You find your cold solace outside of the reality most angels understand. You know that they think that God and Satan are dead and they are convinced that they are free, now, free to do whatever catches their fancy. After the wars, the things catching their fancy are often humans. To be used and discarded, and you sit in a coffee shop with 'Grendel' in your hand, trying to re-read it, when the tattoo prickles cold under your skin and the dead girl whispers at you to look.

You had found an understanding, on the battlefields of the last great war: you, the dragon and the girl. You were the one doing all the killing, the blood and flames swirling around your hands. The dragon, wise and patient and with a gaze clearer than the most precious diamonds, helping you with decisions. All the people you let go, telling them that there was enough death around and they were needed to at least try to rebuild what had been lost – all that people were the dragon's influence. Then there were those left dying on a battlefield you hadn't fought on, in agony when you arrived, bleeding wheezing coughing whimpering screaming… the girl would rage inside you and

'Why oh why haven't you asked Raphael to teach you? You know he would have, you know, you know, you know…'

would echo in your head and you would whisper

'I will.'

as you went around and around and around, the circles growing wider, the sharp edges of your sword staining even more crimson, and her voice would subside. That was mercy, as you could understand it then. And when the war ended…

When the war ended, you decided to give the 'human thing', as you kept referring to it internally, a try. It worked, more or less. There were parallels between ever so many books and films and melodies and the lives you knew, immortal and suddenly (but was it really sudden? You had seen it coming, after all.) completely lost. You could use those, and your position in the Hosts gave you an advantage. After all, your soldiers were quite different from others in Heaven – not only were they used to taking orders, but they also trusted you implicitly, even though they knew your temper quite well.

They were in awe of you, so they wouldn't actually ask for help in something unrelated to the military (and even then only with greatest trepidation), but if you dropped a hint, made a reference… they would get it. They would look around, look for answers where you had pointed them (and where the dragon and the girl had pointed you before), and maybe even understand some things.

That there were no clear lines anymore, in the world they found themselves in. That the free will they had been – given? forced into? – was daunting at best, terrifying at its worst. That maybe they could learn something from humans. That their seemingly young, impulsive Commander knew things he hadn't even hinted at before… just before.

Yes, the soldiers understood, at least partially. The rest of Heaven didn't. Even as they set up some semblance of government, as they tried to divide responsibilities and create a New Order (yes, they had even given it capital letters), they didn't notice whispers about 'Brave New World' and human history and unspeakable evils that could be avoided. They heeded those whispers nonetheless.

You remember planting those whispers and watching them grow into fully fledged convictions without those believing them realizing their origins. Hopefully, they never will, because for all your outward attention seeking and the insistence on being called 'Michael-SAMA, you idiots', those who matter are either family or respect you enough that shows of their deference don't matter.

You're waiting for Raphael, now, sipping a bitter double espresso, beginning to like the taste. Your friend hasn't had much time lately, but you know, you can feel it, that he's worried about you. You listen to the girl and give him a wave when he appears in the door of the small café. You have a promise to fulfill.

Time to badger good ole Rafe into teaching you to heal.

AN: 'Grendel' belongs to John Gardner, 'Brave New World' to Aldous Huxley. Both novels are superb, and I recommend them greatly, even though they aren't exactly an easy read.

Mika-chan makes a reappearance, as you can see. Not exactly a triumphant one, and for good reasons (I hope I gave at least some of them above), but still…

The 'God and Satan' issue might be addressed in another short story. Maybe. Someday. Perhaps.