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Part 2 - Vladivostok, 12 Kilometers
 
 

    Imagine one of those three-dimensional puzzles. Imagine if something caused all the pieces to fly outwards in all directions. Now imagine if the movement suddenly started going in reverse, back into its original form, except that whatever it was pulling the pieces back didn't remember entirely where all of them went.
    God looked over this explanation and saw that it was Good Enough.
    She wished it didn't have to involve Her as well, though. Sitting around and watching was boring enough, but even moreso when you had to do it from a boardwalk in New York. And She couldn't even play skeeball in the mean time, on account of being a jumbled-up bunch of puzzle pieces.
    God hesitated and thought back to Her explanation before, and thought perhaps it might need a little tweaking, for clarity's sake.

    "No, don't swim, you idiot," said Crowley. "What's there to swim against?"
    Loki looked up resentfully at the demon, hovering about twenty feet above him amid hazy, yellow, nondescript nothingness. (He couldn't figure out the yellow part, admittedly.) He opened his mouth and spoke in protest, but the only thing that came out were short, halted snaps and pops, like a voice recording that had failed to pick up anything but static.
    He was starting to envy Crowley's ability to speak without air.
    "Listen," Crowley said impatiently, "it's just like regular walking, all right? Don't tell me you don't know how to do this. If you don't get up here by the time it starts snapping back, you'll be six feet underground at least." He paused. "No pun intended there."
    Loki looked down, or what approximated as down, and saw small fragments of black earth popping back into place, little by little. It was about a hundred feet below them, rising steadily.
    The ghost tried it again, struggling to follow Crowley's instructions. It was hard, trying to tread on ground that wasn't there. Oh, sure, Aziraphale and Crowley could convince themselves that matter was where it wasn't, it was part and parcel with their jobs a lot of the time, but people like Bartleby and him? They'd lost all of their manifestation powers the moment they had been banished. They'd had no truck with anything particularly metaphysical for over three thousand years.
    So while it's relatively true that you never forget how to ride a bicycle, thousands of years without practice doesn't really help matters.
    "It's getting closer." The demon sounded irritated.
    Loki was getting annoyed as well. Here he was, being talked down to by the evil snake that had indirectly caused six thousand years of vexation, and half of that time he, Loki, had had to spend in the thick of it.
    At least stupid Crowley and stupid Aziraphale got to stick around in countries that had Judaism and Christianity. Did either of them know what it was like to be a metaphysical entity belonging to a religious pantheon that no one within hundreds of thousands of miles had even heard of? It was like having a calculus degree in a country that hadn't discovered basic math. Thank God --or at least thank someone-- for oppressive, white, American settlers bringing their religion with them. It had almost felt like home again.
    Crowley grabbed his arm and yanked him up, just as a puzzle piece of brown earth filled the spot where Loki's feet had resided. The demon looked down at his gripped hand for a moment, appeared to reach a decision, and began to ascend while dragging Loki behind him.
    "This isn't a good time to be zoning out," Crowley said.
    Loki emitted a series of stammered, butchered sounds in argument.
    "No need to get cheeky." The demon stopped and looked around, although what he was looking for in the blank environment was beyond Loki. "We're on ground level now. The Bentley should be about sixty paces in that direction," he said, nodding slightly off to his left.
    He started pulling Loki along again, but the ghost yanked his arm from his grasp, walking forward on his own. His movements were stilted and awkward, but Crowley supposed it was better than having to drag him the whole way, at any rate. He glided alongside Loki in the direction of the car. Cement was appearing below their feet.
    Sound returned.
    "...hell happened anyway?" Loki asked, only the latter of his sentence rendered audible.
    "You know, I never met an angel that swore as much as you do. How do you keep a clear conscience while you do it?"
    Loki, several feet in front of Crowley now, hesitated. "I never really thought about it much. It's just how people talk nowadays."
    "I'll grant you that. I guess I'd be the same, in your circumstance."
    "Really?"
    "No."
    Crowley stopped moving, his feet landing on real concrete. Loki glanced back at him and stopped as well.
    "You never answered my question," said Loki.
    "The universe fell apart."
    "Oh, well, that answers everything."
    The demon appeared further irritated. "Supernaturally speaking, what would you consider the United States' greatest export?"
    Loki's face froze up in concentration while he worked this one out. "Er, the Last Scion, I guess. Relative of Jesus Christ. Why?"
    "Do you know what the United Kingdom's is?"
    "Not offhand."
    The rebuilding picked up slightly now that it had reached Earth's surface, so several moments later --faster than Crowley could appropriately react-- the Bentley and all of the other cars along the pavement reformed themselves. Crowley looked at Loki, or what could be seen of Loki, and winced.
    "Fuck," the ghost whimpered. "I'm thinking this would hurt like hell if I could feel it." He had been standing where the Bentley's rear left wheel had begun on the asphalt, so as the car had been reconstructed upwards, Loki had been caught up in it. Quite messily.
    "Eugh," said Crowley, face contorted in agony.
    "S'all right, I'm--"
    "My poor car..."
    Loki stared at him with the one eye that was visible through the framework. "Oh-kay. Could you maybe get me out?"
    Crowley was all too happy to. Although Loki thought he spent more time going over the repaired section than he really needed to, as if something was still damaged there despite his powers.
    The demon gave it up after a while and climbed into the driver's seat. He fumbled with a CD case marked Pachelbel's Canon in D and slid the disc into the Bentley's player. Strains of Queen flooded out.
    Loki slid into the passenger's seat, saying over the music, "Why are we listening to this crap?"
    "It's been in here for more than a fortnight. Look, I'm surprised it works with CDs too, all right?" said Crowley, seeming to be answering an additional question Loki hadn't asked.
    "Fortnight?"
    "Two weeks."
    "Oh yeah." Loki looked straight ahead for a moment. The tops of buildings were nearly reconstructed now. Cars passed on the roadway as normal. "But what's that gotta do with anything?" he burst out suddenly.
    Crowley reached over into the glove compartment and extracted his spare sunglasses. "You don't drive, do you?" he asked. He sounded accusing.
    And Loki, in turn, looked guilty. "So what?"
    "Nevermind."
    "So why are we listening to this stuff?"
    "I'm waiting for instructions," said the demon, staring at the CD player. "Things haven't been restored, you know. Someone's still messing with the world."
    Loki stared down the street. "Was the Eiffel Tower always in London?"
    "See what I mean?"
    "This is bullshit. What's doing this?" Loki watched a near collision on the street as an American car and driver found themselves quite suddenly in another part of the world. He grimaced. "What was the point of bringing the Last Scion up, anyway?"
    "All I was saying was that there are some pretty powerful figures on the planet that can do stuff like this. Not your Last Scion, of course. Relatives of Christ don't usually go in for tearing universes apart, last time I checked." He frowned at the CD player, which was already on the second song, and thumped it, blessing under his breath. The CD skipped slightly, but no demonic voice switched on. "Someone felt the need to pull everything apart and then restructure it around them. Like a shield or something. Can't you sense that?"
    Loki said, "I'm a janitor from Purgatory. What kind of supernatural powers do you think we get?"
    "You're practically a human," Crowley sneered.
    "I was a human! That's how I died!"
    "That must've been quite interesting. Didn't your head explode or something?" Crowley had picked out some of the more interesting bits in the report.
    "No, that was Bartleby. I just got stabbed."
    "That's somehow very anticlimatic." Crowley looked up at him. "Get out of the car. Maybe they're not coming through because you're here."
    Loki climbed out, and leaned on the side of the Bentley while he waited. Queen carried on faintly through the parted windows. Loki crossed his arms over his chest.
    He really wished he was on the side of righteousness again. Then he could have an excuse to find a flaming sword, grab Crowley by his spiky black hair, and...
    But Purgatory got to you in the same way Heaven and Hell did, making you start to think in the same way all the others there did. So Heaven was Good, Hell was Evil, and Purgatory was Impartial. What a stupid thing to be, Loki thought wretchedly. 'What side are you on?' 'Oh, I'm just on this fucking fence here...'
    The CD had ended and had started repeating the beginning song by the time the passenger door opened again. Loki bent low to peer inwards, and met Crowley's gaze.
    "No luck," Crowley said grimly.
    "Your people communicate to you through Queen CDs?"
    "Not all the time." The demon didn't appear to be in a mood to get defensive about it. Right then he appeared nearly concerned. "I wonder if Aziraphale's having any better luck."
    "Where are those two, anyway?"
    "Not here. And they didn't get trapped underground because I know that if they did, Aziraphale would never let me hear the end of it." The engine growled to life. "Get in."
    "Turn off the Queen first."
    The demon grudgingly conceded, turning the player off. Loki climbed in once again, and the door shut after him on its own.
    "Where are we going?"
    "Out of the city, for a start. Provided we can get there."
    "What, like the city's limits won't be the same anymore?" asked Loki.
    Crowley said, "No, because all of these Americans on the road are going to start causing pile-ups in about fifteen seconds."

    Aziraphale drew a circle in the ground with a stick. It was a stick he'd found nearby after gravity had been restored. After the circle was drawn, he started making a complicated geometric figure within it.
    Bartleby stood some way off, looking at the sun in the west. It was more comforting to look at it in that direction than to turn around and see it over there in the east, or to look north or south and see it in the corner of your vision in both eyes.
    "Are you sure this sort of thing still works?" he called, not looking around.
    "It's not failed me yet," replied the angel, aware that it was only half true. He admitted to himself that for the past few centuries, the circle did take a bit of persuading before connecting him.
    "You know," said Bartleby, stuffing his hands in his pockets, "nowadays stuff like that isn't seen as being very Christian. Hell, it usually counts as occult."
    "Really."
    "So how can you do it with a clear conscience?"
    "I suppose I've never really thought about it, dear boy." Aziraphale leaned forward more and started etching symbols around the circle's circumference. He only regretted he didn't have any candles on him. "It's just what we've always done."
    "I guess so." There was a sound off in the distance that Bartleby wished he could place. It was getting louder.
    He had to commend the Principality for his dedication, if nothing else. After they'd landed... well, wherever they'd landed, the angel's first instinct had been to get in contact with his superiors. Bartleby wouldn't have done that, even when he had been an angel. He'd have figured out where they were first.
    Staring in the direction of one of the suns, Bartleby thought, What's west except the direction the sun sets, anyway? Directions were first laid down in reference to the sun. It was a very easy thing to use as a reference point, what with how big and glowy it was, not to mention that it took all day to get from one side to the other.
    With the sun in front of him and the sun behind him, and possibly the sun right above him too, Bartleby realized that Aziraphale had had the right idea.
    No. That was wrong. Bartleby was beginning to suspect that the angel didn't have much of anything going on inside his head, that Aziraphale simply moved to contact his superiors because that was his knee-jerk reaction to trouble. Goody little two-shoes Aziraphale.
    The noise was getting louder. It sounded metallic.
    Why did he, Bartleby, get banished? What had he done? Here Aziraphale was, friends with a fucking demon, and the authorities just didn't care. Why did they turn a blind eye towards Aziraphale and not towards him and Loki?
    A nagging little voice in his head went, Well, Aziraphale had never quit his job, made an Angel of Death do likewise, and, several thousand years later, try to cancel out Existence...
    That was the thing about transubstantiating to human. You had to grow a conscience. It wasn't fair.
    Bartleby was very curious in what that sound was, because it was getting even louder now. He turned to his left, where Aziraphale stood reciting words frustratedly, and farther away, a train was nearing, on track that created itself as it went. It was in a direct line with Aziraphale, who had taken no notice of it at all.
    Bartleby felt a rush of adrenaline that his ghost-form had simulated for itself, and he broke into a run across the field.
    "Aziraphale! Fuck-- Aziraphale!" Why the hell did the bastard have to have such stilted name?
    The angel did not look up. He was so immersed in the incantation that he couldn't hear.
    Bartleby sprinted forward and went into a leap. He knocked Aziraphale to the ground, and the two went rolling. Several seconds later, the train barreled onward on newly-made track, ruining Aziraphale's circle.
    Its whistle blew shrilly as it passed, in obedience to the sacred laws of literary cliches everywhere.
    The two beings rolled to a halt after a while, with Aziraphale pinned under Bartleby. He lifted his head, eyes wide. Bartleby pushed himself off and climbed to his feet, extending no hand to help Aziraphale up as well. He brushed the dirt from his jacket.
    Aziraphale shook the leaves from his hair, watching the clanking train with a distant look in his eyes. "Well, we at least know we're still in the country."
    "Yeah?"
    "That's British Rail."
    They started walking, going vaguely along the same route as the train tracks that were bound to lead somewhere. They were aware that their direction sense was completely skewed. At least, Aziraphale's was skewed, and Bartleby's was nonexistent.
    After a while the sun seemed to orient itself again, and it started setting in the west. Or what they could best assume was west. They supposed the important thing was that there was only one sun setting, at any rate.
    It was growing colder. They pulled their coats closer around themselves.
    "I... couldn't get through," Aziraphale said unhappily, eyes towards the ground.
    "All lines busy?"
    "Of course not, dear boy. It's Heaven," said the angel, feeling that answered everything.
    "I guess inconvenience's more of a Hell thing, huh?"
    Aziraphale said, "I suppose it is these days, if they've taken Crowley's suggestions. He's always trying to get Hell up to speed with Earth, you know, but he says the people down there are a little 'old-fashioned.'" If the angel had been any more expressive with the quotation marks, he would have been marking them in the air. Bartleby thought he only didn't because they were stuffed in his pockets. "No, there was some other reason that I couldn't connect. Something's interfering."
    "What is?"
    "Something powerful enough to halt communication with Heaven. How many beings do you know that are capable of something like that?"
    Aziraphale watched the ghost start counting in his head and added hastily, "And would try to."
    "Oh. Huh. Er, not many. You?"
    "I don't believe-- Well, I suppose there is-- Ah, but Crowley and I are fairly certain he's given up his powers." The angel appeared fidgety. "And as I recall, he wasn't particularly bent on destruction, in the end."
    "Who?"
    "Oh, erm... The Antichrist," said Aziraphale, looking embarrassed. "But he really isn't any sort of threat. If he was, we would know about it. We haven't heard a sound from him since 1990, and we have been sure to check in occasionally."
    "The Antichrist?"
    "Oh. Yes."
    "The fucking Antichrist?!"
    "Bartleby, I'm about to take issue with your swearing..."
    The ghost grabbed Aziraphale roughly by the shoulder. "The Antichrist is here, in England?"
    He received an odd look. "I'm surprised you weren't aware of that. We were meant to have Armageddon over ten years ago. Weren't you informed?"
    Bartleby stared at him.

    Outside Tadfield, in the long, dark grass, Mrs. Anathema Device stood up straight. Her hair whipped in the wind that had grown stronger as she'd neared the town.
    She was starting to wish Newt hadn't made her throw out those bloody books.

    The black car rolled to a stop on the shoulder, its engine whining.
    Crowley slumped forward on to the steering wheel. He'd done everything short of making the Bentley fly to get them out of that city, and it had nearly not been enough. It wasn't just drivers finding themselves suddenly on the wrong side of the road (and world), it was that the streets had all changed, and every turn led you into some haphazard, winding alley full of things that were keen on losing their supports and falling down on you.
    And Loki wasn't helping. Like he had anything to worry about, the corpse. Crowley could still sustain damage, and Loki didn't hear him complaining.
    They were outside the city now, and it was still little comfort. None of the roads were recognizable, and hardly anything of the landscape was familiar. There were a few road signs, but they were in Russian. Even if he was up to date on the written language, Crowley could not have kept his eyes in focus long enough to read the signs.
    "Are you all right, man?" he heard the ghost say.
    He hadn't remembered feeling this tired in a long time. At least, he didn't remember ever becoming so exhausted so quickly. He felt like... something that had all of its energy drained and had to go into the reserve that really wasn't there in the first place, style of thing.
    Crowley knew he had to be tired if he couldn't even think of a good allegory.
    "No," he answered, groaning.
    "Oh..." Loki looked around. "What's wrong?"
    Crowley thought of being sarcastic, and considered that even if the janitor managed to pick up on it, he would still find a way to take it seriously. He thought of telling the truth, that he couldn't communicate with Below, and this worried him because, far beyond lacking instructions, he had no idea what his superiors were doing or if they were doing anything. He thought of confessing that he was at a complete loss and he was getting scared, or the nearest to scared as a demon can get. He thought of falling asleep right there.
    He opted for the last of these.
    Moments later, or what felt like moments later, Crowley was shaken awake. He looked over into Loki's frantic eyes.
    "What the hell are you doing?" the ghost cried.
    Crowley stared hard at him. "If I were to say 'sleeping', your response would be something to the effect of 'but demons don't sleep; evil never sleeps' and then we'd get into a bloody big argument about why that is or isn't fundamentally true, and then--"
    "Sleeping? But you're a demon!"
    Crowley stared harder. The words 'Has anyone ever mentioned to you that you have the intellectual capacity of small, fuzzy, green things growing on bread?' went through his mind. Why couldn't he have gotten the other ghost stuck with him? He'd seemed like a pretty reasonable fellow, even if Purgatory's laissez-faire stance had rubbed off on him a bit too much.
    Every syllable was taxing, so Crowley opted not for his long, elaborate sentence in favor of "Please shut up" and closed his eyes again.
    "You're not going back to sleep, are you?"
    "Right in one. Have you got any better ideas?" Crowley lifted his head slightly, which took some effort. "We don't know where to go. We hardly even know where we are, given how things are screwed up. Whatever's out there is beating us down, because I feel sick, and I've never felt sick in six thousand years. Not even when being sick was fashionable. And I'm surprised you're as well off as you are."
    Loki looked down at himself. The demon was right: he wasn't even going slightly transparent yet, and he felt perfectly fine, as far as ghosts went.
    He glanced up at Crowley and said congenially, "Well, how much power d'you think you can take away from a janitor in the first place?"
    "Point."
    "Point where?"
    "I mean, you have a point."
    "Oh. Yeah, I guess I do. Huh, er..." Loki leaned towards him. "Why don't you go lie down in the back, and I'll drive? If you're so tired and all..."
    "How endearing. But you can't drive," Crowley said, adding mentally that he didn't care if Loki could, he wasn't going to touch the Bentley's steering wheel. Ever.
    "Well, how hard could it be?" the ghost asked, brow creasing. "I watched you do it through all of London."
    "And you think all drivers shift by gesturing slightly in the air?"
    Loki stared at him blankly. "They don't?"

    In the eye of a swirling black vortex, in a calm, milk-white nothingness, Adam Young looked down at her. He was wondering if he should be considering her a Her.
    She looked back up at him.
    Eventually he stammered, "C-can I get you anything to drink?"

    Aziraphale tripped on an unseen root, and fell. He waited for a moment, sprawled on the damp ground, and then, frustrated, pulled himself to his feet. Bartleby was standing near him.
    The angel made no comment. Courtesy wasn't much of a feature in Purgatory. At any rate, from what Aziraphale remembered, Bartleby hadn't been the nicest angel to begin with, and life in Wisconsin hadn't improved his disposition. Especially towards the end.
    They kept walking.
    "So, this Crowley guy..." Bartleby said, looking straight ahead.
    "Yes?"
    "Serpent in the tree?"
    "Oh, please don't even start about that, Bartleby," said Aziraphale, exasperated. "He was only doing his job. And anyway --and I'm hardly playing devil's advocate here, I should think-- she didn't have to take the apple. Crowley's stressed that point to me numerous times."
    Bartleby looked affronted. "Hey, I wasn't even gonna start. It's not my place to judge."
    "I must say, that's quite the reversal of how you've acted before."
    The ghost mumbled, "I've had time to think about it."
    They trudged on in silence for some time, the only sound being the small but persistent chitterings of the nocturnal creatures.
    Bartleby coughed. "Anyway, I was just bringing it up 'cause I remember you talking to him in Eden. The snake." He spoke awkwardly, Aziraphale felt, as if he was nervously prodding at a subject and somewhat falling short of this.
    "Oh. Yes."
    "So you've kinda... kept in contact, over the years?"
    Aziraphale studied what he could see of Bartleby's face. "Quite often, yes, but why...?"
    "I was just wondering."
    "I see..."
    Bartleby tripped on a rock. Aziraphale reached forward and held him from falling. It was instinct, or possibly just habit. Bartleby steadied himself with Aziraphale's help and then pulled away from the angel, farther than he had been before.
    "I just thought of something," Bartleby said suddenly, after another period of silence.
    "Hm?"
    "Our lunch break should have ended hours ago."
    Aziraphale considered this statement. "Shouldn't you have been called back, in that case?"
    "You'd think so," said Bartleby. "You'd really think so. They're usually strict as all hell on it-- and don't bother correcting me on that, you know it's just a figure of speech."
    "As I understand it, that isn't broadly inaccurate. But go on."
    "Well, the last few times Loki and I went to lunch, we got a notice saying when we had to go back. I haven't gotten anything. And, well, you say you can't get through to Heaven..."
    They looked at each other.
    "Do you suppose Crowley hasn't gotten through either?" Aziraphale mused.
    "If he hasn't, that means the Earth's cut off somehow," Bartleby said grimly.
    "Someone doesn't want interference."
    "Your Antichrist," Bartleby persisted.
    Aziraphale gave a short, humorless laugh, and looked away. "My dear boy, the Antichrist has resigned himself to being fully human. Even if he had retained his powers, he would be using them discreetly. What would trigger something of this magnitude?"
    "It's like you expect me to have all the answers," the ghost complained.
    "Well? What reason do you have for suspecting the Antichrist?"
    "Oh, I dunno, the fact that he's the Antichrist?" Bartleby said sarcastically. He spread his arms. "He's the son of Satan! How can you, as an angel, not care about that?"
    "I suppose it must come down to the fact that I've met him." Aziraphale gave Bartleby a small smile. It took effort, because he was feeling weak. "The last time I saw him, he was a bright young boy that wanted nothing so much as to live a normal life. And trust me, he did have other options."
    "Isn't he just evil incarnate, though? I saw these movies once..."
    "I think it's better if Crowley explained it to you. I'm not very good at it, I'm afraid." The angel wiped moisture from his forehead, despite the cold night and their easy pace. His face felt hot.
    "Okay, so if it's not the Antichrist, who is it? Someone else out of Hell?"
    "They'd have to be very high-level."
    "Yeah, and be acting on orders," said Bartleby. "In which case, probably not, huh?"
    Aziraphale blinked a few times, trying to get his eyes to focus. "It could be someone from one of the old families. Are there any relatives of Moses still around these days?"
    "You're saying a relative of Moses would do something like this?"
    "No, I suppose not. I'm sorry, I'm just..." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm having difficulty concentrating for some reason..."
    Bartleby gave up the conversation in respect for this. But a little while later, when Aziraphale tripped again, he didn't get back up.

    God felt like the short kid hovering at the edge of a crowd who has to jump in order to see anything.
    Except He couldn't jump. That was a bugger.

    Crowley awoke to Loki prodding his shoulder. The ghost pointed at Crowley's watch, which was glowing a faint aquatic blue in the darkness.
    "It's been two hours."
    The demon glowered at him, but made no comment. They had agreed he could only rest for two hours, and then it was back on the road again. But Crowley didn't feel the least bit better than he had before. In fact, he felt like being sick all over the floor. But he was still in the Bentley, so he held back.
    He climbed out of the back seat and into the front. He gripped the steering wheel and seemed about to start the car up, when he groaned and rubbed his forehead.
    "You look like shit," said Loki.
    "Good to know," Crowley replied. "Well, we'd better get moving."
    "Where to?"
    The Bentley roared into life as Crowley said, "It doesn't matter, because nothing's where it should be. But you do sense something out there, don't you? I picked it up while I was asleep. It's like this sort of air pocket or something. All the energy's gone, it's all locked out, but it's still there, in that one spot."
    "Where?"
    "I don't know. I don't even know what's north anymore." The demon gritted his teeth. "That stupid Aziraphale. Do you know what six thousand years of association with that angel's done to me? I'm starting to think like he does. I'm starting to tell myself it doesn't matter what road I take because I'll end up where I need to be anyway, on account of the ineffability." Crowley thumped the steering wheel. "You know what? I really hate that word."
    Loki was very worried. "Are you sure you don't want me to drive?" He'd seen a movie once with a baby turning the ignition with a breadstick. If a baby could drive, why couldn't he?
    Crowley slammed down on the gas pedal. "Yes," he hissed furiously.
    Loki was forced back into his seat. He stared wide-eyed at the road ahead, of which, because Crowley hadn't turned his lights on, very little could be seen. "What the hell d'you think you're doing?!" he shrieked.
    "I'm driving! Shut up!" They skidded around a curve in the road, the tires of the Bentley squealing under them.
    "You're gonna make us crash!"
    "I've been driving for a hundred years, ghost, I know what I'm doing." Crowley spun the wheel hard, bringing them around another corner and just barely missing one of the Russian road signs.
    "Shit! Slow down!"
    "What've you got to worry about? You're already dead!"
    "But you still might hurt yourself!"
    "How nice of you to be concerned."
    They turned another corner, and barrelled on down a straight road for a few minutes. Then another corner. This repeated several times.
    Loki relaxed finally. "You're used to this, aren't you?"
    Crowley grinned. "Put some music in, will you? I think the Beethoven CD is new enough."
    "Do you have anything a bit more recent?"
    "Just the unintentional Queen."
    Loki flipped through the CDs as the Bentley went around a tight curve with practiced ease. "Your music collection sucks."
    "No, you just have poor taste."
    They turned down onto what should have been a straight road, but wasn't.
    Very abruptly wasn't.

    Bartleby noted wearily that they had stopped following the train tracks a long time ago. Whether this was because they had veered off course in the darkness or because there had simply been no more tracks to follow, he didn't know.
    By his ear, Aziraphale said, "You know, I think I may just be able to walk now."
    "Oh no, you don't," Bartleby said firmly, but without any warmth. He had the sort of resentful look of a child who knows without being told that he has to share the toy with his little brother, but wasn't going to be very nice about it. "Why'd you have to go and get sick in the first place?"
    Angels have perfect immune systems. It was like asking metal why it went and contracted wood rot.
    "I didn't try to," Aziraphale complained. "It just sort of snuck up on me." His head hurt, so he rested it on Bartleby's shoulder. He tried to be polite about it anyway. "Do you know, this is the first time in Existence that I've been given a piggyback ride?"
    "It might have something to do with your weight," Bartleby said, grumbling. "You're pretty heavy for a little guy, you know that?"
    "'Little'?" the angel cried. "Just because you got sent to Earth as six foot four..."
    "All right, all right."
    They found a road. Bartleby started walking down it. He didn't care where it took him. There was no hint of light on the horizon either way.
    "I heard once you can walk across Britain in a week," said Bartleby musingly, staring at the cracked asphalt.
    "Wouldn't know, dear boy. Never tried." Mentally, the angel admitted that it sounded about right. "May I try walking now, please?"
    "No. Stop asking already."
    Aziraphale, despite himself, smiled. "Bartleby, I would never have figured you for a kind person. Even if you were a Grigori."
    "God, don't even start. Save that stuff for that demon of yours, will you?" The last thing Bartleby needed was for Aziraphale to bring up the whole Grigori thing.
    "What do you mean by that?"
    "You know exactly what I mean. Really cute, Aziraphale. You'll have to invite me to the wedding. Hey, why don't you hold it in Limbo? I'm pretty sure that's the only place where both sides of the family could come."
    "You're terrible. You really are."
    A dark figure on a bicycle came around the bend, peddling hard and whimpering. In the darkness, they could make out nothing about the rider. However, this being the first person they had encountered since the universe had decided to restructure itself, Bartleby stopped and watched. Aziraphale took his distraction as an opportunity to climb down from the ghost's back. He subsequently overestimated the stability of his own legs and toppled forward, clinging on to Bartleby's sleeve for support.
    The bicycle spun out as they watched, and careened off into the ditch. There was a clatter, and a few moments later the rider clamored out on hands and knees. She --for at this distance the beings were finally able to discern that much-- climbed quickly to her feet and began running.
    "Excuse me!" Bartleby called to her, as she passed them. She didn't look around.
    Aziraphale turned around and watched her go, as an argument went on inside his head. He reached a hasty decision and held out a hand, shouting, "Stop!"
    The girl froze in mid-sprint, and then fell, limp, to the asphalt.
    "What the hell did you do?" Bartleby asked, staring at the inert form.
    "She's unconscious. She'll wake soon..." Aziraphale sounded breathless. "...Bartleby?"
    "Yeah?"
    "You'll have to do the questioning."
    The ghost bristled. "Me? Look, just 'cause you're in the habit of being holy doesn't mean I have to be the bad cop." He was rather fond of being the good cop. With someone like Loki as your companion, it was hard not to be cast as the good cop a lot of the time.
    "Only," the angel wheezed, "I'm about to faint again."
    He did, a few moments later.
    "Well, shit," said Bartleby.

    The Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness gave the Bringer of Light, Daughter of Heaven, Queen of Queens, Shining Beacon of Hope, One True Path, Last Scion and Lady Our Savior a cup of lemonade.
    It was a small plastic cup with a lid on it, to avoid spills.
 

TO BE CONTINUED

Part 1 - They Call It a Pub, I Think

Part 3 - The Storm Trooper Effect