A/N: Who's spoiled rotten? Me. Because I have such wonderful reviewers. I've missed you guys! Writing papers for a professor just isn't the same. Thank you for all your feedback; and welcome any newcomers! Enjoy the chapter!
Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke, but these versions of Gabriel and Belial belong to me.
It was a machine, a mechanism to bring stability after the fact and a way to wipe the slate clean. Though the act of simply existing, it had the power to ruin men of great power of uplift the everyday individual to a position of high esteem, had the ability to span on for decades at a time or curl in upon itself and die without warning. The end result usually amounted to monumental social change, shifting bell curves in population graphs and a whole slew of songs and tributes to a fallen generation; the products of a clash and engagement of arms and flesh and blood that never really seemed to justify the means.
No matter which way one looked at it, war had always been and would always be a tragedy. Never mind the valor and bravery of the millions of young men and women who voluntarily laid down their lives for honor and glory and country. In a way, their service was almost selfish, for most of them came back in caskets draped with the colors of their nation, receiving their just rewards as their souls were led to the fields of everlasting peace and tranquility and leaving behind loved ones who left with nothing but old photographs and dusty, half-forgotten memories. The same couldn't be said for those that made it through the war alive though, survived and in return for sleepless nights and days filled with paranoia and the images of their friends and comrades getting blown apart into bloody piles of limbs, received pieces of hammered metal or little strips of ribbon. For the survivors, war wasn't only a tragedy- it was the freakin' end of the world as they knew it.
And that was exactly how Sam Winchester felt, standing there and staring at the taped off and barricaded area of the ruined hospital wing, gaping at the building that seemed like something out of Black Hawk Down instead of the suburbs outside Springfield, Illinois. Sure, the end of the world started when he ganked Lilith and unleashed the Devil himself into the world, but still…
"What the hell?" he whispered, then immediately winced at the inappropriateness of the slip of the tongue, because those were so not the right words to be saying right now.
It looked like the cops and forensic scientists had already come and gone, as had the gaggle of spectators and news reporters after ascertaining there was no evidence pointing to a terrorist attack but for all intents and purposes, it looked like it nonetheless. The entire building seemed like it had been cloven in two by some holy strike of lightening from above- or maybe a giant meat cleaver in the hands of an angry God- one side in pristine condition, complete with working electrics and plumbing, the other half looking like it had been hit by a rocket smack dab in the middle of civil-war ridden Beirut.
This was where we're supposed to find Cas? His feet felt like they were rooted into the ground because although he'd never traveled overseas on tours of duty in service of his country or engaged in military combat, Sam had been raised as a soldier and had spent his entire life fighting a war of epic scale and proportions: the invisible against the visible, right versus wrong, good against evil. This was what John had trained his sons to be and no Winchester needed the label of being a GI Joe or boot camp to know that the only thing anyone would find in the mass or rubble and debris in front of them was a whole of casualty or nothing at all.
To his right though, Dean didn't even bother sparing him a glance as the elder Winchester ducked underneath the crime scene tape, heading into the heart of the aftermath of the destruction with a distinct air of urgency and a hint of panic that was just barely showing through from under the surface. "Cas?" He called, picking his way through the mess of fallen plaster and twisted metal frames, dodging sparking bits of wire and pulling at pieces of the wreckage with his bare hands. "Cas!"
"Dean-"
"Don't, Sam," Dean bit out, and not without a definite curtness that reminded Sam (a little bit too much) of their father, of John's tone when one of them was careless enough to get injured on a hunt for some stupid reason or another, and the undertones of I don't want to hear it. "Just get over here and help, will you?"
And so he did, feet stumbling in his haste to follow his brother's example and his voice, doing exactly what Dean said without a word of complaint or protest; because the last time he hadn't listened to his brother, he went so far beyond the realm of screwing up that there wasn't even a correct term to describe what he'd done. Just like he'd done for nearly two decades before heading off to Stanford, and just as he'd done in the four years following Jessica's death, before his brother suddenly wasn't there anymore, having gone to Hell for his sake.
But the circumstances were different this time around; they weren't investigating poltergeist activity or evidence of some ghost having too much fun scaring the hell out of people- they were rooting around in the ruins of a building where the forces of Heaven touched down, looking for their only angelic ally who'd last been seen facing down a freakin' archangel. Well that was the last Dean had seen of him anyway and Sam winced because the most recent memory he had of Castiel was…
His hands were slick with blood and there was nothing but the feel of his fingers ripping through skin and vein and tendon, nothing but glassy sapphire eyes boring into his, clouded with pain but an infinite mercy and kindness and he choked because he wasn't worthy of this, he wasn't worthy of anything from this being of light and righteousness; he was the boy with the demon blood, remember?
"The Lord forgives you for what you have done, Samuel. As do I."
His foot caught on a piece of jagged rubble and the younger Winchester cursed as he lurched forward, managing to land in an odd half-crouched position instead of flat on his face. Day just keeps getting better and better, doesn't it? His hands came to rest on disturbing stickiness and as he raised his head, Sam caught sight of what looked like the epicenter of a nuclear explosion; blood splatter in place of the napalm and the mushroom cloud of radiation replaced by twin outlines of charcoal shadows burnt into the jagged concrete, torn and twisted at different angels, distinctly feather-shaped scorch marks scattered and imprinted upon surfaces everywhere.
He woke abruptly, as if shaken from a nightmare or roused by a hand on his cheek or a whisper in his ear, the vestigial breath of an unseen messenger ghosting across his skin. He cast a sideways glance first at the glowing red numerals of the digital clock (seven o'clock, really?) and then at the other bed, where Dean still lay half-hidden and breathing steadily under the crumpled covers, trying to figure out why he'd woken up. For some reason his brain really didn't feel like working that morning though, and he supposed that it might have had something to do with the way it was pounding relentlessly against the sides of his skull. All of his muscles were protesting any type of movement despite the fact that he was still lying quite still, blinking away the sleep from his eyes and staring up at the dark water stain on the ceiling shaped a bit like Australia. Well, I guess that's what you get when you sign up to get tossed around like a beach ball by a seriously irritable demon. Good thing Jesse-
No. Not going to go there. Sitting up, Sam scrubbed wearily at his face and tried to rid his mind of the little boy with the big brown eyes who could exorcise demons with a word and turn angels into little action figures just by thinking it; the little boy who'd never had a chance because he was merely a tool for the forces beyond his control who'd already decided his future as the Antichrist for him- but had made the right choice nonetheless… Oh what the hell, I said I wasn't going to go there. After a moment, he pushed the scratchy coverlet aside and made his way over to the door as quietly as a six-foot-four, two hundred twenty pound grown man could, bare feet padding against the floor as the door swung inward and he quietly slipped outside.
As the first rays of the morning sun barely peered out from over the horizon, the hunter stood still, gravel of the parking lot cool against his feet as the mist of dawn broke with the radiance of a new day. It was the beginning of what promised to be a beautiful day, and to anyone else it would've seemed exactly that. Sam knew better though; he knew that the sun heralded another twenty-four hours of the daily routine of hiding from the combined forces of the realms above and below, more endeavors of the sometimes seemingly futile search for the one weapon that could kill Lucifer, and staying on the run from the Devil himself. There was a strange hum in the air, a sort of tense atmosphere that the very earth itself seemed to exude; creation was holding its breath. Although things seemed peaceful now to the everyday average Joe, it was apocalypse now and no one understood this better than the one who had, albeit unknowingly, ensured the beginning of the end of times himself.
This last case had taken the two of them for a wild ride alright, for just after they'd started getting used to working as a team again, here came Heaven and Hell trying to split the Winchester brothers up again. Sam could still feel the laser beam-like intensity of iced over sapphire blue orbs glaring straight into him and past everything he knew himself to be, down into the deepest depths of his very soul. Castiel's eyes had been so cold, so cold that they burned; invisible tendrils of simultaneous muted anger and accusation mingled with the barely-there shred of the angel wanting but ultimately unable to believe his fervent plea reaching out to fishhook the guilt and self-loathing buried in the darkest corner of his consciousness.
"You didn't."
And shit, if that hadn't been worse than a literal fist in the gut, worse than hearing Bobby's quiet growl of disowning him as a surrogate son- but of course, 'cause that had been the demon speaking, worse than Dean's distrustful gaze and tightly clipped words ("You chose a demon over your own brother!") because the two of them were alright now. But having a freakin' angel of the Lord look at you with something terrifyingly close to holy wrath that could've made even the biggest, baddest demon take notice and then condemning you with merely two words in a voice that spoke every language that existed or had ever existed was…something else.
More than that though, it was the fact that it was Castiel saying this to him, the one who'd pulled Dean from Hell, the one who'd even up everything just to help the two of them, the one supernatural being to whom Sam felt like he owed respect and reverence and whom could intimidate even when transformed into a child's toy. Here was the only angel among all the Host of Heaven who embodied (in his own certain way of course) all the characteristics the younger Winchester had imagined the messengers of God to have, here was all the faith and justice counterbalanced with mercy and wisdom, infinite understanding in the form of a rumpled beige trench coat and a sapphire gaze that never faltered, here was the kind of angel Sam believed to be under God's command, who listened when he prayed- and being denounced like that had hurt.
Dean hadn't been the only one who'd searched every corner of Jesse's semi-destroyed living room almost frantically for the small knife-wielding figurine after the boy had disappeared, and the elder Winchester certainly hadn't been the only one worrying about the angel's absence, although Dean had certainly been extra fidgety the entire drive; so much so that Sam had felt the need to tell his brother that Castiel was an angel, and that he could take care of himself. His brother's heated response, bursting forth like a dam under too much pressure, still rung in his ears now.
"The hell he'll be fine. I've already left the stupid bastard behind once, and he ended up as a scorch mark on the floor thanks to those friggin' dick brothers of his." Dean's jaw clenched tightly, eyes fixed straight ahead even though his Adam's apple bobbed up and down in a hard swallow at the memory; his hands went even tighter on the steering wheel. "Sammy, it's just that…at least we've got each other to count on, to watch each other's backs. Cas, he…" The elder Winchester's voice wavered for an instant, and anyone else wouldn't have been able to perceive the split second falter, but Sam did. "He's got no one. Not anymore. And after all that he's done for us, we should at least try to be there for him."
He heaved a heavy sigh, squinting against the bright rays of the now-risen sun, bathing the land of steel buildings and concrete ground upon which the doomed human race and emissaries from the supernatural walked in its bright glory. What Dean didn't understand was that he didn't have to explain, because Sam knew and understood Castiel's situation, understood being cast away by his brother and having no place to call home, no one to turn to; feeling lost and completely vulnerable despite having a dozen fake IDs and a Desert Eagle that would make most members of the NRA green with envy. Of course Cas not showing up after Jesse disappearing is a little concerning, but considering that everyone else who was still alive and had been affected by the kid's powers went back to normal, I'm sure that he-
A sudden creak sounded out to his immediate left and Sam reacted as any hunter would have, with a swiftness and dexterity usually reserved for only the very paranoid or the most well-trained soldiers on the battlefield after a sleepless night. When his eyes landed upon the source of the noise though, his fists instantly uncurled and he let his hands fall to his sides, feeling both relieved and foolish at the same time. Well, at least I didn't have a gun on hand. A pair of round brown eyes peeked shyly out at him from the slight opening of the door next to theirs and Sam had to agree with the little nagging voice in the back of his head that yeah, pointing a gun at a poor little kid and the inevitable trouble that would follow all thanks to his high-strung nerves would definitely not have been the best way to start the day.
He tried to smile at the little girl in a friendly and totally non-creepy way, realizing what an odd sight he must have presented, standing there in bare feet and nothing else but his pajama bottoms. Backtracking his own steps, the younger Winchester started to move back into the motel room, hand groping blindly for the doorknob. Instead of touching cold metal though, his fingers hit cloth instead and Sam glanced down, confused. Oh. Shit.
"Dean!"
He automatically pulled the sheet over his head, groaning in his head. No, no, no. It's too friggin' early. After safely dropping Jesse's mother back off at her house, Dean had resolved to get as far away from the Antichrist's house, not wanting to deal with the fallout of the kid's parents waking up to find their living room looking like someone had taken a wrecking ball to half of it and Jesse gone (not to mention that he liked having his alone time without worrying about the consequences of some kid's belief in old wive's tales and his parents' lies). And to add onto that, as if driving for the entire night and half of the wee hours of the morning out of Nebraska and into Colorado wasn't already enough, he'd spent nearly two hours tossing and turning in bed long after Sam had started snoring, wondering and worrying about the look of hurt he'd seen flash across Castiel's face when he'd called the angels out as the heartless dicks they were.
Combine all of that with the fact that it was…Dean turned his head sideways, squinting slightly at the clock- Christ, seven-fifteen? Really, Sam?- he was so not in the mood to be doing anything this in such a sleep-deprived state. Burying his face into the pillow, he made a face at the slightly mildew-like smell but didn't so much as twitch as he heard Sam walking over to the foot of his bed or when his brother nudged the mattress. "Dean, wake up."
"No," he mumbled, voice muffled against the pillow so that the word came out as nrmph. When Sam kicked at his bed again, the elder Winchester turned his face to the side, grumbling. "Lemme alone, Sammy; t's not even eight. I just drove like ten hours straight." Five more hours of sleep, coffee, a burger, and then I'll be awake enough.
"Dean, we-ah…we have a…problem."
Maybe it was something in the way Sam's voice tapered off slightly at the end, or the sudden feeling of foreboding that rolled over him like a wave crashing in upon itself- but for whatever reason, Dean was sitting up in bed half a second before his mind could even comprehend the pull of muscles and tendons that resulted in such a position. The hunter blinked the sleep out of his eyes, glancing from his brother's grim expression to the object Sam held in his enormous hands. "Sammy," the elder Winchester said slowly, blinking again for good measure and just to make sure his mind wasn't playing tricks on him, "mind telling me why the hell you're holding Cas's tie?"
"In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth."
Eyes moved under their closed lids, rapidly and from one side to the other, as if their owner was caught up in the throes of a vivid nightmare or merely settling into REM sleep. The girl glanced at the man lying in the bed before her own gaze flickered back to the chart she held; she chewed on the end of her red pen and checked off an empty square. Sunlight filtered in through the window and the bars slicing the soft beams cast horizontal shadows against the whiteness of the room, like a prison.
"Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters."
His thoughts returned piece by infinitesimal piece, fragmented segment by segment as murky and unclear as if gazing at all that which could be seen through a thin film of shaded, semi-opaque glass. There was a strange density weighing down his limbs, his wings, his very state of mind. Breathing in and of itself seemed an oddly unfamiliar task, not at all arduous, but as the air moved in and out of his expanding and deflating lungs, it seemed heavier in a sense and yet empty at the same time. Puzzled, he tired to locate the sensation in order to centralize and scrutinize it, but found that he could not.
The man made an odd noise in the back of his throat, something that sounded like a mix between a groan and a sigh and as Cathy looked up from her chart again, his head turned to the side slowly, his brow furrowed and face tight with distress. Setting the clipboard aside, she walked around the side of the bed and carefully brushed away several stray strands of dark hair, placing the back of her hand against the patient's forehead.
"And God said, 'Let there be light'…"
He recognized the darkness that he was slowly pulling himself from, as it was the same oblivion from which his soul stirred; reawaken by the mercy and everlasting grace of his Father's hand. However, this time when he reached out, his soul could detect nothing- not the faraway and yet ever-present song of his brothers and sisters, nor the flames of light and life that settled in the core of all of Creation. A small twinge of trepidation shot through his chest and surprisingly, he felt that dull ache more than anything else. Why did his entire sense of awareness seem to be muted or somehow diminished?
The images slipped one by one in front of his line of perception then, like frames in a moving picture show; there was the dimness of the motel room parking lot, and then the brilliant magnificence of Lucifer's presence, evil oozing from every single pore of his vessel; the Devil's gaze sliding over to where the Winchesters rested and the impulsive surge of panic and defense as he reached into his true heart, his grace- but then his former brother smiled, smiled and kissed him with lying lips and the breath of Sheol-
His pulse thrummed strong underneath her fingers and Cathy gently set the patient's wrist back down. She moved to re-strap the limb back down with the restraints, but paused for a moment when a hiss of discomfort slipped past the patient's lips, when the cords in his neck stood out with strain and a pang of sympathy made her eyebrows draw together. The poor man was in pain.
"…and there was light."
Sapphire blue eyes snapped open and Castiel sat erect, nearly colliding foreheads with the young woman who was bending over him. With a startled scream, she stumbled backwards and fell, eyes wide and staring in fear. The angel glanced dispassionately down at his left wrist, which was being restrained to the bed he sat upon with thick leather straps and gave just a tiny push with his power-
Nothing happened.
Castiel's eyes widened. What is the meaning of this? He turned to the frozen young woman and spoke, voice raspy and scratchy, the roughness of the sands of Egypt packed into the back of his throat. "What have you done to me?" He pulled at the strap hard, but found it no more yielding than a moment prior. "How did I get here?"
Cathy sat there, motionless and gaping as the man frowned at the restraint still binding his left wrist with all the intensity of Edison attempting his one thousand nine hundred and ninety-ninth try at inventing the incandescent light bulb, reaching over with his other hand to undo the buckles and slide the straps away. "Oh God," she babbled mindlessly, finally willing her limbs into motion and scooting backwards and away from the patient who had stood on unsteady legs and had now turned toward her, all of her training and knowledge of what to do in such a situation gone out the window. "Oh God, oh please don't hurt me, please, I'm begging you-"
The poor nurse gave a shriek of terror as her back hit the opposite wall and Castiel knelt down beside her, a bit taken aback at her frightened, blasphemous rant and confused as to why she seemed to fear him so much. "Don't be afraid," he said gently, reassuringly, drawing upon his grace as he reached out to pressed two fingers against her forehead in order to alter the young woman's state of mind, to momentarily halt the firing of neurons in order to send her into a peaceful state of unconsciousness. "I won't hurt you."
In the next few moments, many things happened in quick succession, and many things did not happen as well. As soon as his fingers touched her forehead, the young woman let out a high-pitched shriek reminiscent of the yowl of a drowning cat and Castiel pulled back immediately, more stunned at the fact that she still remained awake than by her scream- "ORDERLIES!!"-Now he knew what it was he could not sense, knew why his body did not feel like his own, why the lights seemed dingy despite their fluorescent luminescence, why the air he breathed dragged in his lungs instead of seeming as clean and clear as the clouds surrounding the mountain over which he once flew, why he felt so disoriented and unstable, so…human.
"Did you know that to own one's own body is to give permission to feel everything that goes along with it?"
No. Castiel was on his feet so quickly that the room spun weirdly, but the angel was too busy focusing on trying to peer anxiously into his innermost being, searching for the tendrils of pulsing energy that flamed powerfully in his soul, desperately searching for the grace he'd once lost at the hands of Sam Winchester and that (he supposed) his Father returned unto him upon his resurrection- and was met only with the painful discovery that he could not do such a thing. When his gaze turned upon the woman once more, Castiel saw only her pale white face and trembling lips for he couldn't see beneath the surface in order to look into her soul. The angel could no longer see beyond or within, only these eyes that had once belonged to Jimmy Novak could interpret through the infinitely slow process of transduction between sensation and perception; he couldn't hear nothing but the sound of the woman's harsh, panting breathing and the rapid pounding of his own heart in his ears, couldn't sense the Father's light or righteousness- there was only the cold, hard touch of everything materialistic- and that, more than anything else, terrified him.
His legs were wobbly and refused to stop shaking. Castiel tried to spread his wings to leave this unnamed place where he could not hear or touch or see or feel as he had been able to do since his creation but his wings too were bound by invisible fetters, anchored tightly in that same hidden and inaccessible place where his grace was locked away; he was trapped here- but by what means? Was this Lucifer's doing? Was the building covered in impenetrable demonic script or the Enochian sigil? What was-
"Got 'im!" He felt the rush of displaced air a second before two men were pressing him to the wall, their larger frames easily pinning his body against the surface and Castiel's mind whirled, spinning wildly back to- There's only ever been you Cas, right from the fucking beginning and then there were fingers through which he could feel the evil of Hell's second prince leeching through the skin and into his soul, disgusting tongue flicking out against his flesh and the wandering hands that roamed everywhere with lustful and impure intentions and Belial growled, possessively marking his angel-
"Shit, he's strong; give him five milligrams of Diazepam-"
"I've already given 'im ten!"
"Well it doesn't look like it's doing much, does it? Damn it- give him another!"
The prick of the needle passing through skin came again and again, and the last fleeting though that passed through Castiel's mind as the cool rush of the drug entered into his bloodstream was as to the status of his charge and brother, for the Winchester boys and a prayer to his absent Father for their safety and deliverance. As his muscles went slack against his will, blue eyes rolled upwards to catch sight of the letters stitched in golden thread over the left breast pocket of one of the men's white shirt: PROWERS COUNTY PSYCHIATRIC WARD.
Abba, Father. Hear me.
The blacktop crunched beneath the hunter's boots and searching emerald green orbs scanned the parking lot once again, passing over every single crack in the gravel and inspecting each and every car with a scrutiny worthy of Superman's laser gaze. Dean's mouth was dry; his heart banged against his ribs in a rapid rhythm as his fingers clenched tightly around the now-wrinkled cheap fabric of the dark blue tie, the only piece of his angelic ally he could find.
"The HELL do you mean it was on the doorknob? Where'd you really find it, Sam?"
"I already told you, Dean. Why would I lie about something like this?" A beat passed, then- "Do you think that the other angels somehow found Cas and…"
"And left his tie here as a parting gift? Don't think so."
The elder Winchester tried not to think back to the terrible memory his mind had oh so wonderfully decided to dredge up when he first saw the tie hanging loosely in his brother's hands, tried to dispel the image of blood splattered haphazardly against concrete and overlaying the ashes of torn wings that had been shredded into the remnants of scorched feathers indicating that Cas wasn't just missing but that the head-tilting holy tax accountant was gone, and not just gone but dead…
"Are you looking for treasures?"
Son of a- He jumped nearly three feet in the air, breath catching in his throat before collecting himself and turning to look warily at the perpetrator who stood not more than three feet away, gazing up at him quizzically with a polite, curious expression that only little kids could get away with. Of course he'd already seen her when he'd stormed out into the parking lot after getting dressed in record time, saw her sitting on the sidewalk right beside their motel room drawing with pieces of colored chalk and humming a tune to herself- just an unsuspecting, normal little girl who couldn't have been more than six or seven years old, quietly amusing herself on a beautiful day.
"Can I play too?"
And it was exactly because she was an innocent-looking kid, all big brown eyes and mousey brown hair, skinny little wrists and small frame that barely even came up to his elbow that made Dean stand a bit straighter, shoulders going stiff. After Lilith and Jesse, he'd had enough of little kids and their beguiling miens, all candy hearts and ponies and tooth fairies until one pulled back the exterior to see what really lay beneath the surface. Hide and seek? Yeah, twenty-four/seven, from angels and demons and a buddy of mine seems to have gotten himself permanently hidden. Still wanna play? "Look, little girl," he said cautiously, trying to smile in a way that didn't feel like his jaw was being screwed into place. "Shouldn't you be with your parents?" And didn't they teach you not to talk to strangers?
The girl shrugged, skinny shoulders moving awkwardly under thin white t-shirt. "I don't have a mommy," she said simply, and without a hint of sadness. "My daddy's gone away for now and he'll be back later. But I don't have anyone to play with right now." She finished dolefully before looking up at the elder Winchester shyly, hesitantly.
Oh for the love of- Dean was torn in between shooing her away and feeling sorry for the kid, remembering days of staying in motel rooms with Sam and nothing but TV for entertainment when John went off on hunts, days that turned into endless weeks. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Well, little girl-"
"Joy."
He halted, taken aback. "What?"
She smiled up at him brightly. "That's what my daddy calls me," she explained, revealing several missing teeth and an alignment that would in the very near future warrant the need for some serious dental work, but it was the guilelessness of the act, the lack of any ulterior motive behind the child's beam of innocence that slowed the hunter's still-racing heart, if only a little- and it reminded him of Cas's smile. Slowly, Dean took to a knee and tried to crack a grin himself.
"Okay, Joy. How'd you like to go on a treasure hunt?"
The little girl clapped her hands and squealed for- well, joy and giddiness. "I'm good at finding things," she said happily, reaching into the pocket of her jeans and procuring evidence to back up her claim. "See? I found it in front of the door just now."
Dean stared, open-mouthed and he really didn't care how much of an idiot he must've looked at the moment, simply stared at the six-inch long pure white feather lying in the little girl's hands.
A/N: Sorry for the somewhat slower pace of this chapter; things will pick up more quickly in the next few. For those of you who wanted a frame of reference, here are some of the translations from the previous chapter:
El Shaddai: God Almighty
Checed: mercy
As a forewarning, I've got two papers and an exam coming up next week, so I'm not sure if I'll be able to update as quickly as I'd like, but hopefully I'll have the next chapter up by next Saturday or Sunday. Until then, please review!