Devils With Halos
by Minim Calibre

He's staring once again through iron bars, praying to anyone who will listen that the end will once more justify the means. Foolish to have thought he knew what he'd be up against, what they'd be up against. More foolish still to have considered himself prepared based on book learning and one encounter with what he'd assumed at the time was Angelus. That wasn't the real thing, no more than the Doximall-induced bliss had been real.

For as terrifying as that small taste had been, it is nothing compared to what he's feeling now, a cold chill that has nothing to do with the darkness they are fighting, everything to do with the darkness they've brought forth. He's brought forth. Once again, he's taken matters into his own hands. Should something go awry, no matter that they all agreed to it in the end, his will be the hands stained with blood.

If this fails, the repercussions will be far worse than a pillow in the face or a knife to the throat, and he's no longer sure that there is anything any of them can do to gain the cooperation of their captive.

The laughter echoes in the room, in his head, and he can hear the echo of every one of his many failures reflected in the notes. There's no trace of Angel in that laugh, in that smile. Angel took no joy from his moments of malice. Angelus, he feels certain, will delight in nothing save malevolence.


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