Elfen High 2: Gotterdammerung

[Nightkill the Emperor]

Crowley did not particularly seem to give a damn about Lust at the moment, which was rather a surprise considering it was Crowley. He was, however, drinking his whiskey cup- which notably kept refilling, so it never actually went down.

"What on Earth do you want right now, Lust?" he repeated, his hands seeming to twitch and not making a grab for the demon's considerable assets. Instead, they seemed to be twitching with the urge to not strangle her and drop the glass. "I am busy as it is." said the tired wizard drinking out of a whiskey cup underneath the school's tunnels.

"I'm worried about you, Crowley," she said, "We're all worried about you."

She smiled with genuine affection - not fake want, not seductive glances, nothing physical at all. It was the same love between a mother and her child, or, perhaps, a sister and her little brother. Lust ran her fingers through Crowley's hair, massaging his back - not with eroticism, but with care.

"You're not yourself lately," she continued, "It's like you just forgot who Aleister Crowley is and became some different man."

"Aleister Crowley is dead and has been dead for nearly a century now." our Crowley chuckled. "I have always been a different man than he had been. I just liked the name." Crowley lay back, the dirt wall of the tunnel becoming pillowy so he could lean on it better. He grunted, a cigar now in his hand.

"I am exactly myself right now. No emotional shields like the angels have or that I sometimes put for myself. No, just a glass, a cigar and myself. Richard, Fixban, Minh, Leah and all the others...well, they came and went throughout my life, but this glass and this cigar are going to stay." he said, almost yawning.

When had he last truly slept without waking up in the dead of night? There was too much going on for sleep. He hadn't slept right for ten years, it had felt...too many nightmares, too many dreams...

And that one song.

There are loved ones in the glory,
Whose dear forms you often miss;
When you close your earthly story,
Will you join them in their bliss?

Will the circle be unbroken
By and by, by and by?
In a better home awaiting
In the sky, in the sky?

[Nationstatelandsville]

"No, BAD DOG!" were the shouted words out of Parnell's mouth as he pulled back, trying to keep Cerberus from getting the shroud. He paid little mind to the apparent death of the right head, as he was a little preoccupied. He had better be handsomely paid for this, or something, because, dammit, he was a secretary, not a gun for hire!

Cerberus yanked, the Shroud tearing in half.

Suddenly and seemingly without source, the hound collapsed, dark red blood sprouting from the middle head like a broken pipe. The left head simply growled at Parnell's former position, eying where the Shroud had once been.

It would join them in death, in a moment.

A shadow walked calmly inside the Phlegethon, whistling a soft tune that sounded like a dancing pan-flute.

D's soul tapped Parnell.

"We should fly away," he said.

A hook on a chain flewing from the blaze, getting caught on the half of the Shroud Parnell had. With strength unparelled, the man in the flames yanked the Shroud from Parnell.

"Just go!" D barked, "I don't need blood on my hands!"

Enter Nick Bottom.

"O, woe is me!" Bottom cried, swooning and wiping his brow with the back of his hand, "Woe is Nick Bottom! Woe! I am strike with the most terrible of ills! Palsy! Plaque! Spanish flu! Ebona!"

He collapsed onto a chair next to Jillybean (one that had certainly not been there before) tearing his dress-shirt open and panting heavily. He dabbed his face with a dainty handkerchief - that of Aphrodite herself - coughing violently while gesticulating in the most creative fashion.

"By the tempests of fever and floods of mucus!" he bemoaned, "Poor Bottom is a grave man."

He suddenly became cognizant of his audience, stood, and took a bow.

"Good morrow, my fair lady," he said, "I must apologize, I did not see you there. Surely you recognize me, but I must assure you - I am not the vicious bastard son whom I have most recently portrayed in London. The magic of theatre."

He was completely serious about the last part.

"And who are you, fair sight?" he inquired, having forgotten his purported disease.

Jillybean perked up with excitement at the dramatic entrance that had just been made. Leaping to her feet in the armchair, she cried "Scalpel!" to no one in particular and produced a hacksaw from the ether. As soon as the elegantly dressed (although now quite dishevelled) man took notice of her, she disposed of it by throwing it into the air, where it somehow lodged in the steel rafters.

"Jillybean, of the Grimaldi troupe," she introduced herself with a curtsy, completely enchanted with the thespian. "Do you mean London the city or London the sentient nebula? I hear both have a lively arts scene, but I haven't had the chance to visit either."

"The nebula and I don't talk anymore," Bottom said forlornly, "She tired of my forms and cast me out. Met a lovely chap out by Betelgeuse 7, but that's neither here nor there and especially nor there. He went there. It was not pretty, my sweet, and not a story befitting your homely beauty."

He fell to his knees and took her hand in his, before gently bringing it up to his lips.

"Nick Bottom, of many troupes," he said, "but you knew that. And, my dear, I knew you before I knew you, knew you as the Moon in the night and its sister stars woven in the black silk. You are as pale as my lady Diane's crystal face, as sculpted as the lady in the shell, and with eyes as deep as my affection for you."

Bottom was a romantic.

"Ah, to court you as a knight," he said, returning her hand to her, " 'tis the role of a gentleman. I shall speak with the troupe, perhaps, and be recast."

[Nationstatelandsville]

"I'm worried about you, Crowley," she said, "We're all worried about you."

She smiled with genuine affection - not fake want, not seductive glances, nothing physical at all. It was the same love between a mother and her child, or, perhaps, a sister and her little brother. Lust ran her fingers through Crowley's hair, massaging his back - not with eroticism, but with care.

"You're not yourself lately," she continued, "It's like you just forgot who Aleister Crowley is and became some different man."

"Aleister Crowley is dead and has been dead for nearly a century now." our Crowley chuckled. "I have always been a different man than he had been. I just liked the name." Crowley lay back, the dirt wall of the tunnel becoming pillowy so he could lean on it better. He grunted, a cigar now in his hand.

"I am exactly myself right now. No emotional shields like the angels have or that I sometimes put for myself. No, just a glass, a cigar and myself. Richard, Fixban, Minh, Leah and all the others...well, they came and went throughout my life, but this glass and this cigar are going to stay." he said, almost yawning.

When had he last truly slept without waking up in the dead of night? There was too much going on for sleep. He hadn't slept right for ten years, it had felt...too many nightmares, too many dreams...

And that one song.

There are loved ones in the glory,
Whose dear forms you often miss;
When you close your earthly story,
Will you join them in their bliss?

Will the circle be unbroken
By and by, by and by?
In a better home awaiting
In the sky, in the sky?

"Oh, dear," Lust sighed, taking Crowley's chin in her hands, "when will you see through it? Aleister Crowley is not your name. Aleister Crowley is not your name."

She frowned, "You're still wearing a shield over your heart, love. I visit you so very often and you've not dropped the mask yet. It's cracking, my sweet. Maybe it'll break soon. I was optimistic."

She pulled Crowley into a deep kiss, "Proceed from you, all tribulation."

And she was gone, nothing but a shameful memory, like sin in the morning.

[Nightkill the Emperor]

Crowley lay there for a while, not particularly worrying yet how Lust found her way in. Instead, the world's strongest human wizard, in his own words and the confirmation of many others, was a tired, worn wreck.

"Wonder if I could have had some more time..." he muttered to himself.

"You remember songs of heaven
Which you sang with childish voice,
Do you love the hymns they taught you,
Or are songs of earth your choice?"

He took a drink of the glass.

"Will the circle be unbroken
By and by, by and by?
In a better home awaiting
In the sky, in the sky?"

Then Crowley's own voice sang out in the tunnels. "One by one their seats were emptied...and one by one, they went away...here the circle...has been broken." he sighed. "Will it be complete one day?"

[Zarkenis Ultima]

Alastor listened carefully to the priest, frowning slightly under his dark helmet when he said that speed would be their only ally. Though powerful, the demon warlord was not the fastest on his feet, and he was quite aware of this fact, but if it had to be done, it had to be done. He could always assist himself with magic should it become necessary, after all.

"I will do what I can, priest." He assured Daniel, and then, while Sisitu climbed onto his back, he focused, recalling spells and curses alike at an astounding rate, his mind going back to and reliving the days during which he learned the arts of demonic magic, while still being entirely, almost painfully aware of his surroundings.

[Nationstatelandsville]

Crowley lay there for a while, not particularly worrying yet how Lust found her way in. Instead, the world's strongest human wizard, in his own words and the confirmation of many others, was a tired, worn wreck.

"Wonder if I could have had some more time..." he muttered to himself.

"You remember songs of heaven
Which you sang with childish voice,
Do you love the hymns they taught you,
Or are songs of earth your choice?"

He took a drink of the glass.

"Will the circle be unbroken
By and by, by and by?
In a better home awaiting
In the sky, in the sky?"

Then Crowley's own voice sang out in the tunnels. "One by one their seats were emptied...and one by one, they went away...here the circle...has been broken." he sighed. "Will it be complete one day?"

The last notes died down, fading into the night like virtue in the dark. Marut looked up from her piano and smiled - genuinely smiled - at the claps she received from her guests.

"Thank you very kindly," she said meekly, averting their eyes - she was a woman. Women were not supposed to received such attention, unless they were mothers, and Marut was not taken. No man in Heaven had thought much of her.

She had not thought much of the men in Heaven (or men in general) herself, but that was sin. Only witches were widows. Father had said Lord Uriel now sought a husband for his brother, Lord Michael. Perhaps?

Her twin sister, Harut, rose from her seat. Haut and Marut were polar opposites - Harut was tall, dark-skinned, and quite sought out by the male angels for her "child-bearing abilities". Marut was pale and plain, reclusive and caring. Harut was a mother hawk, watching over her children with a judging eye and untold reserves of wrath.

"Marut," Harut demanded.

Marut looked up from the tangle of blonde locks in front of her eyes, "Yes, sister?"

"You shall never play music again," she insisted sternly, "It is not becoming of a woman."

"I am sorry," Marut responded, deflated.

"The Lord does not accept apologies."

Marut nodded forlornly, rose from the piano, and disappeared, ostensibly to fetch drinks.

"So, Marut," Aziraphale's mother said awkwardly as the woman took her seat, "how's Maalik?"

"He is escorting Ridwan to his service in the Soldiers," she said with concealed venom, "Dear, can you help Marut with the drinks?"

Aziraphale's mother stared hard at Harut, who matched her glare a thousand fold. After a moment of friction, Aziraphale's mother gave in and left Aziraphale behind with Harut.

"Aziraphale," Harut said, her voice a knife. Aziprahale looked up from his book - The Collected Fairy Tales of Munkar and Nakir - and glanced at Harut. He puffed a breath of air, his hair in disarray, his eyes dreamy, and a vacant smile on his face.

"Yes, Harut?" he asked in a quiet child's voice.

"Friend Harut," Harut corrected.

"I'm sorry, but-" Aziraphale began to protest.

"We are adults," Harut insisted, "you are not. Understand?"

Aziraphale nodded hesitantly.

"What are you reading?" the female angel demanded, glancing at the book.

"Fairy tales."

"Hmm?"

"Fairy tales, like the Seven Dwarfs and the Princess of Glass and Solomon's Talking Donkey and-"

"Why?"

"Why?"

"Yes, why?"

"Because it's fun."

"Fun? Fun?"

Aziraphale shrank away, "Yeah."

"Fun. Fun is the Devil's playground, Aziraphale. Take caution not to dote upon fantasy, for that is how the demons will tempt you. Why do you need 'fun'?"

"I dunno'."

"Because you are corrupted, child. You are in despair."

"No, I'm not!"

"How do you know, child?"

Aziraphale blinked. He suppose he didn't.

"You are in despair. You are not being raised right. Your mother does not discipline you enough. Discipline is love. You are unloved."

Aziraphale wanted to speak up, but did not. MArut inched up to him and kissed him on the forehead.

"God loves you. God loves you so very much. God loves you forever, no matter what you do, child. God forgives. God will always cherish you. Don't let your mother take God away from you. Don't let books take God away from you. You need God, you'll fall into despair and Hell. God loves you. I love you. We all love you."

She buried Aziraphale in a hug.

"Sing with me, Aziraphale.

You remember songs of heaven
Which you sang with childish voice.
Do you love the hymns they taught you,
Or are songs of earth your choice?

Will the circle be unbroken
By and by, by and by?
Is a better home awaiting
In the sky, in the sky?"

Aziraphale joined her. It was a song of God, of Lord Uriel, of love. He had never heard his mother sing it, but here was Harut, here was the lady of the angels, here was the Lord himself singing it to him. Why had his mother not held such divinity before? Why did not she not cradle him with love, as Harut did?

Because she was not of God. Because his mother was a demon in disguise, a witch. She was not married, was she? If Marut was a witch and she sang so beautifully, then what of his mother? She read to him. She tempted him.

Aziraphale left Heaven the next day, unannounced. He knew why - his mother, the witch, was exposed. She had to tear him from Heaven's love before he was saved.

To this day, Aziraphale's mother is alive. He has not seen her in seven centuries.

He has, however, seen Lust. She stands in the window of a Starbucks at the moment, unseen, watching. But that is a story for another time.

[Erinkita]

Daniel straightened, wiping the worst of the gore off his cassock and body armor. He took off his combat helmet a moment, and shook the sweat from his hair; then he buckled the helmet back on. He was beginning to feel it, now: physical and emotional wounds, old and new, aching at the edge of his consciousness. That damn left knee was never the same after Wagram. Something hit me in the head just before Calliel and Alastor got their shield up. There's too much blood. My father falls off my blades into the dark. The priest swings from the gibbet on Christmas Eve. There's too much fucking blood!

Daniel squeezed his eyes shut a moment. Help me, Father. I need to be strong for just a little while longer. Give me the strength to get my people off this goddam moon alive.

"Lock and load, team two," Daniel called, his voice strangely gentle. Is that me? I am what You need me to be. "Dump everything nonessential. We are moving fast. With half-strength, we're not going to survive another head-on fight, so our goal is to run past trouble before it knows that we're here." Daniel ditched his rucksack onto the tunnel floor, keeping only the gear attached to his body armor and helmet. "So: do not stop running. Not to take cover, not to avoid detection. Try to stay out of sight, but not at the price of speed. If we get pinned down, if we stagnate, then we'll be surrounded, swamped, and cut down. Our only ally is speed - the momentum to blast through the enemy before they can process our presence." The priest glanced around. "It's risky, but the odds are hundreds to one. We can't do this the ordinary, safe way. Keep moving, shoot straight, and we'll be back on that shuttle in five minutes."

Daniel turned, now, and pointed at Alastor. "We're going to be moving too fast for fixed formations, but I need you watching our rear and doing whatever you can to make sure that we don't get spotted. Everyone else, pick a sector and cover it. Anything in your sector that spots us gets shot dead - but do not stop moving while you shoot!" Daniel turned to Sisitu. "Alastor's right - we need to follow the route of your scout. And since you're the only one who actually knows what that route is, you're on point with me. Actually..." Daniel cast a worried glance at the Sumerian's child-like frame. "You're going to be on point, on me. I can run faster carrying you on my back than you can on your own two legs, and we can't afford to slow the pace so that you can keep up." The priest gave a rueful grin. "We all have to set our dignity aside sometime, Sisitu. Climb aboard." Daniel knelt, and cast a glance up the tunnel, past the mangled bodies of dozens of dwarfs and angels. "And then let's go."

Sisitu was soaked with sweat beneath her armour, but didn't dare take her helmet off or even lift the visor. She forced herself to march forward, mechanical in her movements. She put her arms around Daniel's neck and her legs around his wait, letting him piggyback her like a child. The indignity didn't register. Her only thought about the current situation was how much easier it would be to be carried back into the charnel house than to walk in under her own power. She had seen slaughter before. Her life could be charted in the blood of those who had been cut down around her. But usually she was running away from it. Sometimes she had escaped. Other times she was not so lucky. Stabbed, shot, trampled, torn apart, blown up, hanged, drowned, burned. Death had no hold on her, but no matter how many times it happened, it never became routine. Certain memories never faded. Certain experiences never lost their potency. Sisitu was grateful to be carried rather than going in herself.

She mentally commanded the tikbalang to meet them back in the tunnel. She couldn't dominate it with her will like most summoned monsters, but she could still issue commands. The creature obeyed. It was either that or wait for her to get close enough for a verbal command, which it couldn't disobey as long as she held its spine.
She paid careful attention to the scenery they passed. Some body parts were in good enough shape to determine their original species. Others were little more than bloody chunklets. Pieces of blown-apart statues were in evidence here and there; the victims of her cockatrices, as well as the cockatrices themselves. She wasn't able to find the other kappa.
The tikbalang shimmered into visibility in front of them and sniggered at Sisitu and Daniel's arrangement.
"Show us the route you took to that gemstone," she ordered, ignoring its derision. "The exact route."
The tikbalang, still forbidden to speak, answered by turning around and returning the way it had come.

"The nebula and I don't talk anymore," Bottom said forlornly, "She tired of my forms and cast me out. Met a lovely chap out by Betelgeuse 7, but that's neither here nor there and especially nor there. He went there. It was not pretty, my sweet, and not a story befitting your homely beauty."

He fell to his knees and took her hand in his, before gently bringing it up to his lips.

"Nick Bottom, of many troupes," he said, "but you knew that. And, my dear, I knew you before I knew you, knew you as the Moon in the night and its sister stars woven in the black silk. You are as pale as my lady Diane's crystal face, as sculpted as the lady in the shell, and with eyes as deep as my affection for you."

Bottom was a romantic.

"Ah, to court you as a knight," he said, returning her hand to her, " 'tis the role of a gentleman. I shall speak with the troupe, perhaps, and be recast."

Jillybean felt a blush creeping up her body. It started in her chest and was quickly advancing up her neck. It's a rare thing for a clown to consider something surreal, but it was happening to Jillybean. She wondered, ashamed of herself for thinking it, if she really was as beautiful as all that. She had lived around other members of the troupe her entire life. She had met all sorts of other people, but only as audience members. Perhaps by human standards, she really was exquisitely gorgeous. The blush was burning in her cheeks now. Nick Bottom was the only person to mention it so far, but she hadn't met that many people. Maybe they were all too shy to say anything.

"You... you're very handsome too," she replied, feeling she should return the compliment, but ashamed of the lie. "And a great performer. Renowned, really." It was pure impulse to say that, but she was proud of herself for doing so. He seemed to expect her to have already heard of him, and his pride in his talents were obvious. By Jillybean's standards, raised in slapstick and farce, he really was quite impressive.
His talk about being recast filled her with trepidation, however. She had heard of humans who called themselves clowns, painting their faces to resemble Jillybean's people. They mimicked the art, but had no understanding of its purpose. There was no magic in it, or so she had been told.
"The Grimaldi troupe doesn't really take humans..." she said quietly, hoping desperately not to offend the man who'd been so nice to her.

[Nightkill the Emperor]

Somewhere in northern Nigeria

"True story about fortune cookies—they look Chinese, they sound Chinese. But they're actually an American invention, which is why they're hollow, full of lies and leave a bad taste in the mouth." Abdullah Rathore noted, eating some naan and paneer himself.

Across the table, another human looked completely impassive, showing no expression but glowing white eyes. "Lord Uriel wishes to know how far our plan is from succeeding." the possessed man said.

"Tell Lord Uriel that we'll be done soon. There are some steps that we need to take first." Rathore explained. "I'm pushing on some of my levels, but what we need to do is corrupt symbolism. You are aware of the Twin Towers?"

"They are destroyed."

"I am aware. But years before, many years before, when people thought of New York, they would imagine those towers, those peaks of American and Western ingenuity. They were amazing symbols. What Bin Laden's genius was was how he was able to utterly destroy that symbol, end any concept of hope to it. And I will succeed in Lord Uriel's plan- but I will do it in my way. Give me time."

[Astrolinium]

"No, BAD DOG!" were the shouted words out of Parnell's mouth as he pulled back, trying to keep Cerberus from getting the shroud. He paid little mind to the apparent death of the right head, as he was a little preoccupied. He had better be handsomely paid for this, or something, because, dammit, he was a secretary, not a gun for hire!

Cerberus yanked, the Shroud tearing in half.

Suddenly and seemingly without source, the hound collapsed, dark red blood sprouting from the middle head like a broken pipe. The left head simply growled at Parnell's former position, eying where the Shroud had once been.

It would join them in death, in a moment.

A shadow walked calmly inside the Phlegethon, whistling a soft tune that sounded like a dancing pan-flute.

D's soul tapped Parnell.

"We should fly away," he said.

A hook on a chain flewing from the blaze, getting caught on the half of the Shroud Parnell had. With strength unparelled, the man in the flames yanked the Shroud from Parnell.

"Just go!" D barked, "I don't need blood on my hands!"

Parnell then remembered that he had a fucking Iron Man suit. Oh yeah. That might have come in handy earlier. However, always one to run like hell from a bad situation, Parnell promptly took off and began to fly away from the man. He didn't know where he was headed -- he just knew he was going away.

[Nationstatelandsville]

Daniel straightened, wiping the worst of the gore off his cassock and body armor. He took off his combat helmet a moment, and shook the sweat from his hair; then he buckled the helmet back on. He was beginning to feel it, now: physical and emotional wounds, old and new, aching at the edge of his consciousness. That damn left knee was never the same after Wagram. Something hit me in the head just before Calliel and Alastor got their shield up. There's too much blood. My father falls off my blades into the dark. The priest swings from the gibbet on Christmas Eve. There's too much fucking blood!

Daniel squeezed his eyes shut a moment. Help me, Father. I need to be strong for just a little while longer. Give me the strength to get my people off this goddam moon alive.

"Lock and load, team two," Daniel called, his voice strangely gentle. Is that me? I am what You need me to be. "Dump everything nonessential. We are moving fast. With half-strength, we're not going to survive another head-on fight, so our goal is to run past trouble before it knows that we're here." Daniel ditched his rucksack onto the tunnel floor, keeping only the gear attached to his body armor and helmet. "So: do not stop running. Not to take cover, not to avoid detection. Try to stay out of sight, but not at the price of speed. If we get pinned down, if we stagnate, then we'll be surrounded, swamped, and cut down. Our only ally is speed - the momentum to blast through the enemy before they can process our presence." The priest glanced around. "It's risky, but the odds are hundreds to one. We can't do this the ordinary, safe way. Keep moving, shoot straight, and we'll be back on that shuttle in five minutes."

Daniel turned, now, and pointed at Alastor. "We're going to be moving too fast for fixed formations, but I need you watching our rear and doing whatever you can to make sure that we don't get spotted. Everyone else, pick a sector and cover it. Anything in your sector that spots us gets shot dead - but do not stop moving while you shoot!" Daniel turned to Sisitu. "Alastor's right - we need to follow the route of your scout. And since you're the only one who actually knows what that route is, you're on point with me. Actually..." Daniel cast a worried glance at the Sumerian's child-like frame. "You're going to be on point, on me. I can run faster carrying you on my back than you can on your own two legs, and we can't afford to slow the pace so that you can keep up." The priest gave a rueful grin. "We all have to set our dignity aside sometime, Sisitu. Climb aboard." Daniel knelt, and cast a glance up the tunnel, past the mangled bodies of dozens of dwarfs and angels. "And then let's go."

Sisitu was soaked with sweat beneath her armour, but didn't dare take her helmet off or even lift the visor. She forced herself to march forward, mechanical in her movements. She put her arms around Daniel's neck and her legs around his wait, letting him piggyback her like a child. The indignity didn't register. Her only thought about the current situation was how much easier it would be to be carried back into the charnel house than to walk in under her own power. She had seen slaughter before. Her life could be charted in the blood of those who had been cut down around her. But usually she was running away from it. Sometimes she had escaped. Other times she was not so lucky. Stabbed, shot, trampled, torn apart, blown up, hanged, drowned, burned. Death had no hold on her, but no matter how many times it happened, it never became routine. Certain memories never faded. Certain experiences never lost their potency. Sisitu was grateful to be carried rather than going in herself.

She mentally commanded the tikbalang to meet them back in the tunnel. She couldn't dominate it with her will like most summoned monsters, but she could still issue commands. The creature obeyed. It was either that or wait for her to get close enough for a verbal command, which it couldn't disobey as long as she held its spine.
She paid careful attention to the scenery they passed. Some body parts were in good enough shape to determine their original species. Others were little more than bloody chunklets. Pieces of blown-apart statues were in evidence here and there; the victims of her cockatrices, as well as the cockatrices themselves. She wasn't able to find the other kappa.
The tikbalang shimmered into visibility in front of them and sniggered at Sisitu and Daniel's arrangement.
"Show us the route you took to that gemstone," she ordered, ignoring its derision. "The exact route."
The tikbalang, still forbidden to speak, answered by turning around and returning the way it had come.

"The nebula and I don't talk anymore," Bottom said forlornly, "She tired of my forms and cast me out. Met a lovely chap out by Betelgeuse 7, but that's neither here nor there and especially nor there. He went there. It was not pretty, my sweet, and not a story befitting your homely beauty."

He fell to his knees and took her hand in his, before gently bringing it up to his lips.

"Nick Bottom, of many troupes," he said, "but you knew that. And, my dear, I knew you before I knew you, knew you as the Moon in the night and its sister stars woven in the black silk. You are as pale as my lady Diane's crystal face, as sculpted as the lady in the shell, and with eyes as deep as my affection for you."

Bottom was a romantic.

"Ah, to court you as a knight," he said, returning her hand to her, " 'tis the role of a gentleman. I shall speak with the troupe, perhaps, and be recast."

Jillybean felt a blush creeping up her body. It started in her chest and was quickly advancing up her neck. It's a rare thing for a clown to consider something surreal, but it was happening to Jillybean. She wondered, ashamed of herself for thinking it, if she really was as beautiful as all that. She had lived around other members of the troupe her entire life. She had met all sorts of other people, but only as audience members. Perhaps by human standards, she really was exquisitely gorgeous. The blush was burning in her cheeks now. Nick Bottom was the only person to mention it so far, but she hadn't met that many people. Maybe they were all too shy to say anything.

"You... you're very handsome too," she replied, feeling she should return the compliment, but ashamed of the lie. "And a great performer. Renowned, really." It was pure impulse to say that, but she was proud of herself for doing so. He seemed to expect her to have already heard of him, and his pride in his talents were obvious. By Jillybean's standards, raised in slapstick and farce, he really was quite impressive.
His talk about being recast filled her with trepidation, however. She had heard of humans who called themselves clowns, painting their faces to resemble Jillybean's people. They mimicked the art, but had no understanding of its purpose. There was no magic in it, or so she had been told.
"The Grimaldi troupe doesn't really take humans..." she said quietly, hoping desperately not to offend the man who'd been so nice to her.

"Of course I'm renowned!" Bottom laughed, jumping back to his feet, "I have the most extensive acting career there has ever been and, if the gods love me - they do - there ever shall!"

He suddenly froze, looked out into the world like a scared lemur, and produced a plastic skull from seemingly nowhere.

"ALAS, POOOOOOOOOOOOOOOR YORRICK!" he exclaimed, throwing his head back like he was wailing, "I!"

He flung into his hand, looking at the ground.

"THEE!" he cried, twisting his side up.

"WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeLL!" he finished, letting loose a scream of exagerated anguish.

He dropped the skull and smiled, "What do you think, my white couoverture?"

Cerberus yanked, the Shroud tearing in half.

Suddenly and seemingly without source, the hound collapsed, dark red blood sprouting from the middle head like a broken pipe. The left head simply growled at Parnell's former position, eying where the Shroud had once been.

It would join them in death, in a moment.

A shadow walked calmly inside the Phlegethon, whistling a soft tune that sounded like a dancing pan-flute.

D's soul tapped Parnell.

"We should fly away," he said.

A hook on a chain flewing from the blaze, getting caught on the half of the Shroud Parnell had. With strength unparelled, the man in the flames yanked the Shroud from Parnell.

"Just go!" D barked, "I don't need blood on my hands!"

Parnell then remembered that he had a fucking Iron Man suit. Oh yeah. That might have come in handy earlier. However, always one to run like hell from a bad situation, Parnell promptly took off and began to fly away from the man. He didn't know where he was headed -- he just knew he was going away.

The jets on Parnell's armor suddenly cut in the air, causing him to plummet to the ground like a brick...

...crashing back into the ISSR base from earlier, finding himself facing D's portal.

"Go on!" D's soul grumbled impatiently.

[Nightkill the Emperor]

The tikbalang led them to the small little tunnel it had found earlier. To move this along, I'll assume that it was called to grab the diamond in its jaws and then pulled it back out.

The rock glowed and sparkled in the light, but it dimmed and brightened at three second intervals. After a moment, they heard a voice seem to chuckle- or perhaps they imagined it- and then a man in a mask seemed to have materialised in front of them.

The tall, broad man raised his eyebrows upon seeing the ragtag group, his bright blue eyes visible despite most of his face being obscured by the mask covering his mouth and nose. "Hello, there." he said cheerfully. "My name, as a few may have guessed, is Set. And I find that rock you hold to be of considerable interest to me and my fellows."

[Individuality-ness]

And back to Lesotho.

Alison was not drinking any coffee. She didn't really need to have more caffeine, being a bunny-girl was hyper enough. Instead she was nibbling on an overpriced fruit salad (stupid Starbucks) and sipping on some free water.

After hearing what Sanchez had in mind, Alison's ears twitched a bit. It wasn't too much of a twitch, and barely noticeable, but something about what was being planned didn't really sound... kosher I guess would be the proper term.

"Mr. Sanchez," Alison asked, turning to him, "so basically we're like your experimental guinea pigs? Or sort of like your living probe?"

[Nightkill the Emperor]

Sanchez sighed. "Look, I've watched you and you guys have turned out to do the impossible and be exceptional in these circumstances. Rather frankly, that's what I'm trying to use right now. Let's be honest- Elfen Highers have the absurd tendency to survive the impossible and do what seems unthinkable. Coincidence? At a certain point, it stops seeming like that. And this is where we need you guys to help us.

So yes, you are my probes and you are my guinea pigs."

"Sounds like unfair bullshit, dude."

"Shut up Corvallis."

[Nationstatelandsville]

Sanchez sighed. "Look, I've watched you and you guys have turned out to do the impossible and be exceptional in these circumstances. Rather frankly, that's what I'm trying to use right now. Let's be honest- Elfen Highers have the absurd tendency to survive the impossible and do what seems unthinkable. Coincidence? At a certain point, it stops seeming like that. And this is where we need you guys to help us.

So yes, you are my probes and you are my guinea pigs."

"Sounds like unfair bullshit, dude."

"Shut up Corvallis."

Aziraphale glanced at the robot.

"I have no interest in your affairs, Lord Rick Sanchez," he said, "You went to Armenio. You were disrupted. You are in trouble. We are not involved."

"We" did not mean "Elfen Highers". Aziraphale was not an Elfen Higher.

"You sort it out," he ordered, before returning to the milky nothing of memory.

[Nightkill the Emperor]

Sanchez sighed. "Look, I've watched you and you guys have turned out to do the impossible and be exceptional in these circumstances. Rather frankly, that's what I'm trying to use right now. Let's be honest- Elfen Highers have the absurd tendency to survive the impossible and do what seems unthinkable. Coincidence? At a certain point, it stops seeming like that. And this is where we need you guys to help us.

So yes, you are my probes and you are my guinea pigs."

"Sounds like unfair bullshit, dude."

"Shut up Corvallis."

Aziraphale glanced at the robot.

"I have no interest in your affairs, Lord Rick Sanchez," he said, "You went to Armenio. You were disrupted. You are in trouble. We are not involved."

"We" did not mean "Elfen Highers". Aziraphale was not an Elfen Higher.

"You sort it out," he ordered, before returning to the milky nothing of memory.

Sanchez sighed. "Do you honestly believe that, Aziraphale?" he asked. "That you can stay outside events and have them not affect you at all?" the Sanchez robot stood up, pacing out of a habit from the human controlling it. "Listen to me. We have no idea what might happen, but there are things going on that are dangerous right now. Heaven is acting- you saw it yourself in Afghanistan. The Fae might be involved in Armenio. Dangerous things are going on. Aziraphale, I do not believe you were alive then, but do you remember the stories you heard of the War of Heaven when Lucifer was cast down with his allies, or the Great Fae War? As a human, my knowledge of it barely goes beyond the surface rumours, since even my sources often simply refuse to tell me what happened in those events of thousands of years before."

Sanchez continued. "Thousands of years, Aziraphale. They were not alive then, but demons, ogres, angels, wizards...all sorts will just clam up and not try to talk about the horrific things they know happened at this time. After hearing some stories, I stopped trying to pry for more knowledge. And the beings I have met who were in this time, they will never discuss it. They were shaped by it, it molded them and it created who they were now. It destroyed them in many ways."

"I am a soldier. I understand what can happen to a man who has seen horrible things. Aziraphale- there is a good chance that those wars and events created the Aleister Crowley you know. And I think they also created Uriel. And if you do not act now, who knows what they might create in the future? What kind of shattered, extreme or deluded man might rise from the ashes? We do not know what is in that portal beyond a few crude guesses. But we know we need to explore it, especially now."

[Individuality-ness]

Sanchez sighed. "Look, I've watched you and you guys have turned out to do the impossible and be exceptional in these circumstances. Rather frankly, that's what I'm trying to use right now. Let's be honest- Elfen Highers have the absurd tendency to survive the impossible and do what seems unthinkable. Coincidence? At a certain point, it stops seeming like that. And this is where we need you guys to help us.

So yes, you are my probes and you are my guinea pigs."

"Sounds like unfair bullshit, dude."

"Shut up Corvallis."

"Lovely. So we ARE being used," Alison muttered bitterly, suddenly thinking about her mother. Her hand shot up to stroke the pendant on her neck, although Alison didn't seem to notice. "It's not the first time the United States government has used anybody, has it? But of course, we're from Elfen High, many of us are 'abnormal' freaks, we're expendable, we have this tendency to survive bullshit and you're going to use it to your advantage. When has the US government ever done that, right? All is good in this world! A part of our great nation, am I right?"

At this moment, Alison was thinking about her mother, how she died. Her mother, young and full of potential, dead in Cairo. Hell from her father for years after that, her poor father, and it seemed as if no one cares.

(This might be because the writer is slightly irked about the US government in the present day, of course.)

"But I digress," she concluded, rolling her eyes. "Now, what are we doing and how are we going to do it?"

[Zarkenis Ultima]

The tikbalang led them to the small little tunnel it had found earlier. To move this along, I'll assume that it was called to grab the diamond in its jaws and then pulled it back out.

The rock glowed and sparkled in the light, but it dimmed and brightened at three second intervals. After a moment, they heard a voice seem to chuckle- or perhaps they imagined it- and then a man in a mask seemed to have materialised in front of them.

The tall, broad man raised his eyebrows upon seeing the ragtag group, his bright blue eyes visible despite most of his face being obscured by the mask covering his mouth and nose. "Hello, there." he said cheerfully. "My name, as a few may have guessed, is Set. And I find that rock you hold to be of considerable interest to me and my fellows."

Alastor blinked.

"...For what reason, Set?" He asked warily, putting aside for a moment the fact that the Egyptians were supposed to be all dead.

[Nightkill the Emperor]

Sanchez sighed. "Look, I've watched you and you guys have turned out to do the impossible and be exceptional in these circumstances. Rather frankly, that's what I'm trying to use right now. Let's be honest- Elfen Highers have the absurd tendency to survive the impossible and do what seems unthinkable. Coincidence? At a certain point, it stops seeming like that. And this is where we need you guys to help us.

So yes, you are my probes and you are my guinea pigs."

"Sounds like unfair bullshit, dude."

"Shut up Corvallis."

"Lovely. So we ARE being used," Alison muttered bitterly, suddenly thinking about her mother. Her hand shot up to stroke the pendant on her neck, although Alison didn't seem to notice. "It's not the first time the United States government has used anybody, has it? But of course, we're from Elfen High, many of us are 'abnormal' freaks, we're expendable, we have this tendency to survive bullshit and you're going to use it to your advantage. When has the US government ever done that, right? All is good in this world! A part of our great nation, am I right?"

At this moment, Alison was thinking about her mother, how she died. Her mother, young and full of potential, dead in Cairo. Hell from her father for years after that, her poor father, and it seemed as if no one cares.

(This might be because the writer is slightly irked about the US government in the present day, of course.)

"But I digress," she concluded, rolling her eyes. "Now, what are we doing and how are we going to do it?"

"Your dress and clothes are American-made, you are an American citizen, you are in an American establishment, the United States government was the primary leader of the war against Azazel and America was the primary country helping rebuild the destroyed parts of the world- including Cairo, Egypt, Alison Carter. We are trying as we speak to help civilise Hell and make it a productive society, often with the aid of Lord Alastor. We might make mistakes- but we are trying the best we can to save this planet. But this is not an American goal- it's a human goal." he stressed, briefly forgetting Aziraphale's race. "Just please cooperate with us and then you can leave your hatred of our-" Subtle emphasis on our. "government to your online forums and blogs, alright?"

[Astrolinium]

Parnell hesitated not at all, jumping through D's portal in a graceful motion not entirely unlike a swan-dive -- the major difference, of course, being that swan dives generally involve a path rather like this: ♐^→↓, whereas Parnell's jump was more of this: ⇒. Also, as he did not remember the portal being either a diving board or over a deep pool of water or other liquid, his landing would likely not be the happiest of all possible landings.

But screw that -- Parnell's jump had style.

[Nationstatelandsville]

Sanchez sighed. "Look, I've watched you and you guys have turned out to do the impossible and be exceptional in these circumstances. Rather frankly, that's what I'm trying to use right now. Let's be honest- Elfen Highers have the absurd tendency to survive the impossible and do what seems unthinkable. Coincidence? At a certain point, it stops seeming like that. And this is where we need you guys to help us.

So yes, you are my probes and you are my guinea pigs."

"Sounds like unfair bullshit, dude."

"Shut up Corvallis."

"Lovely. So we ARE being used," Alison muttered bitterly, suddenly thinking about her mother. Her hand shot up to stroke the pendant on her neck, although Alison didn't seem to notice. "It's not the first time the United States government has used anybody, has it? But of course, we're from Elfen High, many of us are 'abnormal' freaks, we're expendable, we have this tendency to survive bullshit and you're going to use it to your advantage. When has the US government ever done that, right? All is good in this world! A part of our great nation, am I right?"

At this moment, Alison was thinking about her mother, how she died. Her mother, young and full of potential, dead in Cairo. Hell from her father for years after that, her poor father, and it seemed as if no one cares.

(This might be because the writer is slightly irked about the US government in the present day, of course.)

"But I digress," she concluded, rolling her eyes. "Now, what are we doing and how are we going to do it?"

"Quiet, child," Aziraphale snapped, grabbing Alison by the wrist and raising his palm in the air.

---

Aziraphale screamed as the whip tore into his flesh, leaving behind burning gashes that poured ichor onto the ground. Tears bubbled in his eyes against the walls of his mind, all thoughts consumed by the fires of pain.

"I am sorry, Father!" he blubbered, "I am sorry, I am sorry! I will not speak in church again, I swear!"

"The oaths of a sinner mean nothing!" the Father giggled, his eyes bright, as he brutalized the four-year-old's back, leavining mangled and twisted flesh atop an ocean of blood.

"Father, I am sorry!" Aziraphale roared, his voice raw and his back even rawer.

"Quiet, child!" the Father barked, "Ridwan! Fetch me the wheel!"

---

Aziraphale dropped her and backed away.

"I... I..." he stuttered, "I want to go home."

He teleported out of the Starbucks and onto the roof of the nearest skyscraper. He stood on the edgfe of the building and looked down. He closed his eyes tight and took a deep breath. The height was dizzying and he swerved a bit, threatening to careen off. The wind blew gently, pushing the folds of his coat - his human coat, his straightjacket - against his form.

What if he jumped? Would the earth crack beneath him? Would he fall back to Heavensgate?

[Nightkill the Emperor]

"Lovely. So we ARE being used," Alison muttered bitterly, suddenly thinking about her mother. Her hand shot up to stroke the pendant on her neck, although Alison didn't seem to notice. "It's not the first time the United States government has used anybody, has it? But of course, we're from Elfen High, many of us are 'abnormal' freaks, we're expendable, we have this tendency to survive bullshit and you're going to use it to your advantage. When has the US government ever done that, right? All is good in this world! A part of our great nation, am I right?"

At this moment, Alison was thinking about her mother, how she died. Her mother, young and full of potential, dead in Cairo. Hell from her father for years after that, her poor father, and it seemed as if no one cares.

(This might be because the writer is slightly irked about the US government in the present day, of course.)

"But I digress," she concluded, rolling her eyes. "Now, what are we doing and how are we going to do it?"

"Quiet, child," Aziraphale snapped, grabbing Alison by the wrist and raising his palm in the air.

---

Aziraphale screamed as the whip tore into his flesh, leaving behind burning gashes that poured ichor onto the ground. Tears bubbled in his eyes against the walls of his mind, all thoughts consumed by the fires of pain.

"I am sorry, Father!" he blubbered, "I am sorry, I am sorry! I will not speak in church again, I swear!"

"The oaths of a sinner mean nothing!" the Father giggled, his eyes bright, as he brutalized the four-year-old's back, leavining mangled and twisted flesh atop an ocean of blood.

"Father, I am sorry!" Aziraphale roared, his voice raw and his back even rawer.

"Quiet, child!" the Father barked, "Ridwan! Fetch me the wheel!"

---

Aziraphale dropped her and backed away.

"I... I..." he stuttered, "I want to go home."

He teleported out of the Starbucks and onto the roof of the nearest skyscraper. He stood on the edgfe of the building and looked down. He closed his eyes tight and took a deep breath. The height was dizzying and he swerved a bit, threatening to careen off. The wind blew gently, pushing the folds of his coat - his human coat, his straightjacket - against his form.

What if he jumped? Would the earth crack beneath him? Would he fall back to Heavensgate?

"You'd certainly ruin your costume." advised a familiar voice. Michael seemed to be standing behind him. Not the real Michael- Aziraphale could see that it was a projection cast by the real one somewhere else. But it was undoubtedly Michael, giving a tired grin. "Have a seat here on the bench." he said, giving a gesture to said bench. "It'll be fine, alright? Now sit down." That last tone came as an order from the former head of the angelic army, a man who Aziraphale had been sworn to obey since childhood.

[Individuality-ness]

"Lovely. So we ARE being used," Alison muttered bitterly, suddenly thinking about her mother. Her hand shot up to stroke the pendant on her neck, although Alison didn't seem to notice. "It's not the first time the United States government has used anybody, has it? But of course, we're from Elfen High, many of us are 'abnormal' freaks, we're expendable, we have this tendency to survive bullshit and you're going to use it to your advantage. When has the US government ever done that, right? All is good in this world! A part of our great nation, am I right?"

At this moment, Alison was thinking about her mother, how she died. Her mother, young and full of potential, dead in Cairo. Hell from her father for years after that, her poor father, and it seemed as if no one cares.

(This might be because the writer is slightly irked about the US government in the present day, of course.)

"But I digress," she concluded, rolling her eyes. "Now, what are we doing and how are we going to do it?"

"Your dress and clothes are American-made, you are an American citizen, you are in an American establishment, the United States government was the primary leader of the war against Azazel and America was the primary country helping rebuild the destroyed parts of the world- including Cairo, Egypt, Alison Carter. We are trying as we speak to help civilise Hell and make it a productive society, often with the aid of Lord Alastor. We might make mistakes- but we are trying the best we can to save this planet. But this is not an American goal- it's a human goal." he stressed, briefly forgetting Aziraphale's race. "Just please cooperate with us and then you can leave your hatred of our-" Subtle emphasis on our. "government to your online forums and blogs, alright?"

"We're supposed to do good in this world, for Heavensgate and Hell and Earth and everything else. So what are we doing now? Sending students to investigate something that we don't know, and the only thing we have is the prayer that nothing is going to kill us."

She didn't seem to notice Aziraphile grabbing her wrist and then dropping it. Also because Nat posted before I finished this.

"Is this how we're supposed to do good in the world? By sending a group of teenagers and angels who probably do not know what they are doing to their possible deaths, in order to find out how to save the human race and hoping that the luck of Elfen High's prior success will hold? Is this how we're going to go about and ensure the well being of both human- and angel-kind?

"But again, I'm digressing from the now. A dissertation on the government and its hypocrisy in regards on how its trying to solve the world's problems can come later both in the past and the present can come later. I'm here now, and I'm not going to turn back, even if this screams of human rights abuse and whatnot. Whatever comes will come, and I will accept the consequences.

"So what are we doing and how we are going to do it?"

[Nationstatelandsville]

"Quiet, child," Aziraphale snapped, grabbing Alison by the wrist and raising his palm in the air.

---

Aziraphale screamed as the whip tore into his flesh, leaving behind burning gashes that poured ichor onto the ground. Tears bubbled in his eyes against the walls of his mind, all thoughts consumed by the fires of pain.

"I am sorry, Father!" he blubbered, "I am sorry, I am sorry! I will not speak in church again, I swear!"

"The oaths of a sinner mean nothing!" the Father giggled, his eyes bright, as he brutalized the four-year-old's back, leavining mangled and twisted flesh atop an ocean of blood.

"Father, I am sorry!" Aziraphale roared, his voice raw and his back even rawer.

"Quiet, child!" the Father barked, "Ridwan! Fetch me the wheel!"

---

Aziraphale dropped her and backed away.

"I... I..." he stuttered, "I want to go home."

He teleported out of the Starbucks and onto the roof of the nearest skyscraper. He stood on the edgfe of the building and looked down. He closed his eyes tight and took a deep breath. The height was dizzying and he swerved a bit, threatening to careen off. The wind blew gently, pushing the folds of his coat - his human coat, his straightjacket - against his form.

What if he jumped? Would the earth crack beneath him? Would he fall back to Heavensgate?

"You'd certainly ruin your costume." advised a familiar voice. Michael seemed to be standing behind him. Not the real Michael- Aziraphale could see that it was a projection cast by the real one somewhere else. But it was undoubtedly Michael, giving a tired grin. "Have a seat here on the bench." he said, giving a gesture to said bench. "It'll be fine, alright? Now sit down." That last tone came as an order from the former head of the angelic army, a man who Aziraphale had been sworn to obey since childhood.

Aziraphale blinked at the bench, which was strangely on the roof of an office building.

"Hey, what the hell is-" barked a security, guard, throwing the door open. He stopped when he saw Aziraphale's pink suit.

"Fuck this job," the guard spat, retreating back into the Taka-Jameson building.

Aziraphale nodded and saluted his Lord - the sign of the cross (head, "In nomine Patris", chest, "et Filii", and shoulders, "et Spiritus Sancti"), followed by the Roman salute with the fingers still in cross shape, "Amen".

Aziraphale winced as he finished, his memory not failing.

Reluctantly, he took a seat.

"Lord Michael!" he cried nervously after a moment of hesitation, "You're alive! Lord Raphael said you were dead!"

[Nightkill the Emperor]

"You'd certainly ruin your costume." advised a familiar voice. Michael seemed to be standing behind him. Not the real Michael- Aziraphale could see that it was a projection cast by the real one somewhere else. But it was undoubtedly Michael, giving a tired grin. "Have a seat here on the bench." he said, giving a gesture to said bench. "It'll be fine, alright? Now sit down." That last tone came as an order from the former head of the angelic army, a man who Aziraphale had been sworn to obey since childhood.

Aziraphale blinked at the bench, which was strangely on the roof of an office building.

"Hey, what the hell is-" barked a security, guard, throwing the door open. He stopped when he saw Aziraphale's pink suit.

"Fuck this job," the guard spat, retreating back into the Taka-Jameson building.

Aziraphale nodded and saluted his Lord - the sign of the cross (head, "In nomine Patris", chest, "et Filii", and shoulders, "et Spiritus Sancti"), followed by the Roman salute with the fingers still in cross shape, "Amen".

Aziraphale winced as he finished, his memory not failing.

Reluctantly, he took a seat.

"Lord Michael!" he cried nervously after a moment of hesitation, "You're alive! Lord Raphael said you were dead!"

"That is what he believes. And I'd rather you let him keep thinking that." Michael explained. "He's not entirely wrong..." Michael muttered. "I'll be blunt now. I am dying slowly. But I'm also keeping the universe together for now, so it balances out. Let's hope the real Harbinger finally comes back so he can do his bloody job. It is extremely painful for me to appear as this image in front of you, but I had to do it." Michael sighed. "You shouldn't trust Sanchez, I admit. Bad idea to do so. But you need to go along with his plan right now." the archangel explained.

[Norvenia]

Gently, Daniel Andreas sat Sisitu back on her feet and shifted slightly, his finger lightly touching his rifle's trigger, the butt pulled into his shoulder, the muzzle not quite elevated. He felt an itching at the back of his neck, as if he were being watched by an unseen and hostile presence. He felt no reverence, no awe; Daniel had long ago decided that while the Norse, Hindu, and Egyptian "gods" might exist - or at least might once have existed - but that this did not make them divine. They were immensely powerful, but not omnipotent; immensely wise, but not omniscient; and most of them made no pretense at all to omnibenevolence. All of which meant that Daniel viewed them as rather more powerful versions of vampire counts, or of Uriel's so-called "angels": worthy of respect, but not of reverence.

"I'd say that the rock has something to do with your presence here," Daniel speculated, his tone mild. "The way I heard the story, the Egyptian...entities...were not destroyed. They were cast out, exiled somehow from our plane." The priest shrugged. "But, obviously, I can see you. Which leads me to conclude that one of two things is the case. Either you are an illusion of the Fae - or you are what you claim to be, in which case there is some powerful magic at work here." Daniel raised his eyebrows. "The fae virus is one thing; but the only magic which I see that seems powerful enough to justify your presence is in that rock. It is linked to your appearance, then; it enables it." The priest smiled briefly. "And that's why you want it. Which is natural. And I don't need the rock, not necessarily. But I do need to know what it is, what it does. I need to know what's going on here." Daniel inclined his head. "Perhaps we can help one another."