Life As I Play It

“Are you sure this is safe?” Bethany asked hesitantly, firmly gripping the outside rail of the bridge behind her. She dared to lean over, peering down four miles into the Atherean Sea below. Vertigo quickly set in as the water challenged her; rising and receding quickly. She leaned back against the cold iron railing, checking the multi-colored elastic rope fastened to her waist. Jayce, her older brother to her right, looked into the clear blue ocean as though he couldn’t wait to dive–again. Shirtless, wings pinned at his back, he was nearly hyperventilating with excitement. “Yes, Beth.” He replied, trying not to show impatience. “Look, this was your idea. If you’d rather we took you home…”

“I don’t wanna go home…” Beth objected, shaking her head, mindful that she was grasping the railing. “I just didn’t know how far a fall it was and…”

Darryl, older brother on the left, looked to Jayce knowingly. “I told you she was too little for this.”

Jayce smirked. Beth whirled on her brother. “I am not too little! I’m almost eight!”

Darryl reached down to Bethany, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Why don’t we try this again, Beth, when you’re nine? It won’t look so scary then…” His tone was blatantly condescending, and Beth scowled. “I’m not scared!” She lied, “Watch, I’ll even go first!”

Darryl and Jayce watched with astonished terror as Bethany threw herself from the bridge, plummeting headfirst towards the sea. They leapt after her, arms outstretched to catch her even as she placed her arms at her sides, accelerating.

She closed her eyes and smiled; the wind frapping against her face, the scent of fresh sea-salt, and the seagulls calling in the distance as though welcoming her…for a moment, she understood why her brothers did this for fun.

Then she nearly forgot what she was supposed to do.

She opened her eyes and outstretched her arms–the water was now yards away and closing fast–she had to focus, focus…thirty yards, twenty yards, ten yards…

Now she could hear her brother’s Reaching into her head, yelling at her in genuine horror, screaming at her to loose her wings, for paralysis was only scant feet away The water was so close that she could perceive stripes of swimming fish…

Something burst from her shoulder blades; her descent leveled out and saved her from what would’ve been a disastrous belly flop–why didn’t the rope break?–and she quickly found herself arcing upwards, forcing her wings to flap, pushing the wind behind her, and rising to safety–

A deafening, bone-crunching impact was heard below as something hit the water with so much force that droplets shot several feet up. Instinctively, she Reached out to her brothers even as she turned…and could only feel Jayce. His attention was now entirely focused on Darryl, and Bethany realized with horror that she had been given the wrong rope; Darryl’s swung lifelessly in the breeze, hanging from the bridge.

Bethany heard Jayce use the knife he kept at his ankle to cut his own rope and fall freely into the water.

Then all was silent.

Not even the seagulls could be heard after a moment. The world went still.

Bethany Reached; nothing conscious came back; only wrenching, horrible agony from deep within the water. She stifled tears as she tried not to imagine how much pain the fall had caused Darryl. Strangely, she could no longer feel Jayce.

Suddenly exhausted as she realized she had not stopped flapping her new wings, Bethany hung in the air and dropped slowly towards the water. She frowned, certain that her eyes were playing tricks; the water appeared discolored as she drew closer, opaque and…

…by Yang, is that a leg…?!

Something exploded through the surface, something that stole the breath from her body. It was pale blue, eight long tentacles that shot upwards towards her, threatening to draw her into an monstrous center that was only teeth. It roared like nothing she’d heard before, like metal scraping against metal.

Bethany tried to flap and push herself away from the thing, but it shot its eight arms downward and rocketed towards her. Terrified, whimpering as the thing came for her, Bethany tried to turn and fly away, but it managed to take hold of her left wing and tore it off, yanking violently to severe the feathery muscles.

Bethany’s vision swam; she couldn’t scream as she fell. As consciousness left her, she didn’t feel the pleasantness that accompanied a body going into self-healing; this was something else, something wrong, as though she would never open her eyes again.

Fear kept her awake, but only barely. The thing eating her was distracted; busy drinking the blood that ran from her wound into the sea. It was down there, waiting for her…what is that thing…

Something caught her; the sudden jolt momentarily brought her back to her senses. She looked up to her rescuer and saw Darryl, a look of pain and horror unlike anything she’d ever seen on him before; bleeding from his head, bite marks on both arms, wings shredded, she could feel a few fingers of his missing…along with one of his legs. He wasn’t blinking; she didn’t even think he was breathing. He was ascending on pure willpower, trying to get them back to the bridge before…

The metal roar erupted from behind them. Bethany looked down and saw that the Thing was coming back for them. Darryl grunted and hurled Bethany up towards the bridge with everything he had. The Thing wrapped a tentacle around Darryl’s waist and yanked him back towards the sea; Bethany managed to cling the railing before watching him dragged under.

Stay awake, she told herself, forcing herself over the railing and collapsing on the other side. She could no longer walk, think…she reached out helplessly to a carriage passing by and was relieved as they slowed down. “Help me…please…”

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Modern Magic Enterprises LTD and Nomadic Productions LLC

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A deafening, bone-crunching impact was heard below as something hit the water with so much force that droplets shot several feet up. Instinctively, she Reached out to her brothers even as she turned…and could only feel Jayce. His attention was now entirely focused on Darryl, and Bethany realized with horror that she had been given the wrong rope; Darryl’s swung lifelessly in the breeze, hanging from the bridge.

Bethany heard Jayce use the knife he kept at his ankle to cut his own rope and fall freely into the water.

Then all was silent.

Not even the seagulls could be heard after a moment. The world went still.

Bethany Reached and nothing conscious came back; only wrenching, horrible agony from deep within the water. She stifled tears as she tried not to imagine how much pain the fall had caused Darryl. Strangely, she could no longer feel Jayce.

Suddenly exhausted as she realized she had not stopped flapping her new wings, Bethany hung in the air and dropped slowly towards the water. She frowned, certain that her eyes were playing tricks; the water appeared discolored as she drew closer, opaque and…

…by Yang, is that a leg…?!

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Modern Magic Enterprises LTD and Nomadic Productions LLC

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“Milady, milady, oomph…”
Alyssa half-stumbled, half-barreled through the regal wooden doors of Lady Leeia’s private chambers. Anyone else may have caught the business end of the throwing dagger Lady Leeia kept under her pillow, but the longtime Valkryie Commander had grown accustomed to Alyssa’s haphazard entrances. As such, she merely rolled over and groaned, reluctantly shaking off the last of a deep sleep.
“…Alyssa. Good morning…ooph.” Whatever remained of a pleasant night was ripped away by the young girl’s pouncing on the pristine silk sheets, burying her knees in Lady Leeia’s stomach. Even as Lady Leeia fought to keep her wind, resisting the urge to throttle the child, little Alyssa was carelessly, enthusiastically tearing the covers away. “Milady, you need to see this! C’mon!”
“Okay, okay, Alyssa…may I breathe?” Lady Leeia swung her legs over off the side of the bed and reached up to the wall at her right. She first took down her customized right arm, the one she could turn into anything she wanted, although retirement provided little opportunity to use it beyond anything mundane. After fastening her arm to her shoulder, she quickly donned her jet-black armor. “Now.” Lady Leeia began, “what is the emergency?”
Alyssa, all of five years old, bound over the bed to stand beside Lady Leeia and without hesitation, clasped her artificial, metallic right hand. “Could you please take us to the third wing observatory, please?”
“Okay.” Lady Leeia nodded, “But we’re going to walk.”
Alyssa blanched. “Um, milady? Your way is so much quicker.”
“I know.” Lady Leeia smiled knowingly and held eye contact with Alyssa, “But it looks like such a beautiful morning. I’d rather walk.”
Alyssa lowered her head, nervously biting the nail on her index finger, and nodded. “…k.”
As they exited her private chambers, Lady Leeia was pleasantly surprised to find that things weren’t as bad as they used to be. Unfortunately, Alyssa had learned to run before she could walk, and had never really mastered either. Other Valkryies had been woken by Alyssa’s tear through the barracks and were once again cleaning up behind her, picking up falling busts and replacing the decorative carpets the child had accidentally taken down. The child moved like a tornado but was twice as destructive. The Valkryies threw polite nods at their leader and quick glares to the child.
When they reached the Third Wing Observatory two flights up, Lady Leeia considered letting the Valkryies have the girl. “Alyssa…how many times have I told you not to bother me with one of your moving pictures?!”
“I know, milady, I know. But just watch, please…?”
It was either that or hurling the child through the open window at the left. Lady Leeia chose the former. She didn’t have much taste for the fictional moving images the people of Earth put together, especially the phony-looking battle sequences of their more popular films.
Ten seconds into the film, she noticed this was indeed different. The only shirtless man in the scene engaged another, shorter man with a wooden bear-claw right hand. The lithe, shirtless man attacked with such ferocity and such flawlessness in his technique that Lady Leeia wondered if this might be the real thing. His scream, high-pitched and feral, shook her to the core.
Alyssa smiled at seeing Lady Leeia’s captivation. “You see? You see?”
Alyssa held out her hands and motioned as if pulling something apart. The images split in two, following her hand. This same man was now fully dressed, calmly walking with another, older man in yellow. They were discussing the philosophies of the martial arts…philosophies Lady Leeia hadn’t heard the likes of which since Michael St. Ambrose had come into his own.
There was definitely something different about this man. “Who is this?”
“He was born Lee Jun Fan,” Alyssa replied quickly, eager to please, “But they call him ‘Bruce Lee’ in Amer..Amery…”
“America.” Lady Leeia finished.
“Yes!” Alyssa exclaimed. “America. Milady, I think we should recruit him.”
“For what?! No man can become a Valkryie!”
“No, but a man can train the Valkryies, milady. Uriel St. Morias did, according the libraries.”
“You must not have read to the end of that chronicle and seen how that turned out.” Lady Leeia mused. “I was there. It’s a bad idea. Besides, the Valkryies don’t need training…”
Alyssa grew somber. This next part would be tricky. “Milady…mom.”
Lady Leeia looked down to Alyssa in shock. She hadn’t referred to her like that for a couple of years now. “The Olymparus Patrol has been missing for months. We haven’t talked to the people who live there in almost a year…”
Lady Leeia exhaled. Alyssa spoke the truth. Although centuries had passed since any overt conflict, things had been tense lately near the border. Seven Valkryies missing was a bad omen. “Mom, I know you don’t like to think about it, but what if Yin is back?”
Lady Leeia said nothing, becoming transfixed on the moving picture.
“… If she has, we’ll have to fight…” Alyssa persisted, pointing back at the moving images. “…and if we have to fight, we’ll need people like him to show us how. Please, mom.”
For a moment, Lady Leeia watched the film. Closing her eyes, she nodded. “I need to see more.” She conceded. “If he’s as good as you say, the world will mourn him.”
“The world’ll recover. We’re doing this for them, right?”
“Okay, Alyssa. Return to your studies. I’ll pick up where you left off and let you know of my decision later.”
This story is dedicated to the enduring memory of Bruce Lee.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Modern Magic Enterprises LTD and Nomadic Productions LLC

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Uriel, Azrael, and Sira led the small army silently down through Asgard’s crimson sky towards Odin’s castle. Azrael’s plan had been successful thus far; they had avoided detection and slain seven of the airborne Seraphim. The others weren’t aware of their dwindling numbers, but that time wouldn’t last long. The resistance was counting on those precious few moments to do whatever it was they were going to do.
Azrael allowed his fear to pass through him. They hadn’t thought that far ahead yet. When the Seraphim realized they were under attack, the resistance wouldn’t survive their retribution. But as long as Yang retained his powers, they still had a chance.
Azrael touched down first on the tips of his toes to avoid detection. Uriel followed, and then Sira and the others. Azrael led them single file down a regal, narrow corridor on the castle’s second floor. Upon spotting a Seraphim at the end of the hall, Uriel stepped ahead of Azrael. Grasping the youth and clasping his hand over his mouth, Uriel ended the boy’s life with a quick, violent jerk. He gently laid the glass corpse on the ground and motioned for the group to move forward.
A few steps later, Uriel quickly raised his fist to stop the group.
Voices, in the distance.
“Even if you take my powers, you’ll still have to take my sister’s to gain control.” That was Yang. Azrael strained to hear; who else was with him?
“We thought of that. You need not worry about anything.” An unfamiliar voice. Presumably, a Seraphim.  But how many?
“I worry about what will happen when you allow the damned to run free throughout the Universe, you stupid boy.”
Uriel smiled; that was Metatron.
“You wouldn’t be so intent on freeing them if you hadn’t lost someone close to you.” That was Raphael.
“If you see this through, we will all lose everyone.”
Azrael, Uriel, and Sira all looked to each other knowingly. The baritone voice could only belong to Odin. And if he was alive, he was their best chance.
Azrael was so tense, he was nearly hyperventilating. How clear things become at the end.
Uriel nodded his understanding; a small fireball erupted centimeters above his hand. I’m ready.
Sira, grinning slyly, pulled a small staff from the rear of her armor. With a quick flick of her wrist, the staff extended blades from both ends.
Knowing that his next action would reveal everything, Uriel looked back down the hallway. “Raphael, Odin, Yang, Metatron…” Uriel Reached. “All of you; hit the ground, now.”

***

The first attack came quickly; a downward slash from Cutler’s right, followed quickly by a vertical slash that would’ve taken Michael’s head off, had the young Angel not swayed the first blow and then bound back onto his hands to avoid the killing blow. Cutler’s new powers had given him a significant boost in speed; Michael had to struggle to keep up. He had barely registered the icy floor on the palms his hands when Cutler came again, crouching, his hip swiveling—his leg coming out? Michael bound upward, on his feet just in time to avoid the sweep.
There was no time to process; Cutler pressed the advantage, stabbing forward. Michael stepped back and to the side, and when Cutler tried to take his head off again with an inside slash, Michael crouched. Cutler stepped into him, expecting Michael to retreat, and surprised when Michael held his ground.  As Cutler tried to bring the sword back, slashing outwardly, Michael intercepted his wrist and fired his fist into Cutler’s elbow. It was like hitting stone. Michael grunted in pain, Cutler seemed more surprised than hurt by the blow, but he dropped the sword.
Still holding Cutler’s wrist, Michael pushed at his elbow, sending Cutler staggering away. Michael quickly bent down and picked up the fallen sword as Cutler turned to face him.
Michael squinted, shaking his head; he was suddenly dizzy and nauseous. Cutler smiled; “That’s the thanatonian energy.” He announced. “It’s what they use, Michael, to hold the soul is they carry it the Purgatorium.”
There was a pause, as Michael took in the meaning. Cutler’s smile grew chilling as he bare his teeth. “No one ever said that you had to be dead for the energy to take you.”
No. No fear, not now, not ever.
This is about more than me…
Michael twirled his sword once to show his intention, and then charged towards Cutler. Michael spun backwards, bringing his sword down towards Cutler’s head. Cutler parried the blow upwards, knocking Michael off-balance and countering with his own attack. Michael recovered in time to block Cutler’s attack, swinging back with his own attack. The back and forth continued for a moment, Michael staying just outside of Cutler’s energy while Cutler pressed the attack.

Still, the energy drained Michael, who quickly realized that he wasn’t the swordsman Cutler was. As he began to give ground, Cutler advanced, taunting Michael by using only his left hand. Dizzy, fighting to stay conscious, Michael lowered his guard for a moment—and Cutler drove his blade into Michael’s right shoulder. Michael screamed, dropping his sword. Cutler withdrew the blade, lifting it high above Michael to cleave him in half. Michael held his shoulder to control the bleeding. He wanted to lift his legs, step away from what was coming, but they wouldn’t respond–

At the last possible moment, Michael swayed to the left, and Cutler’s strike hit the ice with such force that the sword’s apex went nearly three inches into the ground. In that moment, Michael leapt into the air and crashed his right foot down squarely on the blade. The sword shattered, Cutler stumbled. Michael fought off the Thanatonian pull; clutching Cutler’s hair, Michael thrust his knee upward into Cutler’s face. Screaming with rage and defiance, Michael leapt into the air and spun fully inward, connecting the instep of his foot with Cutler’s jaw. The force was so great that only Cutler’s energy kept his face intact. He spun away, rubbing his jaw and spitting crimson upon the ice.

He smiled, looking to the waiting Michael. Saying nothing, he pulled off the top half of his robe and threw it to the ground. In turn, Michael removed his flannel and tossed it away behind him.

And the two came together one more time, commencing the final battle.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Modern Magic Enterprises LTD and Nomadic Productions LLC

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Uriel, Azrael, and Sira led the small army silently down through Asgard’s crimson sky towards Odin’s castle. Azrael’s plan had been successful thus far; they had avoided detection and slain seven of the airborne Seraphim. The others weren’t aware of their dwindling numbers, but that time wouldn’t last long. The resistance was counting on those precious few moments to do whatever it was they were going to do.
Azrael allowed his fear to pass through him. They hadn’t thought that far ahead yet. When the Seraphim realized they were under attack, the resistance wouldn’t survive their retribution. But as long as Yang retained his powers, they still had a chance.
Azrael touched down first on the tips of his toes to avoid detection. Uriel followed, and then Sira and the others. Azrael led them single file down a regal, narrow corridor on the castle’s second floor. Upon spotting a Seraphim at the end of the hall, Uriel stepped ahead of Azrael. Grasping the youth and clasping his hand over his mouth, Uriel ended the boy’s life with a quick, violent jerk. He gently laid the glass corpse on the ground and motioned for the group to move forward.
A few steps later, Uriel quickly raised his fist to stop the group.
Voices, in the distance.
“Even if you take my powers, you’ll still have to take my sister’s to gain control.” That was Yang. Azrael strained to hear; who else was with him?
“We thought of that. You need not worry about anything.” An unfamiliar voice. Presumably, a Seraphim.  But how many?
“I worry about what will happen when you allow the damned to run free throughout the Universe, you stupid boy.”
Uriel smiled; that was Metatron.
“You wouldn’t be so intent on freeing them if you hadn’t lost someone close to you.” That was Raphael.
“If you see this through, we will all lose everyone.”
Azrael, Uriel, and Sira all looked to each other knowingly. The baritone voice could only belong to Odin. And if he was alive, he was their best chance.
Azrael was so tense, he was nearly hyperventilating. How clear things become at the end.
Uriel nodded his understanding; a small fireball erupted centimeters above his hand. I’m ready.
Sira, grinning slyly, pulled a small staff from the rear of her armor. With a quick flick of her wrist, the staff extended blades from both ends.
Knowing that his next action would reveal everything, Uriel looked back down the hallway. “Raphael, Odin, Yang, Metatron…” Uriel Reached. “All of you; hit the ground, now.”

***

The first attack came quickly; a downward slash from Cutler’s right, followed quickly by a vertical slash that would’ve taken Michael’s head off, had the young Angel not swayed the first blow and then bound back onto his hands to avoid the killing blow. Cutler’s new powers had given him a significant boost in speed; Michael had to struggle to keep up. He had barely registered the icy floor on the palms his hands when Cutler came again, crouching, his hip swiveling—his leg coming out? Michael bound upward, on his feet just in time to avoid the sweep.
There was no time to process; Cutler pressed the advantage, stabbing forward. Michael stepped back and to the side, and when Cutler tried to take his head off again with an inside slash, Michael crouched. Cutler stepped into him, expecting Michael to retreat, and surprised when Michael held his ground.  As Cutler tried to bring the sword back, slashing outwardly, Michael intercepted his wrist and fired his fist into Cutler’s elbow. It was like hitting stone. Michael grunted in pain, Cutler seemed more surprised than hurt by the blow, but he dropped the sword.
Still holding Cutler’s wrist, Michael pushed at his elbow, sending Cutler staggering away. Michael quickly bent down and picked up the fallen sword as Cutler turned to face him.
Michael squinted, shaking his head; he was suddenly dizzy and nauseous. Cutler smiled; “That’s the thanatonian energy.” He announced. “It’s what they use, Michael, to hold the soul is they carry it the Purgatorium.”
There was a pause, as Michael took in the meaning. Cutler’s smile grew chilling as he bare his teeth. “No one ever said that you had to be dead for the energy to take you.”
No. No fear, not now, not ever.
This is about more than me…
Michael twirled his sword once to show his intention, and then charged towards Cutler. Michael spun backwards, bringing his sword down towards Cutler’s head. Cutler parried the blow upwards, knocking Michael off-balance and countering with his own attack. Michael recovered in time to block Cutler’s attack, swinging back with his own attack. The back and forth continued for a moment, Michael staying just outside of Cutler’s energy while Cutler pressed the attack.

Still, the energy drained Michael, who quickly realized that he wasn’t the swordsman Cutler was. As he began to give ground, Cutler advanced, taunting Michael by using only his left hand. Dizzy, fighting to stay conscious, Michael lowered his guard for a moment—and Cutler drove his blade into Michael’s right shoulder. Michael screamed, dropping his sword. Cutler withdrew the blade, lifting it high above Michael to cleave him in half. Michael held his shoulder to control the bleeding. He wanted to lift his legs, step away from what was coming, but they wouldn’t respond–

At the last possible moment, Michael swayed to the left, and Cutler’s strike hit the ice with such force that the sword’s apex went nearly three inches into the ground. In that moment, Michael leapt into the air and crashed his right foot down squarely on the blade. The sword shattered, Cutler stumbled. Michael fought off the Thanatonian pull; clutching Cutler’s hair, Michael thrust his knee upward into Cutler’s face. Screaming with rage and defiance, Michael leapt into the air and spun fully inward, connecting the instep of his foot with Cutler’s jaw. The force was so great that only Cutler’s energy kept his face intact. He spun away, rubbing his jaw and spitting crimson upon the ice.

He smiled, looking to the waiting Michael. Saying nothing, he pulled off the top half of his robe and threw it to the ground. In turn, Michael removed his flannel and tossed it away behind him.

And the two came together one more time, commencing the final battle.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Modern Magic Enterprises LTD and Nomadic Productions LLC

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“Cutler…” Michael began, still in shock at finding the Seraphim leader alive, “What’re you doing here?”
“Michael.” Cutler’s shoulders sagged, the purple energy that now encompassed him faded a little; he was disappointed.
And then, just as suddenly, his mood picked up. He approached Michael quickly, placing his hands on his shoulders and shaking vigorously. “Well, since you’re here, you may as well wait with me.”
Cutler quickly turned around and walked away, receding into the darkness deep within Niflheim. Michael’s mind swirled as he tried to make sense of it all; seeing his friend alive, much more powerful, and apparently responsible for all that had occurred recently. His breath was visible as he exhaled, and only then did Michael realize the arctic atmosphere of Niflheim has seeped into his skin, chilling him to his very bones.

Michael followed Cutler down into Niflheim’s depths, careful of his footing along the icy floor. “What…what are we waiting for?”
Cutler has stopped in front of a pulsating wall of ice; Michael knew it to be an illusion. Cutler turned back to Michael and smiled. “Well, if you really want to know, your father is coming.”
Michael’s jaw fell open and he took in a blast of cold air involuntarily. “What?” Was all he could manage.
Cutler nodded as though proud. “Your father is brilliant, you know that? I read about him in school, but it’s so much different to see him and talk to him. It must’ve been something else to actually grow up under him.”
Michael said nothing. He was incapable of speaking.
“Why is dad coming…?”
Cutler snickered. “You know, he tried to tell me…” Cutler gestured, making circular motions with his hand, “that if I cut him in on the Thanatonian power, he could make things easier. If I gave him, and his demons, some of this power, they could strike Yin down, saving us the trouble.”
Michael’s stomach bottomed out. The power of death in the hands of demons…
“Cutler, please tell me you didn’t…”
Cutler laughed. “Of course not. Your father may be a genius, but he’s also a schemer. I don’t trust him.”
Cutler turned back towards Michael. “No, Michael. My people and I will deal with Yin when the time comes, that’s our responsibility now. We are doing as Amen wished, and reuniting this universe.”
“What do you mean?”
“Yin, your fathers, so many others…they were exiled not because they did anything wrong, Michael. They were exiled because they disagreed with the majority. No one should be punished for that. We are welcoming all of our people home, Michael.”
“You’re doing what?!” Even as Michael stepped forward, Cutler turned and moved towards him to look him in the eye. “Michael, no one deserves that!!” Cutler bellowed, his voice echoing against the chamber as he pointed towards the living wall. “To burn forever and ever?! What could anyone do that would be so heinous to warrant such a fate?!”
“Cutler, those aren’t our people anymore!” Michael pointed behind him at the wall. “They’re called the damned for a reason! Some of them have done unforgivable things! You want to let them back in here?! You’ll cannibalize us!”
“No, no, Michael…” Cutler’s voice was almost a low hiss. “If they  refuse redemption, then we, the Seraphim, shall execute them, as mandated by our charter.”
Michael, speechless, shook his head. “It’s why we were given this power, Michael.” Cutler announced, backing away. “We were to protect Heaven, indeed, the universe, from any further betrayals. We are to safeguard Amen’s creation against any threat. I promise; the hounds will be very closely monitored as they run free.”
A cold reality came over Michael. “What happened to you in the Purgatorium?” He asked slowly.
“Ah.” Cutler chuckled, “That was unexpected. I knew how powerful thanatonian energy could be, but absorbing all of it all at once…it took all my concentration to will my way here, to wait for your father. If I had been unable to keep my mind in order, I would’ve been lost to the void.”
I’m not so sure you didn’t. “Did you really want me to find my mother?”
Cutler nodded sincerely. “Yes. But I wanted to see you in action, as well. It’s not often one gets to see the four-way fighting style. But you weren’t able to find your mother, were you?”
“You know where I was…” Michael growled, “…and you know what I saw.”
“EXACTLY!!” Cutler exclaimed, “Michael, I can prevent that! Right here, right now, as the Seraphim assume control, we can put an end to all war, all conflict, all troubles! No one ever need fight again!”
“You put an end to free will.” Michael countered immediately. “You allow demons to run loose in Heaven and you will kill us all.”
For a moment, there was an uncomfortable pause as both sides realized that the other wouldn’t be swayed.
Cutler’s energy flared. Michael didn’t move.
“Cutler.” Michael demanded, “Where’s my mother?”
“Stay out of this, Michael.” Cutler growled. “I like you. I don’t want to hurt you. But if you get in my way, I’ll kill the both of you.”
“If I don’t stop you, we’re dead already.”
Cutler, at once, seemed to growl, bare his teeth, and accept the inevitable. “Have it your way, boy.”
Michael barely had time to brace himself. Cutler drew two black ivory swords from his back and charged towards Michael, roaring savagely.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Modern Magic Enterprises LTD and Nomadic Productions LLC

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Asgard was all but deserted; a beautiful, massive, claustrophobic series of ivory structures, the city wasn’t really built for those who couldn’t fly. Azrael, the last of his Thanatonian powers fading, could only maintain flight for very brief moments. Extensive flight wouldn’t have been feasible anyway; at least seventy Seraphim officers were patrolling the skies above the city—looking for stragglers, Azrael guessed. Pinned down in a residential area, peering up out of a vacant home, a cold reality set in; the Valkryies had lost the battle. And if the Seraphim could overpower the Valkryies, then nothing could stop them.

Suddenly clutched the inside of his arm and jerked him back suddenly. A hand clasped over his mouth, simultaneously slamming him against the wall. Azrael found himself staring into the face of Uriel, the Regent of Fire he had battled alongside Michael in Beal City. Uriel held up his index finger to his mouth, motioning for Azrael’s silence. As Azrael stopped resisting, Uriel lowered his hand.

Azrael’s Thanatonian powers were fading, but he could still see through Uriel; the old Angel’s soul light was flickering and fading. Azrael had to concentrate in order to look at Uriel’s physical form, wincing as he did so; Uriel’s face was a bloody, bruised mess, his body was scarred, charred, and pockmarked by injury, and his left side shook. Although Azrael tried to keep silent, his eyes gave him away as he looked up to Uriel, who shook his head. “If I’m going to die,” he said flatly, “I’m taking some of them with me.”

A dark-haired Valkryie approached Uriel from the left, touching a damp compress to his head. Uriel flinched under the cold rag, and then gently reached up to the woman’s hand and lowered it. He nodded as if to say that he was okay. The Valkryie turned her attention to Azrael. “Are you alright?” She asked. Azrael nodded. “What is this place?” He inquired.

Uriel chuckled sardonically. “This is the last hope.” He replied, looking around. Everyone was injured; everyone was being treated with medicine and magic. “The other Valkryies and Sefiroth; they’re either dead or fighting on their own, in which case, they’ll be dead soon enough.”
“What if–” The words Reached into Azrael’s mind, as well as every other Angel and Valkryie in the room.  Uriel whipped suddenly towards the Angel. “Dammit, shut up!!”
Something rustled outside.
The Valkryie looked to Azrael. “Too late. Hide!”
Unsure of what else to do, Azrael sprinted quickly across the room, sliding along the hardwood floor beneath a mattress supported by wood. Even as he scrambled, everyone else in the room quickly raced to find their own hiding places. Azrael noted one Valkyrie hiding in plain sight, hovering silently above the door jamb.
Soon, he saw what they were hiding from.
A young Seraphim cautiously entered the house. He walked slowly, swiveling his head from left to right. He was inexperienced, not looking too closely at anything. Azrael observed with horror as the Valkryie above the door jamb, blood in her eyes, slowly drew a lance from a compartment in her back. Azrael couldn’t even Reach to her; the Seraphim were tuning in. He suppressed his thought, fighting to keep his breathing under control. You kill him and a thousand of them rush this place…stay your hand…stay your hand…
Satisfied that the room was empty, the Seraphim quickly turned and stepped out of the house. The sound of blowing dust was heard as he rocketed back into the sky.
Slowly, the Sefiroth and Valkryie came out of hiding. As Azrael crawled out from under the bed, Uriel was storming towards him, pointing to someone behind him and to the left. “You do that again, and I swear, I’ll kill you.” Uriel growled. The young Sefiroth, humiliated, lowered his head and nodded quickly.
Azrael looked at Uriel, pointing, “I have an idea.” He said confidently. “The Seraphim can hear your Reaching, can’t they?”
“You just saw that, right?” Uriel snapped. The Valkryie put her hand up, warding Uriel off. Uriel glowered at Azrael, and then stormed away. “Yes, they can. What do you have in mind?”
“They can hear you.” Azrael continued, “They can’t hear me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, first of all, I am not entirely an Angel. When my father wanted to discipline my brother and I as children, he Reached to us so my mother could not hear him. Also, I’m thanatonian; no one outside of our legion can hear our thoughts.”
Uriel, across the room, joined the others in turning sharply towards Azrael. “Our jobs we would much more difficult,” Azrael concluded, “if everyone knew we were coming.”
“What are you suggesting?” Uriel demanded.
“I give you all the last of my powers.” Azrael quickly summarized. “We sneak into Odin’s lair and we deal with the Seraphim there.”
Uriel laughed involuntarily. His Valkryie companion whirled to face him. “It’s better than storming in there haphazardly.” She said in a chastising voice. Uriel shook his head as he smiled at her. “I remember, Sira, when there was a time when you enjoyed haphazard.
“We had a lot less to lose then.”
“The advantage,” Azrael said, “is that they will not know we are coming.”
“What about the Seraphim patrolling the skies?” One of the Sefiroth inquired.
“We will break into groups; deal with them silently, one at a time. We will have to shatter the bodies in the sky, so they do not make noise when they land.”
“Spoken like a true Thanatonian.” Uriel smirked. “So how do we receive these powers of yours?”
“Join hands.” Azrael said quickly. Everyone complied. Uriel joined hands with Sira, who reached for Azrael. “This will feel a bit…strange.”
A wave of ice passed through Azrael’s body as it left him, and he observed as the Valkryies and Sefiroth—Heaven’s last hope—shuddered and received the last of his powers.
Sira and Uriel looked to Azrael expectantly, Uriel looking as though he was enjoying what had just happened. “Shall we take to the skies, and tend to business?”
One at a time, the ragtag army stepped outside of the abandoned home and shot into the sky. Azrael was the last of them, silently hoping that Michael was up to the task at hand.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Modern Magic Enterprises LTD and Nomadic Productions LLC

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Azrael had barely had time to process the last five minutes before an angry rocket plummeted into him and began pummeling. Only when the rocket scream did he recognize the voice as Michael’s, and the impulsive youth was screaming something about it all ending now.

Azrael kept his wits about him; Anileif was gone, having warped to Yang knows where. Somehow, Anileif had gained the ability to warp away no matter what he was in proximity with, which was why Azrael hadn’t been able to hold onto him. It was also a bitter pill to swallow, knowing that his brother had become so much more powerful than him.

Amidst Michael’s fists, Azrael turned and did his best to block, even as the heat of the atmosphere began to press against his back. Michael was in a rage; his blows coming wildly. The heat was intensifying; it would take all of Azrael’s concentration to weather the Phasing. He didn’t know why Michael was attacking him (again) but for now, the boy would have to take his chances. Azrael fired his legs out in front of him, kicking Michael away. Azrael then turned and hurtled himself towards Asgard, where the real conflict was waiting.

***

They had all fought valiantly, but the battle had come to a halt inside of Odin’s private chambers. Odin could’ve kept fighting and secured a victory on his own, but as the Seraphim had killed more than half of the Valkryie, Odin would risk no more of his soldiers.
As the other Seraphim officers flooded the chamber, they spread out, holding hands to allow a deep, purple energy to pass through them. This was the Thanatonian power they had stolen.
Two Seraphim; one man, one woman, stepped forward. Metatron, Raphael, and Odin stood before Yang in a final, futile attempt to protect him. “Bring him forward.” The man seethed, raising his head to look down on them.
Yang slowly pushed his way forward, moving to stand in front of them. The man then raised his finger, pointing it towards Heaven’s ruler. “You will relinquish all power to our leader.” He stated simply, “Or your people will die.”
For a moment, all was still. The man smirked, shaking his head nonchalantly. “You have no other choice.”
He can’t do that. Metatron’s Reach was a whisper, in hopes that the Seraphim  couldn’t hear. Something will present itself. Odin, always the soldier, replied quickly. His eyes darted across the Seraphim, looking for a weakness. We have one last hand to play. Raphael Reached confidently. Odin scowled. Uriel, Raphael completed, is still out there.

***

It felt like he had been dipped in fire. His entire body literally steamed from passing through the atmosphere. Michael’s muscles felt as though they would snap as he rolled from his back to get to all fours. As he did, he saw Azrael, prone and helpless, on his back a few feet away. Fueled by Anadi’s warning, Earth’s fate, and Anders’ violent murder, Michael pushed himself to his feet. He stormed over to Azrael and clutched him by his shirt, hoisting him to his feet. “You had a choice, Azrael.” Michael whispered angrily. He turned Azrael and sent a hooking punch into his face. Azrael staggered back, but did not fall. “Michael…wait…” Azrael managed.
“Wait for what?!” Michael slid up to Azrael, throwing a front kick towards Azrael’s head. Azrael pushed it away, and Michael immediately sprung, throwing a roundhouse kick into the side of the former Thanatonian’s exposed jaw. This time, Azrael spun once before going down. “No, I’m not waiting anymore. You’re gonna pay for what you did to Anders–”

A deep, chilling, utterly feral voice exploded from Azrael as he quickly got to his feet. His eyes glowed red, his teeth suddenly pointed, his hands extended and his fingers were as blades. Michael was stunned by the sudden change but recovered quickly. As Azrael attacked, Michael swayed to avoid the blow and caught Azrael with a quick front kick to the stomach. Azrael was completely unfazed and continued his wild attack, slashing downward with his other hand. Again, Michael swayed, bringing his leg up and outward, then slamming his heel into Azrael’s shoulder. Azrael shrieked with the blow but clutched Michael’s leg and heaved him into the air. Michael rolled with the throw and brought his burnt leg up, catching Azrael cleanly in the jaw with a Flash Kick. But As Michael began to descend, he saw how immune to pain Azrael had become.

Azrael quickly reached up, clutching Michael’s neck and slamming him to the ground. He raised his other hand threateningly, his gaze burning as Michael weakly tried to free himself from Azrael’s iron grasp. “MICHAEL.” Azrael’s voice rumbled, “You will listen to what I have to say.”
Michael could barely breathe, let alone speak, and Azrael could clearly kill him at will. He nodded. “I did not kill Anders. I would have done anything to save that boy’s life.”
Azrael released Michael, who slowly got to his feet, rubbing his neck. “Then who the hell did? Why did you kill me back in Beal City?”
“Because if I hadn’t, the Seraphim certainly would’ve. Your powers are forbidden, remember?”
Michael remembered using his syonic abilities in Beal City against Balaam and was suddenly humbled. Indeed, use of his abilities carried an immediate death sentence. He had warned his mother against similar actions only three days ago.
“You listen to me, Michael.” Azrael growled, his persona returning to normal. “If you do not learn to think before you act, you will die before you can do any real good. Who would then rescue your mother?”
Horror flashed through Michael. “Why does my mother need rescuing?”
Azrael silently cursed himself as he realized he had given away too much. “Anders…he told me of things to come while we were in Beal City.” He reached into his inside pocket. “I know what you saw on Earth, Michael. I know what you have to do.”
He handed Michael a folded sheet of worn cloth; upon opening it, Michael found a multi-colored map, a large red dot indicating the last destination. The path to Niflheim.

“My brother…he knows I cannot beat him, much less the true enemy. But this enemy is not on my road, Michael; he’s on yours.”
Michael scowled, looking to Azrael. “What’re you talking about?”
“In order to do what is necessary, I have to become something I do not like. In that stage, I can be taken advantage of. You can maintain control, if you choose.”
Azrael paused. “And make no mistake, Michael. This will all be decided by what you choose in the next few moments.”
Michael felt the gravity of the situation settling in as he placed the map into his pocket. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but his mother was in trouble, Azrael was not the enemy, and something was waiting for him in Hel.
A way to end all of this…

“Close your eyes and concentrate.” Azrael instructed, “Imagine yourself at the location on the map, and you will be there.”
Michael nodded. “Thanks.” He paused, looking at Azrael, “…I’m sorry.”
Azrael smiled. “Accepted. Now go.”

Michael smiled, closing his eyes. Moments later, golden aura enveloped him, and he disappeared from view. Azrael exhaled; if Anders was right, Uriel should’ve been a few miles to the East. If Azrael could avoid Seraphim detection, he should be able to meet up with him…so their part of the plan could be carried out. Michael was on his own now.

The aura deposited Michael in the deepest, darkest recesses of Hel. The freezing temperature hit Michael immediately, and he pulled his flannel closer to him. As he oriented himself, he realized that he was standing directly beneath Freya’s transparent tomb. Torches lit the icy mortuary, which was otherwise black. And empty.
“Michael?”
Michael whipped around at hearing his name, and terror gripped his stomach like a fist as his true enemy stepped into view. After everything, all the pretense, it had come down to this. And now, standing before Heaven’s most powerful Angel, Michael felt doubt creep into his mind. I’m not sure I can beat him…

Before him, dressed in an original, regal garb that was Seraphim, Thanatonian, and Asgardian, was Cutler, leader of the Seraphim army. He was shimmering in deep purple energy of death itself, and his uniform matched. “I was expecting Azrael.” Cutler said, genuinely surprised. “What’re you doing here?”

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Modern Magic Enterprises LTD and Nomadic Productions LLC

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Michael was stirred from momentary unconsciousness by the cacophony of screams and twisted metal. As he raised his head, he became aware that he was sliding…sliding backwards. He then became aware of a pervasive, desperate choir of OOOO’s that was drawing nearer. He twisted, looking behind him as he picked up speed.

Lava had come to life; pouring over itself with long, lanky arms that pushed and clawed at each other, the newly damned were slowly making their way out of Hell, thanks to the tilt of the ruined Purgatorium. They clawed their way into the onyx hallway—reaching for Michael, who was suddenly wide-awake.

He scrambled, trying to right himself, but it was like climbing on ice; it was impossible to find a foothold. Only by wedging himself by his arm and leg was he able to suspend himself between the walls, and he carefully began to ascend. Move, move, move…

Michael screamed; it felt like he had just stepped into a volcano. He looked down into the black, eyeless holes in one of the newly damned; it screamed in pain and desperation, either trying to pull him in, or use him to get out.

Michael fought to block out the burning pain at his ankle. He kicked downward with his free leg, pushing his arms to the breaking point as he fought to keep from sliding. The newly damned’s head exploded in a pulpy mess, its grip loosening. As the Purgatorium slipped further backwards, accelerating in its descent, Michael screamed, kicking downward again. The creature howled in anger as it released his leg, falling backwards and taking its compatriots with it. Michael tried to block out the echoing cry as they fell back into hell, the stench of sulfur emanating upwards as they returned to the lake of fire.
His leg was severely burned; not something he could worry about right now. His arms trembled as he placed his began to scale the walls of the hallway, finally emerging at the broken opening which gave way to infinite space below.

Grunting, grateful to give his arms a rest, Michael peered over the edge. His eyes widened, his jaw fell open.

Beneath him, between the doomed Purgatorium and the Heaven below, hundreds of explosions went off like fireflies in the night. The Seraphim—now with the power of the Thanatonians—were engaging the Valkryies, and the Valkryies were vastly outnumbered. A host of Seraphim could be seen like a flock of birds, rocketing downwards towards…Asgard, based on their trajectory…
Amidst the explosions were screams; the Valkryies were being slaughtered, and the Seraphim were following their comrades towards Odin’s city.
The Purgatorium shuddered suddenly as if hit by an asteroid. The Purgatorium was falling at nearly the speed of sound.
Michael’s glanced around the battle and found Azrael. The former thanatonian was conversing—casually, it seemed—with someone who could’ve been his doppelganger. Why isn’t he engaging the Seraphim…
Before Michael could guess at the answer, Azrael’s twin handed him something, and the two embraced. The twin then warped away in hellish red energy.
Rage roiled up within Michael. You son of a bitch, I knew it.
He remembered Anadi’s warning about a traitor and saw in his mind what Earth was to become. He could stop it all here, right now.
He couldn’t stand up to the Seraphim, but he could sure as hell take Azrael.
Michael flung himself over the edge of the Purgatorium, straightening his body, putting his arms at his sides and rocketing down towards Azrael. Ignoring the vacuum of space frapping against him, it took seconds for Michael to reach Azrael, slamming into his midsection at nearly seven hundred miles per hour. He pressed the advantage and began to pummel the bewildered half-demon. “THIS ENDS NOW, YOU HEAR ME?!” Michael roared over the din of battle, “THIS ENDS RIGHT NOW!!”

***

Uriel had been waiting for this opportunity for weeks. They set maniacs upon the land, the murdered children. They could’ve attained the power of Amen himself, and it wouldn’t have stopped him. Thanatonian power? No problem; just don’t let them touch you.
In one of Asgard’s corridors, Uriel was leading a small Sefiroth unit against the Thanatonian-powered Seraphim—and he was enjoying every moment of it. Technically, he had been ordered to stay behind with Metatron, Odin, and Raphael to guard Yang, but no way he was going to miss this. Not after everything they put him through. In the back of his mind, as he caught an airborne Seraphim by his neck and hurled him to the ground before impaling him with his elongated spear, he worried about Sira. She can take care of herself, and if she can’t her problems are over. Don’t think about it now.
Despite the overwhelming disadvantage, Uriel and the Sefiroth were driving the Seraphim back. Rumor was spreading that their leader had been killed, and what he ascertained from Reaching, he hadn’t been in on it to begin with. Self-centered little bastards, Uriel thought, hoping the Seraphim, hell, anyone could hear him. Every last one of them would pay for what they had done.

***

Damn Uriel and his bloodlust. Raphael cursed, pinned down behind a crumbling statue. With Odin in front firing chi bursts from the palm of his hands, Raphael and Metatron were behind Yang, forming a shell of sorts. They were trapped in a short hallway between the atrium and Odin’s private chamber. While Metatron and Raphael engaged the Seraphim in hand-to-hand combat, Odin repelled the Seraphim blocking his chamber with energy. The Seraphim were using ivory-based, projectile weapons that fired arrows at what seemed like light speed.  Others were using larger guns that fired spears large enough to tear an Angel in two. The Valkryies were occupied elsewhere; this was up to them.
When one spear took off the head of the Thor’s memorial statue, Odin jumped, quickly crouching behind what remained of cover. He braced himself, taking slow, deliberate breaths. When he next opened his eyes, they glowed green. Metatron saw it first, grabbing Odin’s arm. “No, Odin.”
“This is my home, Metatron. I will not allow it to be defiled.”
“Odin,” Yang said, his voice almost pleading. “They’re just children.”
“And old enough to know right from wrong, and accept the consequences of their actions.”
Raphael was busy holding off two Seraphim, who only needed to touch him to win. Still he smirked; this battle was about to be over.
As Odin rose, two spears were fired at him. The emerald energy encompassed his entire body as he headed determinedly towards the Seraphim. In one motion, Odin swayed backwards to let the first spear pass by, and clutched the second one out of the air. As a third spear was fired, Odin spun, screamed a feral roar, and hurled the spear back towards the Seraphim. His spear, pulsing with his aura, shredded the third oncoming projectile and continued onward, impaling the Seraphim with such force that it turned to glass almost instantly, flying back towards the door. Odin seemed to glide, racing along the floor. He caught the spear—with the dead Seraphim on it—before it could finish its flight path and turned, spinning, crashing the dead body over another Seraphim officer. Killed under the weight of the corpse, both bodies shattered. Odin continued to spin, roaring, impaling the final Seraphim officer behind him. He ran the officer clean through, and then staked the glass body into the ground.
Raphael finished off an officer of his own, and then looked back to Odin, who was entering his chamber. “This way.” He growled. “We should be safe in here.”

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Modern Magic Enterprises LTD and Nomadic Productions LLC

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Azrael had taken them up through blue sky and black stratosphere, breaching Orion’s belt to cross over into Purgatory, the realm between realms. Had Michael not been violently dragged through Heaven and Earth, he might have been overwhelmed. Instead, as they landed outside of the gargantuan onyx cylinder, Michael was merely winded.

Although Azrael was unaffected by the haunting choir emanating from within the Purgatorium, Michael found it haunting; herein lay the souls of the damned, the to-be-damned, and the undecided from the mortal planes. Michael, like everyone else, had studied the Thanatonians in school, but found the entire concept disconcerting. When his time came, if left up to him, he’d meet his fate straightaway instead of languishing away in the Purgatorium. Death is the one situation in which we rarely have a choice. Azrael’s words came back to him as the two entered the Purgatorium.

The interior of the Purgatorium was cosmic, as though all of space was contained therein. Michael found himself unable to look away from the spectacle of passing stars and the occasional comet. He was so engrossed in the scene that he was surprised when Azrael finally spoke. “Master Gabriel.”

Michael quickly brought his attention to Azrael, who had lowered his head before a larger, black-robed Angel. The Angel smiled broadly and raised Azrael’s head to make eye contact. “My son, you need never bow to me again.”
With that, the two embraced tightly. Michael simply waited.

Gabriel eventually stepped away from Azrael and extended his hand towards Michael. “Michael St. Ambrose.” He spoke proudly, “I am Gabriel St. Tagas. It’s an honor to meet you.”
Michael was taken aback. He wasn’t used to that type of greeting. Gabriel read Michael’s reaction and nodded understandingly. “It doesn’t matter where you come from, only what you do. You’ve done very well by your sainthood, Michael.”
It had been a long time since Michael knew what someone being proud of him felt like. He smiled. Gabriel pointed behind him. “Cutler is in the last cell on the left, at the rear. Oh, don’t touch the cells.”

The corridor was dark, claustrophobic, and silent. There were five cells on each side of the wall, and each cell held a senior Seraphim officer. They were imprisoned by ethereal, purple energy that pulsated violently as Michael came close, as though warding him off. It’s like they’re alive…

Michael suddenly remembered that not all souls went to Heaven or Hell. The worst transgressors were given the worst fates.
The Seraphim officers all glared at Michael as he passed, but Cutler was leaning against the left wall, arms folded, head closed. Michael hesitated before speaking.”Cutler…?”
Cutler looked up, and came off the wall towards Michael. “Don’t touch the walls!” He warned. Michael only then noticed how violently the barrier was churning. It had also begun pulsing outwards, as though trying to draw Michael in. He took a step back.”Thanks…”
Cutler chuckled. “No problem. Hey, did you find your mom?”
Michael slowly shook his head. “No, I didn’t…”
“Where were you?”
Michael considered telling him, and then decided against it. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you…Cutler, what happened?”
Again, Cutler laughed. “What does it look like? I failed, Michael. I failed my duties and I need to answer for that.”
“It’s not your fault; you were trying to help me find mom.”
“Haha…” Cutler shook his head, as if reliving the events in his mind,”Michael…it’s way beyond that. The Seraphim…we killed people, we enslaved mortals, we…wow, we actually tried to take the universe away from Yang…”
Cutler pointed to himself with his thumb. “My watch, my responsibility. You know…you know what’s funny? This whole time, we never found one corrupt Angel. You know that?”
Cutler held up one solitary finger. “Not one.”
He exhaled, resigned. “I guess Yang finally dropped the ball…”
“Where are they gonna exile you to?” Michael asked.
“Olymparus.” Cutler’s response was tightly delivered. They both knew what it meant.
Even as Michael began to speak, he knew the futility of his words. “This isn’t right. I may be able to get you out of here–”
“No. Michael, no.” Cutler came forward just enough to keep the living energy at bay, but near enough to look into Michael’s eyes. “Michael, that’s the first mistake your father made, okay? If you want to do something, do as you’re told and get to the Amenus Realm. Bring an end to all of this, okay?”
Michael was speechless. He wanted to scream, punch through the wall, anything–
The room vibrated and shook suddenly, as though something crashed into it’s left side. Both Michael and Cutler glanced around; they may have imagined it. “Did you feel that…?” Michael began.

The second impact was beyond illusion; the force of the impact thundered throughout the Purgatorium, knocking it off its axis and sending it listing dangerously to the left. Michael was thrown to the ground, knocked dizzy as his head bounced off the hard, black onyx.
He shook off disorientation quickly; Cutler was screaming.

As Michael got to his knees, he saw why.
The force of the second impact had knocked Cutler into the ethereal energy that kept him trapped. His eyes were widen in terror as he tried to wrestle his arm free from the energy that was beginning to overtake him, simultaneously drawing him in. As Michael scrambled to his feet, Cutler could only warn him away with widened, bloodshot eyes. As his resistance melted away, his body contorted and warped as it was drawn into the energy’s vacuum, and disappeared.

The other cells exploded outward in one thunderous, defeaning blast. Michael was knocked backwards as the ground beneath him began to split open, revealing open space below. As he unsteadily got to his feet, he saw the captured Seraphim officers—glowing with purple, Thanatonian energy—quickly flee their cells and leap from the split Purgatorium, down into the stratosphere.

And then, horribly, the Purgatorium broke completely in half, and began it’s slow, fatal plummet towards Heaven below.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Modern Magic Enterprises LTD and Nomadic Productions LLC

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