Chapter Thirty-Six

"If an Angel commits suicide, they're instantly damned?" Zia thought as the taxi they were in started to shake.

"You folks okay back there?" the driver asked as they shot through the busy city streets. After Elizabeth gave the man a thumbs up, he smiled and returned his focus to the road. "You guys picked a strange day to do some research, what with the whole world going to hell and all," he told them as he slowly turned the wheel.

"I can't argue with you there, but this is important," Zia responded as she took out her notebook. She didn't write anything in it—she was just trying to keep up appearances. Right now, their current alibi was that they were researchers from America. With no leads to speak of, she recommended that they try doing some investigating at London's news archive. Considering how popular journalism was in this world, they were bound to find something. Be it strange weather, aggressive wildlife, or a new disease—the presence of an artifact like the Scale wouldn't go unnoticed.

"Hey, are you sure about this?" Aeron whispered as he stared out the passenger window. "Even if we find something strange, the odds that it will lead us to the Scale are minuscule at best." Zia smiled and shrugged.

"It's better than standing around twiddling our thumbs," she snapped as the taxi slowly came to a stop in front of a large office building. "Well, here we are." As she clambered out of the cramped cab, she turned to the driver and handed him his payment, along with a generous tip. "Sorry for making you drag us this far out."

"You don't have to apologize, ma'am. It's all part of the job." With that, the man lowered the window and handed her a small note. "I'm not sure how much help it will be—but if you're planning on checking recent publications—I recommend you start here." Zia raised an eyebrow as she read what he'd written.

"A list of names… are these news agencies?" she asked.

"Since you're all foreigners, I thought it would be nice for you to have a list of trustworthy sources. The big ones nowadays are just propaganda machines for the war. So, I doubt they'd be that useful."

"Thanks, this is a big help." After saying goodbye, the driver closed the window and drove away. "This is quite extensive," she thought as she skimmed through the note. He even went through the trouble of writing down each papers' focus and political leanings!

"I assume he gave us some good information?" Aeron mused as he held the archive's entrance open. Immediately, the stench of mothballs and insulation wafted into their nostrils. Dust flew overhead like a thick fog, and the building was so quiet that any average person would swear that it had been abandoned.

"Ahh," Zia started as she took in a deep breath of musty air. "Smells just like my office." Even though their situation was dire, she was still as peppy as can be.

"She sure can bounce back quick," Aeron mumbled as Elizabeth—who'd overheard him—placed a hand on the Cherub's shoulder.

"You could learn a thing or two from her," she whispered. After a few more moments of idle chit-chat, a rather plump man came fumbling out behind one of the many rows of books. He was professionally dressed in a simple suit and carried a stack of files.

"Do you need any help with those, sir?" Kashif asked as he effortlessly took half the load. "Wow," he muttered, shocked, as he struggled to keep himself from dropping the pile of folders—they were unbelievably heavy.

"Quite hefty, aren't they?" the man laughed as he welcomed his guests. "I'm impressed—most folks lose their grip when they do that."

"For a man whose country just got plunged into war, you're pretty happy," Aeron commented with a frown. He could never bring himself to trust people like this—they were too carefree for their own good.

"Stop that," Elizabeth whispered as she stealthily shoved one of her elbows into the Angel's stomach. "You aren't here as a judge. Remember—right now—we're a team of researchers." She was right. If he didn't curb his instincts, he'd end up causing them trouble.

"Sorry for interrupting your work," Zia apologized as she took out the taxi driver's note. "I hate to ask, but my friends here and I are looking for some information." Like a child who'd just been given a new toy, the clerk's eyes lit up like the sun.

"Is there anything specific that you're trying to find?" he asked as he looked over the list. "I'm one of the editors here—I know practically every inch of this place." As he spoke, he handed the note back to Zia. "Ah, yes, you can find the majority of these in the main section," he continued as he reached over and flipped a nearby light switch. "If you all would be so kind as to follow me."

"You heard the man," Zia exclaimed as she headed off towards the nearest stairwell.

"We keep all of the research materials up here," the editor explained as he took a large keyring out of his pocket. Each one had an old paper label stuck onto its side—one for each floor. "Now, I'm only allowed to show you what's available to the public. If you want something a bit more detailed, you'll have to fill out a request at city hall."

"I don't think we'll need to do that, right guys?" she asked as Aeron shrugged—he never really had to do anything like this in the past. So, he wasn't sure.

"Heh, it's okay to be hesitant. Trust me, if possible, you want to avoid getting tangled up in this town's bureaucracy. It takes forever to get anything processed, especially for us down here in the archives." As the editor fumbled with the lock, Aeron yawned and took in the scenery. While the building was unbelievably dusty, most of it was pretty well kept. Hanging overhead was a large map of the world, with England highlighted in red—it was honestly quite an impressive piece of artwork. "Okay, here we are," the man continued as he unlocked the door. "It's a bit of a mess, but I'm sure you'll be able to find the documents you need." Aeron nearly gagged when the scent of the musty pages hit his nostrils.

"What is that?!" he heard Kashif wheeze between coughing fits. "I think the stench is messing with my lungs," the bodyguard groaned—he wasn't overreacting. It was horrible. Elizabeth and Zia also struggled to keep their composure. However, the editor just smiled and walked in as if it were any other room.

"Some of the paper we use for copies can get moldy this time of year—that's what creates this smell. I'm sorry if it's an inconvenience." With that, he opened a few cabinets and tossed Zia a tiny key. "That's a guest key. Make sure to return it after you're done here."

"Of course," she said, waving as the man left. "Thank you for the help!" The second she got the chance, she dived into the nearest pile of aging paper. "This article is about a strange geological phenomenon. Why don't you take a look at that, Elizabeth?" she spoke as she carefully handed the file to the bodyguard. In seconds, she found herself a seat and started writing.

"You're quite the scholar, aren't you?" Aeron joked as he opened another container. "Remember, the flow of time is different for Heaven than Earth. Check everything. As far as we know, whoever took the Scale could've come through here literally thousands of years ago. They had to have left something behind." With those words to guide them, they all hit the books. While Zia and Elizabeth focused on natural disasters, he and Kashif studied wars and current events.

"There's something in here about a fire in a city called Chicago. It killed quite a few people. Do you think the Scale might've caused that?" Elizabeth pondered as Aeron rubbed his tired eyes.

"No, that's just one city. If the Scale were the cause, the entire countryside would've burned," the Cherub sighed. The way they were going about this was inefficient. With no leads, they were stuck sifting through pages upon pages of ancient history. Sure, every couple of centuries or so, a civilization might collapse, or a plague might wipe out a nation, but none of those things necessarily required the Scale's presence to happen.

"How can we tell if a disaster is caused by the Scale or not?" Elizabeth groaned as she leaned into her chair. "There's so much that's happened between your last visit and now. I don't even know where to begin."

"We'll figure something out," Zia told her as she emptied another box. "Now, stop complaining and keep reading." At this rate, she was going to work herself to death. As she flipped through tome after tome, Aeron squinted and started to stare.

"Was it my imagination?" he thought, straining his eyes to get a better look.

"Is something bothering you?"

"Your face is falling off," he responded as he handed the ambassador a small mirror. With just one look, Zia became as white as a sheet.

"Shoot…" she mumbled as she lightly touched her cheek, which was starting to flake. "This world's atmosphere must not be doing my makeup any favors." Aeron sighed. This was probably happening because she was working too hard. Being hunched over in a stuffy room like this couldn't be good for the skin.

"If someone sees your true face, they're going to have questions," he continued as he hurried to the door. "Don't worry about us. Instead, go and fix your makeup."

"Thanks," she muttered as she practically sprinted out of the room, bits and pieces of foundation falling off with every step. "Damn, this really couldn't have happened at a worse time." Thankfully, the building they were in was almost empty, so she didn't run into anyone else. She made it to the restroom without incident, taking a breath in relief as she closed the door behind her. "Does this lock?" She couldn't have someone walking in on her while she reapplied her makeup. "Ah, good," she smiled as she turned the bolt. With that finished, she walked over to the nearest sink and placed down her purse. The bag was filled to the brim with various tools and necessary supplies. "I guess old habits die hard."

By the time she'd finally managed to remove all the faulty coatings, nearly eight minutes had passed. "Now it's time for the fun part," she thought as she readied her brushes. Starting from scratch like this was an arduous task, but it was also one she'd refined to an art. However, before the bristles so much as touched her face, she stopped and held her breath. "I feel… cold." The room's temperature had suddenly dropped to well below freezing. In seconds, the walls and floor froze solid, almost as if she were trapped in the middle of a blizzard. "I know this feeling," she thought. With lightning-fast reflexes, she reached for her gun and turned around. "There's no use hiding from me when I'm like this," she hissed as a shadow in the back of the bathroom began to shimmer and shake. She'd recognize that presence anywhere. "Satan, what are you doing on Earth?" Zia growled as she felt the Demon's oppressive aura wash over her. Out of the shadow slithered a small cobra. Its scales were as black as the night sky, and its fangs shined like rubies.

"I've got to admit, I didn't think you'd spot me this fast," it said as it crawled up the pipes and onto the sink. "Why don't you put that gun away? You know I can't do anything to you—this serpent is just a familiar of mine."

"I think I'll keep my weapon right where it is. Now answer my question. Why are you here?" Even though the fallen Angel was, for all intents and purposes, harmless—after so many years spent trudging through Hell—she just couldn't bring herself to lower her guard.

"Oh dear, be careful with that. You might hurt somebody," the devil spoke as her familiar's body slowly started to rot away, its scales wafting off as if it were made of nothing but dust and twigs.

"Whatever you want to say, you better say it now. By the looks of things, you have a minute at most," Zia told the Demon, her weapon still pressed against the snake's forehead. "I know for a fact that something like this must drain a lot of energy. Let's not waste each other's time." She could already feel the room getting warmer.

"You can't fault a person for being curious, can you?" the snake said as it slithered around in the frozen sink, leaving trails of blood and gore wherever it went. "As a leader of one of the realms, it's my duty to be concerned whenever I spot… suspicious behavior." Zia had to stop herself from scoffing—that was rich coming from the ruler of Demons. "You may not believe me, but that doesn't matter. All I want to know is what you, and the Templar, are doing here." Zia swore that the snake's eyes became more and more like that of a mortal with every word. Its pupils turned bloodshot, and horrific pimples started to sprout on its snout.

"Shit." This was a lousy position for her to be in. She couldn't reveal the true nature of their assignment, and she couldn't ask this monster to help them with their transmitters.

"Come on, Ambassador. I'm not asking for much. I just want to know why the Bureau's pet Cherub is here. If you can't tell me, I'll leave." Zia frowned—giving Satan anything at this point would be disastrous.

"What do I do?" she thought as she stood there staring up at the ceiling. "God… it's about time you give your loyal servant one of your miracles," she prayed. Of course, nothing happened—she knew that nobody was listening. Her cries were met with silence, just crushing, unimaginable silence. "Heh," she chuckled. "This reminds me of when I was back in Hell." The Almighty would never give the time of day to someone like her. After all, she had the stench of the damned on her back. And no matter how hard she tried, for the rest of her days, she'd never be rid of it.

Eighty years ago...

If there's one thing that keeps me going day after day, it's people. It may be hard for an outsider to believe, but we damned have a culture of our own. They may be few and far between, but there are towns for people like me. Whenever we grow weary of our torture, these oases are some of the few spots where we can rest. However, all of them are nothing but short-lived ventures. The Demons always found them sooner or later, and when they did, nobody was safe. They'd charge into these makeshift hamlets with wagons, grabbing anyone they could find, tying them up before dragging them back to their punishment. Just the other day, I was in one such unfortunate town. The locals called it Midpoint, presumably because it sat in the center of one of the circles. It was a relatively decent slice of damnation—a veritable paradise by Hell's standards.

I shuffled into that village after an awful day of scavenging covered in muck and bruises. When the townspeople saw me, they thought I was some wandering devil. However, once they realized that I meant no harm, they provided me with a place to sleep and recover. A few of the younger souls—who were new to Hell—were terrified by my scarred appearance. They avoided me and my gaze whenever we crossed paths. "What were you damned for?" I remember asking them. Usually, the people I came across burned for the usual reasons: murder, arson, theft, adultery, the works, but they were different. The two I asked just looked at me, their cheeks swollen from crying, and told me they were soldiers. I'd be lying if I said I felt sorry for them. Not all soldiers are damned. To end up here, they must've done something wrong. It was around then that I heard a scream coming from the town's front gate, which was little more than a pile of rocks and twigs. Immediately I ran. While the others headed off towards the source of the scream, I made my escape.

It wasn't until a few months later that I finally learned what had happened. Some sorry soul had tipped the Demons off—probably as a deal to postpone their torture. Once it was discovered, it only took five minutes to raise the hamlet to the ground. Every so often, I find myself thinking back to the people of that place. I wonder… who were they? What did they do to end up in Hell? Sadly—even if they somehow managed to escape—they wouldn't tell me. The damned keep their sins to themselves. It's sort of like an unspoken rule we have. People don't ask you questions about your past, and in return, you don't either. Still, that doesn't stop me from being curious. Knowing others' transgressions is honestly quite interesting, after all. Depending on when and where they died, they might've met their demise at the hands of a judge. And, by knowing their sins, you can come up with an image of the judge who damned them. Of course, this information is practically useless for someone in my position, but that doesn't matter. The more knowledge I have of the people above me, the better. When you're trying to claw your way to the top, you're going to have to push somebody off. And in a war like this, information is the most valuable weapon.