Notes: In this crackiest of crack fics you'll find references to Final Fantasy, Game of Thrones, Skyrim, and just about every other sci-fi/fantasy canon out there. This is quite different from anything I've ever done before, and I totally understand if you guys end up hating it, but I hope you try giving it a chance, anyway! :) I've already written out the entire plot, but I am still very open to suggestions. This is the first of what, barring changes, will be fifteen chapters. I need your feedback and support more than ever because, in case you couldn't tell, I am so anxious and unsure about this. Enjoy, or don't, but please don't egg me! ;)

Full Summary

There are three realms: the underground City of Dis, home to demon-kind; the Silver City, which floats above the sky and is home to the angels; and, sandwiched between them, the surface city known as New Advent, a fast-paced, technologically-advanced land where humans and demons peacefully coexisted until the Great Schism, a ferocious war that would have destroyed both species if the Silver City hadn't intervened. The angels drove the demons back to Dis, but the tension didn't go away. Instead, possession became much more common, as renegade demons slipped through the cracks between realms and took control of unsuspecting humans, leading to a sharp increase in the crime and mortality rate of New Advent.

To combat this, a high-level government agency of the Silver City, known simply as the Metatron, recruited humans into a secret organization called the Knights Templar, training them to perform exorcisms and fight demons. Funded by the Metatron and ultimately answerable to it, the Templars lead double lives as ordinary citizens by day and exorcists at night- or, for those with seedier occupations, vice versa.

Now, four years after the Schism, unrest once again plagues the realms. The demon Enjolras and his allies claw their way back to the surface world, their eyes ablaze with the fires of rebellion. They want to overthrow the corrupt government of Dis, and they need the Templars' help. Things get more than a little complicated, particularly because one of the Templars, Éponine, is Enjolras' former lover, and it's also the time of the year when Metatron agents descend to train new recruits and check up on things.

What follows is a tangled web of adventure, lust, and intrigue, as war threatens to break out once more. Everyone's holding their breath and fighting for their lives, because they know one thing: angel, demon, or human, they are all damned.

For Emma (girlbehindthescrawledletters on Tumblr), who heard out my idea, read the first chapter draft, made the amazing cover art, and provided encouragement and moral support. This story would never have been possible without her.

Chapter One

A Game of You

It was supposed to be a routine exorcism, just some wafered-out old bum on the corner of Mourning and Pine. Joly tackled and held him down quite easily, which in hindsight was the first indication that something was amiss; the dread inhabitants of the City of Dis usually put up more of a fight.

The arctic light of the stars mingled with the emerald glow of New Advent's skyline, providing a stark contrast to the tip of Bossuet's cigarette as it flared red-gold in the darkness of the silent streets. "Goodness," he marveled through a mouthful of smoke and ash, gazing down at Joly as he twisted the possessed hobo's arms behind his back and dug a knee into his torso, "gym's really paying off for you, isn't it?"

"You should join me sometime," Joly grunted, turning his wrist so that a black obsidian dagger, streaked with crimson accents, fell from his sleeve to his open palm.

His partner on the Night Watch shook his head. "I once pulled a hamstring while lifting weights. How does that even happen?"

"It doesn't, but your bad luck defies the laws of probability." Having had his fill of their requisite banter, Joly transferred his full attention to the trembling mass of greasy hair, filthy limbs, and malodorous rags that he'd pinned face-down to the sidewalk. The man's skin was mottled gray and slick with sweat, although whether that was because of the drugs or the demon currently riding his mind, it was impossible to tell. Maybe it was both; communion wafers addled the head and weakened the body, rendering humans more susceptible to possession.

Joly quickly released the man's arms and pressed the sharp point of the dagger between his shoulder-blades. "Feel that?" he growled. "This is Lady Forlorn. She has sent hundreds of your kind back to the pit, and she will lead you to it, as well. No doubt about that. So let's forego the pleasantries, shall we? Your name, sir or ma'am."

The hobo was already starting to writhe as the dagger pierced through his clothes, searing his flesh with the bite of holy water. "M- Mabeuf," he stammered in a thin, broken, human voice. "I'm called Mabeuf."

Bossuet chuckled. Joly's knee applied more pressure into the thin back, eliciting a tattered gasp of pain. "Nope. Try again. My partner over there has a rather spiky mace, compared to which, believe me, Lady Forlorn is the easier way to go. Let's get this over with, shall we? Tell me your name, demon."

Inexplicably, the man started to laugh. "Shall I tell you yours?" he whispered. "Joly."

All the mirth disappeared from Bossuet's demeanor. He spat out his cigarette and drew his mace from the folds of his cloak, the weapon gleaming sapphire as it always did in the presence of unearthly denizens. "What the hell?" he cried. "Joly, get away from him! Fuck!"

But the other boy was frozen in shock. He could only watch dumbly as the aged junkie's head swiveled a hundred and eighty degrees, although the rest of him remained motionless. From the wrinkled crags of a ruined face, eyes glossed over with cataracts stared up at Joly. Cracked lips stretched out in a toothless, black-gummed grin.

"So you're a Templar now, are you?" The old man's voice had completely changed. It was now sleek and resonant, with a melodious undertone. "What a pleasant surprise."

"Who- who are you?" Joly no longer sounded confident, which was a bad thing when you were dealing with supernatural beings. But he hadn't been trained for situations like this, when the tables were turned and the demon knew your name.

"Who do you think?" The voice blazed like wildfire, grating on the nerves, shot through with the guttural harshness of an eldritch tongue that rang out into the quiet night and scraped the air. "I am Prince of Wrath, I am the darkness in your heart, let me devour, let me consume-"

"Holy shit!" Joly yelled as recognition burst through him. Panicking, he grabbed Bossuet's mace and clubbed the possessed man over the head with it. The hobo groaned before passing out, blood dripping down his temple.

"What's going on?" Bossuet demanded. "Why does he know you?"

"Shut up," Joly whimpered, pulling bits of rope from his pockets and hogtying the limp body as best as he could. He should have just exorcised the second he realized what the demon's name was, but he hadn't been able to think clearly. "We are in big, big trouble."

The bouncer leered at the dark-haired girl striding out of Club Montfermeil on five-inch heels. "Great show tonight, Shadow."

"I'm off-duty," she retorted as she clutched her black coat tighter around herself. "You can call me Éponine."

"Shadow's sexier."

She rolled her eyes. "See you tomorrow, Brujon."

Fucking pervert, she inwardly seethed as she made her way to the parking lot beside the strip club. He had no idea that she could snap his neck without breaking a sweat, but, one of these days, he was going to find out, the Metatron be damned.

Her phone rang before she could get into her car. Éponine frowned at Joly's name flashing on the screen; she'd been counting on getting a few hours of blissful sleep before her shift. That was why the Order was divided into the Day and the Night Watch, so they could all have time to rest.

"Did you get burned again?" she asked without preamble, holding the phone to her ear. "Put some ice on it and stop being such a baby. Honestly, Joly, it's just hellfire."

"He's back, Ep!" Joly sounded fearful and tense through the static. "Come quick. Enjolras is back!"

In what was informally known as the junkie district, the streets of Mourning and Pine ran into each other like two black snakes overlapping. At the intersection stood an abandoned warehouse, which presently contained a grizzled old man tied up on the floor, surrounded by arcane symbols drawn in chalk that glowed blue in the green fluorescent light, and a couple of boys garbed in the leather armor, hooded cloaks, and silver crucifixes of the Knights Templar.

In addition to his crucifix, Bossuet also wore a Sacred Heart locket and a Star of David around his neck, as well as a rabbit's foot bracelet on his wrist and a hamsa ring on his fourth finger. He was quite aware that the other members of the Order sniggered behind his back, but he wasn't taking any chances. Bossuet was born under the sign of the evil eye, a curse cast on his mother's womb by a rejected demon suitor, and he needed all the good luck he could get, considering his occupation.

The hobo drifted slowly back into consciousness with a soft, strangled moan. His glazed eyes flickered to the two exorcists. "Where am I?" he mewled pitifully.

"This is none of your business, Mabeuf," said Bossuet. "Be a good chap and let Enjolras take over, won't you?"

"You are mistaken," gurgled another sinuous voice from the old man's mouth. "I control him. He does not let me do anything."

Bossuet and Joly exchanged smiles. Their gamble had paid off. If there was one thing you could count on, it was a demon's pride.

"It would be in your best interest not to struggle against your bonds," advised Joly. "You're inside a guardian circle, and this wasn't a very strong body you picked, to begin with."

"Strength was unnecessary to my purpose."

"And what was your purpose, Enjolras?" Joly softly asked. "Possession doesn't really seem to be your kind of thing. Why did you surface?"

The man sneered, but it was a demon's sneer, all sly and cruel. "To get the Order's attention, of course."

Joly clapped his hands together. "Well, now you have it! So tell us why you're here."

"I am not the only one who's here."

There was a brief silence as the news sank in. Bossuet was confused, but Joly was starting to look rather terrified. "Where are the others?" he demanded in a voice higher than usual.

"Damned if I know." There was a snort of aristocratic disgust. "We were supposed to surface in the same place at the same time, but my friends are idiots."

"Some of them are," Joly agreed.

"I can't help but feel that I'm out of the loop," Bossuet whispered to his partner. "Who exactly are his friends, and how do you all know each other?"

"This was in the time before," Joly muttered. "Before everything."

The body on the floor started to flail, started to try wriggling out of the ropes, but the circle trapping it glowed brighter, and, finally, Mabeuf/Enjolras subsided with a frustrated sigh. "Why have you not exorcised me yet?" he drawled. "Are you frightened?"

From outside, there was the sound of wheels scraping against the concrete, followed by a car door slamming shut.

Joly perked up. "You're the one who should be frightened, Enjolras."

Éponine burst into the warehouse, eyes lined with kohl and lips painted scarlet, dressed in a black trench-coat and a pair of strappy, dangerous-looking heels, her hair wild and loose around her shoulders and her gunblade slung across her back. Bossuet really liked that weapon, but she was better at using it than he was. Even now, he couldn't help but admire it, the sharp silver line of the sword sloping into a hilt that consisted of a gun trigger and handle. It was called Dark Sister, and Jehan, who was Éponine's partner on the Day Watch, often recounted tales of demons giving up the instant they saw it.

Surprise flashed on the possessed man's face, but only for a second. "Fire of my blood," crooned Enjolras' voice, "my light, my downfall, I have not seen you since the Great Schism-"

Éponine had never been a subtle fighter. Her eyes blazing with fury, she charged at the guardian circle, her heels scuffing the chalk, and kicked the hobo in the groin. As he doubled over in pain, Bossuet and Joly couldn't suppress identical, sympathetic winces.

"Get out of there!" Éponine screamed. She picked the man up by his collar and slammed him back down on the ground. He choked and wheezed, and she straddled him and rained ferocious blows on his head, sending blood and spittle flying everywhere. "Get the fuck of there and face me, you bastard!"

"I can explain," he said thickly. "There is a reason I surfaced-"

"No!" shouted Éponine, punching him again, so hard that she almost dislocated his neck. Her hands closed around his throat and she squeezed. "I am done listening to you! Get out of this body before I kill it! Even you can't worm your way out of the dead. Do you really want to spend an eternity in Limbo, you little shit?"

"All right!" Enjolras hissed. "I'm out, I'm out."

The air around the old man changed, became a mist of inky smoke. In one fluid movement, Éponine leapt to her feet and drew out her gunblade, poised to attack. Bossuet readied his mace and shuriken appeared between Joly's fingers. There was an explosion of brilliant red flame and suddenly a demon was in the middle of the warehouse, floating inches above the shaking, rope-bound body he had previously possessed.

In his true form, Enjolras was lean, pale-skinned and sharp-featured, with golden hair and dark blue eyes. Scaly black dragon wings beat against his back, enveloped in trails of fire, stretching out under the green fluorescent lamps as he and Éponine stared at each other.

Beads of sweat trickled down Éponine's cheeks, looking like teardrops. She was breathing heavily, and Bossuet was just about to step in and do the chant himself, when she spoke in an astonishingly level voice, "Enjolras. Exi ergo, transgréssor. Exi, sedúctor, plene omni dolo et fallácia, virtútis inimici…"

He held up his palms in a gesture of surrender. "Listen to me," he grated out, but she only chanted louder, drowning his words, and she slashed at him, the blade producing a line of dark ichor across his chest. He tried to fly out of reach, but Joly's shuriken whirled through the air, slicing at his wings. Enjolras sank to his knees in a mass of hellfire, and Bossuet couldn't help asking himself why the demon wasn't fighting back.

"Reus es humáno géneri..." Éponine's heels clicked on the floor as she advanced for the final blow. "Cui tuis persuasiónibus mortis…"

"You do not understand," Enjolras gasped. "You do not know what's happening in the underground city. Let me explain."

"Venénum propinásti," Éponine finished, and she brought Dark Sister down on his head, this time pulling the trigger. The gunblade went off as it collided with Enjolras' skin, and there was a flash of sapphire light, and he was gone.

Silence fell over the warehouse. Mabeuf twitched on the ground as the three Templars looked at one another.

"That went well," Bossuet finally announced, in a chipper tone. "I wonder what he wanted."

In Chinatown, New Advent's emerald street lights faded into the glow of red paper lanterns, and the air smelled like dried plums and incense. Located in the mess of tightly-packed buildings and dim-sum stalls was a little souvenir shop called Mondétour- my deviation, my roundabout way, because its owner had a wry sense of humor.

A tinkling glass bell above the door heralded Éponine, Bossuet, and Joly's entrance into the shop. A petite, round-faced girl with shiny black hair cut into a chin-length bob raised an eyebrow at them from behind the counter, folding her tattooed arms across her chest.

"I gave Courfeyrac your monthly indulgences last week," she remarked. "You guys really need to learn how to budget."

"We're not here to ask for money, Musichetta," said Éponine, darting a glance at her fellow Templars. Joly was straightening his clothes and Bossuet was frantically tugging his brown locks over his receding hairline. Dorks, she thought, with a mixture of exasperation and fondness.

"Weapons, then?" Musichetta's dark eyes crinkled. "I've just finished this pointy little thing called Excalibur, although I can't imagine why you'd want to trade in Dark Sister."

"I would love to see it," Joly said earnestly. "Excalibur, I mean."

"Nice try, old chap." Bossuet stepped forward, subtly pushing Joly aside. "We all know you'd sleep with Lady Forlorn if you could. I, however, was thinking that Widow's Wail is a bit unwieldy-"

"That mace," said Musichetta in frosty tones, "is some of my finest work."

"- But it's amazing," he backtracked. "Everything you make is amazing."

Éponine groaned. "All right, boys, time to stop embarrassing yourselves. Musichetta, we're looking for four specific demons that have recently surfaced. Is there any way to track them down?"

"Do you know their names?"

"Yes."

Musichetta smirked. "Old friends of yours?"

"You could say that," Joly replied. "They're actually friends of Éponine's former-"

Éponine smacked him upside the head. "Ouch," he grumbled, rubbing the sore spot.

"Yeah, I might have something helpful downstairs," said Musichetta. "Aren't you Day Watch, though, Ep? Why did these bozos call you in?"

"It was an emergency," Éponine said vaguely.

Thankfully, the other girl didn't bother to pry. She tore herself from the counter and walked over to the Templars, passing by a greenish lamp that threw her shadow against the wall. Unlike the girl, who gave every appearance of being a normal human, the shadow had a silhouette of large, feathery wings folded over its back.

Musichetta held up her wrist, the simple black rune tattooed there contrasting with the colorful, elaborate designs on her sleeves. She pressed it with the fingers of her other hand, and it glowed white-hot against her golden-hued skin.

A section of the floor slid open with an almighty creak, revealing a flight of stairs, and the Templars followed her into the basement of Mondétour.

The lighting down here was harsh and bright, like pristine snow. A varied assortment of weaponry stared at them: pistols and swords in glass cases, axes and flails on the racks, sharpened discs and throwing knives tacked to the walls. Bossuet and Joly looked like they were in heaven, but all of Éponine's attention was focused on a panel that Musichetta pulled from the corner of the room, bearing a miniature silver replica of New Advent, with what seemed to be a compass strung over the spires of the Basilica, the presidential palace.

Musichetta removed the compass and poised it by its chain above the model city. "This is an ansible," she said. "Say the demons' names, one by one, and if they're in New Advent, it will point the way."

"Jot this down, will you?" Éponine murmured to Joly, who retrieved his phone and prepared to key in the coordinates.

Musichetta hummed low in her throat, shutting her eyes. When she opened them again, her irises were blazing with pale diamond light. "Speak," she ordered, and it sounded like several voices at once, some deep, some high-pitched, some raspy, some soft, all solemn. It was the voice of the Metatron.

Éponine took a deep breath. In the time before, demons revealing their true names to humans was a transfer of power, a symbol of trust. They had been her friends, and she never thought she'd have to use this against them. But they had betrayed her four years ago; the Schism was over, yet the wounds still remained.

"Combeferre," she said. The compass swung, followed by the beeps of Joly's quick typing. "Bahorel. Feuilly. Grantaire."

To Be Continued