Chapter 3
"Finding Home, Part One"

[E.S. Posthumous – "Ashielf Pi" – Cartographer, 2008]

He stood just inside the doors of the train station, peering out with all the trembling fretfulness of a cold Chihuahua. The sights and sounds weren't so much different to Cardiff as he thought they would be, but the coiling, clustering method of the architecture, and the way those sounds all went off at the exact same time were what managed to intimidate him. On all sides of him were skyscrapers and monuments, scratching the sky like needles and walling him in. He knew the history. London wasn't so much a city as one built on top of a city, built on top of a city, built on top of an insane labyrinth, and though he wasn't to know at the time, all of it nestled comfortably atop a subterrestrial void straight out of Conan Doyle's, "The Lost World." Someone bumped into him roughly from behind. They apologised, but now he was outside in the daylight, a boy whose sense of direction managed to be worse than his sense of self-preservation, in the easiest city in the world to get lost in. He stood on the top step, scanning the street. The pusher had disappeared into the crowd by now. He wasn't keen to use his mobile 'phone, so he ventured far enough from the doors to use a public box, then realised he had no idea who to call and no change in his wallet, only a few notes, and it wasn't like he could ask someone to change it up for him, was it? He was resigning himself to go back, sit on the steps and wait for his pick-up, when he spotted the girl standing in the middle of the street. He only caught a short glimpse of her, but it lasted long enough for him to see snowy white hair hanging just below shoulder length, and eyes that appeared to glow like hot coals. A loud twittering of a flock of pigeons caused him to move his gaze upwards, and the knocking on the outside of the box, somebody asking if he's finished in there yet, scared him shitless. He stumbled out, saying sorry, and then he tried to find the girl again.

She was gone.

Michael's eyes opened and sat up with a small groan. His body ached all over because he'd been sleeping in a funny position. The room was dark, only the slits between the blinds allowing light to enter. The small, private hospital room's whitewashed walls and blue floor, coupled with its overall sparseness was more than a little bit depressing, but at least provided him enough peace to wait out the throbbing in his bonce.

Once he was confident enough to try moving, and found nothing binding him to the bed, not even an I.V. drip, he slowly rose, using the chest-height bedside cabinet steady himself. There was an on-suite bathroom that he used to wash, and someone had been conscientious enough to leave some folded clothes waiting for him on the wooden chair in the corner. They weren't all to his taste, but they would do. A simple white shirt, grey vest emblazoned with the red NERV brand on the front and a pair of black smart trousers. The logo cleared some of the haze in his skull for him and let him remember fragments of last night. He recalled a lot of pain and fear transmogrifying into rage. No, a better word was hate. Destroying whatever had scared him was not only elevating, but also necessary. Whatever it was had to die, but he had never felt that level of animosity towards any living creature before. He didn't like spiders, snails, worms, rats and a lot of other things, but he was always inclined to just avoid them rather than actively erase them. The wilful destruction of another creature was uncharacteristic of him.

"Was any of it real?" he asked nobody in particular, then he slapped himself on the forehead. "Of course it was, you twat! It made you go nuts! That's why you're mumbling to yourself!"

[War – "Low Rider" – Why Can't We Be Friends?, 1975]

Part of the grogginess was probably because he was hungry and thirsty. Maybe he could find a nurse, find out when brekky was served. First he wanted to confirm something, like why in the world he was in a hospital room in the first place. He walked across to the blinds and pushed open the gap between two just enough for him to see through, and nodded acknowledgement. He was still at NERV headquarters, on the floor of the Geo-Front, with the other London dangling from the ceiling like a novelty chandelier and transport tubes criss-crossing in the distance. He could see the pyramid and the statue of Thoth-Hermes stood over Pyramid Pond, which led him to assume he was inside their neighbour the ziggurat. Proof of the place's existence was a sure-fire way to throw Hollow Earth theorists into a tizzy.

He stretched his arms, welcoming the world, then he let out a yawn, scratched his curly-haired head, pulled on the hospital slippers lying beside the bed, and excused himself. He found the quietness in the halls unsettling. The nurse's station was unmanned, and he occasionally heard quick movements behind him that prompted him to look around frantically. He was starting to believe somebody was taking the mick when he came across a particular door. Slotted in a bracket on the front was a white card bearing a name he recognised: CIPHER, R. The memories of the previous night flashed through his eye like an a video on fast-forward. It was still blurred for the largest part of his battle with what he later learned was designated, "The Fourth Angel," but the moments leading up to his blackout inside the entry plug were clear as day, especially his godfather's evil, sick gambit that convinced him to climb onboard the monster in the first place. The image of Rhea Cipher's broken, bleeding body drove him to do something else he normally would not. He envisioned turning all of Behemoth's demonic strength on him. Compared to the EVA, Oliver Haddo was as fragile as a flower.

The door opened before he could touch the handle, and Michael leapt backwards in a defensive stance with a loud yelp. Rhea stood staring at him intently with her good eye. Her bandages had been replaced, and she wore a simplistic outfit. No brands or designs in sight. He would go so far as proper if it wasn't so plain, being a subdued fusion of white, black and powdered blue as it was. She said nothing, but she was looking at him expectantly as he eased his heart rate down with deep breaths.

"R…Rhea, right?" he asked. There were better ways to start a conversation with one's colleagues, but there were also lots worse. She nodded her head, but the movement was so slight as to be almost unnoticeable. When she finally did condescend to speak, Michael was sure a ladybird sneezing would be louder.

"Come again?" he asked.

"I said yes," she replied only a smidge louder, "and you were the one who piloted the EVA last night. The commander summoned you here."

"Umyes, that's me," he held out a hand for her in a gesture of goodwill, but slowly lowered it when she didn't take. "My name's Michael. Are you feeling better today?"

"Does it matter?" she asked.

"Yeah it matters!" he exclaimed, affronted. "I went out there because I didn't want you to end up looking any more like the Invisible Man than you do already!" He slapped his hand over his mouth. She said nothing. "You know," he said through his digits, "I'd be really grateful if you were pissed off at me."

"Why?"

"It'd feel less…weird."

"I'm weird?"

Michael decided it was best not to pursue that line of talk any further. Wonderful job, genius, he scolded himself, fine working environment you're building up here. "Don't mean it that way," he told her. "I just came to make sure were okay, and see if we could be friends, since we're working together." She didn't say anything, but he guessed what was on her mind. She probably wanted to know if he really was going to pilot EVA again, and he couldn't think of a reason not to.

"If you're up to it," he said to break the pause, "we could go get breakfast together in the city. There anything you like?"

She said nothing, just seemed to stare at him in a manner that was really starting to unnerve him. Maybe he was wrong and she had nothing on her mind. Nothing at all. He doubted she would even notice if he dropped the conversation and sauntered off, but he would feel like he was being rude to do that.

"Let's get muffins," he said, "and smoothies."

"For breakfast?" she seemed genuinely puzzled by that and her eye blinked a couple of times.

"Yeah!" he beamed, spreading his arms for emphasis. "That's what trendy, modern people like us eat. Food that's bad for your body but good for your soul." She repeated his last few words under her breath as if they were foreign but made no indication of whether or not she accepted his invitation. He moved behind her in the doorway and steered her into the hall, not that he had the faintest clue where to go.

XXX

Abbey Creed gazed through half-hooded eyes at what was going on behind the metal gates they had erected around the danger-zone. The central area had yet to be re-engaged, so civilians were still tucked away neatly inside the Geo-Front shelters. A government blackout signal had been transmitted to block the details of the battle from the general public, but it was all an exercise in futility. They had been so ill-prepared for the Fourth Angel's arrival that most people had at least caught a glimpse of it before the proper procedures were even complete, and that probably went for Unit 00's sortie and the botched up imploder as well. It was not like they could cover up the fact the Thames now had a nice round crater smack-dab in the middle with a contrived story about a weather balloon or swamp gasses reflected off Venus. The nearby districts had been either cut in half or wiped off the map completely. Millennium Pier was gone, as was a chunk of the Square Mile. Much as the higher-ups liked to assure themselves otherwise, ordinary individuals were not stupid. It would not be long before stories of giant monsters and secret government weapons were plastered all over the tabloids and early morning chat programmes.

"At least," Therese assured her, "it'll give public relations something to do finally. And the important buildings are still standing, figuratively speaking." She pointed downwards so as to emphasise her point.

"You're right," Abbey conceded, leaning back on her seat in the cab of the featureless NERV lorry. She took a sip from her cardboard coffee cup. The two women were present on inspection duty, to confirm the clean-up operation was thorough. Behemoth was on its knees, one big palm flat against the ground and the other against the side of 30 St Mary Axe. Its head hung below the level of its shoulders and was wrapped in sheets of cloth and metal. Its horned helmet was being hefted away by a crane. The robot's purple-and-green armour was pebble-dashed with the blue from the Angel's blood, and fragments of the monster were scattered over the city from end to end. Despite the cleaners' best efforts, it would take them a while to collect all traces of the thing for disposal. That meant warning the public about the risk of contamination, cordoning off sites where the mess was at its worst, and ordering a big old shipment of headache pills. The robot was dormant now, but it would be a long time before she wiped the hideous image of the night before out of her mind. How could a machine look so terrifying? Black, foul, lurching its way out of the flames. Where had those teeth, or that low roar even come from? Her train of thought was broken by the sound of the chief scientist's voice on her left.

"What? Sorry, I zonked out."

"I asked how you think the House will take Unit 01's maiden flight," said her friend, taking her fingers off her laptop's keyboard and her report for Professor Haddo. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Abbey sighed, "as far as the House goes, they'll probably take it the same way they do everything. Shout, flail their arms, gnash their teeth for a few hours, until somebody will say something half-sensible and they'll all agree because nobody else can think of something to say. Situation normal."

"Why, Captain Creed!" Therese mock-gasped, "I've never heard you say anything so cynical in all the time I've known you!"

Abbey groaned, "I'm worried about the kid. I mean, I know they said he wasn't hurt once they got him out of the EVA, right? But still…"

"I understand," Therese nodded and reached across to pat her best friend's arm. "He had a rough night. His cerebellum took a lot of strain."

"Cerebellum?" Abbey snorted derisively. "After the way we used Rhea to press-gang him like that, it's his heart I'm concerned about. God, I feel like a such rat." There was a brief pause. "By the way, how's Rhea recovering? She didn't exactly get out without her fair share of bruises thanks to that idiot on the war council."

"Her injuries are no worse than the ones she sustained during Unit 00's original activation test," said the blonde, tensing at the memory. "It'll be a month before she's fit to pilot but the repair work on the EVA should be completed before that. Frankly, I'm stunned we could get the thing to move. It'd be the first time it's done anything without us having to fight for it."

Another pause. Abbey had no response to that. The activation test had taken place before her transfer to NERV, but she had viewed all the operation video-logs. None of them were pretty. Behemoth's horned helmet passed over them on its crane-sling. They spent the next minute-and-a-half without a word.

"I don't think there's much else we can do here," said Therese to fill the stifling dead air. "I'm going to be needed at base so I can oversee the work on the units. Why don't you go check on the hero of the hour?"

"Glad you suggested it before I asked," Abbey smirked, wagging a pen in her companion's face, "means me bunking off isn't on my conscience." Therese snatched the empty cup and playfully bonked the raven-haired division leader on the head.

XXX

"You're up. Good."

Rhea said nothing as the figure of Commander Haddo stepped out of the lift and into the hospital hallway. He wasn't smiling, but then he rarely smiled, but she could see the warmth behind his glasses. It was a look he reserved only for her. He didn't notice Pilot Silence at all, and for a second she forgot he was even present, until she heard his angry voice next to her saying, "No thanks to you, you psycho!"

Haddo looked down at the young man. "Excuse me?" he said, not really asking. It was stern, more like a challenge to the boy.

"I know you're tall but you heard me fine!" Silence snapped, his awkward meekness overcome by anger. "I should punch your lights out for what you did to us you twisted bastard!"

"If hitting me would make you feel better, you can have one for free," said Haddo, patting himself on the chest with one gloved hand.

"I don't want your charity," Michael snarled, "just get out of our way." He tried to push past the director of NERV, but only managed to elicit a mumbled curse word from his own throat as he realised the man was built like a brick wall. "Coming?" he asked Rhea. The pale girl said nothing, but she looked at the man as if he were her master.

"I came across to see you, Rhea," said Haddo, "but if you want to go with him, we can catch up in my office later. Go on, off you pop."

[The Cribs – "Stick to Yr Guns" – Ignore the Ignorant, 2009]

"'Off you pop'," Michael repeated scornfully after the lift doors closed on him and Rhea and they were on their way to the ground floor. "Patronising bastard."

"Why do you show such hostility for him?" Rhea asked quietly.

"That man's an obvious fruit loop!" Michael retorted, his tone still affected by his annoyance. "He…he only ever called on my family when he needed us. Between the day my dad died, when I started living with my grandparents, and when I got the letter calling me to London, I never heard from him. Then I find out the entire last year of my life was plotted out behind my back so he could eventually get me inside that…that sick thing!"

Rhea looked at him, and his anger suddenly boiled off and gave way to his previous nervy demeanour. "Aren't you…aren't you at all scared by this?" he asked.

"I believe in the commander's work," Rhea told him, "I believe in him. Don't you?"

"N-no I don't!" shot Michael. "He never gave me any reason to before, and I'm not going to start now!" He wasn't sure quite how to process what happened next. The only way that made any sense was that for a scant split-second, Rhea's cold mask fell and the flat of her unbroken hand met his cheek with force and speed rivalling the Fourth Angel's bone spear. Well, perhaps that was an exaggeration, but it came so fast and unexpectedly it caused him to stagger away all the same. His back bounced loudly off the metal wall, he raised one hand over his cheek and the other arm to protect himself. He stared at the small, half-dead girl in fright. How pathetic he must've looked did not escape him.

The lift opened on the ground floor of the hospital. Rhea was gone from there without another word, leaving a stunned young man to make his way to the front doors alone. He strode past an empty reception desk, briefly pondering where the hell all the staff were, and emerged onto a perfectly flat square of paving. The gold-bathed hills of the Geo-Front rose and fell on all sides, and the smells and sounds of the self-contained eco-system that occupied it surrounded his senses lushly. He saw Rhea already well on her way up the gravel path adjacent to one of the vehicle exit-roads. Good Christ she could shift for a girl who had been confined to a hospital bed yesterday. Maybe she'd been acting, being in cahoots with his godfather? He didn't want to believe that, and would have instead asked himself why he used the word, "cahoots," when he decided to try salvaging his present predicament.

"So…so I take it the breakfast thing's off?" he called after her stupidly. "Maybe next time?"

It didn't work.

"Smooth, Sir Michael."

Michael jumped and spun on his heels to face the owner of the voice, and saw Abbey approaching him. Her hands were tucked in the pockets of her uniform, and she was smiling in what seemed to be relief. Her eyes were not the ones he felt on his back, though. She asked him how he was. He murmured a half-hearted, "All right." She told him she was glad and offered to take him up on the breakfast invitation and a chance to get to know one another better. He didn't bother to put up a fight, even if he was half her age, because it meant there was one more person in this bigger, scarier world to be a lynchpin, somebody that would provide him the stick to measure the planet he now found himself living on. They made their way to where Abbey's busted but still somehow functional car awaited them when he felt the eyes on him again. He looked over at shoulder at a window that was halfway up the hospital building, where a shadowy man was standing and watching.

He couldn't make it out from so far away, but he knew in his heart that Haddo was smirking at him, the way a child with a magnifying glass does when confronted with ants. As they left, the man chose his next destination. He had not just come up to see Rhea after all. He never did anything out of the kindness of his heart, because he believed that part of him died along with three billion other victims of the Awakening. If he were to reach back into his memories, he might even conclude it had passed on long before then, when he realised that the light in his life did not come from his heart, but was embodied solely by his wife. Sweet, unfortunate Leah Haddo (née Harcourt), the one woman apart from his departed mother and one-time mistress who could address him as, "Oliver," without the acidity he had grown accustomed to.

Oh! The poetry she inspired.

Haddo took the lift to basement level six, where he boarded a robotic carriage to the ART-EV laboratory, to which only a few privileged members of the agency's higher echelons were privy. He passed an optical scan, followed by punching a code into an isomorphic keypad, before he was permitted entry. A dark room, illuminated only by a single Solomonic column of orange, gave itself up before him. He reached up and turned a hidden notch on the arm of his glasses, tuning the lenses so as to perceive the living artefact suspended within. Situated at the base of this sterile tube was a cluster of crystalline fragments that thrummed and radiated in a specific rhythm, reacting to energy processed in the tiny stones growing in delicate patterns out of her skin. He could spend hours staring into the eyes of his and Leah's beautiful abomination, the Mother of Monsters who dwelled in the seed of EVA, and the only sounds would be their quiet breaths. The floor consisted of seven rings within each other, smaller and higher than the last, with an escalator as the only safe way to traverse them, and the ceiling a mess of pipes and wires not unlike a brain from the correct angle.

"Are you hungry?" he asked the creature imprisoned inside the tube. "I hope so." He went to the feeding port and emptied a bucket of human sludge into it. The Mother of Monsters made a disgusted sound, but had long since given up resisting. Haddo mused that the late Chief of General Staff would feel relieved to make up for his idiocy by serving a much greater purpose. "The Gathering has begun," he told the creature, "it's time to let phase one of the interaction experiment run its course."

XXX

They were back on the surface soon enough, but the trip went by with less said than either of them were hoping for. Abbey was clearly exercising caution because she was overestimating how badly Michael's state of mind had been affected, while he was simply deflated. Enough of his anger had been spent that he no longer exerted aggression, but his hand was clenching itself in and out in rhythm. His mind was trying to focus on other things, other ways for him to forget the embarrassment of earlier, but everything seemed to lead either back to it, or to the fact he missed his home, or the irritation because he had been manipulated. In the end, he settled on having a good, long sulk. He could do that and still let his mind go blank, freeing up his attention to take in the city drifting on past the window.

"Abbey?" he eventually asked, and she started a little because of how quiet he had been, "I've just realised something."

"What's that?"

"I've got nowhere to go. I didn't book in anywhere, and I put my bag and all my things down before I even got in the EVA."

"You left your gear here in the car. It's in the boot," said Abbey, taking one hand off the steering wheel to point a thumb over her shoulder. "Don't worry. I was careful in case you had anything important in it. Was that all you brought?"

"I travel light," he said sheepishly, "or…I guess I do, since I don't really travel."

"I'm glad you want to stay here at all," she said, "I wouldn't blame you if you didn't. Actually, I heard the boys in Section Two – our intelligence division – had made plans to assign you a flat today, but I took the liberty of sticking my nose in on the way to meet you."

"Where will I be?" he asked.

"Tell you later," she beamed, "but first, there's something I wanna show you. It's dead brilliant."

They drove up to the crest of Muswell Hill and clambered out. It was getting late in the morning. The sun was well into its ascendancy. Below them they could see the city, which Michael thought was unexpectedly flatter and greyer than he imagined, especially considering the impression he got upon his arrival and the mad rush across London Bridge. The ground was made of square slates that slotted together neatly along either side of the river like an enormous Rubik's Cube.

"What am I meant to be looking at?" Michael sniffed.

"Give it a sec," Abbey huffed, and checked her watch. "Make it five…four…three…two…" She was cut off by an alarm. Not urgent, but drawn out like an air raid siren. There was no doubt that everyone within the capital would hear it. The ground beneath their feet rumbled, and the gravel on people's paths began to bounce. Windows rattled gently. Michael was about to cling to his companion, fearing the arrival of the Fifth Angel, when he was greeted by something that not only justified, "brilliant," but in his view redefined it, because with the fluid elegance of a plant blooming, Central London began to grow. Towers and skyscrapers stretched up to paw the clouds, flyovers, raised motorways and skyways swung out of hidden shelves or unfurled between the walls, interconnecting with mechanical precision, while residential blocks sprouted like poppies.

"Oh, my God!" he gawked, stupefied, as the buildings he last saw dangling from the ceiling of the Geo-Front filled up the metropolis. "That is brilliant!" Just like that, his negative feelings were swept away.

"This city is a fortress designed to protect its citizens from the Angels," Abbey explained with a sense of pride. "Our city. The city you saved." Michael looked at her, feeling those last words reverberate in his mind, and he started to share in her satisfaction. His wrist brushed unconsciously against hers and she reacted with surprise. They chuckled at each other before returning their eyes to the spectacle. There were at least a hundred different things Michael wanted to say. He settled on one.

"It's beautiful."

They had been standing there for a little under twelve minutes when they got back in the car and Abbey revealed what she had arranged for Michael. She couldn't stand to think of him being made to live alone in a city he didn't understand, and when he argued the point it was a paltry attempt at best, because now he was enjoying her presence, and it was much more preferable to stay with somebody he liked rather than on his Jacks or in some surveillance-spot with C.C.T.V. cameras in all the rooms, which he presumed was how NERV operated (his experiences did not paint a flattering image of the agency or its master). She hadn't told Doctor Sternsinger yet. According to Abbey she was trying to stave off the shit-storm concerning irresponsibility and overstepping her mark. She loved her friend fondly, really she did, but Therry always got a massive stick up her bum when it came to procedure and Abbey was in too good a mood to pull on it. Michael couldn't help but blush and laugh at the mental image the woman's choice of language was giving him. Evidently his grandfather's stories about learning colourful vocabulary in the Armed Forces were true, not that he asked his companion which branch she earned her rank in. Her scarlet uniform gave no indication, and it felt inappropriate to ask when they were in such good spirits, so he was content to keep his questions to himself for the time being.

They made another brief stop, this time at Tesco to re-supply, where Michael overheard a pair of gossip queens talking about recent events. One was convinced that sending as many soldiers into the Middle East as had been done, including her two sons, meant there was no longer enough to protect the country, while the other mentioned her nephew recording events on his camera, and proceeded to rip a new one into, "The idiot that turned a whole city sector into a demolition site." Michael winced and Abbey hurried him out before the criticisms became even more scathing.

"Don't pay attention to them," she huffed, "they haven't got a clue what they're on about."

"They do have a point," Michael replied dourly, "I did do more damage to the buildings than to the Angel."

"No civilians were killed," said Abbey, "and you destroyed the Angel. That's what matters. Come on, what happened to all that positivity a few minutes ago? You and me'll have a party when we get home."

Her flat was on the second floor of the Sirrush estate, which was three-sided and four storeys high. There was a courtyard, and in the middle of that a raised circle of grass surrounded by a foot-high rock wall for decoration. Inside the circle was a palm tree, along with a garishly coloured plastic slide and a swing set. Something told Michael that there had never been families with children living there and the toys were designed to ward off suspicion.

"I'm afraid it might be a little bit messy," Abbey warned him as they reached flat 2I, "I only moved back to London from my station a few days ago. Loadsa boxes left to unpack. You won't mind helping me with that, right? Big, strong lad like you?"

"Uh, no, of course I wouldn't mind," Michael replied politely, wondering if it was a coincidence that she held off the labour until she had a roommate to split it with. Absolutely nothing on God's green Earth could prepare him for Abbey Creed's idea of, "a little bit messy." To call it the gross understatement of the decade would be a kindness. To every side of him there were cardboard boxes in stacks twice as tall as he was, held shut by strips of packing tape wrapped at such random angles she must have done them herself in the dark. Dirty cutlery and plates cluttered up the sink, while a small pile of clean ones littered the sideboard. Empty beer tins (Stella Artois was her poison of choice), crisp packets and chocolate wrappers spread across the table outside the kitchenette. The rubbish bin in the corner was full past its limit. The atmosphere was choked on air freshener to cover the smells and the light bulbs hung naked from the ceiling all the way to their wires. If his nan or granddad had caught his room in such a horrendous state, he would have been expected to not only clear it up, but like it, but Michael's room had never, ever been this bad in his life!

There were also two fridges. One was white, normal, unassuming and quite grubby while the other was one of those big American deals, coloured jet black with chrome trim. When he asked what the second was for, Abbey replied from the next room where she was changing, "Oh! I think he's still sleeping!"

"He's…sleeping…?" Michael thought aloud. When he attempted to investigate he found the fridge locked and decided not to pry any further for now. Frankly, it was none of his business.

[Bryan Ferry – "Let's Stick Together '88" – single, 1988]

He struggled his way to a sofa in the living room, noting that it, the flat-screen television and the gaming system, were all already out on priority. Next, he dumped his schoolbag on the sofa, popped his slip-on shoes in the gap behind and got busy making the room just a stitch less of a death trap. Abbey came back into the room with her hair tied up and her official garb swapped for a simple pale yellow vest and denim shorts. Around her neck was a silver cross, which surprised Michael, who had not taken her for religious and, rather unusually, there were metal tops from beer bottles hung on the chain too. Her right bicep was tattooed with a rose surrounded by barbed wire and a strip where the flesh was pinker underneath. With just a quick change in apparel she seemed to have receded from a woman in her late twenties to a girl of approximately eighteen.

"I didn't mean you had to start now," she said with a roll of her eyes, apparently not noticing his own roaming up and down her body until she crossed her arms in a way that pushed her chest up. He cleared his throat and returned his gaze to the task at hand.

"No offence, but I can't live somewhere that's so…cluttered," he replied as he moved some smaller boxes away from the door and into a pile in front of a window, which he then opened to air out the flat. She shrugged and helped him. The work took them a few hours, and though there was little to no unpacking actually done, but the place gradually became more liveable.

"Feel free to take advantage of whatever you want," she told him over a lunch of egg and chips after they were done, then added a playful, "except me."

"I see how you work," he replied rather bravely, "you get my little hopes up with cake, then tell me I'm not allowed the cherry on top." He narrowly avoided the plastic coaster flung at his head.

"Go take a bath," she mock-grumped, "you smell like hospital soap." This last part was half-yelled at his back, because he conceded he did carry the odour of disinfectant skin-wash and had gone off in search of the bathroom. It was tucked behind two more cardboard monoliths that littered the place's layout, the bottom sections were marked, "FRAGILE," so he used every ounce of discretion to inch them aside without causing harm to whatever she was keeping inside. Where she intended to put all the gear was well beyond him. It was five minutes between that moment and the present. Abbey sat cross-legged on a wood chair at the table with a perplexed expression on her features. The first signs something was amiss were two loud shrieks.

"AAAUGH!"

"WAAUGH!"

The second was Michael, panicked and bollock-naked, charging out of the bathroom and diving for cover behind the sofa. From the wooden table beside the kitchenette all she could see were his head, shoulders and hands peeking out like a Chad etching. He was trembling all over.

"What's your problem?" she asked bemusedly.

"A ping…pingu…pengy…!" he stammered. The flat's third occupant waddled his way past her and it all made sense. Abbey laughed. The penguin, Pen-Pen was his name as he would like you all to know, was one of the last examples of a once flourishing race of highly intelligent penguins who had been forced to go on a migration from their Antarctic home in the wake of the Second Impact, which had made their waters uninhabitable. Numbers of them had not survived the trip. In fact many of the survivors owed their continued existence to being labelled a fashionable pet by rich humans. They were seldom seen pre-event, and their official classification was, "hot spring penguin," based on an observation made by a Japanese zoologist who had seen a flock of wild ones settling in the onsen of Nagano. Abbey jokingly recognised Pen-Pen as her landlord because she discovered him inhabiting the property when she moved in. Initially the beast proved unhappy to share his place with a stranger, especially one from a different species, but a couple of tins of Stella made him change his tune, and now they got along like a house on fire, or so she summed it up, anyway.

"He'll warm up to you," she assured Michael. Pen-Pen stopped beside the table and extended a claw from his wingtip to drag a dog tag on a chain out from under the rim of a plate. After fixing it around its neck, the animal gave the humans a curt nod of acknowledgement, then went over to the big fridge and pressed a switch on the door, which opened with a, "whoosh." The penguin disappeared inside. Michael's expression shifted from terrified to perfectly dull.

"You live with a penguin," he said.

"Yep," Abbey replied.

"I'm living with a penguin," he said.

"Yep," Abbey replied.

"And the penguin lives in the other fridge," he said.

"He's got a Sky Plus box and everything," Abbey replied.

A pause.

"I ran right in front of you without any clothes on," he said.

"Yep," Abbey replied. Michael, to his credit maintaining his stiff upper lip, obscured his modesty with a discarded towel and excused himself. Abbey picked this time to 'phone Therese.

The bathroom was the only room thus far that did not resemble a car-boot sale. The walls and the installations were subdued pink, the ceiling and floor a steamy white. There were fluffy cream towels on a silver rack and a tropical blue-green shower curtain that, prior to his encounter with Abbey's pet turkey, was drawn. The only bubble-stuff they had was a bottle of red liquid that was supposed to relieve muscle tension. It would suffice. Michael submerged himself up to his chin and let the warmth blanket him. He closed his eyes and rested the back of his head on the rim of the bath. It reminded him a bit of the L.C.L. in the entry plug.

He opted to use this newfound privacy to properly process the hectic experiences of the last couple of days. He lifted his left arm, the one he felt certain was being snapped in twain by the Fourth Angel and watched the foam trickle down his skin and back into the water, however, the truth about his mum and dad's deaths was the harshest blow. They had died because of Behemoth, but in his mind, some morbidly curious part of him wanted to know how exactly the caper went down, to uncover the sequence of events that made him an orphan, and then brought him to become the monster's master. Amid his wanderings, one crucial, monumentally importunate thought, distilled its way to the forefront of his mind.

I hope she didn't see the birthmark on my lad.