberry-blonde hair, a fresh diploma and her belongings in the car's trunk."

Herbert looked outside for a moment. "I'd love for the rest of it all to come easily to me, you know. Congeniality, inclusivity, patience with others... I can manage them, but even speaking to you takes effort. It gets a little bit easier each day, so I can see the benefits to the Magnus Method of Mortal Immersion, to coin a term. It would be easier to dismiss your thought process, even more pleasant still to this day - but I'd come to regret it."

The lawyer sighed, half for himself. "I'm done with regrets. Invert this and you earn, what - dark realization? Delusions setting in? Administrative officers turning drunk on power and refashioning a dour posting into feudal rule gone wrong? I suppose that could've informed part of the Princes' genesis."

He smiled, the gesture looking both a tad mischievous and a little dark. "Hm, it's a shame I wasn't around, back then. The early days must have been a hotbed of litigation and courtly intrigue... Oh, the money, power and influence I could've amassed!"

* * *

Beyond the names for the three heads of the HPD's main departments, finding City Council briefs wouldn't be too hard for Miranda. With the secretary's access, she could parse City Hall's servers freely. A full list of eight council members could soon be assembled, along with a nice set of extras: Allocer had kept traces of his correspondence with both Rhode Island's mayoral association, his dealings with fellow administrators in the tri-State area, along with what had to be directives given to him by the Goat's central command.

Under mortal rule, municipalities tended to self-govern within the limitations offered by the State's laws, but things seemed to be a little different, now. Washington was directly petitioning both the country's larger metropolises and its suburban or countryside developments, imposing the sort of control that couldn't have been a hit with either Libertarians or Republicans. The orders for Hope seemed simple enough: contain the arcane and superhuman threats and let the mundanes take to complacency. The Goat seemingly desired stability, subservience and decorum, the White House stating that they desired to stage plans that would eventually culminate in the public shaming and execution of all rebels. Already, operatives planted in California and satellite dependencies of the entertainment industry were being told to work in order to make the House-aligned Pitspawn seem more human, while further demeaning those who worked with the rebels.

Interestingly, documents belonging to Angelic Command had also been seized. Gabriel's own prose was understandably drab, but those angels who hadn't shied away from their need to take charge had clear orders: Veils were off, as were true forms, but token angelic displays could be engaged in if time and safety permitted. The goal was to show the survivors that they were being watched over. Beyond Centennial Park's warzone, the bulk of their opposition to Hell was taking place near Renton, along the boulevard that had once chiefly served as Winters' center of activity. A no-fly zone they couldn't cross had somehow been erected, the wall of brambles and thorns stopping all attempts at flight, teleportation or trans-location. Even angels affiliated with Air couldn't pass through the wall's gaps, even if they reduced their forms to mere gusts or whispers. An outer ring of angelic activity had been erected around the demonic wall, preventing Allocer's HPD from having any sort of easy access to the abandoned businesses, condo blocks or office buildings beyond. Satellite imagery suggested survivors still managed to eke out a living within those borders, but investigations were still underway. A number of candidates came to Gabriel and Raguel's minds, but the main perpetrator couldn't be identified. Scouting trips in the Pit also hadn't proved conclusive. Whoever it was that was involved, they were good at hiding.

That left Ephesian to grunt thoughtfully. "Pride isn't crafty, it instigates grand plans. It isn't the Goat's style to want to lie low, and the trickier Fiends in the wastes typically aren't much more than provincial aristocrats under the stewardship of their Vice's leader. If these files are to be believed, all the main candidates are accounted for in the Pit. They've even included time-stamped images - probably what little it was that survived a DSLR camera surviving two trips through gates to Hell."

He sighed, looking lost in his thoughts. "And there's Belial, hard at work in his forge... If this is officialized by Angelic Command, we can assume it's a tamper-proof shot. Unless something suggests otherwise, he's not in Hope."

The handful of shots were grainy, but the towering Orc-like demon was easy enough to make out. Some shots depicted him angrily raising a finger at an assistant that had been left off-screen, seemingly demanding something out of his obviously overworked workforce. Others showed him on break, sitting on an stool that would've been the size of a small car, one hand clutching what looked like an oversized chicken thigh - if chickens had protruding spikes. He'd been caught tearing a chunk of skin and meat off of it with a worrying motion of his head, even as his eyes calmly focused on what looked like a blueprint for an armor set, on the draftsman's table before him.

"Slovenly and clever," noted Leonard, grimacing as he did. "That's the Forge Master of the Pit in a nutshell. He acts like a Bugbear and rampages like an Orc, but he's also survived countless attempts at military coups instigated by both Pride and Wrath, and once managed to end an Angelic advance in Limbo by debating its commanders into retreating. He's managed to make himself indispensable to Pride's war effort, to the point where he's spent most of known History since the last Ice Age operating without oversight. The Goat doesn't trust him, but he also knows better than to stick a nanny on someone who knows how to terrorize his opponents - all without so much as raising his hammer.

If he ever found a body, he'd dig himself in like a tick. He'd go low - go mundane, even - and build loyalty the only way he knows how, and the only way that works: patiently, the same way he works the Pit's brittle iron into durable pieces. The Goat kept depicting him to me as a brainless oaf, but he's like the smartest of Bugbears I've had to defend: a slow, steadily working mind that never stops picking up speed. My tormentor wanted me to feel contempt for him, but all I can conjure is some measure of admiration at that kind of tenacity. It's efficient, which is what makes it dangerous for us."

* * *

"Again," said Not-Ikanath, "not here. It's too dangerous. We need some fresh patch in the Darkhallow's outskirts, a good city-sized chunk of malleable Reality. Lemme just, um..."

He paused and glanced at Nereus. "Do you mind if I eject us for a second? I'll load you two back in here once we're done, don't worry.
- Nereus glanced about wearily. "I might be doing better psychologically, I still have a fragile stomach. I'm not keen on taking a psychedelic trip back to here, Curator.
- No Non-Euclidian roller-coasters, promise!" stated the dark-skinned Squid, lapel clasped and right hand raised. It didn't really ease the Augur's looks of concern, but it did earn the Curator a nod.

Then, with a slight tilt of the Curator's head, sounds dropped out of the air of the couple's re-created city. Textures followed, then light shafts and light sources - until the trio stood in a featureless gray void, lit up from everywhere and nowhere at once, like they'd walked out of bounds in a video game. The Curator looked around, muttering to himself as he did so, and then seemingly picked a direction in this now-directionless space.

"Thataway," he said, as he started walking. "Low detail means less processing, which means less odds of other snoozing Prelates getting wise on our shenanigans. Remove the geometry and the collision bounds, crank up the speed, and we can effectively cross the entire length of the currently-used span of the Darkhallow too quickly to arouse suspicion. I left a marker to find Chambers' entrance by. Keep an eye on me if not having any boundaries makes you queasy."

Nereus did indeed look a tiny bit nauseous, his previously-reinstated healthy sheen turning ever-so-slightly greenish along his cheeks. "And I'd just mentioned I wasn't up for vertigo-inducing scenarios..."

The Curator sighed at that. "Then take my hand, trust your feet and keep your head straight. Don't look down if you don't have to - and you really don't have to. I took everything away for now; there's nothing to look at. Don't think of this as an infinite space, just picture a point and a horizon line in your mind and stick to it, alright?"

Nereus almost gratefully grasped Not-Ikanath's hand. "What are we looking for?
- A laser pointer I stole from some Arbiter's personal sanctum," replied the Curator. It won't power off in a place like this, and I stuck its lit end smack against the side of a wall, so no light seeps out. Seeing as I've removed all textures and collision data from how it is your minds are processing the Darkhallow, we should soon come across a slanted green beam of light, starting at about thirty feet above us and pointing at a downwards thirty-degree angle. We'll see an angled shaft of green light pop in at any minute, now. Its point of origin is right next to Chambers' main door."

Nereus drew in an uneasy breath. "I have to admit that's fairly crafty. How did you disguise yourself while eavesdropping?
- I would've copied someone else, normally, but Chambers' dream-slaves weren't anywhere nearby. I did what we're doing now and clipped through his study's outer walls, where he hadn't rendered anything. Seeing as his mind didn't know to visually render me, I was effectively invisible. It helps that I didn't look like Ike at the time and just let myself scramble features together. His dream didn't know how to process me, so I just - didn't exist," he explained, shrugging. "At least, not to his perception of his sanctum."

Something surprised the Augur. "Dream-slaves? What are those?" he asked. That left the Curator to lightly groan. 

"Something Chambers is surprised you've never picked up on, for starters," he explained. "Modern medicine and Karthian tech allow us to keep slaves under almost indefinitely. Sleeping minds are more malleable, so he's taken to carefully bending a few captive mundanes into dreaming on a wide enough bandwidth to allow for their connecting to his sanctum. They can't travel across the Darkhallow, it'd be too dangerous for them - but his compound is fair game. It's not as flexible as Drake or Meris' ability to connect to the Darkhallow and it can't be shared at all, unlike the soldier's, but a little care goes a long way into convincing innocents that Chambers' sanctum is their reality. Forcefully hooking up other Squids was easy, but he really took to it once he managed to completely subsume some poor oceanographer's mind..."

He eyed Meris. "They're not insane, they're just stuck reliving the same subservient Groundhog Day nightmare day in and day out. Chambers isn't so much their torturer as he's their mildly abusive boss. They're chronically depressed, and if it weren't for the stolen Stasis beds he has them strapped to, they'd have died years ago. I tapped into a few palace visitors' memories and yeesh, the bed sores on these poor sods..."

* * *

The pig looked thoughtful for a moment, then grimaced. "Yeah, better not dwell on that - I've never been much for morbid shite. You could ask around, though," he told Crystal, "maybe the other procurement teams came across a few tidbits on Deputy Chief Bathory - if that's her assumed name, up here. She's still placating masses, I wouldn't be so stupid as to prance about with a name as hated as mine, if I were in her shoes. I kinda doubt Allocer would've let her nomination fly if her first instinct did involve going all blood of virgins on the refugees. A few centuries of Hell can change a soul, after all. Sometimes it ends up being a good shift, and at other times it turns a certified psychopath into something more sophisticated, more dangerous."

One of the refugees scoffed. "Speaking in your authority as this dump's Warlock, I reckon?
- Not a Warlock, no," nodded Beliard; "I don't have a shred o' power to me name. What I've got's experience: I'm an expat mob boss as of this clusterfuck," he said, looking outside, "how many undesirables do you think I was in cahoots with? How many loose-cannon mages, and how much of 'em close enough to Warlock material?
- So, what? You asked a hex-slinger to dig up some dirt on someone in Birmingham or something?"

Beliard sighed. "Something like that, yeah. More than once, actually. Never proud of it, seeing as I see how healthy politics matter - but I couldn't let some sod with gold chains and a gang of soccer hooligans snag a seat as Acocks Green's Councilor; their racist nonsense would've hurt business for the legitimate and illegal businesses in town. It's also why I ended up here in the first place; the Commission's a worthwhile model to study."

He shook his head slightly. "Or, well... It used to be. Now everyone's survivin', everyone's lootin', everyone's pillagin'. Used to be career crooks had to do whatever it was the boys in blue couldn't; serve justice where the law said you couldn't, protect people when dumber shits bribed 'em into leaving neighborhoods to their devices... Now, the mongs are in with the demon filth. Even street justice don't matter none when you're faced with a possessed freak with a badge."

John looked down at himself and fingered his watch with his other hand. "Heh. S'not hard to end up with impostor syndrome, when that happens. Farewell to Boss Beliard, and hello to Old John, just another cutpurse with fancy tat he's lost the right to wear... I can imagine how hard it must be for Lowell here, or Andrea," he said, gesturing back to the two women.

Still, ever the optimist, he managed a smile. "The fun part is this: what I said about turning more sophisticated, more dangerous? It works for the good guys, too. All the crap from the easier days melts away. If someone's truly good, a solid bloke in and out? Hell brings that out in people, no matter if you're a glorified English thug or a deposed American policewoman."

* * *

Three's eyes gleamed faintly, his smile turning a tad less wry and a bit more honest. "Thanks, Aspasia," he said. "That means a lot. Solid advice, too," he said, nodding. He then looked back to Nickar. "What about Abdiel?
- I figure the Birdies could all stand to have a sleeker profile," he started, "if we're going to go all-out against Azazel or whoever else. Wings are great, they're markers of wisdom and all, any first-month Theology student knows that - but they're a liability. We all know angel wings can phase in and out of existence, but the catch is any demon with enough focus could snatch a flyer by the second pair of trapezoids and just-"

He etched a ripping motion, something that left Melmoth to wince while casting a glance at Abdiel. "Thrones might have an infinite number of wings in their true form, the Pit's numbers are infinite until we snuff their source out. Abdiel here could go Full Fire Throne that by any metric, there'd be enough grasping hands and flapping leathery wings to ground her and to turn a sanitizing blast of Celestial fire into an actual hazard for everyone involved. Considering, I say we'd better take a page from the Golden Age of Superheroes and go with no wings at all."

What he offered Abdiel looked like your typical superhero-movie rubber one-piece, but its texture was silk-like to the touch, almost refreshingly cool under one's fingers. The pattern was in obvious tones of red and orange, with a few black highlights balancing the composition. On the chestplate waited the simplest, most safely understandable Enochian sigil for fire as an elemental force, the Host's own potentially mind-rendingly complex language pared down to a simple sigil. It wasn't meant to carry a spell or some sort of effect, but rather to stand as an immediately recognizable marker for anyone who'd see Abdiel on the battlefield.

"With a little help from Vassago, I've had time enough to infuse this suit with the Local Group's exuded amount of heat and radiation over an entire century. It doesn't cover the entire spectrum of the Universe's produced heat and light, but it should hold up to whatever it is you'd throw at our foes back in Hope," he said. "If we put you in there, you'll be able to more precisely discharge larger amounts of thermal energy, which should help with pinpointing targets in as chaotic a fray as we're getting into. Obviously being damage-resistant and flame-retardant, it'll make it even easier for you to swoop in and save the occasional bystander or two. If a mundane ever had to wear that suit, they could tan themselves by the light of a tokamak reactor and come out of thousands of degrees Kelvin looking only mildly toasty."

He clicked his tongue. "Plus, with no visible wings and no visible wing patterns along your back, your rank-and-file endless droves won't be too tempted to try and tear off a few feathers."

[TennyoCeres84]

Aislinn shrugged. "I mean, I can certainly help you with some seal calls; I can think of a view that might be appropriate. I'll have to listen to the sample you have and make adjustments from there," she replied.

She then frowned thoughtfully. "Are you sure he'd even be willing to listen and actually return here? I know Lucifer left to find a solution to Akoman or something, but what if he decided to just say, "Fuck all this drama shit! I'm done?" she asked. "He's been gone for so long that those who actually knew him ages ago probably view him as almost a legend. And those who came after the Fall probably do see him as something like that."

***

Neasa scoffed and smirked, raising a finger. "True, but then you might wind up in a similar scenario that the Goat has; you wouldn't be here. Again, you're like us mortals. Change one event, and then a dozen other possibilities pop up. Even with Angel Time, you can't always predict the best outcome. There are still times when you have to approach matters from a linear aspect. Might be frustrating, but that's the way it goes."

***

As the young Fauness poked around on the computer and frowned with concern, something about the whole Belial scenario seemed too convenient. "Are you sure about that? I remember reading about "Deepfakes" in history class, and now the Goat's using them against us. Why couldn't such photos be applied with the right tech or magic? All of these shots are blurry, and Belial's the only one actually in the photos," she rebutted. "It wouldn't take much to alter his area to make someone think he's still down in his forge."

Miranda then continued snooping around and transferred the photos and other information to the flash drive, "And the area around Renton? It'd be the perfect hiding spot, and he could continue his plans unimpeded. If you want to have someone to investigate without physically being there, wouldn't a psychic or an empath be the best candidate?" she suggested.

***

Meris shook her head. "Only mildly abused or not, I hope they can eventually be released," she said, looking about for the aforementioned green light.

***
Crystal raised a brow at John, believing him but still holding onto some doubt. "If Hell magnifies our best qualities, I wish the demons would clue in," she said with a scoff. "I might be a deposed cop, but I still want to hold fast to who I am and keep my skepticism at my side. Sometimes, it's as valuable as as a pistol."

***

Abdiel took the offered uniform and placed it against her body to see how it'd look. Given the fabric's imbued heat and radiation, the action of merging onto her regular clothes was rather simple. It stood to reason the garments she had been wearing were just mental projections, so there was no need for her to slip into a changing room.

The suit fit her like a glove, the sheen of silk and the close-fittedness of the rubber complimenting her figure. She stepped over to a mirror to inspect it further. "This should work quite well. Thank you very much, Nickar," she told the demon tailor, smiling appreciatively. "Matriel and Nami could use suits like these as well. If conflicts are going to get as chaotic as we think they are, they'll both need something similar."

[IamLEAM1983]

Nergal nodded his head in the negative. "No, I remember him quite well. Lucifer was always the odd one out in the Host's cadre of egotists - the one who thought he could fix everyone else's problems, the dyed-in-the-wool savior who certainly admired his own work, but who knew how that work mattered to the grander scheme of things. I've always compared him to the Goat, if Ptah had been blessed with self-awareness. A self-absorbed man, nevertheless dedicated to plying his gifts for the preservation of our world."

He smirked, just barely. "He's still an ass, to use modern parlance, but he's an ass that cares. If he's curried favors or collected glories while away, it'll have been with his end-goals in mind. I've spent thousands of years trying to cultivate the same kind of professional dedication. Erin and I might be good at it now, but we're late learners, compared to him."

Geier pointed to the USB stick. "You'll find contextual notes on it, but Hope's been a hotbed of Infernal incursion since the first day - you'll hardly need a primer on the mortals' perspective to it all," he said, then looking back to the skeletal demon. In response, he lightly parted his jacket's right lapel and pulled a Desert Eagle from an unseen holster. The weapon shimmered, essentially warping into a finely-wrought steel feather, which he also handed to the roane.

"Careful," he said. "It might be lighter than you'd expect, it still is sharp. Commune with it if you can," he told her, "it has all of our concerns and fears - and all our hopes, as well. It should give you enough of a basis to modulate your calls."

* * *

The road back wasn't too eventful, more conversation taking place over fifteen minutes or so, before the reinforced gates to Magnus Tower's inner campus opened for them. They slid into the underground parking, where a prim and concerned-looking Douglas Heathcliff was waiting for them.

"Good," he told Herbert and Neasa, "you've returned in time. "I was initially asked to direct the both of you to mister Magnus' penthouse, but official representatives are requested at the helipad."

He paused. "We are hosts to the Vanguard Queen and her Akari Oracle, apparently. The latter will have acclimated to our sublimated via supply enough to join us - and he has already asked to be taken to Lord Holden and mister Rendell."

Wormsworth gave Neasa a smirk at this, helping her out of the Humvee out of measured chivalry. "No rest for the wicked, eh?"

* * *

Ephesian lightly rolled his eyes, not so much out of exasperation at the girl, but rather at how complex such a simple request could be. "Psychics and empaths are a dime a dozen. Off the top of my head, I can think of Martin Loren, Anastasius Romanov, Bertram Miles, Nami Urakawa or Astra Rothchild..."

He clicked his tongue. "Loren's fighting his own battles in-between FEMA's medical camp outside the city limits and Providence's own demonic glitterati; Anastasius could use some rescuing after being hired at sword-tip by art-collector consultants of Mammon's, the Urakawa girl could give Top Gun's Maverick a run for his money, and Astra is trying to track her husband down, when he's not busy being Billy Hyde and being as much of a thorn in the Pitspawn's side as the survivors'... Of them all, Nami would be the easiest to reach from here. All we'd need is the coordination team's short-wave radio, and all I'd need would be a few minutes in the Shadowlands with one or two dead US Air Force pilots, long enough to find the right frequency."

* * *

In short order, the false librarian found the indicated shaft of light, again altering the Darkhallow's rendering parameters to lift the three of them to its point of origin. As they did so, chunks of the Chamberlain's sanctum came into view, as if the camera that had followed them now clipped back inside the space's offered "level". A coffered wall and a polygonal slab of marble flooring, a flower vase and the pointer that was hidden inside, a panoramic slab of windowpanes and the modern art pieces that waited beyond... For someone so hell-bent on rending the world apart, Chambers' mental sanctum looked as orderly and plausible as Meris' and Nereus' - something which didn't fail to surprise the Augur.

"Hm. I thought this place would be more disconcerting," he noted, which left the Curator to lightly grimace. "You're seeing it from the outside-in; his mind still is functional and orderly, but he's encased its representation in nuclear chaos. There's more to this place, but he seems to be someplace else, for now. You can probably clip through one of the windows and see for yourself."

Shrugging lightly, the Augur did as instructed and stopped once he'd clipped through enough of the windows' and floor's geometry to be able to stand normally. As he did so, Meris would see something in his eyes change, as though someone had erected a one-way mirror between them. She could still see him and he could still hear her, but he was now seeing what Chambers had rendered for himself. Nereus lifted a hand to his mouth out of shock, even as horror stretched his features.

"My God, I had no idea... No wonder he never wanted me to come here!"

Blindly, he reached out to Meris, blinking confusedly as his hand hit the now-solid windowpane with a thud. The Curator rolled his eyes, waved a hand in front of the windowpane and then reached through it, connecting Nereus' grasping hand with Meris' shoulder. That done, the rightful ruler of Dalarath pulled his lover into their nemesis' sanctum.

Chambers had erected a scenic deck for himself, a plaza designed to look upon apocalyptic vistas. The place was disappointingly mundane inside, but wrapped around it was a bubble of non-geometric devastation, fragments of the shattered Earth floating in a gas cloud of sublimated water, arcs of dark power surging between the biggest pieces, entire continental shelves floating in front of his windows. There was Paris gone nuclear, the Cinquième Arrondissement coming into view as a grid of blasted Haussmann tenements obscured by a cloud of urban debris. The tortured moan of a mangled Eiffel Tower floating past them filled the space beyond the deck like a mournful whale call. Off in the distance, countless other fragments were slowly orbiting towards them. The White House's cupola looked tiny in the distance, a sad and echoing crack resounding while a chunk of its front porch impacted with what looked like a giant shard of the Taj Mahal's own dome.

The corpse of Humanity encircled his domain, while a simple round sunwell illuminated the space with what felt like false sunlight... Nereus passed a hand through the downwards beam of light and grimaced, sheer horror marking his features.

"He's... enshrined his future victory, manifested Amaxi's murderous glee as light!"

* * *

Beliard chuckled. "Demons cluing in - what a corker! What my Warlock boys always told me izzat a Fiend what ain't clever from the get-go won't ever be clever. They can get competent, sure, but your rank-and-file Pitspawn? They're puzzle pieces to a Vice, one and all, and the ones who go rogue would've gone rogue anyway. Y'can't produce an infinity of soldiers without statistics gettin' in the way. Then y'get your Magnus fella. Lucky for us, an infinity of enemies means we'll get a smaller infinity's worth of Hell locals either lookin' to join up with the tower's blokes or decidin' that Al's exclusion zone 'round here ain't exactly fair. If we could seriously leave an' round the perimeter, we'd get a better sense of what's what."

He jammed his knife into his cutting block in a rather energetic means of marking the end of his point. "Ergo, the food an' the radio-checkin' for later on."

* * *

The tailor nodded. "Good - I agree. Your first sortie might serve as a final prototyping phase; I'm down to the final bits of serging on the versions for the Urakawa girl and Matriel. One or two mannequin fits, and I'll have the Host rethink wings in short order."

He scoffed lightly. "So long as they don't pick up capes as a replacement..."

[TennyoCeres84]

Aislinn gently took the metallic feather, surprised by its lightness. She closed her eyes and let her telepathy and arcane senses caress against the edges of the feather's psychic and and magical auras. "Show me what I need to understand..." she whispered to it.

***

"I suppose not," Neasa scoffed, taking his hand as she got out of the Humvee.

At the mention of the Vanguard Queen and the Akari Oracle, the strongwoman frowned. "So we've got some folks from Paradise, then? I could see them wanting to speak to Rendell and Archie, but Aspasia seems like more of a liaison for those types, if she's back."

***

"So, Nami will be our fly-girl, then," Miranda replied with some amusement at her comment. "I heard how she managed to keep her craft from crashing after the demons hit it; sounds like some angelic mojo for sure," she observed as she continued poking around the computer for any further important or useful information.


***

Neither surprise, shock, nor horror marked Meris's features as she surveyed the horrible sight. Revulsion and anger twisted her brow and lips, eliciting a hiss from her lips. She reached out to touch the light and grimaced. "His line's always been diseased, and it's now well-past festering into total decay," she murmured.

She recalled the promise of helping the mad goddess, while her mouth pursed in a moue. "His own desperate and sick desire for power has made him a parasite on Amaxi and vice versa. As far as I'm concerned, they're feeding off each other."

***

Cryystal pursed her lips and nodded. "In due time. First, food, and then we hear what we hear," she agreed, looking to her daughter. "How's it going, Andrea?" she asked her daughter as she ventured closer to her side of the cooking space.

"Got some eggs cooking, along with the porkchops and chicken breasts we procured," the younger werewolf answered.

***

Abdiel scoffed. "There probably will be. The die-hard traditionalists rarely budge much," she responded.

The Fire Throne eyed the Fauness. "You could do with a dress rehearsal, Mrs. Robertson. Your new gear will certainly reflect who you are now better than your previous equipment," she commented, then smirking. "Show Rendell what that suit really stands for."

"Will do," Aspasia answered as she grabbed the suit and light armor. "Where can I go change?"

[IamLEAM1983]

You could've expected angelic or demonic insight to batter down the doors to Aislinn's sanity, or for Nergal's own synthesis of the matter to come across as a series of psychic bullets of a sort - anything to keep in touch with the idea that the need for Lucifer to return would have been astronomical in scope. It wasn't the case, insight rather snaking its way into and through Aislinn's extended senses. She wouldn't be able to express certain concepts in the exact same way Nergal or one of the Host could've, but she'd still grasp them clearly; like half-forgotten ideas springing forth at the favor of a bout of inspiration.

The universe was vast, and infinitely so. To be an angel or one of the original Fallen, which Nergal and Erin both were, however, was to have a unique grasp of that infinity from someone who would've at least seen it from the outside in at least once before. Geographically speaking, Earth was less than a backwoods province in the Local Group; the Milky Way itself wasn't much more than a dewdrop of congealed Matter suspended in the supporting tensile structure of the Architect's offered Void. Like milk drops in a coffee cup, galaxies spun in accordance to a single nudge, away and towards each other, breaking apart and reforming - but the basis of Order could still be found on the scale of Earth and the universe's untold billions of other life-sustaining planets and planetoids.

In simpler terms, the further back you zoomed and the more chaotic things looked. Push back in, and Sense slowly emerged out of the chaos. Beings like Nergal, Matriel or Gabriel had seen that Sense, that Reason, emerge like a flower out of soil. The Milky Way might be set on a collision course with Andromeda in the distant future, Aislinn would realize that this cosmos-reshaping event would barely touch her world. Sol would be fine. Earth would be fine. The great whorls of momentum and opposing forces could shape and reform Creation's broader canvas as much as they'd see fit - none of their efforts could hope to so much as reach the thrones and fiefdoms of Life in the mortal plane.Only the inciting and ending events could hold a claim on her world's existence - and the end of it all wasn't on schedule for spans of time so vast even angels struggled to compute them.

And yet, despite all this, something new was on the menu, now. Something could end it all, even if it would take generations for the Goat to so much as hypothetically gain complete control of Earth and its dependencies. That didn't give rise to panic, but rather to a measured desire for action. Something she'd understand to be a sliver of Nergal's own resolve was rooted in her, now. Even if they soundly defeated Pride, they'd only send it off to lick its wounds. It would come back, if not divested of its power, incarnated in someone or something who'd prove to embody not Pride as a Vice, but as an essential human component.

Lucifer wasn't humble. He'd never been humble. He did, however, understand human dignity - the right of one and all to live. That was what he'd left to protect, even if Order had been poisoned and was mutating into death-dealing Entropy - which was what the Goat unwittingly served. Chaos and entropy had their place, but only on a scale.

The scale was being tipped, the make-up of the universe was being altered. Balance was being corrupted. Nergal seemed convinced that nobody here needed Lucifer to defeat the Goat, but they did need him to condemn him. Otherwise, no nail would ever be driven through that coffin's lid, and the monster would eventually resurface.

Once clarity would've passed, the feather would've vanished form Aislinn's hand, having perhaps been absorbed into her mind as intuition or offered understanding. Fittingly enough, the elevator's doors opened moments later, Alphonse giving the group a small wave of the hand while the Queen of the Vanguard floated in the void above the tower's central plaza, observing the comings and goings of the retrieval crews.

* * *

"She isn't," admitted Douglas, "A few tentative prods of her lifeline from the Shadowlands tell me she's in Israel for now, likely in Meris' fortress. From Rhode Island to a shopping mall south of Pandemonium and back to a mesa a few klicks east of the colonies; our motley crew certainly does get around," he observed, chuckling nervously. "Fortunately - or unfortunately, as the case may be - we have another Paradise native who might serve as a decent emissary. Rendell should qualify until such time as the Field Commander returns from her sojourn."

Herbert quirked an eyebrow. "I haven't heard anyone refer to the Chimeras' titles in decades, mister Heathcliff. Why do so now?
- We're all taking up arms, aren't we?" he asked rhetorically. "Or is Nergal's big, stonking pile of steel and fusion cells just for show?"

The lawyer raised a hand. "Preparations only, my good fellow - we're in no shape to mount an offensive on Allocer's forces as of now, much less Washington's possessed hopefuls. Having an Akari seer and the Queen of the Vanguard on our side should make Riona's rescue more manageable. Add the Fomorians, if Tom's efforts bear fruit, and we won't simply give rise to a provincial resistance."

The accountant led the pair back up even as the others were settling in the lower levels. "I'm not comfortable with mister Magnus colluding with Bres," he then admitted, seemingly out of the blue. "He's supposedly one of the Tuatha, part of the first Wyldfae the Sidhe ran into once they absconded in the dragons' opened dimension! They ran to the Others before They so much as bore that name, then defected from these abominable horrors while keeping their dubious boons, and now spit on equal parts Summer and Winter, Light or Dark!"

Wormsworth had to shrug at that. "I suppose Tom took a page from the Squids and dug the whole Amaxi sucks, we'll be our own masters bit. The fact that none of us have been alarmed tells us what we need to know for now: Tom hasn't been murdered by the Fomor King, Bres is likely being somewhat cordial up in the Magnus penthouse, so some progress has to have been made. We'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

* * *

A few minutes in, Leonard nodded and lightly padded Miranda's shoulder. "That'll do for now, I think. We have to head back down and push past the kiosks on the ground floor..."

He'd barely touched her that his form seemingly vanished. She'd still hear his voice around her, however, as if he were a particularly powerful ghost. To be honest, that was what Leonard had become, in any case.

"I'll make sure most of everyone ignores you. Walk past the front lobby again, only go in the opposite direction. I'll hex the keycard pad and let you through. You'll keep picking up my scent for as long as I'm not sure you'll have made it to the CB undetected. Once that happens, you'll have to find the frequency range for mobilized spaceport shuttles like Nami's, while I look for an exact number in the Shadowlands."

Ghosts typically didn't manage to feel both stern and reassuring, but Ephesian pulled off something similar, with ethereal hands lightly squeezing the girl's traps. "You've been wonderful so far, Miranda. One day, once the coast will be clear, I'll have to tell your mother about all this. Peacetime should ensure she doesn't try to have me killed - a second time."

* * *

Nereus looked up. "How ironic, considering I've spent the last sixteen years playing Pop Culture Therapist... I've tried to reach out more times than I can count, but he always was a stubborn fool - and a dangerous one."

The Curator's tendrils pursed together and he fixed his gaze on a seemingly random point in space. "In any case, this is where it happened. There's a lobby down this way and more this place beyond those doors," he explained, "but these aren't important. What's important is if I can reconstruct anything for you two..."

Most of the space was taken by an artfully sunken sitting area, the lack of guardrails making the act of pacing around its perimeter a bit perilous. Chambers clearly liked his floors obsessively waxed and definitely had cannibalized Nereus' own Modernist tendencies, but the surrounding tones were darker, the materials rougher, as though he'd taken a note from Soviet-era Brutalism whereas Marinos now tended to go for clearer tones and plenty of natural light. The Curator took a few steps, lightly snickered as he deliberately left a dark scuff on the otherwise immaculate hardwood flooring with the heel of his right foot, and then turned back to face the couple.

"Alright, so... I've already told you I was over here, past the windows..."

A duplicate of Not-Ike appeared in the ruin-filled void beyond, standing a bit like a flight-enabled gifted person hovering in place.

"Team Amaxi was sitting and standing around, and I'm sorry to show it to you again, but your son's body was present..."

Colored motes of light coalesced into the shapes of various standing and reclining figures, all of them Void Weavers of various constitutions. They were eight of them, with two solidly-built Arbiters, four reedy Prelates who looked to be the choir leaders for their neighborhood in Dalarath, Chambers' slowly decaying athleticism - and the Speaker. Again, the body of Meris' son was clad in dark and steely tones that reinforced the pallor of its skin. His almost phocine eyes would've passed for soulful or otherwise emotionally arresting, were it not for how drooping they were, evoking careful and dispassionate calculation. All of them had affected Business Casual, if touched with a few common Dalarath revisions. Delicately cross-hatched neckties hid passages in the Black Speech designed to mollify any surface-dweller they'd speak to, beautifully-crafted lapel pins and cufflinks looked like unassuming geometric patterns at the onset, but then struck knowing minds with familiarity. Everything they wore was designed to strike tiny and progressive blows on unprepared minds, whittling down defenses if any were present and designed to lay down the groundwork for outright attacks.

Sounds filled the space, the Black Speech's vocal component carefully set to surface-world instruments, a surprisingly refined aria that sang the glories of the Others in the exact kinds of understated tones you would've expected of a lounge.

"Your friend is late," said one of the Arbiters in vocal Black Speech. "Did the required ciphers reach them?"

The doughy and pale Speaker nodded as he sat down, unbuttoning his jacket for greater comfort. "They have - I've checked. I'm not keen on reassuring you again, Enthos - these eighteen-hour naps aren't as easy to sustain as you think, and spending that much time layering my defenses in the Darkhallow is crucial.
- You'd assume their minds are similar to the surface scum's own psyches," replied the other.

The Speaker clicked his tongue, a tiny figment of a Dutch accent marking his words. "You'd assume, yes - but that would be incorrect. I was human, once, and these beings only share the most basic sense of intellection with Humanity. Everything is... wired differently, to use a crude analogy. Common syntactic structures in the Homilies of the Sixth Dawn, for instance, don't so much as scratch their minds, whereas most humans and anthros feel irrepressibly inspired, in response. You're not without knowing it's a common hook for those of us who affect the professions of men of the cloth or faith leaders.
- Like our wavering Augur," gloomily added one of the Prelates, which the Speaker took as a chance to self-aggrandize. He smiled and gestured at himself.

"Luckily for us, he's served his purpose in delivering me to you.
- You have the body of a scion of Merath's," retorted another Prelate, and the mantle of power that comes with it, but your mind would've belonged to one of our chattel, Speaker. Don't forget how questionable your own legitimacy is for some of us. We tolerate your own ploys only because the Chamberlain so openly carries Amaxi's favor."

Steel crept into the Speaker's soft, big eyes, which made its associated cruel undertones even more disturbing. "You'll tolerate me longer still, Leader Panos, or you'll wake up to your holdings having been seized by the palace. Finding deviants in our midst is so easy, in this day and age... All it takes is proof enough that you took a liking to a shapely surface creature or chose to wallow in the enemy's offered comforts... How's that second Maserati treating you? Is it taking well to curves? It'd be a shame for your stay in Greece to be ended abruptly; you've done wonders in priming the country for another crisis. The Hellspawn only compounded your efforts."

Panos didn't miss the threats and grew deathly silent. "Thank you, Your Eminence," he then said, making it clear he'd been reminded of his place.

In the back, Chambers managed a spell of dry coughing, stopped himself with a long breath and resumed his task of pouring himself a glass of what had to be Scotch. "Keep our task in mind, all," he demanded. "We're to let them come to us of their own free will. I gathered you here because of your subtle expression in our ways. Hostility won't be productive, here.
- That cough is concerning," noted one of the Arbiters. "Have you seen one of our healers, lately?
- There's plenty of physicians topside," dismissively replied Chambers, "it's just a bad cough and a spot of fever - flu season doesn't care if you're in California or Lithuania. I'll get over it.
- I'm beginning to think that passing for human with this sort of illness is inadvisable," noted another Prelate. "Far be it from me to insubordinate, but you really should-"

Chambers' temper flared, but he kept his voice calm. Only his eyes betrayed it. "Our own plans are in motion, the Augur's own desire to save a handful of locals from Hell's onslaught changes nothing. I can work past them on my own.
- This has gone on too long," countered another Prelate. "You really should just kill the fat fool and be done with-"

The Chamberlain laughed dryly. "What, and fuel the White Brotherhood's fire? Give more ammunition to the supergroups in America in this day and age? Give more of a reason for the gnats in Rhode Island to come stomping down on us? Meris is with them, you buffoon, and they've been accruing power and capabilities for years. They suspect nothing for now, but if anyone is capable of ending everything we've worked so hard for, it's them. As much as I can praise your attempts at political engineering or your poisoning Progressive plights and causes, they have their finger on the trigger. Kill the Augur now, and the Architect will have its martyr. It'll be over for us before it's even begun.
- If the Architect already has a martyr pegged," asked one of the Prelates, "then why is the Augur's state improving, lately? You yourself claim he hasn't done anything to curry any Other's favor in years!"

Chambers grimaced lightly as he sat down with a light groan, looking like someone who was nursing a cold's body-wide aches and pains. "He's gorged, if you can call it gorging - but I'd call it sneaking Krispy Kreme donuts in during the small hours of the night and watching infomercials... He's stopped doing even that, now that he's started losing weight. I wouldn't call a pastry-based pity party any sort of worthwhile sacrifice in Harrogath's name. He's had restful nights, lately."

One of the Arbiters glowered. "He's resisting you, then. Once Amaxi notices, you'll lose Her favor.
- She's noticed," grimaced Chambers. "However, Dar-Larath's sent us a sign in these invasions from Hell. The House of Seduction is waning, if you've consulted your star charts - and War is on the rise. I can feel Her patience still, even if Her irritation is a constant pressure. She's... fretting, but watchful. The Augur still thinks his loss in potency is a measure of his gained freedom, but he'll waste away faster than the Texan traitors could ever hope to teach him in their ways. She knows the Architect - he won't spare much more power, and can't give our enemies another Lucian Rothchild. He's an old and feeble Creator playing his last few hands."

The Speaker gestured for patience. "Chamberlain, you can see how worried these gentlemen are. You mentioned you had something on offer in our last meetings. Show it to us, if you will."

One of the Squids grimaced. "The loaner from Heaven and her handler... I still think we're baring one of our flanks for a blow. If I were Gabriel, I'd offer us a morsel half as promising."

Raising a hand and calling for patience, Chambers pulled out his smartphone and pressed a few buttons on it. "Yes," he said, "send them in. "Tell her we'll expect a demonstration."

A few seconds later, the far doors opened. The space beyond looked like a continuation of the observation deck, possibly serving as a main living room and reception area, as well as a kitchen. The two that stepped in were ushered by two humans clad in black, their features pallid and their eyes seemingly wide with perpetual shock only barely contained. Each and every step of the woman's dripped with sheer terror, but it was clear she'd had quite some time to learn to hide it well.

"The enemy agent and girl," she announced, then stepping back with a short bow.

The agent, going on her words and the Curator's earlier description, had gone for a decidedly supernatural appearance, if a nondescript one. A light hooded vest in a tone of slate gray linen had been slipped over what looked like a modernized set of leather armor, concealing every feature below the neckline. Impossible shadows huddled underneath the hood's hem, making the man look like a less creepy cousin of Tolkien's Wights. Only sheer blackness could be discerned. At his sight, the lower Prelates' tentacles began to bristle. The Speaker extended a hand.

"Please, men - don't waste your time trying to unravel this Veil. Our guest clearly came prepared... This could be one of Gabriel's best Veils, but the execution doesn't match the man."

He raised a hairless eyebrow. "Stealing from Celestial Command's coffers, are we, Cherub? Or perhaps you're one of the middle-men, someone who thinks the Pit's ambitions could better serve the Celestial demesne?"

The angel's voice was distorted, sounding neither male nor female, neither fully-formed or ethereal. "You don't need to know my reasons, Speaker. One way or the other, the rule of law requires restitution, and the mortals are squandering your own abilities. Don't think of me as someone who will show you on the path to your glory, there's simply this one, single step I need you to take in helping us to purge the mortal plane of the Pitspawn - and all the weak-willed cowards harboring dulcet monsters on the vague promises of assimilation."

The Speaker looked back to Chambers. "What did you promise him?
- The mortal plane's dried husk, simply enough," shrugged Chambers, after coughing noisily a few times. "I learned of some rebels - new Fallen, essentially - who would divorce the material plane from what they see as an incompetent Creator. We provide the blank slate, they take it and abscond somewhere far beyond our Mistress' sight, and we have our desired oblivion."

That ripped a few impressed pouts and nods from the assembly. "What did he promise you?
- A weapon," noted Chambers. "Lieutenant, if you please..."

The burnished girl that had been standing in the shadows of the lobby had to have been the one the Curator had produced a picture of. What was missing was any sort of battle-scarred weariness, any of Carrie Silva's grit and edge. The girl in the photograph had been parting with a tired and impish grin despite the blur, and this girl's forward-facing stare was cold and calculating. She wore blacks, her hair in a neat and no-nonsense ponytail, her posture the result of years of Army drills. Chambers invited her closer.

"For your consideration, might I introduce Carrie Elazar Silva, reborn after a most-generous donation from our hooded patron. State secrets are easy to steal for someone with Angel Time, and Anton Azardad's formulas will enter Federal custody four years after the resistance's victory. Operatives in Paradise improved on his designs, fully integrating the Lexicon in her native neural structure. Aidan Drake's implants would eventually show up on X-Rays with their defenses removed, hers never will. She is, for all intents and purposes, a mundane human woman."

He raised a hand, conjured an Arbiter's disciplinary rod and handed it to one of the stockier fellows. "Try and take her," he invited, "her mastery of our craft outshines Drake's by several magnitudes."

The Arbiter merely joined his hands together at his waistline in a bit of a submissive pose. "There is no need - I recognize that gaze. Seeing it in a human is disconcerting.
- I've seen it in Drake," noted Chambers. "Jenkins as well, long before his disappearance. She, however, wouldn't have qualms about killing you. Her body is still in a location I'd rather keep secret, to facilitate her insertion with our enemies. A few code words is all I need to ensconce our killing machine in the appearance and demeanor of the woman Aidan Drake loved. Give her a few months to a year spent digging herself in deep, and one of our more unique operatives will then be primed and ready for her reactivation.
- What's her cover?" asked one of the Prelates, which made Chambers roll his eyes.

"She's died by our hand, remember? Where do you think her soul went? Where do you think she comes from? Heaven, of course!"

* * *

"Good work with 'em, too!" added John, who then likely prodded at one of her pork chops. "Don't get too fancy with these, they've been in and out of backpacks and messenger bags for a while. Cook 'em thoroughly, we can't risk food poisoning in here."

He sniffed lightly and then looked back to Crystal. "Any antibiotics on your side? A few of the people we've had to triage are lookin' a tad worse for wear; they're in the mattress store we converted into an infirmary, a block over."

* * *

Nickar had been about to go to work on detailing his arrangements for Drake that his other self returned, accompanied by a decidedly refreshed and cleaned-up Wallace Doherty, who still looked a tad disconcerted with the whole process. His grungy one-piece had been swapped for a three-piece in the same tone, but the extra layer didn't hide the fact that his mutations had become a tad more obvious, since his leaving the sewers. He certainly hadn't lost his massive paunch, but something to his back and shoulders looked more naturally defined, with the tiniest hint of cheekbones poking through the mass of his face.

Three blinked at that. "You weren't gone long enough to lose a hundred pounds and sleep ten hours straight," he observed. "What happened?"

The walrus shrugged. He didn't look exactly relieved, but he also wasn't exactly troubled, either. "I remember stepped into this upscale fitting room, feeling all grungy and as though my stomach were still trying to kill me. He snaps his measuring tape at me," he said, looking back to Nickar, "and the next thing I know, there's drool on my chin and I feel like a million bucks! I even smell better, too!"

Other Nick shrugged, effortlessly merged back into Main Nick, the single stylist demon left adding a pout for good measure. "It's just something I stole from Belphegor, back in the before-times. Not every demon is particularly cooperative with tape, pins and needles, and I knew our friend here came with a Reputation," he said, briefly rolling his R as if to state a point about Doherty. "Compliant somnambulism. It's a handy trick to have.
- It's degrading, is what it is!" opposed Wallace, which left Nickar to shrug, briefly pulling out his smartphone as he did so.

"It might be degrading, it's always funny. I put you through a classic round of Hopak while you were snoring your ass off, mister Doherty - might as well test out my seams stitches with Cossack dances rather than swords or bullets. You even took a full nine-millimeter clip to the chest like a champ!"

Doherty looked like his jaw was about to fall off. "You shot me?!
- And you snorted, giggled like a half-conscious schoolboy and asked me to stop tickling you. You also called me Alice. Not a single puncture or tear in sight."

He then looked back to Aspasia. "Just, um, follow the smell of cordite and blissful oblivion," he told her.

[TennyoCeres84]

Shivering at the sight the cosmos unfolding around her, Aislinn received the information with improved clarity. She could sense the encroaching chaos pressing in on creation and Earth. The events on Earth might not have seemed that influential, but they amounted to a great deal for the preservation of the entire universe in all its vastness. She now understood why Nergal and the others were so intent on calling Lucifer back to Earth.

The selkie looked to their new arrivals. "Thank you for showing me. I suppose my doubt as a mortal was kicking in, and it's difficult to see everything that is actually transpiring beyond this complex, much less the planet and the universe," she said.

***

Neasa sighed. "We'll have to be on our guard then. They''re allies until something tells us otherwise," she mused. "They likely have something to gain from collaborating with us; the question is what? Fomorian or not, they're still Fae and love their bargains and Oaths."

***

Miranda felt reassured by his kind and encouraging words. "We'll see if she doesn't figure out first by smelling where I've been. I guess then tell her it was for a good cause," she jokingly said.

The young fauness then left the office and proceeded past the front lobby, only to go in the opposite direction that she had previously gone. All the while, she mused that she would find the right room with the CB radio in it.

***

Meris couldn't commentate on the scene before her, so angered at the collusion between Chambers and the mysterious, unidentifiable angel. Chambers had referred to him as he, but the angel had done an excellent job at disguise who they were. They obviously had connections, being a Cherub. An aide of Uriel's or Uriel himself?

The knowledge of Carrie Silva's return lingered in her mind. She knew Aidan should know immediately, and she planned to tell him. How would he react, though? Chambers was working to reopen old wounds and create chaos among them until she had ample chance to kill them. It'd probably be entirely out of the blue, making it look like she snapped.

The revealed events weighed on her features, and she sighed deeply.

***

"I've retrieved some, yes," Crystal replied with a frown. "It may not be enough for everybody, though" she admitted. "What are their symptoms so far?"

"I'm not going to burn them, but they'll be thoroughly cooked!" Andrea responded from the stove. "Don't worry!"

***

Aspasia walked past Doherty, Nickar, and the rest and ventured back from where Doherty had come from. As she did, she lightly patted the walrus on the shoulder and nodded encouragingly to him. "Looking good, Mayor!"

After a few minutes, she returned in the lycra bodysuit and bracers on her limbs. "Fits perfectly, Nickar!" she said, her quiver of arrows at her hip. She strapped her rifle to the back, followed by the hellish birch bow.

[IamLEAM1983]

"If all perspectives could be shared so readily," noted Nergal, "perhaps the Fall wouldn't have happened. In any case, we'll have our makeshift studio ready in one of the security rooms, near the atrium. Some of Sam's men were briefed on how to set up a computer and a few sound consoles and microphones, so we'll be ready for you within the half-hour, at the earliest."

Erin smiled. "Don't think this is an invitation to rush things, I think Jubal's own linguists and engineers would rather we had a perfected sample to work with, rather than a hastily collected one."

Nasir hovered a little closer for a few moments. "I will buy you relative peace for a day or two - some buffoons are pining for vengeance, beyond this complex's borders. You should soon have more time to plan things in greater detail."

The Vanguard Queen then alighted to the ground, breezily stepped out the front doors and took a few steps forward before taking flight again. Throngs of Pitspawn that had gathered a few streets away immediately began to scream as more glowing orbs of crushing gravitational force appeared, maybe three stories above ground. The enemy might've been infinite, its immediate instinct was to retreat towards the greater enemy presences that clustered around Centennial Park.

* * *

The elevator's reinforced glass tube allowed Neasa to catch a quick sight of her sister and her friends, the Paradise shuttle pilot seemingly catching sight of her from across the atrium's open space. Her hands flashed as she did, putting forward an inkling of Paradise's near-universal gesture-based lingo: an index finger pointing upwards, a quick touch of her lower left eyelid, with the same hand coming down at a slow and measured speed.

When you get up there, watch yourselves and keep it slow. Heathcliff, surprisingly, replied with two fingers touching his lips, digits curling back into their fist and lightly thumping his right breastbone.

Thank you.

Herbert looked mildly surprised to see this, which left Douglas to shrug. "Don't forget," he mentioned, "there's more to Creation than Earth. Most people petition their own gods; other colleagues of the Thrones who would've gone native in other galaxies - but Paradise gave us a foot in space as soon as God-fearing scientists made it to Gliese. Mister Othstein's had to take a few courses of conversational Pilus to stay up-to-date, but the idiom is a pain to master for anyone with a sense of humor that's even slightly juvenile."

Herbert raised an eyebrow. "How so? It surely can't be that bad - we're both supernatural and could readily alter our vocal instruments!"

Heathcliff smirked at Neasa. "Here's a short and jovial Hello, as our own Frank Brenner might belt out - or should I say, belch."

Sucking in some air, the usually prim and proper demonic accountant produced a short and rather loud burp, one with an oddly deliberate staccato at the end - suggesting it had some sort of grammatical value. "That one is for respected, if slightly fair-weather acquaintances of which any visit remains appreciated. There's a whole slew of conjugation and context-related modifiers, and they include everything from the ambient weather to the speaker or listener's overall health. A single sound can mean I'm glad to see you, but am regretfully busy and must preemptively ask that you exercise deference and behave succinctly in my presence."

He raised a finger. "That's without considering pheromones and the second language level they enable."

Herbert rolled his eyes. "Dear me - demons speaking in burps and farts! Next, you'll tell me Lucifer will have gone native somewhere near Alpha Centauri!"

Doug had to shrug at that. "Why not? Space is inhospitable no matter who you are; I don't think anyone in the Pit or Heaven would so much as consent to leave the Earth's atmosphere without accounting for decompression or unshielded exposure to cosmic radiation."

* * *

Slipping past overworked and not-too-watchful eyes, Miranda soon found herself in City Hall's makeshift command center for relief efforts. There, possessed humans and anthros from Allocer's more humane spectrum busied themselves while carrying National Guard, FEMA and Red Cross markers and uniforms. Phone lines chimed, keyboard keys clattered, and the odd sight of organized Pitspawn ripping survivors away from the clutches of marauding bands with the power of honed organizational skills, CB radios and what looked like an understanding of empathy's value as a tool for efficiency could be seen. Nobody twitched, nobody seemed to work to corrupt the bodies they wore; with the only signs of supernatural involvement being the way a few people sometimes could be seen snapping to another radio a few inches away, as if sensing an incoming status update or the need to redirect traffic.

The head supervisor wore the body of a sixtysomething human, pale eyes and liver-spotted hands moving with just a smidgen of supernatural focus under what had been the reflective vest of a Red Cross volunteer. Hiding along cubicle walls made sense for the time being, and most people didn't seem to so much as pay attention to Miranda, so focused as they were on bringing one another updates or new assignments.

Leonard sighed, somewhere in the back. "They think they care," he sent. "They almost do, but bringing survivors back here unharmed only really strikes them as another strike on a checklist. Just like Allocer himself - so close, and yet so very, very far... There might be good stuff in their numbers once we retake the city, but they'll soon learn just how much they still need to master to move past Pride's lack of empathy."

A pause. "The old man in the back - see him? He's their supervisor. As soon as he realizes what the Goat's probably come to terms with about my old bladder, you'll get a few minutes with his short-wave radio. I'll be gone for a few moments; I've got to look for the currently-used frequencies for unsigned aircraft, and have a few fresh thousand dead to interview."

By the way he'd phrased things, it'd be obvious enough that wresting information out of the restless dead wasn't a piece of cake. An Air Force soldier gone rogue or having been possessed might not exactly be in the most agreeable of moods. Time wouldn't be an issue in the Shadowlands, but it still meant Ephesian would have to expose himself to a small drove's worth of additional howling voices, all crying out for vengeance.

* * *

Nereus stepped closer and placed a hand on her shoulder, even as he watched the remaining events unfold. Soon enough, it became clear they'd moved into eavesdropping on small talk between megalomaniacs. It enabled him to focus back onto Meris.

"I can't leave you alone against them in good conscience, and my fighting back would complicate their agenda," he said. The Augur also landed a sigh, although his was more resolute in tone. He then gently forced the roane to face him and held her by the shoulders.

"Start by telling Aidan I'm coming. All I need is a few dead skin cells and another Void Weaver that could pass for me if left unrecognizable. I can chart a flight to a safe house in Oregon, change my looks enough without needing to shift Flesh Masks completely with a beard change, a hair trimmer and a few pairs of sunglasses. I still can call on a few low-order boons for charisma, so I should be able to find some way to travel the rest of the way as a businessman or truck driver or - anything, really."

His voice became more urgent. "I'll have a few days in the clear, at the most. Xenophon Thanos might die as far as the general public will understand, but Christopher won't need more than a few days to suss things out. He'll be restrained by matters of succession and the initial panic in Renewal's board of directors, but it won't stop him from sending agents of his own after me. If I make it to New England at all, I'll be lucky if I'm not forced to veer off to Burlington to avoid detection - or maybe even past Canada's border... You're the Heiress of Solomon, so you're the one with a wider range of transportation options. Once I'll signal you, I'll need a pick-up on the hour.

Start with that, then tell Aidan I saw everything you just did. I can corroborate his lover's rebirth - he knows I wouldn't toy with him over his love life."

He looked back to Carrie's soul for a moment. "He might not be receptive at the onset, but this is still her. Eventually, he'll realize he can free her just as you've freed me. We'll have to act docile at first; let the sleeper agent she is embed herself as planned - and then find a way to have her realize her place always was with him - with us. The Gentlemen can help me undo her programming; it'll simply take time and research."

* * *

John grunted lightly. "We've got three with a mild fever, at least one serious case of food poisoning, two hard sprains and one definitive break - right tibia, I think - and four subjects in quarantine. We've screened everything you've brought back in case the Pitspawn contaminate stuff, but we're lookin' at thralls in the makin', I'd say. Either someone, somewhere figgered they'd stoke 'emselves up with demon meat, what with the low-order fauna's what been skitterin' about, or self-defense attempts ended with enough skin flecks gettin' past their lips for a habit to form. Three of the four folks in quarantine're anthros - they first came t'me with signs of havin' tussled and been pushed past normal means. Bloodied fangs, a cracked beak..."

He sighed lightly. "You've both been careful, right? No direct confrontation with the newbies, or at least nothin' involving yer fangs?"

* * *

"Of course it would," smugly replied Nickar, "I don't design things halfway."

Wallace, in the meantime, looked to still be a little disconcerted. "Erm, thank you," he replied to Aspasia, then turning to the others. "What now? Miss McConmara wakes up, we head back and we give Sophia a hand?
- It might be for the better," noted Drake. "Sophia and Ciaran are alone with two stressed-out Freaks and about two dozens' worth of refugees. Seeing the mayor in fighting form should help things."

Then remembering something, Three looked back to Amduscias with a look that seemed to carry as much compassion as it did curiosity. "Can vampires be inducted into Heaven? What happens to their gifts or their curse, when they die?"

The self-styled Prince of Pleasure shrugged lightly. "Depends. Been a good leech? Off to Heaven ya trot, where most of 'em end up choosin' to be scrubbed clean of both Lilith's curse an' Lucifer's gifts. A lotta Freaks who Ascend make that choice, naturally. There's bloodlines, though, dynasties traced back to a single vampire, that derive a sense o' pride out of their balancin' the Gift an' Curse. It becomes part o' their identity. All the Grimleys've been of that lot, startin' from the first one what danced under moonlight for unsuspectin' Mesopotamian crowds, singin' of Gilgamesh an' Enkidu. If the rumors're true an' Horatio's been passin' his madness an' mind from one host to another for over five thousand years, then his kind won't go gently. If they traipse past the Gates again, it'll be as Freaks."

Three nodded. "So Horatio's people could come back?
- Some of 'em oughta, yeah," replied the musician. "Not all Grimleys been family men, but ours definitely is. He loves his brood, he does - and that'll give 'em cause enough to return, once the coast clears.
- And Arthur and Alana's?"

Only then did Amduscias' mood seemingly darken. "I'd watch that one, friend. He means well, but he's a passionate one. If he sacrifices too much for the sake o' your own people, he might think they're ungrateful - or he might think 'e needs to up the ante. I'd hope his Alana's got more sense than he does, when it counts."

Three's concern was palpable. "So Grimley being a Squid won't ever come back to bite us in the ass?
- That thing's gone, mate," the Prince of Pleasure replied. "Gone and dust. If you're worried, do that Squid mind-thing with him, one o' those days. Nothin' but midway lights, popcorn, Tim Burton-worthy weirdness an' laughin' crowds in there.
- Got any proof?"

Amduscias gave Abdiel a smirk, as if Drake's skepticism was amusing. "I know 'cause he summoned me, once. Fella needed inspiration, an' it was all I could do to break away once the contract was done. I wasn't forced to stay or anythin', but there wasn't a corner o' his carnie set-up he didn't want me to look at, not one number or performance he didn't want me to see, not one staff member or roustabout he didn't want me to interview. S'quite the thorough bloke, really - maniacally so."

[TennyoCeres84]

Aislinn winced as she heard the screams. "Bad for them, but good for us. I do hope this plan of yours to contact Lucifer works. I doubt he'll be able to talk sense into Bleatbreath, but having him on our side should be in our favor," she commented.

***

Neasa scoffed. "I imagine Aspasia's quite fluent in Pilus, since she had to finagle with Mr. Brenner to get that armor of hers," she noted with an amused smile, then glancing Herbert's way. "You might roll your eyes at the notion, but you don't know what Lucifer's been up to the past few eternities. Whatever mission he's on, he still has to take downtime and would probably schmooze with the locals, if he needed a break. I doubt demons are exempt from burnout, right?"

***

Miranda stuck to making herself unnoticeable near cubicle walls and kept an eye on on the head supervisor, waiting for him to leave his desk vacant. Once it would be, she hope it wouldn't take to long to radio Nami and for Leonard to get a hole of a deceased pilot.

***

Meris nodded. "That's true. Her memories are being blocked, but they're not gone. We'll have to be patient and careful," she responded, then sighing.

"I'll tell Aidan and the others what we've seen and discussed. And I'll make sure to be there in order to pick you up and finally have you back by my side," she continued with a hopeful smile.

***

Both werewolves looked at each other and then back at John, shaking their heads. "We've been careful to avoid getting our muzzles anywhere near the Hellbeasts still roaming around. They can be stubborn, but slashes from claws sends them the message to back off. Anything that might've gotten underneath our claws has been thoroughly washed off," Crystal said.

***

Abdiel chuckled at Amduscias's example. "I don't think you have anything to worry about with Mr. Grimley." She then turned thoughtful as she mulled over possibilities. "Arthur will need to be watched, as he's essentially isolated. Even with Alana, his Circus, and the rest, he's being pushed into a corner while losing those he cares for," the Fire Throne explained, then causing two, doll-sized plumes of flame to appear. One took the shape of Arthur and the other of Archibald.

"Both brothers are flexible to a degree. While Archibald will drink his pain away and potentially mope, he'll continue to fight. Archibald already saw what awaited him in the afterlife; Arthur hasn't. His bendable mind might break and reconfigure itself into a mindset that may not be favorable to Shield," she said, the figure of Arthur lashing out with fangs and claws at some unseen entity. "I equally hope that Alana serves as a balance to that unpredictable streak of his. As you know, war is never favorable to anybody. We don't know what PTSD looks like from someone with Arthur's demeanor and situation."