The Known/Unknown Quantity

Chapter 137: Poking About

Chapter 137: Poking Abouty

The longest day of their lives was followed by the longest week.

Shadwell's sole resolution that New Year's Eve was to never spend a weekend at Jasmine Cottage again. There were many drunken agreements to that. And the residents themselves proclaimed that, when all this foolishness was over, they were taking a long vacation.

The cottage needed to shed of its prison/citadel feel. And Aziraphale began mumbling about the bookshop wanting to go home, which drew tired looks from Newt. Someone asked Crowley about the Bentley, and he just smiled secretly, tapping his snake headed walking stick.

"Gotta stretch its legs. Rearing to go all over the place."

"But you can't see a bloody thing!"

Crowley threw back his head and laughed hard, then replied, baring his fangs, "Do you think there's ANY possibility it cares?"

But more on that later.

The creature lurked. Call it the lingering fingerprints of Hastur imbedded forever in her psyche. Lurking in the mansion she had once called home.

Well, half of her anyway.

This new being sniped at itself. Embroiled, raging, revenge even against themselves, they were caught in a vapid battle. Self-loathing fueled the inner war until at last they paused, spiritually rent. Then they warped back together, a stalemate, each evenly matched, and refocused that seething hatred to the beings responsible for this current catastrophe.

The creature blinked, and leaned over the note she'd written for herself.

"Get the wings."

They could find a way to separate then. Once the homunculus had the wings, and Samantha had the power from them. They could take out the rest of their vengeance on Hastur, and separate.

They would split the world down the middle. "Jinny" could be the chaos agent she dreamed of. Samantha would rule the people, and let her bloodlust flood like the river Nile.

But, for now, the discipline of the tyrant ruled. The creature straightened, and formed her semblance into Samantha, if a bit rough. She unsteadily walked into the bathroom and looked into the mirror.

The need for primping was long over. Samantha would miss the ritual. But being a reflection incarnate had its uses. Trying to smile, she smoothed her lines, and her vanity. But when she bared her teeth, the veneer cracked a bit. Those horrible needles just wouldn't go away.

The creature felt hollow all of a sudden. For a moment she hunched over, then forced her spine to straighten. Then, she walked purposefully back to the note, angrily swiped it up, and disappeared, body and spirit, into the safety of the mirror universe.

Her new lair. The rest of the house would remain a trap....

People slept. Continuing in shifts, but they slept. It was a hard, replenishing sleep. No dreams remembered. No nightmares. Lots of yawning and undisciplined living. Trudging about in pajamas and sipping coffee and tea. No judgements: they were all worn out.

They held onto one routine: food.

The angel filled their lives with too much of it, too many wonderful meals. He cleaned it up happily. It was the only bit of decorum they resumed, eating with each other, crowded around a tiny table.