Content warning: Graphic depiction of violence (gore)
"
And the days go by
Like a strand in the wind
In the web that is my own
I begin again
"
It is cold. It is dank. It is spooky. Dean makes a point to remind his partners this in a whisper every ten metres or so, and his partners make a point of shushing him each time. Not that their unavoidable heavy footfalls are a dead giveaway of their presence.
The party walk the marked way for tour guides in the beginning but eventually divert from the metal handrail, following demonic instinct rather than government regulation. This means going as deep into the caves and as far down under the earth as they can manage. The experience is disorientating – the cave's roof is unseen and tall above them, Dean's light trained always on the ground for appropriate footholds. They are careful not to trip or walk into the -tites and -mites that appear unannounced in the dark. It is impossible to deduce if they are descending or ascending, and there is always the smell of cool limestone, always the sound of trickling water, source unknown.
Nervousness begins to stir in Dawn's stomach, a hint of claustrophobia beginning to root itself as they stalk further into the caves. Her face stings where the splinters are embedded, the cool occasionally providing relief but not able to quell the distraction of it.
She keeps it all to herself, focusing on walking and not slipping on loose stone, the consistent sound of which bounces around her – deep down into the depths.
After they have been walking for twenty minutes, the process becoming more and more grating for Dawn, they start to pick up foreign sounds. Not the sound of their footsteps, the slide of loose rock, or the twinkle of water, but voices and purposeful shuffling.
It becomes clearer as they follow it for another ten minutes.
The cave begins to narrow so they must walk in single file, the boys up the front with Dawn on the tail end. Her claustrophobia grips her. Although she cannot see in front of her in the dark, she closes her eyes anyway, trying to focus on her breath. Trying to remind herself why she is here. Trying to stave off the anxiety simmering.
She almost walks into Sam's back when they stop suddenly, the way wider ahead.
Dean switches off the torch, a flickering orange glow emanating from an opening in the distance, lighting the way. Dawn sees his silhouette motion for her and Sam to cover one wall as he presses himself against the other.
Rough, cold stone greets Dawn's glove, poking at her through the armour plates on her legs. She arches her back to avoid knocking her quiver.
They move slowly, stepping over stalagmites, ducking under stalactites, hugging shadows as they inch closer to the source of firelight. At some point, Dawn loses the vague outline of Dean opposite her as their wall curves inwards, the darkness swallowing him up. She is grateful she is on Sam's side, so she has something to orient her senses and soften her claustrophobic panic.
The ground evens out, leading to a lit space cleared of rock and -mite/-tite, the deposits pushed against the walls. There are candles cluttering the floor leading out of sight where the room curves around. Sam and Dawn cannot get a better look without exposing themselves, a clear line between light and dark at their feet.
Dean's shape materialises after a moment. He stiffens at the same precipice opposite.
The lit room has been quiet up until this point. Low chanting is audible now, slowly building in its intensity. It is coming from the side they cannot see.
Dawn reaches down to slowly unsheathe her sword, indicating to the boys that she is ready for action. It sticks a little where leftover blood remains.
She sees Dean load the magazine of his handgun opposite her and Sam do the same.
Dawn gulps, nods to Dean, nods to Sam.
They step forward in unison, blinking in the light, rounding the corner towards the voices.
The curve leads to another, larger room in the cave. The walls are decorated in similar warding symbols to those in the visitor's centre, etched into the limestone stretching far above them. There are iron fasteners drilled into the crumbling walls, huge candles throwing an amber glare on the robed occupants.
There are six figures in the cavern with their backs to the party, all at various distances from a black alter. It is a long table covered in crushed velvet, decorated by three candelabras, an old book on a stand and small bowls.
The figures are donned in black robes themselves. One, short, stands in front of the table, brandishing a silver bowl, chanting the loudest. Another two stand either side of this figure, throwing various ingredients into the bowl, muttering the spell. They have their hoods down, revealing bald heads. The other three sit in a semi-circle further back, closest to the three new occupants, their heads planted on the ground, as if in prayer.
The short figure continues the ritual, but the two assistants turn to appraise Dawn, Dean, and Sam. They are old men, face tattoos of scenes from Dante's Inferno decorating their wrinkles.
Immediately, Sam and Dean fire off a round each, the bullets piercing the foreheads of either demon. They fizzle a little, but not all the way out. They drop the items they are holding, a jar of something resembling sand spilling onto the floor and another that bounces behind the altar. They clutch at the bullet wounds angrily.
"Holy water and salt-soaked rounds, dickhead," Dean grins, firing another shot into his target's leg. "Doesn't kill ya but hurts like hell."
The three praying figures are standing now, turning and forming a shield of bodies in front of the altar. Dawn is already grabbing one by the cloak, sinking her sword into the fabric, feeling it shudder and seeing the tell-tale demon death-fizzle under the hood.
The one next to her goes to grab her arm, but she juts her elbow out, smacking the shield against its head, forcing it back a step. Dean goes to stab it with his knife but is thrown against the wall.
Dawns see Sam is already hanging in the air, choking.
She feels the now-familiar rush of power from the demon next to her as it tries to throw her too, giving her the strength and speed to yank out her sword and sink it into its neighbour. It crumples on the blade.
One of the assistants, sufficiently recovered from the headshot, flicks his hand at her. She yanks out her sword and smiles at him.
"Stop it, you fool," booms the voice of the short figure in front of the alter, a woman's. "It only makes her stronger."
That voice… Dawn does not have time to comb her memory as recognition sparks in her mind, nor wonder at the fact the voice knows her without turning. She kills the last praying demon down the line, Sam dropping to the ground and gasping for air. Dean tries to push himself up but is forced down again by the demon shot twice.
Dawn appraises him, replacing her grip on her hilt.
"Enough." Says the short figure. She raises a hand from her robe, pale with long, yellowed fingernails, and bends her fingers in the air, as if clutching at something.
Dean yelps as he is shoved against the wall and shunted upwards. He hangs, clutching at his jaw and coughing. Sam, on the ground, coughs too, blood pouring from his mouth, decorating the white ground with scarlet.
"Kill one more of my demons, Dawn, and I'll kill your friends," the chanting figure speaks with her back turned still.
Dawn looks down fearfully at Sam as he spits out more blood. White chalk coats his lips.
"Do not fret – they have only lost their tongues temporarily," the figure is turning now. "Enough time for us to have a little chat."
It is bothering Dawn that she cannot remember this voice. It reminds her of…
Before.
She racks her brain for more associations.
Flashes of red… A board room… Maps with purple crosses and red triangles…
"…Costello?" She ventures, memories of her training before the war leaking back into her consciousness.
The figure flips her hood down. "How'd you guess?"
Yes – there she was. Pale, elven features, long silvery hair. One of the few demons Dawn would have described as 'sympathetic' during the preparations. She had been the dispatcher, organising the ranks and their zonings, designating where skill sets were needed for specific monster groups. High up on the chain of command and an older demon, she had a soft spot for Dawn's camp and would always prioritise them when relaying confidential information.
"I thought you were one of the 'good' ones," Dawn admits.
"There are no 'good' demons, Dawn," she rolls her eyes. "Don't be so naïve."
Costello's hand is still in the air. Dawn swallows, flicking her eyes between it and the altar.
Costello nods to the demon next to her, sporting two bullet holes. "Disarm her."
Dawn flinches, tensing her arm. The short demon smirks, twiddling her free hand's finger.
"Uh-uh, Dawn," her cradled hand twitches, emitting more pained moans from the Winchesters. "No funny business, dear girl. These handsome young studs of yours are under my spell."
Dean groans with disgust from the comment, a trail of bloodied saliva falling from his mouth.
Dawn begrudgingly allows the demon to take her sword, glaring at his smug smile.
As she lets go of the hilt, she feels her legs freeze in place against her will.
"Can't have you running off," Costello explains as Dawn turns her glare on her. "When you're not holding our weaponry, you're no longer immune – to my powers at least."
The assistant demon walks a few steps from her, dropping the sword on the ground. He slips her quiver off her back as well, and slides her crossbow from her arm, throwing them in the opposite direction.
"What do you mean by, 'our weaponry'?" Dawn asks, grimacing as her weapons clatter.
"Yes, well, I guess it wasn't strictly just demons that constructed your weapons, but we did come up with all the creative ideas."
Dawn does not reply, only breaking their eye contact to blink.
"You always were a lady of few words. I admired that and admire it still. I'm someone that likes to judge by action rather than word, and my, my – you were certainly someone to behold when you were active, Dawn."
She is impassive in reply.
"Let me cut right to the chase –" Costello lowers her clawed hand.
Dawn hears Dean slide down the wall behind her with a thump. There is a gurgle, and then even breathing from both brothers, as if they are asleep. She frowns.
Costello smiles in return. "I'm pretty impressive, aren't I? Anyway, I came to ask something of you. I would much prefer to ask first, you know? I always was quite polite. I don't like to take if I can ask." Her voice bleeds her sentences together in a drawl – pompous and languid.
"This Seal business is, well, business! And I tire of it. I am easily bored – do you remember how I used to get? – I am easily bored, Dawn. Volcanoes and earthquakes are all very exciting, but not when you're the one that must do the hard yards, you know - do the spell work, find a suitable location, gather ingredients. Et cetera, et cetera. You know how it is."
Dawn can feel her eye contact softening with ennui as Costello draws out her point.
"And, yes, you know, I got bored. This-" She gestures to the altar. "Putting this together, was such a drag. And I didn't even get to put up this warding!"
Dawn looks up at the sigils in the walls.
"Imagine! I didn't even get to do the creative thing. But, yes, we must stop those big bad angels coming down here and rescuing their dear little Dawn. Well, maybe not so dear. Maybe, from what I've heard, only dear to one in particular."
Dawn keeps her face expressionless as Costello searches for a response.
"And, yes, this wouldn't have been the case if those boys had done their job properly. But, as usual, those daft, hot-shot demons underestimated you humans. If you are human – how are you feeling Dawn?"
She waits a moment before responding, enjoying the silence for a moment. "Tired."
Costello laughs – it is mirthless. "Oh, yes, I do go on, don't I? I do go on. No, I mean – feeling a little twitchy lately? A little angry, maybe? Perhaps – what about, wrathful, my dear?"
Dawn narrows her eyes. "So, you knew?"
"Oh dear, no, darling. No one knew. But I found out pretty soon after, yes. How exciting – you were always one of my favourites. So much spunk in you! I was sad to think that you would depart this mortal coil after such a great effort… But – what was I saying? Oh – daft, hot-shot demons underestimating you. Sending humans to do demonic work. They were so afraid of the angels, you see. They are quite frightening – yours in particular!"
Dawn swallows her frustration at the roundabout way Costello chatters on, discerning what she can of all she is letting slip.
The idea of Castiel being of notoriety to the demons was amusing to her, only ever seeing him as the awkward but kind being that had been instructed to take care of her.
"His garrison were given Earth to look after, you know? Has he ever told you about that? Not been down for some time, mind. The Apocalypse brought them down. Ah…." Costello pauses now, seeming to bask in the glow of the thought of the Apocalypse.
"Paradise to us, you understand. A messy business, yes, but once it gets going… These boys of yours – thank you for them, by the way. They have been such a thorn in our side since this all began. Especially that Dean.
Sam, on the other hand – a pain, yes, but what a gift he has been, too. A boy of binaries and inconsistencies, that one. Playing his part just… But what am I saying? Asking before taking. That's what I was saying."
She takes a step forward, hopping over a demon body in a nimble fashion. Dawn tries not to show the interest her last few comments have sparked.
"My darling, I need your blood. It is very important." Her smile reminds Dawn of the Cheshire Cat.
"For a Seal?"
"Does it matter what it's for? I'm asking as a friend." Her eyes shine wicked. "We've been through so much, you and I. I've helped you in some ways in the past; now is your chance to help me."
"It matters what it's for."
Costello sighs, taking another step towards her. "Aren't you curious? About your sword and your shield and your – whatever else we made you? The magic is in the engravings, you know, and the metals. We didn't supply the materials, naturally. That was all the angels. But we designed and created the spell work, along with some Enochian bits and pieces.
And, you know, it only works for the wielder. You can't pick up, say, Pride's knife – hypothetical, of course, poor thing, what a mess that turned out to be – you can't pick up his knife and have the same effects and protection. It's a shame he didn't know that – might have saved his life."
The whole, overarching story of the supernatural world begins to piece together in Dawn's head. When she had been training, there was so much going on behind the scenes that was deemed irrelevant and therefore inaccessible to the soldiers. The humans were given the information they needed to carry out battle, and that was that.
Dawn gets the sense now that there was a strange, regrettable comradery between the angels and demons, trying to protect the Earth from Purgatory so they could continue to fight over it between themselves. Maintain the natural, unnatural, order. A business of – how did Costello describe Sam? Binaries and inconsistencies.
With Costello's mention of Pride, she realises that it is still going on. That her captors only tell her what she needs to hear. She wonders, did Castiel know Pride was a part of all this? Did he know they had been planning the attack?
I told you, you can't trust him. You can't trust any of them.
No. This is Costello getting into my head. She's a demon. This is what she does. Manipulates and confuses and-
What has Castiel done for you to earn your trust? Never forget where his loyalties truly lie. It is beneficial to him for you to think he is your friend, your confidant. He can use it against you later. You're so blinded by your need for company, you're so weak.
"So – is this a yes?" Costello's voice stops her spiralling mind. Her tone is amused, like she knows she has gotten to Dawn with her previous comment. "Can I take your silence as a yes?"
"No."
She sucks air between her teeth. "What a shame. A real shame. I didn't want to have to force you."
"What would have been in it for me, Costello? Helping you free Lucifer?"
"Yes, well, it would have preserved our relationship at the very least. And, you know, Lucifer – he is very favourable to his disciples. And he will be particularly interested in you, and any of the remaining Sins that happen to survive when he rises.
You, the reminders of his great deed, corrupting God's precious humanity. The embodiments of that great deed. Yes, I think he'd want to meet you.
There's a reason you're so heavily guarded, Dawn, and it's not about the problems of re-entering society. The angels? They don't know what to do with you, except keep you in a box. You are far too tempting, far too easily manipulated and twisted to our will. You are predetermined to follow us – the 'evil' ones. The Virtues… Well, they're a different story altogether."
Costello stops herself before she goes any further, realising she has said too much. She nods to the demon that disarmed Dawn earlier. "Well, you heard her. She isn't going to give it up willingly."
He nods, pulling a large syringe from somewhere in his cloak, advancing towards Dawn.
Costello raises a hand to stop him, leering. "No – I think we're past that. Best to use the other method, as punishment for her insolence."
He grins in return, replacing the syringe with a dagger. The blade is black, obsidian. It reflects and shines purple in the candlelight.
The process is drawn out, the demon enjoying the flicker of fear in Dawn's eye as he reaches to remove her glove. His nails are more brown-black than the yellow tinge on Costello's, repulsing her. She can smell his putrid breath as he sneers at her.
She pulls away instinctively, her legs still cemented under Costello's power.
"Now, now, Dawn-" She starts, but halts.
The demon has his hand clawed, using his power to hold her hand still.
Dawn sees her armour pulsate and shimmer like her sword and shield, a fierce strength radiating through her. She pulls herself out of Costello's power, stepping back.
"You fool!" Costello shrieks, backing away from Dawn, placing her hand on the altar. "To control one like her, it requires subtlety! You broke my hold!"
Her other assistant stands in front of her as she begins to mutter an incantation, gathering something unseen from the altar.
Meanwhile, Dawn ducks a bewildered swipe from the demon's knife, stepping low to grab her sword. He turns and brings the blade down towards her.
She snaps her arm up in a strong right angle, her armour protecting her from his blade as she adjusts her grip on the hilt. The demon grabs her outstretched arm, raising the knife and aiming at her face. She smiles, yanking the arm down towards her chest, sinking the demon into her blade simultaneously.
He slices her cheek before spasming, and then is still.
Dawn, still weakened by Costello's hold on her, struggles against his body weight, falling off her haunches as she pulls out the blade. Her cheek feels hot where blood is pooling.
She sees Sam across from her, his eyes rolling open and grunting. Dean is blinking where he sits with his back to the wall. They look as if they have woken from a deep sleep.
The body on top of her is ripped off and thrown, like it weighs nothing. Costello towers over Dawn, bending to grip her throat with one hand and pinning it to the floor. Her nails dig into her skin, cutting and drawing more blood.
Dawn chokes, retching as Costello's knees lean into her stomach. The demon's other hand pulls off her glove, then her arm covering, revealing the armour's underlayer. She picks up the obsidian knife, flicks its tip under the material, and uses it as leverage it roll it up to her elbow.
It drags a thin cut from Dawn's wrist up. She tries to pull her arm away, but Costello's grip only tightens on her throat.
She dips the knife into a jar with a viscous, black substance concocted from ingredients at the altar.
Dawn's vision starts to blur. She can hear her heartbeat in her ears and against her chest, spilling out of her cheek. She feels her muscles convulse involuntarily against Costello's hand.
"O domine tenebrarum," she mutters, holding Dawn's limp wrist in the crook of her elbow. "offero hoc dignum re, ut custos Signum."
She begins to carve into the skin with the blade, her grip lessening on Dawn's throat as she concentrates on the symbol.
Dawn tries to choke, rasping for air, her eyes rolling back.
"Illa est splendens exemplo omnium, qui facit magna," Costello continues, dragging the knife methodically. "Et erit memoria in quantum huiusmodi."
The wound begins to shine as if lit with fire. Foamed spit rolls down Dawn's lip as she convulses.
"Eam esse admonitio, semper et in aeternum." Costello grins, letting her neck go. Dawn's head rolls to the side as she splutters.
A shot fires from behind Costello. She turns to see Sam aiming haphazardly from the ground, propped up by his elbow.
The bullet flies past her, wedging itself in the altar.
"Is that truly your best work, Sam?" She teases. He fires off another shot with a groan, this one hitting a candleholder, dislodging it from the wall. "I mean, I had my doubts about you from the beginning, but-"
Another shot, from Dean at the wall, frees another iron fastener. Another from Sam the next one.
Costello, frowning, looks up at their targets as the room starts to dim, and sighs. "Oh, I see."
She turns her attention back to the body she has been leaning on. She flexes her grip on the knife, then slices deep and up Dawn's arm below the symbol she has just carved, cutting through an artery. She smiles, the process a wet, squished sound, muscle and bone revealed under her skin.
Costello swaps her knife for a glass jar, collecting the blood as it streams out to the slowing beat of Dawn's heart. She is out cold, blood coagulating on her cheek, her mouth open, her body limp.
Another shot rings out, and Costello looks to her last remaining assistant. "I'll see you on the other side, Yasunari."
She disappears as the walls around them begin to crumble where the brothers have dislodged the fasteners. Great cracks branch from the holes left behind, breaking the lines of the sigils. White dust falls in streams from the ceiling, lumps of limestone crashing down. The creaking and collapsing cavern echoes its woes, the light inside dying as the candles are snuffed out.
Before he can follow his master, Yasunari is gripped by Inias, his sudden appearance shocking the demon. Inias presses his hand to the demon's forehead, blasting it out, leaving behind burnt holes in his eyeballs and mouth. The body drops to the floor.
He destroys the altar with a wave of his hand as a lump of limestone crumbles on top of it, covering it in its chalky consistency.
Castiel, who has appeared in the room with a woman in a grey suit, immediately bends down to inspect Dawn's unconscious body on the floor.
"Hester," he yells over the sound of the walls crashing down. "Take the Winchesters to their vehicle and heal them."
She nods, appraising the brothers with disgust before touching their shoulders simultaneously and disappearing.
Castiel inspects Dawn's wrist, still glowing like embers in the remnants of a fire. "Inias, follow me. I will need assistance."
Dawn's eyelids are heavy. She finds she is lying on a comfortable surface, the sheets a familiar starchy texture that she rolls between her fingertips…
She forces her eyes open in a snap as the events of the night return to her memory. Her vision is muffled by the heaviness of her exhaustion, the roof of her motel room coated in a dreamy film softening the edges of the ceiling, and floating soap rings around the light sources.
"You're awake." A deep voice speaks from her side.
She turns her head, the room spinning as if on an unstable axis, like a boat rocking on waves. It is a vague figure, with white and beige shapes under dark hair.
Dawn blinks to force Castiel into focus.
"Hey." She sounds hungover, throat rasping and strained.
His forehead softens from a crease of worry, relieved she is speaking.
Dawn lifts her head, chin to her chest to inspect her status with one eye closed. She is still in her armour, but her weaponry sits in a neat pile on a chair at the bottom of her bed.
"Thanks for rescuing me, Castiel," she murmurs, letting her head fall back on the pillow. Her arms and legs are sore, her back stiff. The bed is a welcome relief.
"I'm sorry I wasn't able to get there sooner." He shakes his head. "And that we weren't able to fix…"
Dawn frowns and rolls her head over to face him again. He nods towards the wrist on her right hand. Her eyes travel to it, but her head does not follow.
"It was ancient ritual magic, not the sort I or others of my kind can heal. In fact, it is deliberately written to work against us."
She suddenly feels sick. She is afraid of what she will see.
She remembers Costello's face, her nails cutting into her neck, and the wet trickle of blood travelling down her arm while she was choking. There was no pain, all her might concentrating on freeing her trachea, getting air into her lungs. She remembers a Latin incantation, like nothing she had heard, and then that droning out, replaced by her heartbeat.
Dawn rolls her head to the other side. She lifts her wrist.
Scar tissue in the shape of the roman numeral for three sits raised and red, the three strokes an inch long, the lines across the top and bottom the same. She finds that she is thankful for the symmetry of it before she is confused and upset by its presence.
Costello always was one for artistic flair.
"What does it mean?" Her voice is disturbed.
"It marks the third tier of Sin – wrath." Castiel sounds distant. "The other Sins have already been marked according to their tiers – you were the last."
"Did she get my blood, too?"
"Yes. Plenty of it. You were close to comatose when Inias and I healed you."
She lets her wrist drop. She stares at the ceiling. "It was all for nothing."
"Not necessarily. The dormant Yellowstone network remains as it was."
She sighs in response. "But they can use my blood for another Seal. And if the others were marked, then that means they probably got theirs as well. Either way, they're one step closer to opening the Cage."
She squeezes her eyes shut as disappointment washes over her. Costello's voice re-enters her consciousness and what she had revealed to Dawn.
"Did you know Pride was going to be murdered?"
"As I've told you in the past, I am solely responsible for your wellbeing. Pride's angel-"
"I'll say what I mean, Castiel." Her tone becomes sharper. "Costello told me a few things… It got me thinking. You and Uriel arrived after I had taken out the intruders. An hour had passed, I would say, since they had broken in. You are angels, not exactly a being that is tardy."
Castiel sounds guarded as he replies. "I explained that we were late getting the information-"
"I don't know if I believe that." Dawn cuts him off. "It all seems very… convenient."
"Are you implying that we wanted your blood to be harvested?" He becomes defensive. "Because, I can assure you, Dawn, that in the moment, the whole affair was decidedly inconvenient."
"I don't know what I think, that's why I'm discussing this with you." She turns to look at him now, trying to keep her tone reasonable. "I wanna trust you."
His face is earnest, but he cannot seem to form a reply.
"I don't believe that you weren't aware of the attacks, and if that's the case, it does hurt me that you don't admit to it. We have built up a fondness, and truly, I want to trust you, Castiel."
He avoids her eye, but she continues to stare at him as she speaks.
"Right now, I have a pretty good gig. I've gotten out of that prison, I've gotten to work with my friends, I've gotten to experience a taste of freedom. And it wouldn't have been possible without having my security threatened like it was. It's been a fair trade, I'd say.
I want to believe that you were aware of the attacks because you knew it would give me this good thing. I don't want to listen to the side of me that thinks you wanted them to mark me because you think I deserve it. Or maybe for another motive… I don't know. There seems to be a lot I don't get told, and that's a recurring problem for me. If there's a lot I don't get told, then trust is difficult."
She starts to lose her voice in her dry throat, reaching for a glass of water at her bedside. Castiel speaks as she turns her back.
"You are correct – there is a lot you are not told. There is a lot I am not told, either. There are some things that have happened recently…" He trails off.
Dawn waits for him to continue, eyeing him over her glass.
"I have doubts, Dawn." His voice is quiet, his eyes flicking upwards as if afraid of being listened to. "About Heaven and our orders. Doubt is a very dangerous thing when you're an angel."
She swallows.
A small smile tugs his lip. "I find myself wishing for that pine tree in your backyard."
The thought of it makes her feel sick. "When do I got back?"
"Tomorrow." Castiel admits. "If you would like to see the Winchesters before we leave, I believe they just arrived in their motel room."
Dawn cannot look him in the eye. "I don't wanna go back."
"I know you don't," he says. "Technically, you should be back now, but I was able to negotiate six hours of extra time."
She nods, finding it difficult to be grateful at the imposing threat of isolation. "Thank you."
"Be ready in your room by 0800 hours later today."
Dawn does not have a chance to acknowledge the command before he disappears.
End Note: Before anyone asks, Costello is my own character and doesn't appear in the show. I love her and her wickedness dearly.
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