AN:  Not a long chapter, but considering how big and massive the last two have been emotionally, I felt we could use a break for that as we get into the next major part. And as a reminder, despite what is being done in the current episodes of the series, I am not changing my backstories or planned outcomes for any of my fics. It's just easier that way.

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***

Metatron rarely ever had lunch with his fellow higher-up angels. That was more for tea or dinner. He always preferred to have his favorite meal in peace and quiet. Still, if it was for something important, he would be willing to meet with them, and when the head Angel of Death, Azrael, calls for a meeting? Well, one couldn't keep him waiting.

In fact, Metatron couldn't remember the last time they ever had a solo conversation together, but it was sometime before the whole Flooding of the Yellow River incident in 1938. That was a busy time for the reapers since nobody saw the unseen disaster coming, and they were all taken by surprise. Sometimes nature just worked on its own without any divine intervention and often led to messy results. I think he was also in a stressful mood because his wife was having another child. Seriously, he's got like thirty-nine kids, and his wife wants more. How many can you have until you're satisfied? I think some people take the be fruitful and multiple parts of the Bible a little too seriously.

Still, the Voice of God wasn't surprised that Azrael wanted to speak to him. He had been one of the more vocal speakers against Stolas's request, even with the benefits of having him as a double agent for them. It was only after Blitzo gave them the last of the Fallen Watchers names that he finally subsided, but he wasn't happy about it. Then again, it was hard to tell with the way the Angel of Death clothed himself. For all the misconceptions that humans often made about the divine, their concept of the reapers was pretty nearly accurate.

Azrael himself was dressed in cloaked black armor that was like living shadow made flesh. It warped and twisted around him like a veil of eternal darkness while the more substantial parts of his armor were of pure gold and boney white. The chest piece was styled like an ancient Egyptian battle plate with Latin, Hebrew, and Arabic carvings. The shoulder pieces were golden skulls with sharp dragon-like fangs that extended to this back which held is his long black featherless wings that were more bat-like with holes in certain parts. His ribcage was actually styled to look like an actual skeleton's ribs for added horror effect that Metatron knew the head Angel of Death did to look more intimidating. He wore black battle robes with gold and onyx jewelry around his waist that dangled from his sides with dark crosses hanging from the edges for his lower pants. At the same time, his legs and hands were protected by golden armor that held the numbers or symbols meaning death in various cultures. Today, it seemed he went for the Japanese word "死神" meaning "Shinigami" or "Death God" for his arms while his legs held the roman "XIII" to symbolize the unlucky number and the number of the Death Card in Tarot.

Much like Metatron, he also had his face covered, but this time by a black stone mask shaped like a human skull with a head shawl wrapped around that showed only his black soulless eyes. He only ever pulled it down to eat some of the butterscotch crumpets that Metatron had on the tea table or sip the warm black tea he had made.

"So, is there a reason you wanted to have this meeting in Purgatory and not in Heaven?" Metatron asked, having decided to have their meeting in the same place he and Stolas always met. "Unless you don't wish others to overhear it."

"No," Azrael whispered, his tone dark and moody. "I had business here, and I figured it was best to just meet here. Regardless, I want to talk to you about this agreement between Prince Stolas and us."

"I thought you agreed to let it go?" Metatron said as one of his eye wings raised an eyebrow. "Quite frankly, I was surprised you agreed to it in the end. You've been pissed that the imps have been killing humans and making your department's life a living hell since they started doing so."

"Believe me, I was tempted to join in the next Extermination and hunt them," Azrael said before chuckling. "That or ask one of the Major Sin-Drinker Houses to do it for me like House Romulus."

"Because they are the best trackers of the Sin-Drinker families or because their favorite vintage is imp blood?" Metatron asked.

"Both," Azrael said as he leaned backward. "Nevertheless, I want to know. Why is the Lord allowing this?"

"Hmm," Metatron paused and danced his fingers on the table. After they got the location of where Gadreel had been hiding, Metatron decided to tell the other angels involved in this situation that God himself had advised Metatron to hear out Stolas's proposal and accept it provided they agreed to the conditions given. Many of them had questions, but Metatron had no answers to give. Only advising them to trust their creator as always. "To be honest, I have no idea. Perhaps he sees something we cannot see? Or this is part of a bigger plan in the future that is in the works? Who can tell?"

"How could a simple imp be so important? A Goetia Prince, I can understand, especially since Stolas is vital for the new Heavens and Hells, but an imp? One that kills people?" Azrael asked, shaking his head. "What do we know of him? What makes him so special?"

Metatron pulled out his Aion before reading the info he had on him. He had also been curious after talking to the imp and sought as much info as possible. "Blitzo Rangus Trolley, but he never goes by that full name. Just his first. Born on November 25th in the year 1901. His parents were Victor Trolly and Skyla Trolley. Trapeze artists for The Traveling Pride Pack Circus and Carnival Show. He had two siblings, an older sister named Tilla Trolley and a twin sister named Barbie Wire Trolley. The circus was wiped out in 1918 by a mysterious fire while raided by an unknown party, where it was assumed most of the residents were killed, including Blitzo himself. Turns out he survived, but his family didn't. His next official appearance was around 1929 when he started becoming an assassin for hire willing to do any job." Metatron looked at the long list of targets supposedly he had done and whistled. "He's killed a lot of demons since. Gang leaders. Wanted criminals. Assassins. Cultists. Presidents of companies. Entire families. Members of the Church of Satan. Overlords. Low-level nobility. Politicians. Hellhound Pack Leaders. He's pretty much killed nearly every person you can think of save for the high-class demons."

Metatron showed Azrael the list of dead demons, which looked to impress even the head Angel of Death. "If it wasn't for the fact he was an imp, I swear he was an Exterminator. But according to what you said, he was involved in what happened in Pentagram City in 1927? How come there is no information between his supposed death at the circus and his reappearance years later?"

"No idea. Maybe Blitzo did something that caused his name to be removed from the records or something. Or maybe he went by a different name? Regardless he says he was behind what is now known as The Blue Night Massacre, and I could tell by his voice he was serious," Metatron said with a snort. "Silly name, but considering what was used to wipe out all those demons? I guess it makes sense."

"And he did that? Just him?" Azrael asked to which Metatron nodded. "I take it back. He could be one of my own reapers if he was an angel. Still, I don't see the purpose of healing him from his trauma. Even if he is Stolas's lover—and I get why he's crucial obviously—I still don't understand why God would want you to cooperate with Stolas and accept his request.''

"Azrael, how long have we been around?" Metatron asked.

"Since the dawn of creation itself," he answered.

"In all those years, we have faithfully served the Lord, our God. Each time we obey his will, his actions have always been proven right. Take, for example, his never-ending faith in humanity. For all the terrible things humanity has done, they have proven themselves time and time again. Most normal beings would have given up, but God never does. He never gives up on his creations. His children. He even sent his son to die for them. None of us, not even I, could have the will to do something like that," Metatron said as he calmly sipped his tea and gazed over to a nearby holographic illusion of the planet Earth in his room. "Or take his fallen son? Despite all that Lucifer does to try and ruin everything, God still loves him and only waits for him to finally realize his mistake and come back to him."

"Which Lucifer will never do," Azrael said with a shake of his head. "Even the Angels of Destiny say that Armageddon is inevitable. At some point, there will be a final battle between God and Lucifer where only one will survive, and my money is on the former."

"And yet, God still tries," Metatron says with an amused tone. "I honestly don't get him. Even after billions of years, I still don't fully understand my boss. But I trust him. I trust him with utmost faith because he's always been right in the end. And if saving Blitzo is what he believes is important. Then I will trust in his wisdom."

"...I suppose there is nothing we can do but hope it all works out," Azrael said with a heavy sigh. "Has Raphael found a Spirit Healer willing to do the job?"

"Not yet, and he's running out of candidates," Metatron whispered with a heavy sigh of his own. "I really would hate to see Stolas's face if it turns out that we cannot hold our end of the bargain."

Just then, Metatron's Aion started beeping, and he opened it up to see a message before his four eyes narrowed in anger. "Well, Blitzo's information was right. According to Micheal, Gadreel was hiding in Washington D.C. Specifically, right under the Pentagon though they only found that out after a clean sweep of the entire city."

"Why was he there?" Azrael asked.

"Apparently, Gadreel made a few deals with members of the US government, specifically the military, around the time Woodrow Wilson was president. He would provide them with weapons and tactics to help defeat their enemies in WWI in exchange for safety and security. Even after the war ended, he still continued to help them. All he asked for was a large amount of income, supplies, materials, and security for his own personal weapon making, and the US Military could use them however they pleased."

Azrael shook his head. "This kinda explains a lot for the past few decades, huh? I take it from your tone that he got away?"

Metatron nodded and put his Aion away. "Micheal and his forces were as careful as possible, but Gadreel was a paranoid type. He set up many traps and warning systems. Not to mention Gadreel had his own brand of human followers who were willing to die for him. Apparently, he was pretending to be Saint Sebastian, who was there to help the US Military be strong in the name of God. They all died protecting him, and he got away."

"I have a feeling that we're going to need to do some serious refixing of the US Government to see how much corruption Gadreel had been using for his purposes," Azrael commented before chuckling. "That's something the US Presidents in Heaven have been wanting to do since the Clinton Administration."

"Regardless, Gadreel is in the wind again, but now that we took out his main base of operations, we can hopefully find and bring him to justice. Although, since Blitzo's information turned out to be correct, I'm now even more determined to pay him back by giving him that Spirit Healer...and let his company continue for a few more months so they can properly close it," Metatron said as he put his Aion away.

"Speaking of which, I know that Simikiel will be using one of his angels to judge the future targets we'll be given from Blitzo as agreed, but I'd also like one of my reapers to get a copy, so we know who to prepare to collect," Azrael asked.

"Of course. Since death is your field, I suspect that..." Metatron was then interrupted by another message on his Aion. It turned out to be from Raphael, and he opened it before his eye wings curved into a smiling-like look. "Well, it looks like I'll be keeping my end of the bargain after all..."

Azrael perked up in interest. "Raphael found one?"

"Yup, excuse me," Metatron said as he got up and made his way to the nearby balcony outside. He took out his Aion and started dialing Stolas until he finally got him on the other line.

"Stolas? Congratulations. We have a Spirit Healer who has agreed to help. Come meet me at the usual place two days from now, and I'll introduce you to him," Metatron said before allowing his friend to speak. "His name? Dr. Rachmiel Ta'lin."

***

In an unknown location to all but a select few, a cloaked figure was slowly walking down a dark path slightly lighted by the red runes that glowed the way. The cloaked figure had been busy in his meditation chamber, trying to focus on ignoring the tremendous pain his curse was giving him until one of his servants told him that an old acquaintance wanted to speak to him. One that he had not heard from in a long time.

Upon hearing this, his interests peaked, and he made his way to the communication chamber, which only he had access to. He was cautious about making sure only those he absolutely trusted were even allowed six hundred feet of his home. When all of Heaven and Hell considered you a threat, there were steps to ensure your survival. Then again, it's not like they haven't tried to have him killed before.

And yet I always survive, he thought with amusement as he thought about the many years since his early days. Back when he was human and so weak. Yet, now he was beyond anything any mortal could dream off, and he would show the might to the entire universe when his plan finally was enacted. They would thank him for it in the end. For creating a world where there was no God or Devil. Just man and man alone with him to guide them to greatness with boundless opportunity. Of course, things were moving a bit slower than he liked, but he was nothing if not patient over the ages he had lived through.

He paused before appearing near an ancient circular door that carried a warding spell on it in a language few knew. Gripping his left hand, he slowly placed it on the center and let it draw his blood with a tiny prick before glowing bright red. His mark on his face burned, and he gritted his teeth but held back from cursing. Even after an eternity of this confounded thing, it still found ways to make him feel pain.

Once the magic seal had been removed, the circular door slowly turned aside to reveal another dark room, only this one held a small orb on a pedestal that was glowing white. Walking over, the cloaked figure waved his hand over the pearly object before a set of runes began to glow around him in bright red. He whispered a few words that echoed across the entire room that made it shiver as the magic was both old and powerful, with none able to even speak this tongue on Earth but him. " Teir. Pargon. Qáyin. Pargon. Antorbok. Magormor. Redgormor."

The pearly white orb glowed even brighter, and a voice cried out from it. "About time! I've been trying to reach you for hours!"

"Gadreel. To what do I owe the pleasure?" The cloaked figure asked.

"I need your help! I don't know how, but Micheal and his forces found me! I just barely escaped from them, and I am on the run!" Gadreel's voice shouted in panic as if he was expecting to be killed any moment. "You have to help me!"

"Funny, I offered you to join me about seventeen hundred years ago, and you refused me then," The cloaked figure pointed out in amusement. "How funny fate works in the end, huh?"

"Because I think you're a fucking madman for what you are attempting to do! And I still think that! But I'm desperate! Whatever you want, I'll provide! Just give me sanctuary!"

The cloaked figure rubbed his chin and smirked. This was precisely what he had been hoping for, and it came at the best time possible. Gadreel was one of the greatest war machine creators in the universe. He was one of the main reasons why humanity turned into the experts at war they are today. He'd say someone was looking out for him for giving him such a lucky find, but he knew that was no longer true. "Very well. Where are you?"

"Somewhere between the borders of Maine and Canada."

"Get to Saint-Jean in New Brunswick. I have an agent that will take care of you. Don't worry about Micheal and his dogs. I've managed to avoid them easily over the years, and I'll ensure you are safe as well. In return, you're going to be helping with a project of mine." Placing his hand over the orb, he whispered, "Nethlek."

The cloaked figure then smiled. Things were going to get interesting going forward. He was still waiting for the time to strike to get the Grimoire of Worlds, but if his spy had told him the truth, then all he needed to do was wait a bit longer. Right now, the focus was on another project for his grand plan. He pulled out a cellphone and began to dial the number before someone picked it up. " Doctor Spencer? I have an old colleague that is going to be assisting you with Operation Nephilim ..."

***

Pride is a strange thing. It's supposed to be a sin, yet people also need pride to feel the accomplishment of themselves and in what they do. Taking pride in who you are, what you do, and what you believe is often respected and praised, but at the same time, pride can make you so pig-headed it makes you an asshole. Lemmy, an imp around thirty-nine going on forty, wished he could say he had any pride left, but that was a lie.

The imp was slightly higher than your regular imp, but not to the insane levels some were. Like many imps, Lemmy worked in the Wrath Ring, dressed in traditional farmer worker clothes while his black and greying hair was buzz cut to help avoid getting too hot with sweat. The one unique thing about him was that he was missing three things. One was his left red and white checkered horn that Lemmy lost in a raid about twenty years back. The second was his right eye that he had to remove to get the shrapnel out of it and replace it with a glass one. And finally, there was his tail, which was cut up by some noble demon lord's bodyguard after a failed attempt to kill their newborn child in response to the new tax laws the rich prick voted for. All of those memories were from when he felt he had pride, but now all he felt was a broken and forgotten relic of a bygone era.

The bar he was in was for imps only, but it was a quiet and depressing one. The few around this late in the evening were drunks, washouts, or imps planning to kill themselves after one last drink. In fact, someone just shot themselves six minutes ago after crying about how his wife left him and the kids before blowing his brains out. Shit like that is why I never married.

Lemmy looked up where a flag he once saluted was hanging high with honor and felt a tear drip down his eye as it reminded him of a broken dream. The flag was three stripes of vertical colors consisting of red, white, and black. The colors that all imps were associated with despite their many different looks and styles. And in the middle of the white stripe was a straight line going up and down, white curving from the sides were two devil horns to symbolize the horns of his people, along with a devil's tail curled around the bottom.

The flag of a broken dream. The flag of the Imp Resistance Army.

Lemmy had been a proud and loyal soldier. He had fought and bled for the freedom of his people and the end of the accursed injustice system that had ruled Hell for so long that barely people remember the days before it. Imps were not just treated as second-class citizens, they were fucking slaves, and everyone knew it. They had hardly, if any, rights and were often forced to become farmers to feed the entire pentagram. With a job as important as that, you'd think they would be given more respect, but every time they tried, they were put down to remember their place in this world.

There had been many imp resistances, revolts, and outright revolutions to try and change this, but all ended in failure. None, however, lasted as long as the I.R.A. Over three hundred years of trying to change the system, to beat the oligarchs to send up a new and just government for their people. And what did they get in the end? Nothing. The entire organization was wiped out years ago, and those who weren't killed or jailed were now on the run in hiding.

And I hate every minute of it, Lemmy thought as he drank his glass before signaling the bartender to fill him up again. He heard the seat next to him get sat on before snorting. He had hoped not to have someone next to him at the bar, but he decided to just deal with it. Not like I don't have enough problems as it is.

"Beautiful flag, huh?" The stranger said as he noted the I.R.A. flag above. "Surprised this place is openly showing it."

"Maybe because we still have pride as imps," Lemmy muttered before snorting. "Unlike the rest of those other sheep who'd rather just work like ants and get fed crumbs. We remember a time when we fought for a just cause."

"Sounds like you were a supporter," the stranger said.

"Supporter? I was a soldier!" Lemmy shouted as the bartender refilled his glass, and he drank it in one gulp. "I was killing them rich folks, and they're kind long before you were in diapers! I help make them nobles fear for their lives!" He sighed before cradling his head. "Now it's all gone to shit. There is no army. No more fights. Nothing..."

"...What if I was to tell you I could give you the one who caused it all to go to shit?" The stranger said as Lemmy perked his head up. "A single person who not only tipped off the authorities about everything but personally made sure the heads of the organization were locked away as they are now."

"..What are you talking about? Nobody betrayed us," Lemmy whispered in confusion. "They found out from-"

"A lie," The stranger said, shaking his head. "A lie that the government made to give the traitor a safe passage into normal life. A means to hide him from those who might want to seek revenge for his actions. He personally betrayed the army. He turned his back on his people and sold them out. He even personally helped in the killings and executions of many of our members."

"Who are you?" Lemmy asked, narrowing his eyes. The figure then slowly turned up his sleeve and showed Lemmy a tattoo that made his jaw drop. He knew his tattoo. He knew what this meant. Everyone in the I.R.A. knew who they were and what they could do. They were the best of the best. The deadliest assassins you could ever have known and whose acts of death were masterpieces. They had been bred and trained for the role since they were born and were loyal to the death. The tales of their exploits made them heroes to the entire I.R.A. Yet, they were all believed to have been killed in the raid that ended everything.

But as he saw the tattoo before him, Lemmy realized that this was indeed a survivor. Because nobody could fake that fucking tattoo.

ACDD-110109200512

"I'm a soldier like you," the stranger said as he took his drink and sipped it. "And the traitor? He's my brother."