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"You are lost in thought, Elijah."

Lije flinched. How long had he been sitting there, staring at the vehicle's darkened window? "Just thinking about the case, Daneel."

A big, fat lie. He'd been trying to imagine what was below them; the myriad little wheels of the car - if you could call this contraption a car - spinning and spinning over the perfect surface of the open road. Open. Lije shuddered.

"Would you like me to tell you about it," Daneel asked.

"Yes," Lije said, too quickly, swallowing.

And so Daneel spoke and spoke, his soft, familiar voice soothing like fresh AC.

His second murder had made everything clear.

Not that murder was good! Murder was terrible; that was the point. He was terrible; Stede was a terrible, terrible person, and accepting that truth was key to everything.

As he ran, blindly swatting at the branches clawing at his face, he listed his myriad wrongdoings:

Left wife and children.

Petty theft, looting, bit of pillaging.

Kidnapping, torture - not directly, but he'd allowed it to happen!

Violent assault, wanton passive aggression.

Lustful thoughts.

Stede closed his eyes and ran faster. It would be all right, he would make it right. Or die trying.

"So how's The Beast treating you?" Claire is smiling, wiping down the already spotless countertop.

V shrugs. "Not bad. It's a good ride."

"That she is."

"Been meaning to ask; why 'Beast'?"

Claire stops, her hands twisting the cloth. "Well... I tell people it's because I built it from parts. Like Frankenstein's monster."

V nods. "Why not 'monster', then?"

"A monster is terrifying. Unnatural. What people call me, sometimes." She's still smiling. "But a beast...! That's strong, powerful, natural."

"Like you." V grins. "No chrome."

"Some aftermarket parts, though." Her eyes meet V's. Questioning.

"Good name."

Claire exhales. "Like me."

"What're they muttering about?" Frenchie jabbed Oluwande with his elbow. Jim was sitting by themselves, speaking softly, their eyes closed.

"Um. Sounds like The Lord's Prayer." Olu wasn't much of a churchgoer. Or even a church casual visitor.

"You know Latin?"

"Nah, it's Spanish, I think?"

"You speak Spanish?"

Olu kicked at a lose board. They really ought to fix that. "Dunno, they're talking about... bread."

"Bread?"

"Yeah, you know, god giving us our daily bread and that."

"Bread every day?" Frenchie had to sit down. His eyes still on Jim, Olu nodded. A world of riches. Just within reach.

The current king and former valkyrie of Asgard was not much of a diplomat, which did not help conversations like these. She cleared her throat. "I'm sorry about your brother."

Thor turned to her, befuddled. "Oh. Thank you... that was a while ago."

"I know. I realized I never really... Said anything."

Thor shrugged. "It's difficult."

"I'm sure it must be."

"I keep thinking he'll return."

"I heard that's a common reaction..."

"No, I mean, he's done it before."

She frowned. "He... what?"

"Twice, actually. So, you know."

She didn't, but she put her hand on his massive shoulder anyway.

"You're staring." Aziraphale's mouth was hanging open, which in a lesser man would be unappealing. Aziraphale, however, was neither lesser nor man. The angel had been gazing longingly through the window of the small patisserie for what felt like hours but was probably just minutes. Crowley lost track of time, watching him... enjoy things.

"Was I?" Aziraphale's eyes widened, that shade of blue Crowley had never seen anywhere else in Creation. "Sorry, I just haven't seen pastries like that since Paris in the 1800s."

"You're pathetic," Crowley snarled, licking his lips absent-mindedly.

"Well," Aziraphale bristled, "they're delicious."

Yes. He was.

It took almost a whole minute before the barber started talking. Bucky let him.

"Always liked that kid. Captain America, I mean. You and he were close, huh?"

"Yeah," Bucky said, because nodding with a knife close to your throat was a bad idea, even for a super soldier.

"Shame he's gone. Say," he met Bucky's eyes in the mirror, "how do you want it?"

"What?" Steve's very blue eyes in an ancient face. He was fine. Steve was happy. Gone.

"Your hair, son."

Steve's hair had been white. A change to show the change within. "Just... however you like."

He closes his eyes and listens.

It is like coming home; falling back into the void, into the cool embrace of the voices from deep within. That's all the Kraken is, really. Not some supernatural force that takes him over; it is returning to himself. Hardly any effort at all. It is being Ed that takes effort.

He sits down in the alcove that used to be a bed, and peers into the darkness. The sea is calm. People say that's what happens before a storm, but calm is just calm.

There is no point in expecting anything at all.

It was a charming little bar, despite the rather loud music. In fairness, Aziraphale had heard a lot worse. And everyone was so friendly! He was beaming by the time he made it over to Crowley... who was hissing.

"Is something the matter?"

"I told you," Crowley spat, "to blend in."

"Yes! How do you like my outfit?"

"You are wearing," Crowley said, "a 17th century doublet, a pair of knee-high platform boots, a kilt, and a frilly shirt."

"Yes. You said 'be fashionable.'"

"Fashion changes, angel. Pick a decade. Pick a century!"

"Well." Aziraphale bristled. "You should have specified."

The first thing he can remember - before he was a he, before he was anything - was that light. Not The All; She was what was and is and always had been. This light was significant in its difference. Its joy.

Crowley, before he was Crowley; before there was such a thing as a name, loved that light. Even before there was such a thing as love.

And yet...

And yet, it came only in brief flashes. There for Crowley to savor when he could, like a plant in the sun.

Aziraphale blinked. "Why are you staring at me?"

"No reason."

Peter ran the suit through his fingers. As smooth as silk and extremely comfortable, except for... He was suddenly acutely aware that Happy was in the room.

"Pretty good, huh? Tony had all of these made up in case, you know," Happy shrugged, "you'd ever need 'em."

"Yeah," Peter nodded, frantically, "awesome." He couldn't say it. "How come they're all so, uh," don't say it "tight in the crotch?"

"Oh." Happy's eyebrows rose. "I... guess Tony was used to, uh... his own measurements."

"Okay," Peter squeaked.

"Not that I'm saying-"

"Yeah great, awesome; thanks, bye." Peter jumped out the window.

Things were back to normal now, which was nice. He was back home. All good. The cloying, sirupy heaviness in his chest Stede would, eventually, get used to again. Like an old friend.

Taking a deep breath, Stede opened up the garden doors. A nice walk in the morning sun, that would be the ticket! Stepping outside, he froze.

"Um," he asked the gardener, hesitantly.

"Yessir?"

"Flowers," Stede felt so light. Weightless. "There were so many."

The gardener shrugged. "Lady of the house got rid of them, sir. Attracted bees, she said."

"Ah. Yes." Sensible. Nodding, Stede hurried back inside.

The bartender took one look at V, and snorted. "Well, fuck me. Lola, you gotta come see this," she yelled at the other bartender. Lizzie's was packed tonight, and at least three people were working the bar.

A tall green haired person, presumably Lola, threw a glance in their direction. "What?"

"Peep this gonk. Johnny Silverhand's biggest fan!"

See, V sneered at him inside her head, told you.

Hey, Johnny replied, you chose to wear it.

His jacket, his glasses, boots, shirt and pants. Okay yeah, asshole had a point. Throwing her credchip on the bar, V smirked. "That's me."

The man moved like him, which was insult added to injury (and pain, and the chaos of the pseudopods ravaging his mind), and made Blackbeard move faster, yell louder, though there was no sound. And then there was:

"Ed."

Blackbeard roared. He stabbed at the parasite, the ghoul who had eaten his heart, until the figure was pressed up against the side of the ship, the tip of Blackbeard's sword at his throat.

"Ed. Please."

He sounded like him. Like him. And the light in his eyes was too seductive, a line over which Blackbeard could not follow.

Not again.

Aziraphale was staring. Crowley had expected as much, but nothing could prepare you for the force of Aziraphale's wide-eyed attention. After his third abortive attempt to take a sip of wine, he put down his goblet and sighed.

"Just ask me!"

Aziraphale flinched, sitting, suddely, very straight backed in his chair. "Ask... ask you?"

"You've been very good about it," Crowley hissed, "really very polite, now please just ask."

"I'm sure I don't-"

"Is it still a woman's body under there," he picked at his toga, "or am I a scrawny ginger man, now."

Aziraphale shrugged, looking bewildered. "You're Crowley."

"That was nice," Ed said as they were corralled toward the line of fellow soon to be reformed pirates.

"Hm?" Not many nice things came to Stede's mind all that easily.

"Your booty."

Stede blinked, momentarily walking out of step. "Beg pardon?"

"The plant." Ed shrugged. "It was quite lush; you must have taken good care of it."

"Yes, well." Stede tried to find something other than Ed to focus his eyes on. "It's not very manly, but I'm rather good with plants. Making things grow."

Ed fell silent. Then, as they got in line, he muttered. "Yeah. You are."

"What is she doing now?" Aziraphale leaned out over the edge of the Garden wall, peering into it, looking quite worried. Or, more worried than usual. Not that Crawley was watching, particularly.

"Who?"

"Who do you think! Look," Aziraphale pointed to a small figure by a tree, "something's wrong. Her skin is all.. flappy."

"She's wrapped herself in something." Crawley shrugged. "Looks good."

"Oh." Aziraphale's eyes widened. "Who told her she was naked? She's not supposed to know that!"

"She's not?"

"No!"

"Why?"

"Why do you always ask questions," Aziraphale snapped, flying off. Crawley watched him, sighing.

"Because you don't."

The carpenter gathered his tools together, then paused.

Stede smiled at him. "Anything else you need?"

"I hesitate to mention it, sir..."

"Come on, speak up."

"Well, sir... you might wish to reconsider your choice of wood."

"Really?" Stede frowned. "Why?"

"It's just that the wood you've chosen for your shelves, while excellent, is a particular favorite of termites."

"Ah!" Stede grinned. "That won't be a problem."

"Unfortunately, sir, it is quite a problem in houses like these."

"Oh, but they won't be in-" Stede noticed Mary in the corner of his eye. "Yes," he coughed. "Better use something different."

They were nearly back in Watson when V slowed the bike down, and cleared her throat.

"What," Johnny said inside her head, apprehensively.

"Been meaning to ask. This morning, you said I made you fuck a cop. Made it pretty clear you didn't like it."

"Yeah?" It was early afternoon, and the streets were as empty as they got in Night City. "Can't really think of a worse place to wake up than in a cop's bed."

"You didn't seem as shook up about it being a male cop."

They rode on. Johnny said nothing. Let her figure it out.

"But what," said Crawley, "does that mean, exactly?"

"What?" Aziraphale flinched. "It means... what it means." He shook his wings, shifting his weight; the conversational turn was making him uncomfortable.

"Is it an idiom or allegory, or-"

"It's a little worm in a tree, Crawley!" He hadn't meant to raise his voice. It was just... there were so many things, these days, and so many meanings. Which meant there were so many ways to get them wrong.

"Oak tree," Crawley added, yellow eyes gleaming.

"Let me show you what else She made today," Aziraphale muttered, leading them on through Paradise.

There was nothing at all poetic about it. Lucious watched the flapping pages fly past his hiding place in the ship's hull, trying to see butterflies or falling leaves, but they were just books.

"Jesus," he muttered, pressing his face to the opening that let air into the secret passageway. That had escalated quickly. Another murmur of voices from above; a new batch thrown overboard. Books, not people. Small mercies.

All he had in here were his thoughts, and they kept coming back to the last poem Blackbeard had made him write down. Just four stanzas.

And all this catastrophy.

It took Stede a moment to realize that... Jeff had stopped following him. He turned with a pang of anxiety to find the other man frozen, with a glass in his hand.

"You all right there?"

"Bubbles." He licked his lips, obscured by the beard. Sort of. Now that Stede was looking, he struggled to look away.

"Yes, it's all the rage! They've stopped trying to get the fizz out of Champagne. Now it's a thing."

"Tingles my mouth."

Stede exhaled. "Y... yes. It'll do that." There was so much he could show Ed. So much. Lips, he thought. Tingles..

"Oh yeah, and remember this one?" Kerry grabbed Johnny by the shoulder, pointing to the poster on the far wall. "Epic, man. That was like,our third gig?"

"Fourth." The voice startled Kerry every time. Funny how that worked; he had no problem seeing Johnny in the body of this burly woman with the purple undercut, but the voice...!

"Fourth! Fuck, that was a long time ago."

"Longer for you than me."

"We were so young, choom."

Johnny looked at him askew, arms crossed under his breasts. Fucking breasts. "A lot of things were different."

Kerry swallowed. "Yeah man. Yeah."

"That's definitely what you're going with, then?" Crowley waved at the necklace of the man in front of him. He was probably a priest; Crowley had seen enough of them to know.

"I beg your pardon?"

"That is the agreed upon symbol of Christianity?"

The man gaped. "If you mean my crucifix, I-"

"Bit grim, isn't it?"

"This," the man huffed, "is a holy symbol; a-"

"I rather liked that fish. Very popular a few centuries ago."

"I-"

"Or one of those pretty monograms. Seems better than an actual torture device." Crowley shrugged. "Ah well. I'm sure you know best."

"Hang on," Wee John frowned. "What comes after?"

Stede blinked. His story had been interrupted just as he was getting to the good bit. "After what?"

"He dove in head first, you said. But then what comes after?"

"Well, the rest of his body."

"Why not just say he dove in?"

Stede gave a little huff of frustration. "I'm trying to paint a picture."

"It's to show which way 'round he went," Oluwande added, helpfully.

"Exactly! So-"

"We all know which way Blackbeard goes," Frenchy yelled.

At least, Stede tried to comfort himself, no one had made a head joke.