Here's the next part. It's a bit longer and it kind of moves "the plot" along a bit.

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Sitting in Walter Kettich's kitchen, Hastur flexed his fingers. Or rather, he flexed Walter's fingers. Looking down, the demon admired the newly acquired fingers. The ten digits were spread before him ready to do whatever he wanted. It felt nice. Better than nice. It felt powerful. Smiling, Hastur decided to try an experiment.

After some rummaging, the demon located a moderately sharp knife from one of Walter's drawers. Hastur contemplated looking for a chopping block but decided there really was no need. Settling Walter's left hand on the kitchen counter, he only paused for one second before bringing the knife down on Walter's pinkie. The small member flew off the counter like a sloppily cut carrot. There was almost no pain. Perhaps a slight tingle but nothing compared to the pain Walter would have felt had he been in his body.

Hastur smiled again. *Well, that's rather convenient*

Taking over Walter's body had been easy. Much easier than any of his colleagues let on. From the way beings like Azrael spoke, Hastur had always believed that possession was a trial, something one had to put a lot of effort into in order for it to be a success. But Walter had been easy. In fact, Hastur found it much easier to occupy Walter's body than the one that Hell had assigned him.

Hell.

Hastur reminded himself that a demon didn't claw his way up to being a Duke Down There for nothing. He had a Ten Year Plan, after all. He had planned for retirement at a certain time and had been organizing just how he would do this as well as gain a position that would garter him a good amount of respect. It had all been neatly figured out. He'd play by the rules, never stray from his duties and remember that despite the fact he was a bastard (or perhaps because he was), Lucifer was the boss. And one who should be heeded.

But that had all changed after the events concerning the Anti-Christ. Those events ended with Ligur being reduced to a pile of charred black bits and Hastur coming to the unfortunate conclusion that one didn't get anywhere by playing by the rules. His report back to the Dark Council during that time had been an embarrassment. One that had only increased as he had to explain that he was half an hour late in reporting back due to being trapped in an answering machine, courtesy of Anthony J. Crowley.

But Hastur could deal with being snickered at. He could even cope with the punishment that had been given to him. What he could not stand was the fact that the Dark Council saw fit to let that snake off without a single reprimand. They had not explained why. Only that the demise of Ligur at Crowley's hands was an inconvenience. That had been the final straw for Hastur.

Not that he had ever been fond of Ligur in anyway. He was just another fellow worker who was easy to deal with as he had less brains than most others. But he hadn't deserved an end like that. No demon did. All except one who was low enough to use such methods. And that was Crowley. And what had Lucifer decided to do about it? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Crowley was just left to continue as he pleased. No repercussions for breaking a veritable book of rules. Not even a reprimand.

So, Hastur had seen fit to give Hell, its rules, and Lucifer himself the great "Fuck off!" And he planned. Planned a new plan that consisted of getting whatever satisfaction he wanted, regulations and rules be damned. And the only satisfaction he wanted was knowing that Crowley would be a pile of black bits, identical to the one Ligur became. Everything had gone quite well to the most part.

Except Walter messing up and him taking over Walter's body. That hadn't really been part of his plan.

It had really been Walter's own fault. Hastur had felt it in his right to take Walter's body as acquisition after the human's inability to follow the simplest instructions. But now that he was calmed down, the demon considered that yes, even a bit of holy water mixed in would at least cause Crowley some damaged. Perhaps even death. A nice, long slow death. If that were the case then Walter had actually done him a favor. Perhaps he had been a bit hasty in possessing his body.

But what was done was done. And now Hastur decided it was time to test out his new body. He found he rather liked it. It fit him better than he would have thought. And the idea that he was in an unauthorized body, no doubt royally pissing off the Dark Council only made his stay in Walter that much more enjoyable. Hastur knew he had crossed a certain line. So there was no use worrying about it now. He might as well enjoy the time he had. It seemed earth was full of more colors and smells than the demon had noticed when he had been in a Hell-assigned body. Through Walter's eyes, nose and ears, Hastur began to understand just why Crowley might have wanted to protect this pitiful planet.

Wrapping a towel around the bleeding area, Hastur walked from the kitchen to one of Walter's windows and peered out its newly washed glass. The nighttime lights of London sparkled back at him, full of headlights, lamps by windows, and traffic stops. The demon gazed at the sight with a new appreciation. He never realized how big this one city could be. How full of life it was. Full of people. Full of victims.

Flexing his remaining fingers, Hastur decided it was time to check out the rest of the world with his new body.

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"It's a point of great concern," stated the Metatron. "We've done the extensive background check. This fellow, Kettich...he's a guard at the British Museum, doesn't have a record, never even had a traffic violation. He's technically a Catholic but we don't really hold that against him by any means. He's a light body, as in useless. It doesn't make sense that he's suddenly gone off the radar."

Aziraphale frowned. "Radar?"

"Some bugger's gone off and possessed him," the Metatron clarified. "And there's no reason. Not as far as we can see."

"Why don't you ask Him?" inquired Aziraphale. The normally apologetic manner with which he usually gave suggestions to the Metatron was now replaced with a slightly wearied tone. "He's supposed to know everything, doesn't He?"

"What He does know is not really the issue here. The point is that whoever's gotten a hold of Kettich is most likely not working under Lucifer's orders. That's how the *other* incident nearly rolled about. If it's another renegade at work here, it's going to be a lot messier than usual. And that only means more innocent bystanders at risk."

"And I'd wager," continued the seraphim, sparing a glance down at Crowley. "That his recent tangle with holy water is not an unrelated incident."

Staring down at the demon's white face, Aziraphale noticed something different. The face. It was Crowley. It was the same face Hell continued to recycle to give to the demon years upon years whenever Crowley had the misfortune of getting killed or maimed. But the face now looked detached from the essence Aziraphale had always attributed to *Crowley*. As if something inside the body was disappearing.

"He's fading," Aziraphale realized.

"It's a done deal with him," proclaimed the Metatron, not without a shred of sympathy. "It'll take bleeding longer but holy water gets the job done one way or another."

The other angel didn't bother to push back the sudden despair that filled him. It was true. It wouldn't matter if Crowley had been thrown into a pool of holy water in one go or just breathed in some of it. In the end, it would kill him. This was just a way for him to suffer longer before the inevitable end.

The Metatron stared at Aziraphale's back as the angel remained sitting hunched over the unconscious demon. He fought back the urge to interrupt and force Aziraphale to hurry matters along. It wasn't that he didn't see the angel's position. After all, you could only know someone for so long before you got comfortable with seeing his face. But they were talking about a demon, for God's sake. An agent of Hell. That made things fairly clear for the Metatron in terms of how much sympathy he was prepared to doll out.

Finally, after a few more minutes, Aziraphale turned from where he sat and looked at the Metatron with clear blue eyes. "What is it that I'm supposed to do?"

The seraphim sighed, glad that things were progressing. "Find Walter Kettich and get whoever took him over out of there. He's a free-roamer from what we know. Highly doubtful that Hell gives a toss then."

Aziraphale gave a short nod. "Fine. But I wish to speak with Him before I do."

The Metatron's relief was short-lived. "Speak with..."

"With God. I'd like to have a word with Him before I track down Kettich," said Aziraphale, quietly but firmly.

"Now, hang on," scowled the Metatron. "Is this going to be about him?" he demanded, freely pointing at Crowley. When Aziraphale didn't answer but looked mildly guilty as well as defiant, he knew his answer. "Oh, for the love of Christ! What is this? Are you planning on bartering with the Almighty?!"

Despite the outburst, Aziraphale remained looking rather passive and any anxiety that was in his eyes was in regards to Crowley alone. "I'd like to speak with God, please," he requested again.

After a few choice words ran through the Metatron's mind, it dawned on the seraphim that it would only waste more time. Despite wanting to voice his opinion on the matter, he instead threw a final half disgusted, half irritated expression at Aziraphale before disappearing in a burst of flames to transfer the request.

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