It was a Friday. This fact had not crossed anyone's mind except in fleeting, or in anticipation for the weekend.

Karkat was not one of those people. The weekend is not a cause for celebration when one works in foodservice. Things get busier, and before you know it, there's a party of six demanding booster seats for their hellspawn on one side of the restaurant while some poor soul is having dinner with the in-laws on the other, and just when it seems like no one will die this night, the single diner hunched over in the darkest corner quietly chokes on a samosa and nobody notices until he falls to the floor. It was no surprise, then, that Karkat did not thank god (any god) for Friday, and not only because he was about as religious as a turtle*.

Eridan used to look forward to Fridays, back when he counted among the living. Fridays in Heaven, however, were as boring as any other day, for the Lord commanded that they should work six days and rest on the Sabbath, which was spent venerating the Lord through song. None of these things interested Eridan in the least.

Sollux was usually too burned out from having to interact with real people all week to have the ability to care by the time Friday rolled around, and there were no weekends in Hell, at least not for tech support. His afterlife thus far had been a perpetual string of Fridays. Friday, Friday, and Friday again, but never did the weekend arrive.

Crowley and Aziraphale had been around the proverbial block so many times and in so many ways that days of the week hardly mattered anymore…

And the bees, of course, were just bees. Every creature in creation was strange to them. Irrational. Did things inefficiently. Only the bees got things right, according to the bees, and they certainly didn't bother with designating special days to be lazy.

There were, of course, other beings who did enjoy this particular Friday. Among those were Rose Lalonde's English fans, many of whom were eagerly awaiting her midnight book signing booked for the Waterstones in Greater Tadfield**. They waited at the café within the book store and the one across the street. The true fanatics lined up even though it would be hours before Miss Lalonde arrived.

Little did they know that she was not, in fact, on a plane right this very moment. And little did they know that they were to become ritual sacrifices in the summoning of Nyarlathotep, the Crawling Chaos, God of a Thousand Forms.

It was a Friday. It was a good day for a latte.

One town over, in Lower Tadfield, the Grimdark vessel formerly known as Jade Harley descended the stairs with a flowing grace that Jade had never possessed. Her movements were sensuous like the curling smoke from a clove cigarette; they carried with them the scent of underworlds.

"Oh, hey," Feferi said when she saw what appeared to be her friend. "I tried that thing you said, with the taking my cuddle-buds out of the bowl first, and my scrying really is better!"

"That's nice," not-quite-Jade said. It was Jade, and it wasn't. Grimdark possession was a tricky thing because the original psyche remained in there still, fully aware, and it was like the possessor was just a swirl of rancid frosting layered on top.

Damara took one glance at the newcomer and said, "Is not Jade."

"Not quite."

"Like I say, is not Jade."

"Very well," said not-quite-Jade, "You can call me Shub-Niggurath, Duchess of Hell, the Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young. Niggurath for short. And we are going for a ride."

-oOo-

It was a Friday, and Karkat Vantas was skipping out on work during the dinnertime rush. He had abandoned his post, left his father all alone to handle the screaming brats, in-laws, and samosa-chokers. He had knowingly set himself up for a weekend filled with nothing but concerned fatherly yelling so that he could follow a hunch.

The hunch panned out.

Four guilty-looking otherworldly beings had ushered him into the bookshop where they were now settled around having something vaguely resembling a group counseling session, though it must be said that there wasn't a single counselor in particular. Aziraphale and Karkat traded the role in equal measure, and they were sometimes joined by the bees, who were otherwise engaged in cleaning their new abode with miracled tiny mops and brooms.

First there were the obligatory questions: You're an angel? You're a demon? What exactly does that mean? The answers were thus: Yes. Yes. No one is quite sure on the matter except God and possibly Satan, and they are not taking calls. All messages from the Lord come through the Metatron; it's a mostly one-way communication method and said mouthpiece is the angelic equivalent to what those on Earth might call "a bit of a dick". Satan lives amidst a swirl of the most terrifying bureaucracy known to Paradox Space – don't even go there.

Karkat, sensing that he would get no further along that line of questioning, turned his attentions to Sollux. "You're a mess," he said.

"Thanks, KK. That means a lot coming from you."

"You'd think being turned into some sort of magical asshole would get rid of the perpetual hobo stench that surrounds you, but I see you fail as utterly at keeping yourself somewhat presentable whether dead or alive. Did you at least take your goddamn meds before you kicked it?"

"Jesus fuck, KK, stop mothering me. Human meds don't even work on me anymore, why the fuck should you care?"

In the background, Crowley muttered something that sounded like, "Oh, youth. They absolutely do work once you learn how to hack your corporation," to which Aziraphale said, "Shush dear, they're healing," to which Crowley whined, "But angel, he's a hacker. He'd appreciate the tip." Eridan, also in a whispered tone, said, "I appreciate it. Teach me later?"

Karkat sighed and, valiantly ignoring what he had previously designated to be 'old people talk', now amended to 'old people and hipster talk', said, "Tell me how you fucked up, you pathetic piece of shit dangling in a colonoscopy bag."

Despite the crude language, this sort of attention seemed to be exactly what Sollux needed. His eyes darted to the sides, and he idly flipped his fingers through a programming book he'd plucked off Aziraphale's shelves, only outdated by fifteen years. His shoulders shook as he related his tale.

"I was talking to the guy in the next cubicle over, about bees and bad beekeeping practices used by certain commercial apiaries. Guess I got a bit worked up over it and was full of negative energy when I died. Having murderous thoughts about some bee-abusers, you know. That's probably what did it." Sollux paused. He scrunched up his brow and stuck out the tip of his tongue as he contemplated the possible reasons for his descent. "Or maybe it was just working tech support. All of us were miserable bastards and we all ended up in Hell together."

"Yeah, no," Crowley said, butting in yet again. "Below goes through tech support at a surprisingly fast rate. It's more likely they planned it all and had planted someone to reap your souls right away."

"Oh, wow. That is not reassuring in the slightest."

"They can do things like that?" Aziraphale was aghast. "That's not playing fair at all!"

"Well, your side got to claim most of the perpetrators of the Crusades, and we know how horrible they were. Below would have done quite well with that sort of, er, ingenuity. Or. Not. No, it was better that your guys took them. Wouldn't want them usurping the Boss' place, yeah?"

Crowley's thoughtless remarks set off another debate between the senior pair. Sollux and Karkat were content to leave them to it, but Eridan took the opportunity to sidle up to his target, Sollux. "So our mentors," Eridan began, "They're an item, y'know?" He gestured slyly between the two of them. "Whaddaya say, you an me?"

Karkat made a disgusted face, but Sollux did not reply straight away. Perhaps it was the talk of usurpation that triggered his memory, or perhaps it was that Eridan chose that ill-timed moment to hit on him. Sollux suddenly remembered the Very Important Thing he'd read in a memo earlier this evening.

"Jesus!"

"That's my middle name, don't wear it out," Karkat said.

"I thought your middle name was Rajesh***."

"It is. Shut up."

"No," Sollux said, "No, I won't shut up! Listen, this is important! Really important!" He gradually became more and more worked up as he gathered the others' attentions, and as his memory returned. "Sata- Below is- Below is planning an attack! Tonight!"

"Uh, are we doomed?" Eridan asked.

"Yes!"

Eridan was obviously confused at this chain of events, and also partly disbelieving. Other potential paramours had, in the past, made up quite interesting stories to divert his attention, but Sollux hadn't seemed the type, or so he'd thought. In fact, he seemed genuinely distraught.

The bees were thrown into a tizzy over their Master's emotionally unstable state. They began to swarm and buzz loudly, most having abandoned their tiny cleaning instruments in order to fret alongside Sollux. Others fretted while clutching their brooms to their chests, appearing faint.

"Now hold on a minute." Crowley stepped in, attempting for once to be the voice of reason. "Below plans things all the time. It's a demon thing, being in cahoots. None of it has ever been anything to worry about unless the Boss specifically says the phrase 'Raise Hhhhhh— H-E-double hockey sticks."

"Raise Hell?"

"Yes."

"Nothing's gonna happen unless that was in the memo."

"Right on, kid. See, it wasn't there, was it? Nothing's gonna happen."

Sollux again retreated to a quiet state, seemingly placated. The other members of mismatched cohort settled alongside him. He stuck out his tongue again as he put his hands to his temple and called up more of his hazy memory…

"Aaaaugh! It was in the memo!"

The room exploded in bees.


*It's turtles all the way down! And yet, despite being a religious icon for others, the turtles themselves remain stout nonbelievers.
**The book being promoted was the third in the Complacency of the Learned series, The Captive of Zazzerpan.
***After Rajesh Khanna, Bollywood superstar and King of Romance.