XIII
The humans, though still writhing desperately, seemed safe enough for the time being. At least, that was what Raziel told herself as she whipped around, wings churning against the air once more, and flapped swiftly away from the apartment building that she had been protecting. A few screams followed her departure, but there were barely any demons still alive on the expanse of sidewalk that she had bombarded, and those which were still twitching would have a good deal of trouble trying to make their way over the barricade formed out of the corpses of their fallen companions. A few humans may be picked off, but Raziel shook the thought aside—she had more important things, vaster numbers to attend to. Mainly, the portal itself—she had little trouble realizing that the demons were only coming faster, and the angels couldn't stand up against them forever. They had to do something else—specifically, they had to close the portal, and that was exactly what she intended to do.
It yawned vast and ugly over the familiar New York cityscape, dark cirrus clouds churning and blurring into a pit of flaming scarlet, sparks licking out around the few edges not already sealed off by squirming demon bodies. It wasn't large, but it was enough to chill even her blood—as disgusting as any human portrayal of the Apocalypse that may litter famed art museums, yet all the more terrifying for its definition, its reality, here and glaring straight across what should be a relatively peaceful city—peaceful as far as Earth cities went, in any case.
Even as she flew, she felt some small part of herself quailing, and hated that part. Yet it was true that there were thousands of demons pouring out of the gaping maw of the sky—ironic that Hell should come from above—and equally true that they were capable of killing Raziel, of ripping her apart one feather at a time until nothing remained but traces of burnt ichor carried away on the wind.
They could destroy her.
Yet she couldn't let them.
The fissure in the sky was pouring forth from the top of Gabriel's Seraphim Monument, presumably where the Tesseract was positioned, and so it was for there that Raziel aimed now, fighting the urge to slow down as she neared the massive bronze shape, jutting into the whirling clouds above. She'd always thought it to be a rather unattractive construction, but now it seemed almost hellish itself, as demented as the army that it was allowing through. Its surface flared into more and more immediate view, and then, before she could listen to the snarl within her stomach begging her to turn back, her feet were touching down on its cold surface, charred with ash from the portal yawning above it. Wind curled around her, but nothing else—it was almost completely empty, with only two other forms perched atop it beside her own, even as demons clawed and gasped mere yards away.
One of these shapes was the Tesseract, raging a more potent and vivid gold than she'd ever seen, perched just in the middle of the wide curve of the roof. Long, burned incisions radiated from it, the shadowed rays of its molten sun, presumably scarred with pure power—and near one of these stood a hunched human shape, the recognition of with sent a cool shudder through her stomach.
Erik Selvig, chin tilted towards the fiery skies, eyes solid gold.
"Selvig," Raziel breathed, seeing no purpose in disguising herself—of course. It only made sense that Lucifer would use him even now, yet to regard him was remarkable in the most painful of ways. Selvig was one of the pastors she barely knew, even in her brief time with Holy Shield, yet his worn face and silver hair were unmistakable—unmistakable and horrifying, to see now twisted into an expression of such demented glee, stemming not from his own frail human heart, but rather the pure power of the Devil.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" he breathed, not so much as looking at her. Lucifer's words, in his mouth. The wind howled mightily, as if in tempestuous agreement, and Selvig's chest shuddered in an entirely uncharacteristic giggle. "It's all his... all his creation. Our Lord..."
"You aren't yourself," Raziel spat, her voice ringing against the bronze below them.
"I do not need to be. None of them will be, once he has taken over. They will either be under his control, and better off for it... or they will be dead."
Lips curling, she snapped—her fist, the weapon that had murdered scores of demons mere moments ago, whipped around all at once, colliding ferociously with Selvig's forehead. A cry of pain escaped his lips, the gold immediately dimming from his eyes, and he collapsed to his knees with a heavy gasp, arms folding over himself in an instinctively protective gesture. Raziel drew back, her chest heaving. Selvig let out a low groan, and she wondered briefly whether she'd actually hurt him—she certainly had no intention to. After a few long moments, however, he looked up, and her stomach warmed at the sight of his stare returned to its usual watered-down blue.
"Ra... Raziel?" he gasped.
He recognized her, even after their sparing encounters. She supposed that was a good sign.
"What... oh God... what have I done?"
Of course—what he'd be seeing right now was the whole of the sky above them, overflowing with demons as it was, and she knew that he was acute enough to be able to match it with the likely gap in his memory and realize that it was his fault.
"Lucifer. He was the one to do it, not you." Raziel found herself on her knees with no recollection of having fallen to them, and her hands settled over Selvig's shoulders, gripping him as tightly as possible to suppress the shivers that were jolting through his whole body. "Selvig, listen to me. We need to close the portal—Lucifer was the one to open it, but he will never tell us how to repair his actions. I don't even know where he is right now—perhaps overseeing his own chaos from some distant vantage point." But her thoughts were flying away from her and carrying her words with them; she needed to focus on the present, on who she was talking to and what she had to obtain from him. "Uriel was also possessed, but I managed to rescue him from Lucifer's grasp a while back, far before the portal was opened. You're the only one who could plausibly know how to close it, after having spent so much time with him—Selvig..." She took a long breath, all too aware of what the lack of comprehension on his face implied. She could be wrong. It was possible that he had no idea what she was talking about, and Lucifer really had done a perfect job with blocking his memories, stealing his mind... yet it couldn't be. There was no such thing as a perfect job, and Raziel refused to start believing so now.
"Selvig, listen to me. This is the most important thing you've ever done, do you understand?" A fresh gust of wind, accompanied by the caterwauling of myriad distorted demons, fell across her face, and red curls tangled between her lips, marring her words. She combed them out of the way with impatient desperation. "I know it's hard, and I know your head must hurt, but you have to think hard, harder than you ever have before... he was in your mind, and he can't do that without leaving traces. Think. Think, Pastor."
As if the mention of his title instated a fresh sense of determination in him, Selvig's forehead screwed into a form of hard contemplation, his jaw straining with tension. Raziel watched, unblinking, as his lips flickered and twitched, before a word finally managed to spill forth.
"...Staff."
"Staff?" Raziel repeated, trying to suppress the eager heat that was climbing in the back of her throat. "His staff? Lucifer's?"
"Yes—yes, it contains his power... tap it against the Tesseract..." Selvig glanced over his shoulder, as if to confirm the presence of the object he spoke of; sure enough, there it sat, seeming somehow smug in the awareness of its own wickedness. "...Hard enough to break regular stone... it should disturb it, enough to seal the portal, to... effectively break the Tesseract itself, at least until it's given time to heal. It's not perfect, but—"
"But it's all we need," Raziel cut across, wings thrusting forth to properly bring her to her feet once more. "All we need is the staff itself."
"Lucifer has it..."
"But where is Lucifer...?"
Her words were caught off by a flash of psychic perception, so fierce, so burning, so green that it nearly drew a gasp from her. The telepathy was wordless, but the pure sensation of it was enough to bring a grin of triumph to her pale lips—of course. Though she'd chosen to dull their voices, the rest of the angels hadn't been ignoring hers, even as she didn't attempt to transmit it. They knew just what she needed—knew, and, in the case of Ezekiel, already had it.
"It looks as if your Lord is already defeated," she breathed, and allowed her eyes one more brief flash up towards the sky as she shot herself over to the opposite side of the monument, on the cracked sidewalk where Ezekiel was waiting. The demons still pounded forth, but she knew that they wouldn't for much longer, and that was enough to fill her with a shiver of hope that the rapid beating of her wings fanned into a raging flame.
Nicholas Fury, unlike the rest, was not on the island that was being attacked by demons. He had been stationed elsewhere—specifically, in Washington DC, in the cold marble confines labeled as the office of one of the most elite and competent defense teams in all of the United States. Michael had left him here, with brief words imploring him to be careful, to let slip no more than he needed to—just enough to convince the council that there was no reason to panic about the chaos currently taking place over New York.
We probably won't need too long, Gabriel had added before the stony-eyed angels took off, but if humans try to interfere, they'll just mess it up. You need to keep us clear—if you don't, we'll know, and so will the millions of innocent people living in that city. Well, they won't actually know, seeing as they'll be torn limb from limb, but you get the idea.
Fury had gotten the idea, far more firmly than he would have wished to, and that same idea caused sweat to snarl forth from his palms now, so that they itched where he clenched them. The nameless council would be open to him in mere moments, and he stood at their door, awaiting the opportunity to enter, to present himself—he knew he didn't look as well as he ideally would, with his dark garments still burned and torn from Lucifer's attack on the ship and his eye patch fraying around the edges, though perhaps his appearance would only do more to convince them—he had no way of knowing. The movements of the government were baffling to him, even despicable, and he was carefully planning his words now, so that he might not burst out into an explosion of frustration when the time did come for him to speak properly to them.
"Pastor Nicholas Fury." The voice was calm, radiating from a hidden PA speaker in the narrow, high-ceilinged hallway, and he was on his feet before the third syllable was pronounced. It was ridiculous of them to announce his name and not just open the door, as there was no one else waiting for an audience with them—in fact, it wasn't meant to be a day of meeting at all, but his mere knowledge of the semi-secret government branch, combined with the pure desperation that he had thus far conveyed in every syllable of his speech, had been enough to earn him an audience with them, however brief.
It was time. Fury drew in a long, shallow breath before taking the few steps towards the wide wooden door that he'd been staring at for the past half hour. It was remarkably heavy, but he managed to shoulder it open with only the slightest strain, determined not to express the faintest sign of weakness. Within instants, he was pinned under twenty pairs of the most calculating eyes in the country, at the base of what was arranged like a wide courtroom, Fury at the bottom and center of the wide marble floor. An exquisite but dim light fixture dangled from the wide arch of the ceiling, illuminating him but leaving the rest of them mostly in shadow. He folded his arms as soon as he reached the center, the resonant echoes of his footsteps soon drowned out by the crash of the door he'd just moved through. None of the wordless council so much as flinched.
It was a woman who finally spoke, her face pale and lined, silver-blonde hair cut sharply to her chin. Her light coloring rendered her more visible than any of the rest of the cold observers, and it was clear that she was meant to be their leader.
"Nicholas Fury. You come before us today with the claim that you are aware of the substance that's currently destroying New York City."
"Substance?" Fury repeated, fighting to keep a scoff out of his voice. "It's not a substance, I can promise you that." Damn, though, he couldn't let them know about the angels... he had to be careful. "It's creatures; that's all I can say. Ferocious, demented creatures, and they're going to rip the population apart—or they were, but there are others, people who can fight them, tame them. I know this sounds insane," he continued as the silvery woman's lips began to curl, "I know that very well, but it is imperative that you understand—my operatives are the only ones who will be able to tame these beasts. Any other attempt will only result in more damage—and the unquestionable death of whoever executes it."
"That sounds awfully like a threat, Mr. Fury."
He restrained a shout of disgusted impatience. "Then you have selective hearing," he replied as delicately as possible. "I—"
"We have seen what is happening to New York City—only from above, for every camera has stopped transmitting—but the devastation is remarkable, and we need to do what we must to stop it as swiftly as possible. Whatever you may say, Pastor Fury, it is far too clear to all of us that your precious operatives simply aren't doing their job."
"Another hour." He knew that he was placing blades to the angels' throats with his words, but it was his last card to play, and he threw it out with as much power as possible. "Give them one more hour, and they will prove—"
"There is nothing left to prove. They have failed."
"They are angels!"
He bellowed the words without thinking, his final twisted fragment of restrain snapping away. It was foolish—more than foolish, yet he had nothing left to give, and the council must understand how important it truly was, that they must leave the job out of the hands of humans—yet even as he perused them with his single wide eye, searching out for any sign of relenting, of understanding, their ranks granted him with nothing but disdain. They thought him insane at best, and his stomach churned even before the thin, dry lips of the head woman spoke again, her words now flavored with irritation.
"Thank you, Pastor Fury, but we are a branch of the national government. The ancient separation of church and state—as you may remember, one of the principles that our very country was founded on—would render it both wholly absurd and entirely illegal for us to restrain from rescuing one of our population's nerve centers on account of the angels that may be protecting it."
Fury felt his teeth grinding together, and didn't even bother to try and loosen him. His chest was boiling, and he knotted his fingers together, heated mind dashing rapidly through other possibilities, trying to seek out anything else, anything else he could say to win back any portion of faith they'd ever placed in him. Yet he knew what he had done wrong. He had destroyed his last chances with his entirely true words, and his insides twisted with the pure unfairness of it all.
"I implore you to listen to me. Your council is certainly tormented by the decision you must make—and I am telling you right now, directly, that I offer an immediate situation—"
"There are other reports," a voice from somewhere in the shadowed recesses of the crowd announced. The woman at the head of the council turned quickly, her grey eyes narrowed.
"Speak again?"
"Reports, from New York, over emergency transmission lines..."
Fury's chest began to buzz slowly, hopeful heat swamping his mind. He knew not whether it was as he wished, yet there seemed to suddenly be a possibility, a beautifully real possibility that he did, after all, have some chance of success in his single task left.
"Continue."
"There is speak of angels... in fact, all seem to communicate the same—humanoid creatures with wings. Defending them."
Fury turned back to the leader, not daring to speak a word even as every aspect of his posture was oriented towards the single goal of conveying his earnestness. She contemplated him for a full three seconds, eyes silver slits in her stark face, then nodded slowly. A near-gasp flew to his lips—he had done it—
"Hallucinations."
The mess of syllables crashed against his ears like a series of thunderclaps, and, immediately, he could think of nothing but the consequences, even before he had fully made the conscious realization that she had vetoed his words for a final time. Hallucinations. She didn't believe, they wouldn't believe, and that meant she would send others... it was horrifying, unbelievable that the very structure of the country was so weak, so easy to fall prey to perceived reality rather than the truth that was being screamed in its very face...
"They are not hallucinations," he began to snarl, but she lifted a long-fingered hand for silence, and he didn't dare object.
"They are. You certainly heard some mention of this yourself, Pastor, and were quick to try and inform us... I'm sure it's not unusual for those of your employment to grasp at any apparent materialization of your faith. But these are hallucinations, and if there are many in common, that is sure to be the result of a drug released to the city... gas, perhaps. Something very dangerous, to account for the deaths that are also being reported. Most likely infusing the sufferers with an uncontrollable need for destruction… to the point where they're tearing apart the cities and themselves. It may be a nightmare, but it has been a plausible reality for far too long, and it appears that our doomsday has finally arrived—at least for New York. You are quite right, Pastor Fury—there is no hope of us rescuing the city, if it's immersed this deeply in whatever may spark these imaginings... there is only one thing left to do."
He was frozen, unable to so much as breathe as the fate of millions lingered on her calm, thin lips. When her voice hit him, it was like a sword stroke.
"We will bomb the island."
Fury's prayer hit Gabriel in a fiery rush, enveloping his mind so ferociously that he nearly slipped up against the demon he was currently battling, barely able to tear its throat open before it would have launched itself at his own. The words from the pastor were garbled, with only a few strong psychic associations perfectly distinguishable—still, they were enough to tell Gabriel everything he needed to know.
Didn't believe—hallucinations—bomb, they're sending a bomb and—
He didn't need to listen to any more; his wings, already expanded, caught and lifted him higher, metal grinding against air as he slipped away from the demons. His dark eyes flitted towards the portal at the top of his tower—it took only a brief dash of telepathy to understand that Raziel was there, that she had Lucifer's staff and was near closing it.
Wait, he commanded her.
I can't wait! They're coming faster, and we're—
Just wait.
Bomb—for Fury's words to have as much potency as they did, he would have needed to be alone, in a room unaffected by the mental signatures of any other people. He was out of the meeting chamber, then, perhaps even out of the building. The council he'd sought out had already had more than ample time to do what they had to, to set the missile that he mentioned on its path.
It was instants later that he heard the whistling.
None too quick with that, Pastor, he noted somewhere, only half-noticing that the words managed to reach their target. Already, he was shooting through the air, strands of oxygen shoved behind him with the power of his pounding red and gold wings, their intricate gears shrieking with the pressure of propelling him forth. He could sense the missile as it approached, something large and heavy, trailing potential devastation in his wake—thankfully, it was something solid enough, and he figured that he should be able to grasp onto it and take in the direction that he needed. Where exactly that may be, he wasn't quite sure, but knew it would come to him—
—And it did, as he flew under the Hell portal.
Of course.
There was an odd tightness in his chest as he swerved around, arms extending to encompass the surprisingly small form of the silver weapon that dove towards him. It was hot against his chest, buzzing with devastating energy so eager to be released, but he felt chilled, detached. He was entirely aware of the danger of what he was approaching, yet also knew that there was no way to avoid it. He needed to do this—if he didn't, millions of the screaming human lives below him would be extinguished, and though he may be worth them, that didn't mean he would be able to exist with the knowledge of his own neglect afterwards.
Try to keep it open for me, would you? he shot towards Raziel as he burst past her. A brief glimpse of her sage-green stare, turned up towards him in horrified disbelief, clung to the back of his eyelids as he escalated, but he couldn't allow it to reach him properly. The portal, glowing deep crimson, was closer and closer with every passing instant, and the bomb was humming below him—and then, all at once, he was through it, and every last trace of frost that had before found a root inside of his chest was now entirely vaporized, replaced by such an intense surge of fire that he couldn't manage to draw his flimsy lungs into any sort of breath.
Hell was aflame. The screams and howls of demons deafened him until he couldn't remember what anything else sounded like, and his skin was near boiling with the pressure of the roaring fire that shone despicable scarlet in every direction for as far as he could see. Shadows extended too far, and the wails of the damned interwove with those of the demons, so that he could sense nothing but pure, blazing horror, the epitome of evil twisting inside of his body until it was all he could imagine, all he could comprehend. He didn't feel the bomb slip from his arms, didn't hear the shuddering bang as it exploded upon coasting to the brimstone-cracked ground, invisible below the mess of chained, writhing, bloody bodies that twisted and thrashed upon it. The heat, the heat was everywhere, and his wings—
His wings—
The metal was smoking. He could feel the loosening of all the carefully constructed gears and plates and screws even as a haze began to settle over his mind, and then some part of him knew that he was on the verge of falling—whether back to Earth or farther yet into the recesses of this terrifying dimension, he had no idea. All of his thoughts were departing in a scarlet mist, and the last thing he felt was the bracing, trembling realization that he, Gabriel, one of God's archangels, had at last been confronted with his end.