-o-o-o-o-o-

Cato

Cato's interactions with angels had been sparse and from a distance. The sudden presence of the strongest angel, Metatron, in his home forced him to put more thought into them than he had so far. The first sign that dealing with the would be an unusual experience was when he noticed and recognized Jeanne. They had been enemies the night before, but when Metatron's eyes met those of Jeanne, he offered her a gentle smile of all things. It was a relief that Jeanne tensed up and looked about to bolt, because it meant that he wasn't the only one who understood nothing of the current predicament. When the angel sat down, it was unnecessarily close to Jeanne, who squirmed a little, though Metatron paid her no mind.

The nature of angels intrigued Cato. He had thought of them mostly in passing, learning little of them even during the time he spent in the Vatican. They were servile beings, but also strong. They were servants first and foremost, but servants to what? The god they served had died, and their current nature was one of maintaining a dysfunctional system. Or so he had written them off. Now, contrary to his wildest expectations, one had sought him out.

"It's good to see that you've taken upon yourself the initiative to mend the bridges without hesitation. Humanity has been in dire need of a true hero for millennia, now."

It took a moment for Jeanne to process Metatron's words and for her eyes to snap to Cato. Cato only shook his head as he handed the angel a cup of tea. What a strange situation.

"I'm not sure what you mean," Cato said. Metatron smiled warmly at his words. No, really. What are you talking about?

Metatron was about to respond, but Jeanne interrupted him. "Hero…"

Her voice was quiet, more an accidental thought spilling out than any premeditated action. Metatron nodded magnanimously at her and began speaking in a voice like a teacher might use with a child, but rather than condescending, even Cato found himself charmed by the angel's warmth.

"Indeed. While those such as yourself carry the name and soul of a hero past, your nature is far removed from your namesake. The age of heroes, which was already in its twilight when your namesake made her run, ended long ago. Humanity isn't strained the way it used to be," Metatron looked to Cato, again giving off the air of a teacher looking to include a student as he gave out a lesson. "The modern challenge, so to speak, is a challenge that heroes ill respond to. The devils and the fallen stopped their outright rape and exploitation of the human race and instead institutionalized it, kept it away from the open, and thus, heroes ceased appearing to stop them. The age of heroes ended though the need for them did not."

Cato frowned. It wasn't the first time someone had called on him to be a hero, but the setting was too different now to compare.

"They imitated human civility and outlawed practices like stealing souls, labeling such archaic traditions as vulgar barbarism. 'The new age of the devils', they called it. Instead, they sucked onto humans like leeches, draining them of their life in a cunning way that would warrant no retaliation." It wasn't surprising that the angel would speak like that of the devils, but Cato wondered if perhaps this 'new age of the devils' wasn't ultimately preferable for humans. "But, alas, that is not the end of it."

Jeanne was sitting at the edge of her seat, focusing intensely on Metatron's words. Cato found that he was doing the same.

"Would be that I could end it there and condemn devil and fallen alike. But that is not the end of it," he said again. "Michael has done an admirable job in keeping with the pretense, in keeping the hopes of humanity alive as best he could. But he has lost track of himself. He is working on a system just as perverse as the one the devils use to steal away humans to replenish our ranks. And why? So we can pit humans against the factions in our attempt to keep that exact thing from happening?"

"Not only is he willing to soil our father's creation thus, he will do so fully convinced that he is only following our almighty maker's wishes." Metatron raised a fist. "Insanity! Of late, I pondered leaving the Church, yet my wings have not sullied despite the blasphemous act – the opposite is true! As though a sign from our passed father, when my doubt reached its apex, the exalted sword itself burst and the Vatican blew up. And so, as sure as my wings remain pristine, the way forward cannot be with the Church."

A silence settled in the wake of Metatron's impassioned speech as both Cato and Jeanne processed the new information. Someone else had used the rigged Excalibur Destruction to attack the Church? It was none of his business, he supposed. In the end, Cato couldn't help but think that none of it was particularly useful. The worst case scenario was that Metatron suspected Cato of being behind the attack, but the angel's words were at conflict with that line of thought.

"Cool," he said.

Jeanne gaped at him.

He had been caught up in the angel's tempo. 'Hero' was thrown out as a buzzword. It was a sweet roll offered to a child to lure it away from safety. It was a word that implied Cato was supposed to give something of himself for a noble cause. He needed to understand why the angel put on such an act, why the angel came to his office in the first place. Metatron's strained expression showed that he had at least stopped the flow of the act somewhat.

"Cool?" Metatron asked, looking genuinely confused. "What do you mean 'cool'?"

It was an unusual situation. Cato had no knowledge of the angel in front of him, and his knowledge of the Church and its current motivations was practically nonexistent – and perhaps Metatron had told the truth in saying he hadn't come for the Church.

"We've heard your story. Now, what can I do for you, Metatron?" Cato said in the end. It was something he might say to a customer, a normal person entering from the streets in search of something. And who knew? Perhaps asking the angel for his reason to be there would just give him the answer outright. "It's not exactly within business hours, but I'll make an exception."

Metatron smiled again, regaining his stride. "You misunderstand me, Cato. I am not here to ask you to do anything for me. I am here to ask: What can I do for you."

Cato frowned. Was it perhaps an excuse to stay close to monitor his actions? He looked to Jeanne for a clue. The poor girl looked like her jaw might fall off. He sighed. He still had nothing to work with.

"What if I were to ask you to leave and never come back?"

The premise was simple. If the angel agreed to the proposition, he wasn't an enemy. And yet, upon seeing the dejected look on Metatron's face, Cato felt as though a puppy had run up to him all happy, wagging its tail, only to have him kick it in the teeth. Hard. He wanted to say something to make it all better, but he knew waiting it out was bound to give him better results. The silence dragged on.

"I… can't blame you for mistrusting my kind," Metatron said at length. His voice held nothing of the gusto that he had opened with. "After all, that's my reason for coming. We angels have failed. If you were to shoo me off, I would leave and do everything in my power to help you without overstepping whatever boundary you set." Metatron leaned in over the table, his eyes fixed on Cato's. "But please, allow me to do my part. My heart has ached to find the way forward, and to be turned away when finally I have my answer…"

"You could be lying." Cato said. Metatron opened his mouth only to close it again, completely speechless at the declaration for some reason. "When a mighty gift lands unsolicited in a man's lap, he is wise to throw it away."

"What!?" Jeanne snapped, the angel looked about as bewildered.

Metatron leaned back, still at a loss for words. After getting through a range of facial expressions, it was Jeanne who continued.

"Are you stupid?"

Cato raised an eyebrow at her. She rolled her eyes.

"Angels can't lie."

Cato blinked. What? He looked to Metatron, who didn't deny it.

"Can't lie?" he said.

"Of course not. If they lie, they fall."

"They can't lie?"

Although Jeanne now looked at him as though he were a failed jester or worse, he still couldn't quite comprehend the concept.

"What do you mean 'they can't lie'?" he asked again.

"Lying is a sin." Metatron spoke before Jeanne managed to get past her overly dramatic sigh. "If we sin, if we even think earnestly of sinning, our wings blacken, and we join the ranks of the filth that make up the fallen."

Cato slumped back in the couch. They couldn't lie. Worse. They couldn't even think about lying.

"Does that mean," Cato started, ignoring Jeanne, who was already throwing her hands in the air in exasperation without even knowing what he was about to say, "that you've been telling the truth the whole time?"

"Yes," Metatron responded, adding a nod for good measure. Cato didn't miss Jeanne muttering under her breath how she knew it would be stupid. Cato rubbed his chin as he considered it.

Metatron was thousands of years old. To live for thousands of years without lying, such a thing isn't human. And indeed, the being in front of him wasn't 's approach to devils and angels and the fallen had been simple. They were different in much the same way that humans differed from High Elves or Bretons or Khajiit. There was no reason for prejudice against them, because while their cultures and lifespans and appearances were different, their essence was not. Their abilities differed at times, but ultimately, the races had inclinations and more overlap than distance between them. This lack of prejudice had made ingratiating himself into all the circles in Kuoh city a simple task, because it's easy to accept someone as your own if they show no reservations where such are expected. But he was wrong.

The idea of never lying was something as far removed from humans as mortality was for dragons. If I were hit with a shout to comprehend never lying, it would be akin to a dragon being hit with dragonrend. He smiled lightly at the thought.

"And yet," Cato said, "you would follow a sinner?"

"Humans are all sinners," the angel said. There was no condemnation in the statement, only truth. "We angels were made to serve creation. All I can do is be true to the mold with which I was made and wear my wings of white with pride and joy as proof of my adherence to that creed."

This time, Cato couldn't help but smile and shake his head. It was a refreshing take on the problem that had always plagued his mind. Embrace your nature, give in to it. But it was a luxury afforded to angels, not to men.

Azazel had told him many times in his own way. Angels were created for a purpose, the pursuit of their purpose was what gave them meaning, and without their purpose they were lost. Azazel had filled the lack of meaning in his life with the pursuit of peace, perhaps deluding himself into thinking that his pursuit of peace was, in fact, meaningful. Kokabiel had understood his situation and tried to fulfill his original purpose even without his wings to guide him, so to speak. They really were different. But when Cato met the fallen, when he spoke with them, they felt so very human. There seemed to be nothing wrong with them save for their extreme and often unsavory behavior. That was why Cato had thought of them as he would an elf or a Breton.

It hit him now, after all the time he had known Azazel, that the fallen were just as different from humans as the angel sitting in front of him was. Azazel deliberated, hesitated, and even when he acted, it was undecisive, oftentimes outright weak. Kokabiel had been better, acting with some decisiveness, but he had still lacked the full committal to his cause, not to mention the centuries or millennia he had spent before finally acting in earnest. And it wasn't because they were feckless of spirit, nor were they averse to extreme causes of action. They were simply unable to act on their own in the way humans did. They lacked the spontaneity, not to say the choice.

And now, sitting in front of him was the exemplar of virtue, the same virtue with which Azazel and even Kokabiel were once created. They were made to serve, and upon freeing themselves of that bondage, they became strays starved for what they needed most, like sled dogs who had lost, or even killed, their master. Metatron in contrast was a presence unlike any that Cato had ever experienced. The angel literally glowed as he sat in the couch with Jeanne, who should by rights be his sworn enemy. Only a day or two ago – how long had it been? – the two were on opposing sides of the battlefield, but now, he appeared not even guarded as he sat next to her.

Worse yet, Jeanne herself looked unguarded, thoroughly disarmed by the angel's presence. And he felt the same. An idea began taking shape in his mind, inspired by the honesty of the angel. The situation had steadily grown complicated. The more you know, the harder everything gets. It was, perhaps, more accurate to say that the more you know, the more aware you are of the risks you undertake.

"So, sinner," Metatron said, with humor lacing his tone, "what is your plan moving forward, and how might I be a part of it?"

Cato smiled in response. Situations like this were the reason he often second-guessed himself. Everything had aligned in a way he never could have predicted, and it left him with the uncertainty of whether he was in control or not. He glanced at Jeanne, who looked serious, a frown adorning her otherwise flawless features. Her presence complicated things, but even that could work out in his favor. Ddraig was already resurrecting, which meant that he would certainly lose any measure of control if he didn't act decisively going forward.

"My goal to kill the two celestial dragons."

The following moment of silence was interrupted by a chuckle coming from Metatron.

"I suppose it is a staple for heroes to kill dragons," the angel said. This time, Jeanne made no comment about his stupidity, instead choosing to look at him with an intensity he wasn't expecting. She had seemed nonchalant when she first came, showing no fear or interest in the situation. But she apparently wasn't a fool. "Both of the celestial dragon gears are held by devils at present, killing them would give the weapons back to humanity. Still, it strikes me as something of a Sisyphean task now that the devils have proven capable of turning humans to their side. Have you a plan to deal with the unholy reincarnation of humans?"

Metatron had hit the crux of the issue, the leverage with which Cato could frame himself as the solution to the problem. The celestial dragons were an oppressive force that all three factions would rather be rid of. Of course, to people of this world, there was no way to destroy a dragon's soul. Ddraig's immortality wasn't merely a virtue of his existence as a sacred gear; rather, the reason he and Albion had been confined into the gears in the first place was because they were impossible to truly remove. That was the knowledge that laid the base for Metatron's statement. But, of course, it was incorrect.

"You misunderstand. My goal is to kill the dragons, not their wielders. Permanently, at that."

Metatron's humor evaporated. To Cato's surprise, it was Jeanne who spoke first.

"How?" Her voice was serious, devoid of emotion. She showed none of the mockery that he expected following his declaration.

Cato pursed his lips as he considered the next step. The easiest way was just to show them, but despite the angel's apparent virtue, Cato found it difficult to trust him, or anyone for that matter. While trusting Metatron to be honest and true to his word was apparently simple enough, he had little way of understanding Jeanne's motives. She was a member of the hero faction, a cell of the Khaos Brigade. The true scope of the Khaos Brigade wasn't of importance to Cato, but the bottom line was that the hero faction had a purpose that all the heroes subscribed to, at least to some degree. They served a dragon, but not in the way the dragon cult of Tamriel had done so. There was no worship, no reverence. Only a desire to make use of the dragon's power and influence.

But to what end?

Cato looked at Jeanne. Her posture full of tension, her hands coiled around the hem of her skirt, her expectant gaze on him. Any fool could tell that there was something she wanted him to say. So, he smiled. His confidence wasn't feigned. This was an environment in which he thrived, a situation that he lived for. At least now that he had little else. Time to put on a performance.

"I will show you," he said, meeting first the eyes of Jeanne and then those of Metatron. He stood to leave, and they made to follow.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Azazel

Has my home always been this cold?

Azazel shivered.

It was afternoon when he got out of bed. He walked through his house, failing again to muster the will to do anything as he took another sip from the bottle of cherry wine in his hand. The past few days had been a mess.

What was there left for him to do?

His living room was dark, he noticed. It wasn't something that normally bothered him, not something he ever registered. He could see in the dark. He drew the blinds to let in the sun. On an ordinary day, he wouldn't have noticed or bothered unless he expected a visitor. But no one would come now. The only one who might yet visit was Baraqiel, but he was busy living his penance by waiting patiently for his daughter to speak to him. Azazel's thoughts turned, despite his desperate wish for it not to happen, to the only two people who made it a habit to stop by.

Vali had stabbed him in the back.

Cato had sliced his neck, ever so slightly.

Something wetted his cheeks, and he looked around for something to stop it before he simply put the bottle to his mouth one more time.

Was this peace?

They had won the battle, hadn't they?

There was no sacred gear, genuine or artificial, to help him now. His sacred gear research had been pointless in the end. In the fight, he had prevailed while it was a one on one, but the moment the human, Cao Cao, had shown up, Azazel no longer stood a chance. And he had imagined himself to be the keeper of peace, imagined that he could somehow keep the factions in check if he created a weapon strong enough. Hubris too great to fit in a Greek myth. To make it all worse, Baraqiel and Shemhazai had handled their fights exemplarily while he lay bleeding out on the ground. There was simply no point continuing his research into sacred gears. Even if he were to create something that surpassed the True Longinus, blasphemous a thought as it was, he would surely be too much of a failure to make anything of it.

Dragging his feet, he made his way to his desk, pointedly ignoring the inert gemstone dagger. His free hand went over the prototype shell of a sacred gear that he had lying there, tracing its outline with an index finger as he took just one more sip from the bottle in his other hand. They were made by his own maker to give humanity a way of fighting back against the factions. Against the tyranny of the factions. He had known that all along. Kokabiel had reminded him of the fact often enough. Indeed, Kokabiel and Cato seemed to agree on that front. The nagging feeling that the two had been working together came back. Their words had been so similar. Always looking out for humanity, always claiming that he and his idea of peace stood in the way. Even if they weren't allies, they would have at the very least liked each other.

His hand went from the gear to his forehead, rubbing profusely trying to somehow ease the pressure. He had forged onwards knowing full well that his strength was needed in order to make anyone among the fallen follow him. But his leadership was a joke. When he rallied the faction, only two other fallen had shown up, and one of them might have come to Kuoh regardless to see his daughter, albeit from a distance. Yes, his leadership was the sort of joke to invoke only mocking laughter or pity. That was if anyone other than him was there to witness it. He had faded into insignificance, believing himself to be preparing for the future.

He took a last glance at the empty sacred gear before accepting that it held none of the answers he sought. He sighed and walked, almost stumbling over a lance as he did so. Cato's weapons. The man hadn't even come to pick them up. Perhaps the thought of coming here was so repulsive that he'd rather be without his weapons than come to reclaim them.

He needed air.

Without even putting a proper set of clothes on, Azazel went out, feeling the familiar sting of the bright sunshine in his eyes as they adjusted. Without aim, he started walking. He walked down the road from his house, along the path that Issei had biked to get to him before the boy learned how to teleport. He walked past the local liquor store. He walked down toward the town center, past the ice cream vendor which stood unmanned. Indeed, there were barely any people out and about, and the few that were took care to skirt him with room to spare. He ended up sitting down on a bench in the park, enjoying the beautiful weather without a mood to match.

When did I go wrong?

Was it back when he fell from grace so unexpectedly? His entire nature was to revel in the greatness of creation – his fall was inevitable. Was it when he denied Kokabiel and ended the Great War upon seeing his brothers and his sisters and even his maker die? But if he had let the fighting conclude, would anything be left, anything at all? Perhaps his mistake was thinking that the resulting peace was desirable, as Cato and Kokabiel both claimed. But the alternative was worse, Azazel was certain of it. If his peace was a willful illusion masking the grimness of reality, then surely their ideas of a world without the factions was nothing more than the inevitable end brought closer. If the factions were to clash relentlessly to assure mutual destruction as Cato and Kokabiel wanted, would humanity really come out ahead?

As if summoned by his thoughts, Azazel caught a glimpse of Cato walking down the street. For a moment their eyes met, before Cato broke eye contact and kept going. What's he doing now? Surely there wasn't much for the man to do, but his gait was decisive, his stride long. It was unfair that he was able to walk around so sure of himself. Why was he hurrying anyway? Despite having no idea how long it had been since the conference, the stillness of the city meant it couldn't have been long. Azazel couldn't have missed the call for the next meeting unless they had all somehow decided that he, despite being the leader of the Fallen and the one to organize the last meet, was unworthy of being invited. If that was what they had decided on, Azazel was unsure he even blamed them. It would make it easier, having no goal or responsibilities…

Azazel stood up suddenly, something finally clicking as his brain kicked into gear. The drowsiness from his misery and the alcohol faded, leaving only a mild haziness. Everyone was licking their wounds. Azazel was sure of it. No one came out of the battle unscathed. Why was Cato, who had been completely wrecked in the aftermath of the fighting, bustling through the city? Every action needed a reason. When someone did something that appeared irrational, it was always because they had something in mind to justify it, and only the ignorance of the observer made the action look irrational. Azazel had thought of Cato as similar to Kokabiel following his newfound knowledge, but if Cato and Kokabiel's goals aligned, why didn't they work together? Cato had practically admitted that he was in control of that entire situation from start to finish.

It couldn't be an indiscriminate hatred for the fallen – Cato had saved his life. He had even reunited Baraqiel with his daughter. There was the possibility that Cato had decided to run the factions into the ground after the Kokabiel incident, since that was when the man learned of the factions in the first place, but the only action that truly spoke of such motivation was his initial connection to Kokabiel, one which Azazel himself had forged. Which meant he was wrong. Cato had not worked together with Kokabiel, nor did he have any interest in doing so. He had been asking the wrong questions all along. Why was Cato in Kuoh in the first place?

He had spent too little time pondering the contents of the visions from the scroll – the Elder Scroll, as Cato called it. What little time and energy he had spent had been preoccupied with the contrast between the man he knew and the Cato he saw in the visions. What he had incomprehensibly missed was the story that the scroll did not tell. Cato was someone who had travelled across worlds. He had done so without knowledge of the factions, and he had come to Kuoh city specifically and set up shop.

Why?

Did he just fancy the place? Was he looking for a place to start over?

No, even disregarding how often Cato spoke ill of this world, the reason had to be more compelling than that. He was simply too hard of a worker to lie back and enjoy world-tourism. Besides, the only time the man had ever looked relaxed was when they shared a drink together. The answer must be somewhere between the visions and the man I thought I knew.

So, why would a maniacal dragon hunter set up shop as a private investigator in Kuoh?

-o-o-o-o-o-

Cato

Heading out into the night was very much a routine by now. Having two people following his lead was not. Jeanne was somewhat apprehensive, probably feeling caught up in the situation more than she felt herself an active participant. Metatron walked quietly and glowed in the dark in a way that Cato expected to find eerie but somehow found relaxing. The angel's expression was solemn until they were near the academy grounds, where a slight widening of his eyes showed that he had put something together.

Without a word, Cato stopped in the middle of the wrecked battlefield. He heard the footsteps behind him stop as well. There was no wind to howl across the ruined ground, no light shining through the clouds in the sky. If not for Metatron's gentle glow, it would have been dark and desolate. Despite the warmth of summer, this was a place that demanded a shiver.

Ddraig!

Metatron and Jeanne both started at the shout. It ripped through the air, leaving behind only a short-lived echo before everything was silence once more.

"This is it," Cato said, gesturing broadly at the broken battleground. Metatron stared at him in wonder, a look that made Cato shift on his feet. Jeanne shifted, looking around nervously in anticipation. As had happened only hours earlier, there was a delay long enough to make him question whether the dragon was there or not. Then, as before, a chill crept out from nothing, starting at their feet, and faintly coalescing into a fine mist, coating the ground like thick morning dew. The mist extended into tendrils surrounding them, before suddenly expanding in size.

Dovah...kiin!

The tendrils extended up along his body before coming to caress Cato's face. Only the knowledge that the ethereal form of the dragon could never hurt him allowed him to stay still, maintaining the illusion that he was in control in front of the angel and the hero who followed him. He barely suppressed a shudder before he turned to face the two. Jeanne was shaking, and even Metatron looked a few shades paler than he had before, the light around him appearing dimmed in the ghostly fog. Hoping that he looked closer to his normal complexion, he addressed them.

"This is the ethereal form of Ddraig, freed from its sacred gear." He took a moment's pause to let them regain their equilibrium. Their eyes returned to him, Jeanne's full of trepidation, Metatron's once more full of wonder. "Here, we will give it flesh and bone and strike it down in its weakened state. And then," he held out his open palm, letting a small flame dance in the air about it, "I will snuff out its soul."

He closed his hand into a fist, snuffing out the flame. The display had its intended effect. They both looked enraptured in much the same he and Jeanne were earlier during Metatron's impassioned speech. The silence returned, and the effect faded.

"Cool," Metatron said with a smile. After reveling in Cato's miffed expression, the angel became serious again. "It can be done?"

Cato gave a firm nod. "I am certain of it."

"This is creepy," Jeanne said. "Creepy as hell."

"Indeed." Metatron spared Jeanne a glance before looking to Cato again. "Am I right in assuming there is nothing more for us to do here for now?"

"Yes."

"Then let us return to your home to plan our next moves. You have proven the severity of the situation well enough with this."

Home, Cato mused, not quite.

The mist dispersed when Cato left, the other two in tow once more. That Jeanne was following without hesitation was comforting. It was hard to get a read on her without knowing her motivations, but at the very least, she didn't seem like the type to backstab him. At least not yet. If there was something she wanted, she would have to communicate it at some point, and when that time came, Cato was certain he could deal with it.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Azazel

Azazel understood that whatever conjecture he came up with, it would never be the whole truth. The problem with the information he had wasn't just its incompleteness, though. The visions from the scroll were dim, seeming to come into clarity at random. Making any reasonable headway required patience, and any headway he gained would still retain its uncertainty. Still, he had to figure out something with the visions and the gemstone dagger. Impossible a task as it seemed, Azazel was a man who had spent countless years trying to understand and replicate the sacred gears. It was within the scope of his ability.

He was back in his office, barely registering his surroundings as he went straight for the gemstone dagger, his only tangible lead. As he had so many times before, he studied the runes carved into it. His initial conclusion was that they were either a magic circle or decoration. But now, they sparked recognition where before was none. He had seen them in the vision, carved into the wall behind the final dragon that Cato killed. It's a language after all. He slumped back in his chair. The gift from his maker was one that let him understand any mortal tongue. The reason that he couldn't understand the runes carved into the dagger could be that they were from a world separate from that of his maker, but that surely wasn't it.

It's the dragon language. An immortal tongue.

Despite his lacking knowledge, he was filled with an uncharacteristic confidence in the thought. Even if he turned out to be wrong, it was the best he had to work with. Then, what is its function? It could be a spell, which would make it little different from a magic circle. The way the dark tendrils within it swirled around as he held it certainly looked magical enough. Slowly swirling black tendrils wasn't something he connected with pleasant magic, either. Although, when Vali held it, it reacted differently. Azazel suppressed the mood that came on at the thought of Vali. The dagger shone brightly when the boy held it in its hand. What did he say about it again? A 'tug at its soul'?

That was the feeling Albion had gotten, and Vali had further elaborated that it was unpleasant. Was the dagger his reason for coming? Azazel rubbed his temples. He could feel a headache coming on as he started to see a part of what made up the whole thing. There was still much work to do. And, he thought with a dour expression, I doubt I'll be getting good sleep any time soon.

I need a drink…

-o-o-o-o-o-

Cato

They had walked in silence back to the office. Cato tried not to let the surprise of Ddraig's touch get to him so far. He would have time to think about all that later; for now, he had to deal with the two visitors who were still not satisfied. He was too distracted to offer them a refreshment, but they made no comment on it, most likely lost in their own thoughts as well. Jeanne, at least, looked out of it. They settled back down in the couch arrangement the same way they had before they left for the academy grounds.

"I will not claim to understand how you did it. What I've seen today…" Metatron said, looking pensive. "Ddraig. I remember his reign of terror. I had hoped never to see that dread face of his again. But ignoring a threat is folly, and Ddraig was still a threat in his gear form, as you well surmised."

Cato only nodded, happy to let the angel do the talking. He felt the weariness of the day acutely. Had it not been for the panacea, he would've felt the weariness of the day before as well, and surely would've succumbed to it. Now there's a thought. To his spectators, his appearance and energy would undoubtedly appear miraculous. To them, it would appear as if his schemes were proceeding without a hitch, even as hitch was more the rule than the exception at this point.

"In the ghost form that you brought out, killing him will be hard. Perhaps the Ba'al heritage magic will be able to destroy it, but I imagine whatever means you have to 'snuff out its soul', as you put it, will fail under those conditions."

The Ba'al magic?

"Ba'al?" Cato asked, seeing no reason to feign knowledge.

"My apologies. Bael, as you no doubt know them," Metatron said. I most certainly don't. "Their powers of destruction truly leave nothing in their wake. If there is an exception to that, it would be a dragon's soul. When the subject came up all those years ago, they made no effort to attempt it, so I believe their power limited."

Cato nodded. It changed nothing.

"What was that?" Jeanne said. She looked shaken. Perhaps she's feeling the fatigue she should be after yesterday's battle. A ray of sunshine through his window informed him that it was the day before yesterday now. "I mean, how is that thing real? It was trapped in the gear, wasn't it?"

Jeanne was not quite on the same page as he and Metatron, but anything that gave Cato more time to think was welcome. "To put it plainly, it was dragon magic," Cato started. "Dragon souls are immortal, but their bodies are not. Naturally, there are ways to reincarnate their souls, or we'd surely have more dragon ghosts haunting us." He paused, looking them both over. "The soul was trapped, as you say, but the weapon I stabbed into the gear near the end of the battle released it and began the process of Ddraig's resurrection. And what you saw tonight was the soul in the middle of that process."

Jeanne made no reaction for a bit, appearing deep in thought. Eventually, she nodded. "Then it makes sense why we were ordered to retreat. Ophis gave the order immediately after that… thing happened."

To his credit, Metatron didn't appear surprised by the revelation that Ophis had led the battle. Perhaps he had seen her there, or perhaps he was simply better informed than Cato had become used to. Whether Jeanne meant to give the detail away or not was unclear, which meant she was either playing them or already trusted them enough to let down her guard.

"Had I not seen it, I would've never believed it," she said. "A legendary creature haunting a school that I went to only a few days ago... I hope you know what you're doing, because I guess it's our mess to deal with now. So, hero, what's next?"

Though emphasizing the title Metatron had given him, Cato found no mockery in her expectant gaze. Metatron, too, looked at him expectantly. He had been a leader before, of course. The situation shouldn't be alien to him. But it was. Ever before had his leadership been on the premise of his personal power and dominance. He had slowly built up that image of the indomitable, omnipresent powerhouse ever since he first left Windhelm behind for good. Any trust his spies and subjects had put in him always based itself on that image, the trust in his ability. The two sitting opposite from him were different. They trusted in his goal, despite not even knowing it fully.

Cato cleared his throat.

"There is one complication."

He relished the way Metatron leaned forward, as though the angel was prepared to go out and fix whatever trouble ailed them immediately.

"Vali Lucifer will undoubtedly try to stop us from finishing Ddraig's resurrection, or at the very least stop us from killing the dragon after the fact." Indeed, things would've been easier if Cato had stabbed Vali's sacred gear instead of Issei's, that much was clear to him now. Issei would've been a nonfactor to deal with; Vali was complicated. "We need to neutralize him, ideally without killing him."

Vali was the conundrum that weighed on his mind before things were complicated by Jeanne and Metatron. He initially thought to contain Vali like he did Kokabiel, but with the power of Vali's sacred gear in mind, trying to restrain him would be risky at best, no matter whether the restraints were physical or magical in nature. Keeping him as a thrall was risky as well, unlikely to work, not to mention distasteful. But there were avenues open to him now, ways to keep the rogue devil occupied while they finished the preparations.

"Our first step," he started, finding it somewhat strange to speak of it as 'our', "is to consult with the devils. The wielder of the boosted gear is owed a rematch after their battle was so rudely interrupted, I think."

It would take some maneuvering to get the devils to agree, but they would comply, knowing full well that the advantage they once held in the boosted gear was gone. Even disregarding the fact that he was now the sole wielder of a celestial dragon gear, usually kept in check by its counterpart, Vali Lucifer was a being that no one wanted to exist. If anyone could be regarded as scum, it would be a devil-human descendant of the old devil faction who had first aligned himself with the fallen, then with the Khaos Brigade. He had dug his own grave, and he had dug it deep. Only strength could save him now, and the strength of one man tended to pale when faced with the whole world.

When Cato finally retired for the day, the sun was baking down upon his little office. He sat on his bed, lamenting that the panacea failed to work against his fatigue. When he finally fell asleep, his dreams were haunted. Limbs of fog chased him, followed by a deep laughter, they reached out and caressed him, cold, they wrenched him from any real rest. A loud knocking was what eventually forced him out of bed.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Azazel is a little ahead timewise (unlike me). Cato will be catching up next chapter. Akeno is off-screen for a little bit since her story is almost finished.

It's summer; it's too warm to sleep; it's vacation time for me. Exams are finished up, and unless I failed any, I have quite a long time off, so I hope I can finally get some writing done \o/

I hope you're all doing well, especially you Americans who are no doubt feeling a little on edge at the moment. I was mostly out-of-the-loop with world news during my exams, but things sure are more than just a little wild at the moment.

Regarding the perspective changes in this chapter: I did consider writing it out as Cato-Azazel-done, but I liked the cadence of this version better. Let me know if you have any thoughts on that – I know frequent perspective changes like those in this chapter can be a little jarring for the reader.

I actually really felt the first few paragraphs for Azazel. Alcohol is a hell of a drug. Insert drinking buddies bonus scene of Azazel just sitting alone with two glasses…