"New Turkey and the Seven Churches of the Apocalypse, Madam Red," Michael answered to the Babylonian woman, thinking of nothing else to call her by.
"Well it's got her interested, but the only question is why?" Michael put his thoughts aside and turned to the two girls left in the group, the novice psychic and the theurgic healer.
"And what of you two ladies? I'm pretty sure that your blind friend isn't coming back for you." Michael grinned at them teasingly. It didn't take psychic powers to know that he flustered both of them at nearly the same time.

Shealtiel looks pensive as he says, "Asia, Jon of Patmos called it. And Anatolia, the Greeks. It was Byzantium, to the latter Romans, and Turkey, old and new. The Seven Church Fathers were each visited by revelations, and given gifts by angels." He sits back down on his crate once more, his attention still on the psychic. "Of course, such gifts were never meant for men. Each one is mad in his own way. We'll have to tread carefully if we go there, and that's discounting passing around the Infernal Sea."

He takes a moment to adjust to a more comfortable position, then adds, somewhat abruptly, "Regardless, we have a long night ahead of us -- one which I, for one, would not wish to venture out into. You should all rest; I have little need, and can hold the defense, if it comes to that, better than any of you, at the moment. Before that, though..." he gestures absently toward them all with his cane. "Names. Let's hear them. I am Shealtiel Avshalom, Altiel if you wish. This adroit young man is Michael, named for the Archangel and Dragonslayer, no doubt."

Feenai lifted her head, hardly even hearing Michael's words. Her drying tears stained her face as she looked around for Jeanne. Not that John will want anything to do with me, and I'm sure everyone thinks of me as useless and a burden. She would have cried more but her eyes were dry and out of tears. She slowly came to her feet and looked around for Jeanne. I really don't want to be alone, especially since the town has been ravaged. My own home must have been too small a settlement to even bother with.

She found Jeanne half absorbed in reading a book. Shaking, she slowly approached. You were the first person I met here, and I want to stay with you at least. But if I ask, and you reject me.. it will just confirm Ruebella's words. I'm scared... Feenai opened her mouth to form the words but they would not come. The fear that Rue's words had caused would not leave, no matter how hard she tried to push it away.

"I am Lev. Lev Gurevich. Lev of Tsavo. Pardon for moment. Must retrieve something."

Lev muttered as he turned back towards the manhole they had emerged from, pulling it up so he could enter in to the sewers. With a quick look around he descended down into the darkness, intent on retrieving his weapons. He handled the ladder oddly, still not used to having the function of both hands. It took him longer than it should have to reach the bottom, breathing a sigh of relief as shoes touched concrete.

He set off in to the sewer tunnels. It was easy to find their trail, at least. Carnage and blood splatter made obvious signs of their presence, and each scene of slaughter led him closer to his possessions. Somewhere in the noise of the sewer, a whisper tickled Lev's ear.

Lev...

Lev strode on as if hearing nothing. He spent several minutes backtracking, reliving the battle in his head before he finally came to the site of his breakdown. Covered in various pieces of bodies and fluids, the barrel of his revolver peeked shyly out from where it was buried. He leaned down to retrieve it from the mess.

Take it!

He picked up the weapon, staring at a bit of skin that happened to cling to the muck on the barrel. It suddenly reminded him that his energy was running thin, and he had had very little to eat in a very long time. The whisper came again. 'Consume!', it said.

Devour!

Lev lowered himself to his knees, staring with hunger at the putrid flesh around him. Hunger gave out, and he grudgingly began to feast on the putrid remains of the Dybbuk. Somewhere, something whispered to him. He could not hear what it said, or what it demanded. It demanded something of him, but the words ere unclear. And as he ate, time slid by...

He found himself gnawing on a bone he had wrenched from a corpse, trying to break the sweet marrow inside from it. Slowly, he dropped the bone from his mouth. Lev realized what he had done. What he was doing. A sickening feeling came to his stomach. But even worse, a new feeling came to him. Something terrifying, something alien and deadly.

Lev sprinted back towards the exit to the sewer, the scent of his own fear trailing him.

Michael looked in the eyes of the novice psychic and realized that she was broken pretty badly, to the point of tears. It made him guilty not to notice earlier. "Where was I anyways?" He realized that the laser was still on and lighting the way. "Oh right," he thought.
He began to walk over to the young psychic as she turned round a row of shelved books towards the healer. "She's not mad at me, is she?" Michael was tempted to peak into her thoughts and find out, but knowing what he worked to achieve, he figured that it would be hypocritical to try.

Lev raised an eyebrow as he tried to dust the grime off of his clothes, looking like he honestly did not know what she was talking about.

"I have low food standards, yes. As long as I eat."

Inside, his mind began to race. He knew she could read his mind. Apparently what had happened to him in the sewers had been real. It had not been a hallucination, or some morbid dream. He had consumed the flesh. He tried to think, wondering if Rue You are a plague would betray his secret to the people gathered there. To distract himself, he began cleaning his gun with what little clean spots he had left on his coat. The bodily fluids on the You have not yet ran your course gun had congealed, and took some effort to remove. He stopped after a while, staring at the spots Flesh! Rot! It all rots! You are hunger. Your bones are stripped but they do not rot! Consume devour riprendfleshkillhuntthepreythatescapesdonotletthem escapenothingescapesthelionconsumedevourriprend... he had managed to clean. A whispering tickled his ear again, but it died as soon a he began speaking.

"Are we to rest here? With...everyone?"

Dante kicked open the door, cursing the fact the he'd only gotten five thousand from that bounty. Quite unexpected, he was assailed by a strong odor of death. At first he'd thought that someone might've died, but on closer inspection...

...It seems to be coming from the gunman. "So, you really did go down there, huh," Dante asked with a loud growl. "Hope you weren't a 'lion' there, too. But seeing as you'll even eat humans...well, who knows what you'll do, eh," he added with a smirk.

Feenai stared at Jeanne, wondering how long she would be immersed in that book. She swung her head around to see Michael staring at her, with a perplexed look on his face. He probably thinks I'm useless too. I barely know him, so maybe I should introduce myself... Her voice cracked, as she struggled with verbal communication. "My name is Feenai...the old man already introduced you to everyone...your name is Michael?" She tried to look him in the eyes but found that she couldn't, and turned her face downward to stare at her feet. Yes, that was great. I can't even face someone new, who didn't even see my uselessness in the sewers. I'm just a big failure...

Lev growled at the blind man, shouting words at him.

"Do NOT call me that, or you really will be meat!"

He froze, regretting the words as soon as he said them. He tried hard to calm himself down. He needed to lay a bit low in light of recent circumstances, especially since nearly everyone in the room could expose his thoughts whenever they so felt like it.

"I...apologize. Very tired. I am going to the sleep now."

Lev fell to the floor, more of a flop than anything else. He curled up similar to the way a dog would, revolver held tightly in his hand. He had a while before he fell asleep, and a while was going to be a long while indeed, since he would be alone with his own thoughts...

Dante glanced down and raised an eyebrow, his finger toying with the trigger of his handgun. It would be easy, almost too easy, to end things now. Just one bullet...The girl didn't look too heavy either. He could drag the body to wherever the bike was...Simple as that. Or, if it was even easier, he could take the head. Riding all the way back to Babylon would be easy, provided he had enough fuel and light. He took the gun out--

--and stopped, suddenly becoming quite aware of the nakedness of his thoughts to the others. Shit! He would have to do this almost reflexively later, or when they were too far to help...

Dante holstered the gun. 1.2 million had eluded him again. Walking back to his corner of the room, he grabbed the scarf and stowed the knife under it, then pushed it against the wall for a pillow and curled up, cat-like, to take a nap of sorts.

"She looks like a mental wreck. She's stuttering with actual words. Hell's Bells, what in the world happened?" Michael thought. As Feenai glanced downwards, the gunman climbed back up from the sewers, smelling like a fresh corpse. Noting that he was there, he turned back to the girl and crouched to look into her eyes. Although he expected shock, mental trauma from experiencing some horrifying sight, he saw pain, as if she lost all confidence in herself.
"This'll be a risk but..." Michael extended his walls, including Feenai so that she would be able to read his thoughts. Immediately, he began to speak to her using those thoughts.
"Why are you so sad?" he asked and at the same time he also said, "You seem lost, alone," and even at the same time as those two, he asked, "Will you be my friend?"
Ignoring everything else around him, he let his thoughts surround the girl attempting to coerce her, no convince her, into opening her thoughts to him, and praying that she wouldn't try to see his past, to see the monster that he has become.

Feenai felt pressure in her head, and despite not wanting to hear anyone's thoughts, Michael's pushed past her tired defenses anyways. The words came to her, and flooded her with relief. He doesn't hate me...

Still not wishing to let people in, however, she held the shields and answered verbally. "I...I do want to be your friend. Thank you..." Feenai's voice was weak but it was more from physical weakness than emotional now. Looking over at Jeanne, Feenai saw that she had fallen asleep reading her book. "I think I'll go to sleep right here too. And thank you again..." Feenai reached out and squeezed Michael's hand briefly, then laid down next to Jeanne and closed her eyes.

If only to disprove Ruebella, I will NOT be useless...

As the others one by one succumb to sleep, Shealtiel sits in contemplation, legs folded, his back against the crate now. Despite his words to Dante earlier, he isn't even remotely certain what will happen when he dies. He has never known another servant of Sheol, nor encountered the spirit of one in any of his conjurings. It is possible that the Rephaim are born from souls such as his, but he has nothing to prove that disconcerting fact.

As the night wears on, he maintains his vigil, keeping his spiritual senses sharp, lest they be caught unawares. It is not unusual for him to go without sleep; as he has grown older and more thoroughly mastered his power, his body has become less and less of a hindrance to him in its daily functions and needs; he can go for weeks without sleep, if he needs to. That meal from Michael will hold him over for a month. Even his mind feels dislocated -- not particularly resistant to psychic assaults so much as harder to reach, as though disconnected from the electric network of his brain. He thinks of the Emim, divorced wholly from their bodies, and wonders if he is not becoming something similar.

But, no. He feels the pain and strain of his magicks all too much. He knows in his bones that he is weak, old, failing. It is the price of the vast lore of experience he has achieved. If he were a young man again, with this knowledge and mastery, he could rival a Saint. As it stands, he must measure himself, check every outstretch of power, or risk breaking himself beyond the point of recovery.

Eventually, the others begin to rouse, still under the lurid light of the moon, but that is no surprise. Morning's light is bloody in this world of theirs.

Michael lifted his thought from her, returning his mental defenses to normal. "So she doesn't want to tell me after all." But then a final thought slipt into his mind before he reset his psychic block. If only to disprove Ruebella, I will NOT be useless.... Michael's eyes widened as he cursed himself again and again for hearing her thoughts, but at least he knew what was wrong now.
"Ruebella. It's doesn't sound like the blind assassin, so it's either the theurgic or Miss Red. Madam Red? Little Red, like from the fairy tales? No, what about... Ruebella... makes sense." Michael looked at the theurgist next Feenai. "She doesn't look very mad or uncomfortable next to her, so it must be her, then. Where have I heard that name before... ah, it doesn't matter, that's her name...though it could use some polishing. I'll call her Bella from now on."
Michael looked at the group sitting around the library. The blind man returned from whatever he was doing before and is now sleeping in the corner, and everyone else seemed to be doing their own thing, so he climbed up to the roof top, after nodding to Altiel, and meditated, drawing upon his brighter memories to keep him sane for the night with his new friends and to battle the presence of Jez'ebel that was still lingering in his mind....
....When morning came, he stood up, lowering instead of rising, strangely enough, and returned to the comfort and security that can only be found indoors, and began to eat his breakfast out of his rations.