A/N: Why yes, as someone said, I am an equal-opportunity pwner ;)

Anyhow, continued love to my wondrous beta Quantum Witch, and continued love to all of you for reading and enjoying and especially reviewing, but mostly reading and enjoying :D

Chapter Twelve

Three cursed bullets landed on the ground with three soft "pings."

Gabriel stood up and brushed himself off, miracling his robes pristine. Any sort of paleness he now displayed was clearly the imagination of whoever was looking at him, and both Michael and Dagon knew better than to bring it up.

Before he did anything else, of course, he quickly lifted one knee and thrust it into Michael's groin. He had never used a crotch-attack before because in Heaven it wouldn't have worked (both due to a certain lack of the necessary external organs and the fact that Michael always wore armor), and so he was quite pleased when Michael let out a very interesting noise and crumpled to the floor, clutching the area.

"Never go near my desk again," he said simply, watching Michael writhe with a glint in his eyes.

"Yes sir," Michael choked out.*

"Consider it fair warning that once you are no longer useful to the operation at hand, should again you dare act out in such a manner as you had indicated to me, your life is forfeit. Now then, regarding said operation, from all appearances a few of our people came down here for some reason and were attacked," Gabriel continued tersely, willing his ears to not turn red. After all, now he was remembering the slightly more sentimental aspects of Michael's speech, and that oaf had actually said… things… and as such it was simply logical that Gabriel be… horrified.

Of course. Horrified.

"It is thus a very simple conclusion to arrive to that this factory is something we ought to concern ourselves with," he finished confidently as Michael forced himself to his feet. "Hence why I'm spelling it out, as I doubt you two could come to that conclusion on your own."

"You're right," Dagon gushed worriedly.

Michael put one hand on his hip thoughtfully and one hand over his crotch protectively as he looked over the building in question. If he was upset that Gabriel wasn't asking for more information regarding that l-word that was not used in the context of the Lord's Love, he wasn't showing it. "You know, now that we're here and no one's dying, I can tell that this place feels really creepy. And wasn't it said that humans were mass-producing angel and demon-killing weapons? Maybe that's being done here. So we should take it out, because that's sort of what we do."

"It was one of the tasks that we agreed we ought to do during the conference," Gabriel agreed. "As we are here, it would be in our best interests to deal with this problem ourselves, rather than continue to lose lesser angels while planning a new operation."

"Yes, I agree," said Dagon, who didn't really agree because he wanted to go home, but was too afraid to point that out.

"Let's go," Michael said with a shrug, walking up to the factory entrance and opening the door.

Gabriel sighed and followed him. "So, I have just spent an excessive amount of time with Aziraphael's spouse, and he makes you look like a shining beacon of light," Gabriel admitted ruefully. "While we did earn Aziraphael the healing he requires, I may never recover from the strain. Do I dare ask what you have been doing so far away from Raphael and Uriel?"

"I got into a fist fight with a dragon," Michael said. "Not just any dragon; a rare black dragon. It breathed acid and fire and lava. It retreated in the face of my awesome wrath."

Gabriel sighed, not believing him for a second but too tired to press him. "I see. And this required slave's car because…?"

"… Because…" muttered Michael awkwardly, "because it did."

"As much as I loathe him, it is his car and stealing is still considered wrong. Return it to him."

"But it was for a Holy Mission!" he whined piteously.

"Michael."

"Gaaaabrieeeeel!"

"Michael."

Michael pouted and snapped his fingers. "Fiiiiiiine!"

* Michael made a mental note: Crotch shots? Horribly unfair, and incredibly painful.

Crowley had recovered himself and begun looking around again when the Bentley appeared right in front of him. In pristine condition.

He let out an extremely excited high-pitched squeal as he ran over and latched on to his precious car, nuzzling it and trying to ignore the odd sense of disappointment he could sense coming from it.

"I guess it's just a silly song about you… and how I lost you…"

"So let's go on and get this over with," Michael grumbled, sliding inside with his sword drawn. "Oh, hey, this looks like a factory would on the TV! You know, with machines and conveyer belts and stuff!"

Gabriel groaned. He had often tried dissuading Michael from watching television, but it never worked. Michael was the most stubborn being in Creation, after all.

"On the what? What's a 'teevee'?" Dagon asked, following with them.

"You're still here?" Michael asked him back.

Dagon blushed. "Well I wouldn't want you to get angry I abandoned you; you might smite me then," he admitted. "Although, of course, I'm also here because I'm evil and demonic and-"

"And anyway," Michael continued authoritatively, "the best way to shut down one of these places is to find the control room and hit lots of buttons. Even better if there's a big red button that says 'DO NOT HIT.' You're really supposed to hit that."

Gabriel took a deep breath to regain his composure. "Yes," he said darkly. "Of course that is exactly how it works. In real life. Which is exactly how it is on the television. That you oughtn't have been watching. Because you are an angel. And you should have been practicing singing."

Michael gave him a very apologetic smile. "Sorry, I thought television was kind of awesome. Except for all of those shows about housecleaning. Or those shows about clothes shopping. And I didn't need practice singing! My voice is sexy."

Gabriel rolled his eyes, refusing to blush at the word 'sexy.' He would sooner kill Michael than ever again admit that the warrior angel was attractive. "Come," he said sternly, walking away from his two comrades down an industrialized hallway with no windows and dirty floors. As his tone left no room for objection, Michael and Dagon followed him dutifully.

"We are going to walk through this maze and slay any humans we come across," Gabriel informed them as they trailed behind him, although he personally was planning on merely miracling them out of the way. He wanted to sound as ruthless as possible both to keep reminding Dagon who was in charge and to hopefully make Michael listen. "We are going to locate the machinery that permits the humans to bless and curse their weapons and remove it so that they may desist in doing so. Judging from the size of this particular facility, this is a major hub of weapon mobilization."

"Are you okay now?" Michael asked nervously.

Gabriel gave Michael the highest raised eyebrow the latter had ever seen, much less received. He vaguely wondered if it had its own gravitational pull. "Excuse me?"

Michael was very good at ignoring his dangerdangerdanger sense, but even so he kept his eyes lowered as he said, "Well, you did get really hurt… I mean, I really thought… or at least was afraid that…"

Gabriel's infamous eyebrow did not lower. "Is this where you say that anyone who isn't you would have passed out from blood loss?"

"Nooooo…"

"Oh, perhaps that it would have taken being shot six times to fell you, as opposed to the three I received?"

"Nooooooooooooo…"

"Well, then what? Out with it."

Michael awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck. "There wasn't a punch line, honest. I just don't want you overexerting yourself right now, that's all."

Gabriel gave a dignified snort. Michael was impressed that a snort could ever be considered dignified, but there it was.

"Really!" he insisted, "I mean, you're so dainty, and you're not like, you know, the Warrior of Heaven. You're the Messenger, the keyboardist. I worry about you."

Gabriel blinked. "I see. Even when we were on tour, then? I suppose you ought to have been worried about me then, considering my constant exposure to your singing voice."

"Aw c'mon. I… I always imagined I was singing to you," Michael admitted bashfully, rubbing the back of his head some more and awkwardly staring at the floor.

Awww, thought Gabriel. He blinked at Michael before it dawned on him what was wrong with that. "All of our songs address a woman, Michael." Had he been anyone else, that sentence would have ended with an exclamation mark.

Michael wisely burst into a sprint, running down the hallway and turning.

"Don't you dare laugh," said Gabriel to Dagon.

"Far too afraid to," the demon admitted.

I CALL THIS STAFF MEETING TO ORDER, said Death, skeletal hands folded on the table. WELCOME FOUR HORSEPERSONS OF THE APOCALYPSE, AND GUEST.

"It's so good to be back," Pestilence purred.

"It's so good to have never left," said Pollution snidely, although he was secretly worrying as to whether or not he was 'guest.'

War and Famine gave long-suffering sighs.

"He's young," Famine told Pestilence apologetically.

"Not that young," Pollution protested heatedly.

Pestilence smiled, adjusting his lab-coat. "It's quite all right. We're all here for the same goal." Of course to Pestilence that goal was 'world domination,' but he had decided that the others were for this plan as well, whether they knew it or not.

FIRST ORDER OF BUSINESS, said Death, ANY POINTS LEFT OVER FROM OUR LAST MEETING. DID ANYONE THINK OF ANYTHING?

War raised her hand. "I did. Why do we have weekly meetings? Can't we switch to monthly, or yearly?"

BECAUSE WE DON'T KNOW WHEN THE WORLD IS GOING TO END, Death said sternly. AND BECAUSE… I GET LONELY ON THE WEEKENDS.

"But our meetings are on Mondays," Famine pointed out.

I TAKE OUT THE PAIN OF MY LONELINESS ON YOU. THAT'S NOT THE POINT. THE POINT IS THAT THE END OF THE WORLD IS FINALLY COMING AND I FEEL THAT WE'RE BEHIND. HUMANS SHOULDN'T BE FIGHTING BACK SO HARDCORE. BESIDES, WE'RE BEING OVERLOOKED BECAUSE OF A BUNCH OF LOONY ANGELS AND DEMONS. DOES ANYONE HAVE ANY SUGGESTIONS FOR HOW TO DEAL WITH THIS PROBLEM?

His four comrades looked at each other.

"Um," War said awkwardly, "This really is a problem. I've heard stories of a redheaded devil woman killing everyone. I don't appreciate being called a devil, because I'm not."

"That's what you get for being so hands-on," Famine pointed out. "If you had just done your old gig, with the influencing instead, then you wouldn't have this problem."

"At least I'm doing something!" she snapped back.

Famine sighed. "You know your powers have no effect on me."

She pouted.

POLLUTION, STOP GIVING DEATH GLARES TO PESTILENCE; THAT'S MY SHTICK. IF YOU HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY, THEN SAY IT.

Pollution considered airing out his jealously-fueled feelings, but that would be against his code of ethics. He instead smugly proclaimed, "Humans are making nasty monsters too."

Pestilence scratched himself in confusion. "I'm not making monsters."

"Zombies are considered monsters," War informed him. "You know, like vampires and hippies."

This made the mad scientist scowl. "So they're copying off me?"

"Not only that," Pollution continued, "but they're making them so they can kill angels and demons. Can your clean freaks do that?" *

Pestilence stood up and walked out of the room. Another mass outbreak of the Ebola virus spread to all parts of the world.

Pollution snickered. Famine, War and Death all sighed.

* To Pollution, "clean freak" is the direst insult imaginable short of "flash bastard," as Crowley uses no petrol and is immaculately clean at all times.

Michael, Gabriel and Dagon strolled through the factory. Dagon wanted to complain that he hadn't killed any factory workers yet, but the fact that he had yet to see a single human made him suspicious that maybe one of his nobler companions was miracling them to safety. He also wanted to point out that such an action was counter-productive considering their ultimate goal was the destruction of the human race, but considering that Dagon was terrified of both of his comrades, he kept his mouth shut.

Gabriel, however, did not keep his mouth shut.

"I see. So you were given a task to smite someone, and you failed miserably," Gabriel translated.

Michael gasped indignantly. "That is so not true! And anyway I wonder how well you would have done against the massive dragon-basilisk hybrid evil thing. Did I mention its very presence turns people to stone, and that only someone with sufficient fortitude and smiting prowess can withstand such a fearsome gaze?"

Gabriel gave a long-suffering sigh. "No, you did not mention that before."

"Am I still better than A. Crow?"

"Surprisingly, yes."

"You know, after so long, I don't know whether I'm proud or ashamed that I've gotten beaten at being annoying to you."

The very edge of Gabriel's lips twitched. "Your only redeeming quality is that you are not as… snarky as that one. Other than that, you are both terrible for my mental health."

Michael grinned. "If you want me to smite him…" Not that Michael had anything against Crowley, but had found it very worth it over the years to keep Gabriel something approaching happy.

"Oh, if only we could. Raphael would destroy us both for breaking his baby's heart. Although how Aziraphael came to have fondness for that thing is something that I might never comprehend, nor wish to."

The larger angel nodded grimly before his eyes widened drastically. He was staring out through a large thick pane of display glass. Gabriel's eyebrows furrowed as he followed Michael's gaze; on the other side of the glass was a conveyor belt dropping assorted weapons and ammunition into a large vat of water.

"Well, that's nonsensical," said Dagon. "All of those weapons, ruined!"

"Um, I don't think they're ruining them," Michael murmured, "I think that's holy water."

"They're blessing their weapons en masse," Gabriel said, and from the look on his face, he did not seem happy about it. Although sometimes with Gabriel it was hard to tell. "I suppose it is easier than having a priest bless each and every one individually."

"That's so… lazy," Dagon said. At the looks given to him by his two companions, he continued, "Well, as a demon, I approve of laziness. Given that I am an evil, powerful demon."

Michael looked at Gabriel, deliberately ignoring Dagon. "So there's probably a place where they're cursing other weapons much faster than we thought."

Gabriel frowned as he squinted, looking through the glass. "Yes. Rather than dealing with one of these problems, we ought to destroy the entire facility. According to your television programmes, such a task can be accomplished in one place, correct?"

Michael nodded enthusiastically.

"All right, then." Gabriel sighed. "Shall we continue on?"

"In the hopes of becoming America's Next Top Model?" Michael supplied.

Gabriel blinked at him.

"Er," said Dagon awkwardly.

"Sorry. That's one of my favorites," Michael admitted sheepishly, not making eye-contact.

Gabriel merely turned and walked away, at a complete loss for words describing Michael's stupidity other than a muttered, "Michael." Michael considered it a victory and followed him, feeling renewed. Dagon started actively wishing he could go home.

Crowley considered himself an optimist, but frankly he didn't trust his angel to fate, considering how it had tended to screw him over in the past. There was nothing quite like walking into your secret love's burning home only to find he wasn't there, except maybe watching him explode.

So as he sauntered down a busy road searching for his angel, he cut to the chase and contacted him from a distance; mentally draining, but instantly rewarding.

Oy angel!

There was a start on the other end of this bond. Crowley? CROWLEY! It's you! You're all right! You're alive!

I could say the same thing about you, Aziraphale. Last time I saw you, you were in your death-bed because you haven't got any self-preservation instincts.

Crowley smiled at the responsive huff. Really my dear, Aziraphale replied, sounding quite offended, I haven't got any self-preservation instincts because I'm immortal.

He rolled his eyes and just knew that somehow his angel saw that. So who ended up saving you? Actually, although he would never admit it out loud, he was a bit disappointed that Aziraphale hadn't been saved as a result of his traipsing through Hell*.

Actually, it was an old… friend of my father's, a one Azazel.

Crowley stopped walking with that admission. Really? Is he still with you?

Why, yes. He's been a bright ray of sunshine; a rainbow on a rainy day. An upstanding young chap.

I know your father well enough by now to know he doesn't think he's in any danger, but you, you I trust to actually keep an eye on him. He's Evil, and I mean that very seriously. He will betray you if he gets a chance, and he especially hates Raphael.

Somehow, replied Aziraphale in a sardonic drawl, I got that impression. It was hard. He's an excellent actor.

Crowley snickered as he started walking again. Oh, and stay away from Belial, too. He acts harmless but that's just a ruse. He's just as conniving and evil as the rest of them.

I'm sure you're being paranoid.

That did not fill Crowley with confidence. Angel.

He's perfectly harmless, and anyway he's… (Was it Crowley imagination or did Aziraphale sound disappointed?) …rather interested in Uriel, it seems.

You stay away from him, too. He's crazy.

Crowley!

Hey now, I didn't make him crazy, so don't go using that accusing tone with me. He just is. The only one of that lot I trust you with is your father and even then he's extremely gullible so "trust" is very loosely used! I swear to anyone who's listening that if the next time I see you you're dying again, I'll just kill us both and save me the trouble of having to go back to Hell!

There was a choking sound.

Don't you dare say "aww!" Crowley snapped.

Aziraphale laughed. All right all right. Take care of yourself, will you, dear? Just because I've had the worse luck so far doesn't make you safe.

I'm coming to find you anyway, so then we can make sure neither of us die.

Oh. How nice. I suppose I'll see you in a jiffy, then.

Crowley sighed inwardly. No, angel, you'll see me soon, or possibly within the week. There is no such thing as a "jiffy."

Oh hush, you snake.

That's Serpent.

Yes, yes. I love you.

He still wasn't very good at this part, but in private conversations he could at least say it quietly. I love you too.

* Not that Crowley knew that if Samael hadn't given them the wild-goose chase quest, Azazel would have never healed Aziraphale anyway, so in a way Crowley did save Aziraphale's life. He was just hoping for something more dramatic. He should really know better by now.

Finally, with enough walking, Michael, Gabriel and Dagon came upon the control center of this vast factory.

"Oh, shit," said the slightly mousy middle-aged man whose badge indicated he ran the factory. He started looking around for an exit, but before he got to one Gabriel flicked a finger and the man stopped walking. He turned around and smiled at them, and Michael realized that Gabriel had put him under a spell.

"Excuse me," said Gabriel curtly, "We require information and you are going to be giving it to us."

"Oh, hello there," said the man, now quite cheerfully, "I recognize two of you! My name's Newton Pulsifer; Newt for short. We met at 'Adam Young's Hooray We Saved the World' party years back. I was there."

Michael and Gabriel looked at him before looking at each other. They both shrugged. Dagon, who hadn't been invited to the aforementioned party, pouted.

"That's great," said Michael warily.

"Why, thank you!" Newt said confidently. Of course, without the spell, he wouldn't have been confident even if he hadn't known that he was manufacturing weapons specifically designed to kill his interrogators. "I had been promoted by the head of Manifest Destiny to the head of this factory after it was discovered that prior experience made me excellent at planning things. Also, considering the nature of the operation, I had sufficient will to lead a place that was goaled towards protecting us from angels and demons, although of course I mean no offence." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wallet. "Why, would I show you pictures of my family if I meant to offend? This is my wife, Anathema, whom you may remember." He showed the two angels and the demon this picture of his wife; she was smiling beautifully and holding a book. "She became an author after everyone knew of the Apocalypses. She's very popular, and all of the stories she writes are based on real events that have happened throughout our lives!"

"How nice," Gabriel said, looking confused, as this had nothing to do with the information he actually wanted.

"This is a picture of my son, Bentley," he continued, flipping the plastic picture-holder and revealing a picture of a mildly handsome yet otherwise nondescript young man. "Bentley attended a local university and has since become a tabloid journalist. We're all very proud of him for making something of his life. And this is his twin sister, Aziraphale." He flipped it and showed his captive audience the last picture in his wallet of a lovely young woman who had grown up to take after her confident mother. "She also attended university and went into a life of politics! Ironically, it seems that Bentley often writes salacious rumors about his very own sister!"

"Um," said Michael nervously, "It's great you like your family and everything, but, ah, but we need to shut this place down. We were going to press a lot of buttons and hoped that worked."

"I don't think so," said Newt. "That's not how you shut down a factory at all. Now, you may be thinking, 'wait a minute, isn't this Newt fellow the one who was pretty much cursed so that every time he touched something remotely electrical, it died?' Yes, that was me, but as you see, the man before you is not defined by that character trait. People grow up, you know. They change."

Gabriel eyebrow twitched. "Can you shut down the factory another way then, or shall we have to resort to violence?"

"I don't like violence," Newt said. "I was a Witchfinder for quite a long period, you know, and in all that time I never killed a witch. Make love, not war, I say. Especially since that's exactly what I did with the one witch I ever met, who is my wife."

"There's a big shiny red button that says 'do not push,'" Michael whined, looking to the control panel which did, in fact, have said button.

Newt smiled. "That button does nothing. I had it installed so that it would do nothing upon being pressed, just in case someone broke in here. As you just demonstrated, were someone to come in here, their first inclination would be to press the big 'do not push' button, which would, in fact, do nothing. In fact, I installed it myself!"

Dagon reached over and pressed the button.

"It cannot take three weeks for me to get a new corporation!" Michael frowned as he tapped his short-cut fingernails on the secretary's desk.

Betty, the Secretary of the Human Relations and Integrations Department, didn't look up. "You checked rush order delivery," she replied in monotone, "which costs $3.22 extra but speeds the process up a week. Your list of achievements with that corporation justified a two-day speedup of construction."

"I'm on a schedule! The world is going to be destroyed and I have to make sure it all happens!" he whined.

"No exceptions," said Betty, still not looking up.

Scowling mightily, he reached into his robes and whipped out his ID card. He pushed it under Betty's nose.

She finally looked up. "Miiiiichaeeeeeeeel! Eeeeeeeeeee Sir Michael give it thirteen seconds!"

Michael gave her a winning grin. Gabriel rolled his eyes.

They had both been discorporated when the factory exploded. There were no hard feelings; both Michael and Gabriel would have felt better knowing that somehow Newt had gotten out unscathed. Newt wasn't quite sure how this was possible, but it was likely a mechanical malfunction and thus he himself felt a little bit let down by it before dutifully picking himself up and going off to find his wife.

"Gabriel sir," Betty squealed, noticing him too, "would you like your new corporation order sped up as well? Anything for one of the Seven!"

"No thank you. I believe I am going to stay Up Here," said Gabriel, rubbing his temples. "After all, someone has to tell Metatron what has transpired, so that he may keep everyone informed. After that I shall take a hot bubble bath lest my brain explode from all the rage I've had to internalize."

Michael then remembered his own Metatron-relayed task and his brand-new corporation blushed. "Yeah. I need to get going anyway. It was, uh, good seeing you, Gabriel. And um, yay for you not dying! Woo!"

The two stared at each other. Michael was blushing horribly, but only the most observant people would notice the very tip of Gabriel's ears turn pink. "Yes," said Gabriel.

"So… um…"

"Go away, Michael."

"Bye," squeaked Michael as he descended.

Gabriel sighed and walked back to the Archangel nest for his paperwork and a long-overdue bath.

Pestilence gawked at the sight of an enormous mutated crocodile that slid back into the pond after eating one of his zombies.

"What is this?" he shrieked. "This is unnatural! This is, this is monstrous! This! Is! PLAGIARISM!"

"You said it, Daddy," said one of his zombies.

"How dare they copy off my incredibly unique and ingenious idea!" he screamed in rage, "This means war!"

"Finally," War muttered, standing next to him.

"I shall – oh, hello darling."

"Hi Big P," she said with a smile, pinching his cheek. "Are you going to wage an unholy bloodbath on the humans who took your idea?"

"Oh. Yes."

"Sweet.'