Automatic fire rang out through the sewers. Lev's finger was pulled tight against the trigger of his PPsh-41, the barrel actually beginning to glow from its own heat. Dybbuk on the front line were cut down, limbs and heads suddenly shaking or snapping back as lead tore through soft and rotting flesh. Still, it didn't seem to be enough.

Lev's ears were bleeding from the constant gunfire. The skin on his left arm began to burn where his gun rested, the heat shield around the barrel beginning to fail. And with sudden silence, the gunfire stopped.

He looked almost confused as the bolt on his gun caught the end of the drum. Smoke poured from the open chamber. It took Lev precious seconds to realize that he was empty. As fast as he could, he attempted to awkwardly reload his gun. He kneeled, steadying the gun on the ground as he pushed another drum in to it. Concentrated wholly on getting back in to the fight, Lev barely noticed Dante utter the name 'Gabriel'. Unfortunately, he also failed to evade Gabriel's teeth sinking in to his neck.

Letting out an animal scream, Lev unleashed his single shotgun shell from his revolver. Pellets grazed his head and tore across his ear, the majority sinking into the head of his Dybbuk. Blood flowed openly from his wound, the gash messy from the torn flesh and muscle. In the heat of the moment he brushed off the pain, firing wildly in to the crowd of undead that was now alarmingly closer. He sprayed ammunition as he charged forward, bloodlust overtaking him. At point blank range the carnage became nothing but madness. He felt the cuts, tears, claws, and teeth sinking in to him. But he could not stop. Lev kept firing and firing. Dozens of Dybbuk fell to the ground, with always more to replace them. Soon the gunfire stopped, but Lev's screams continued on.

After about half an hour of traveling East, Michael and Altiel were tired enough to drop where they stood, but they didn't knowing that they would be either found or buried by the weather. Up ahead, there was a warehouse. "Finally! We have shelter. Let's rest here for the night," Michael suggested to his friend as he led him on. Opening the door, he found a gold mine for those in supernatural studies. It was a library. Book shelves could be seen everywhere if one were to look from the cat walk that was the only interior trait beside the walls that made the place a warehouse.
Closing the door behind him, the sound of wind ceased, but replacing it was the sound of gunfire coming from below the ground. Michael looked around, securing the immediate area, before seeing the manhole in the 'closet' at the center of the house.

Dante started and stared with what could only be described as utmost horror. And then--

"Gaaaaabe! Look! I got a cookie!" Dante laughs, messy black hair in a wild tangle. The three-year-old sibling looks up from the ants; his eyes gleam as he grabs for it. His brother breaks the stale cookie roughly in half, giving the larger portion to Gabriel.

"Where'd ya find it?!" demands Gabe, eyes wide. They haven't had such a delicacy in weeks.

"Shh! Not so loud! I, well...borrowed it from Mr. Tom."

"What? He gave it to you?"

"No, he didn't, ahaha..."

"What do you mea-- Ohhhhh," Gabe finishes, emanating pure admiration for Dante, the young thief.

"Someday...someday, I'll get enough money for us to get out of here! Maybe we can both get motorbikes, like Mr. Tom has! And then we won't have to live here! We can have cookies all day! And clean water! And lots of food! And new clothes!" The two young boys stare dreamily at the last few crumbs. Dante continues.

"And I promise you, we'll get out of here alive. Don't worry. You'll be safe as long as I'm here, okay?" Dante grins at Gabriel, who grins back with crumbs still on his face.


Someday...

Nothing made sense anymore. There were no Dybbuks, no humans, no nothing. In Dante's eyes, only him, Gabe, and something that was destroying his brother. Dropping his guns, his knife, and all sanity, he leapt at the attacker with a feral shriek of pure hatred.

Lev grasped at the hand, his strength waning as he let her pull him free. He was a ragged mess of flesh barely held together, deep gashes adorning him plenty. His loss of blood was quickly becoming a pressing concern. During this brief respite he switched the hammer over on his revolver, trying to pull the trigger. His fingers slipped, not seeming to want to work right. His head swam as he became dizzy and confused. He managed to fire off a round in to the closest Dybbuk, barely hitting it and dropping his revolver in the process. It clattered to the floor, free of his grasp for the first time in four years. His left hand was home to a bloody hole, the stake that once occupied it driven deep in to the eye socket of a Dybbuk. To everyone but Lev, his life was fading fast.

The broken man looked confused, trying to comprehend what was happening, just before his body was once again assaulted - this time by Dante.

Finding a makeshift seat on an overturned crate, Shealtiel takes the moment to rest. Now that his adrenaline has faded, he can feel the horrible strain his magicks have imposed on him. He feels ready to pass out at any given moment. But he can't; they aren't safe, yet, not with the sounds he's hearing from below, and... yes, there are Dybbuk, dozens, all disembodied for the moment, looking for a new host.

Standing once more, he says to Michael, "I will retract my criticism of Saint Typasius. A man worthy of the title." He sounds slightly delirious with exhaustion as he comes to stand over the manhole.

Calling back over his shoulder, he tells his friend, "If you would be so kind as to catch me when I inevitably faint..." And he begins to open himself once more to Sheol, feeling a sickening cold seep through his muscles and down to the core of his bones. Trembling, he reaches out to thee agonized spirits frothing in the ether and banishes them with an expression of power -- one terrific blast of icy energy that takes everything the old man had left within him.

He collapses into Michael's arms.

Ignoring his body's pleas to stop, Lev slowly pulled himself up. He was at the point of living on borrowed time, yet he was oblivious to the fact. He tried to speak, his voice hoarse and weak. The wound on his neck was still bleeding freely as he force his throat to make sounds.

"We need move. Dybbuk not st-stay down long."

He took a shaky step forward, oblivious to Rue on top of Dante, or even of Dante's previous assault. His mind was completely focused on moving forward. Somewhere among the carnage, his revolver lay free.

Getting the wind knocked out of him for the fourth time that day, Dante lay, exhausted, face-up on the ground. Even with his 'sight' at the fullest strength it had been at for the past several days, he really didn't see much. While his muscles wouldn't listen to his brain, inside his mind, and argument was taking place between his emotions and his reasoning. He...he killed my brother! I'll kill him! I'll fucking kill him! Wait, no, there's no time right now! Come on! we need to get moving! I don't care! He killed him, for heaven's sake! Well, do you want to die here?! I -- Oh, wait, tha...

"...t's a nice view," Dante muttered, as the red outline floated into view, his usual jesting self coming into play as his mischievousness defeated both voices.

Feenai came out of the Network induced trance to a sore body and an even more vile smell. She pointed in a direction that she hoped didn't seem random to everyone else and said in a loud tone, "This way will not only get us out of the city, and the sewers, but I just got a faint psychic message from someone up there that the Dybbuk have been banished." She was so tired, and sore, and didn't want to be down in the sewers at all anymore, that she started moving in that direction regardless of anyone following.

Remembering now that she never did eat anything, she pulled the bag of succor capsules out of her pocket, fished one out, and swallowed it quickly. She didn't even care to eat food thanks to all that happened but it was important to keep her body from whining for sustenance.

Rather than drop her Network connection entirely, she left part of her mind connected and found that she could still pay attention to her surroundings and even move under her own direction. Following the Network map of the sewer, she slowly led the way, hoping that everyone was following but wanting to get out of here as soon as possible.

She reached the opening and was happy to find there was a ladder too, as she did not want to have to rely on the people she sensed above to throw a rope down. "There are two people up there. One appears to have some psychic power and the other is unconscious. Despite that fact they might be non threatening, I think it may be best for someone more threatening than myself to go up first." She turned to address the beautiful red haired woman. "I don't wish to ask this of you but the person awake above us is a psychic so it may be best for you to go up first. I'll try to help if he tries anything with a psychic assault, and be right up behind you to talk to him if he doesn't wish to fight."

Altiel's eyes nearly glowed as he used up his power to banish the remaining Dybbuk. Michael caught the man as he fell, amazed at the power and potential he had, and laid him on the crate he was sitting on gently, so as to not let him get injured by anything else that might be coming up from the manhole. Checking his gun, Michael realized that it was damaged, and he won't be able to repair it by the time whatever arises from the ground, arises.
"Altiel may have used his power to kill the people who were firing the guns," Michael thought. "Perhaps I can make use of their death and salvage a new weapon until I can repair the laser. Perhaps I'll even find something to fix the laser down there." Michael walked over to the manhole and opened it, letting light shine down onto a group of people down below. Looking closer, Michael saw that all of them were familiar: the two girls who healed the man who stole his job, the said man, his former employer, and even the blind assassin who was looking about with a pair of green eyes.
"Well, what have we here?" Michael called down to the group.

Lev coughed up some of the little blood he had left, straining his neck to look upwards. He move his lips as if trying to speak, but no sound came out. He looked puzzled for a moment, then tried it again to no effect. Giving up on communication for now, he took hold of the ladder below the manhole, and attempted to hoist himself up with his one good hand. He made it past the fifth run before he body finally gave out, slipping in to unconsciousness as his body fell to the floor.

Dante raised an eyebrow, got unsteadily to his feet, took a few deep breathes...and pitched forward. He caught himself before he could do a neat faceplant into the ground, found his weapons under the bodies of the Dybbuk, and turned towards what remained of Gabriel. No...it's not Gabe. And I can't mourn for him. I've done that once, and I've known since two years ago that he's dead. Dead!

Gritting his teeth, he stowed the guns and knife, then walked towards the ladder. He noticed the gunman, and his left hand went reflexively to his gun. After a moment, he dropped it, and reluctantly pulled the man up, slinging him over his right shoulder. Why the hell... "Need help?" Dante asked the struggling psychic sarcastically.

To Jeanne's suprise and relief, they did manage to defeat the Dybbuk, and Fee found the way out. Coming down from the high of battle, she was dismayed to find several small wounds on her body, but followed the group. She'd heal herself - and the others, as the man she had previously healed was in bad shape, AGAIN - when they were in relative safety.

Fortunately for the group, safety found them in the form of a ladder up to...somewhere. Familiar-looking men seemed to be already up there, but Jeanne wasn't particularly worried about how dangerous they could be. If they'd been of a mind to stab her in the back they would have done so already. She could see that the ladder was being used by everyone else, and her options were to stand around or pray. Considering the imminent need of healing, she decided to do the latter.

Returning groggily to consciousness, Shealtiel stirs himself from his stupor, coming to a sitting position on the edge of his crate. The bone-weariness has turned to pain now, and breathing is a labor. He'll need time to recover from this; no more reserves to call on. Any more magick will kill him, at the moment.

He watches Michael assist the red-haired psychic out off the manhole with exhausted indifference, somehow unsurprised. She seems rather worse for wear, but there's nothing he can do for her at the moment; he can barely keep himself conscious.

Lev opened as his eyes as his body cried out in pain, the movement from being carried only exacerbating his condition. In his present state, Lev wondered if he was ascending some ladder to Heaven. However, his mind quickly cleared that from the table. He knew he had already died. He was in hell, and there was no escape. Especially by death. That's why he hadn't died in the last four years. That was why he had charged in to the group of Dybbuk. These people surrounding him, these constructs of his broken psyche, were all just conjurations in a desperate plea for companionship. He knew Hell would take them away from him eventually. They could be broken, but he could not. That is why he had done what he did. In his mind, it all made sense.

"I thank the all of you." He choked out in ragged words, still on the verge of his body letting go completely.

With one hand one the ladder, Dante glanced back. "For...?" Sensing that the man might actually be in trouble, the bounty hunter sighed, heaved the gunman off his shoulder, sat him against the wall, and reached for the full syringe of Water. He jabbed the needle in slightly above the heart and emptied the contents. Tossing the container to one side, he rummaged through his medkit, brought out a roll of bandage, sighed again, and starting wrapping up the now-healing wounds. It was a messy job since his vision was slowly fading, but it would have to suffice for now; at least he wouldn't bleed to death externally now, although whether the Water had been enough to fully mend the damage inside was still a mystery to Dante.

"There. I've paid you back in part."

"Oh no you don't," Michael called to the red cloaked woman. Although she didn't have her cloak on her, necessarily, he couldn't just call her by her name, because he didn't know it, or as his former employer, because he was never employed by her. Opening his rucksack for his rations, he tried to keep a constant conversation, to keep her from dozing off into possible comatose. "You know, for someone who looked so beautiful before, I can only wonder what down there made you look like total crap now." He passed her a chocolate bar, the only one in his week's worth of rations.
"Well it's a bit less than a week's worth after today."
"Eat up, hun. I still need you to help me since the my friend by the boxes can barely hold himself awake. By the way, Altiel," Michael said turning towards the old man, "save your energy. That battle took way too much out of you before, and there's no telling if anything else is out there."
Moving towards the manhole, again, he reached his arm down, hoping to help another one of the new visitors out of the sewer.

If it isn't that man from before... Dante grumbled. It should be. The aura, though faint and growing fainter by the second, was familiar. Heaving the gunman back over his shoulder, he put a foot in one rung, a hand on the other...Slowly he started to climb the ladder. Halfway up--

"Auuugh. I need help. Lend me a hand?" he grunted. His legs had made impact with the somewhat-sharp claws of Dybbuk earlier, and were now oozing what he hoped was just pus.

Shealtiel nods distractedly at Micahel and settles into a more comfortable sitting position. Ignoring the ruckus of the group clambering up from the sewer, he closes his eyes and tries to will his body to relax and restore itself.

Michael grabbed the gun man off of the shoulders of the green-eyed man, noting that the gun man had a hole in his hand wear a stake once was and that hole was quickly repairing. It took some effort, and a little help from the green-eyed man, but eventually he got the gun man onto the ground next to the red haired girl before helping the green-eyed get out of the hole.
"Holy carp and lava bass. That doesn't look pretty at all," Michael said, motioning to the man's wounded leg.

"Pretty or not, I..." Dante trailed off holding what was left of the first syringe of Water. "Eh. Doesn't look like this is gonna be enough. Tell you what. Since my target is still that girl, and since I'm not in any state to kill anyone right now, I'll take my lea--"

His knee gave in suddenly. "--ve. .....Or not. Meh. Seems like I'll have to leave you guys after this damn thing gets healed. For now..."

The bounty hunter crawled into a corner of the room, undid the various belts, and kicked off the boots, wincing. He tossed the heavy bullet-proof chestplate to one side, follow by his shirt and the medkit. Untying the scarf, he curled up against the wall, cat-like, hugging the scarf tightly.

"...I'm taking a nap."

Seeing that all the others except Fee had climbed the ladder, Jeanne glanced at the other girl before quickly ascending the ladder so that her companion wouldn't have to wait very long.

Jeanne emerged from the manhole soon after, and surveyed the area. It seemed to be a large library, which she approved of. If they stayed here for any period of time, she planned to read some of the books. But for now, she glanced at the others. They were almost all wounded and appeared drained, which confused Jeanne briefly until she remembered that they had been on the front lines, fighting, the entire time. At least the man she had healed earlier wasn't going to die on them. She didn't like to waste her time.

However, none seemed particularly open to healing. Now that the danger had passed, Jeanne was less willing to trust them, and so she found a corner and healed her own small cuts. Sitting and observing the others, she noted each's wounds and how much energy they would take to heal. Reluctantly she stood and walked over to Dante. "Your leg, can I see it?" She trusted Fee to make sure that they didn't suddenly turn on her while she was working.

Dante grunted in annoyance. How much help did he have to get....?! He was used to healing himself, even though the process was much slower and more painful than a theurge's.

"...Fine," he growled, pulling up the narrow pant leg, revealing a few long oozing gashes, then returned to being a curled mess. "If you want to get get any higher than that, I'd have to take my pants off," he added with a slight grin. Even exhaustion couldn't reach his jokes.

Jeanne frowned; it was not a pretty wound, and was probably infected. She didn't notice his joke, nor would she have laughed if she had. After all, if there were higher wounds, they would be easier to heal if she could see them. "Are there more?" she asked while taking off her gloves and sending a small wave of theurgic energy to kill the bacteria on her hands.

Unlike when she had healed Lev, these wounds weren't life-threatening, at least not yet. Jeanne could afford to take more time.

Feeling the emanations of Theurgic energy, Shealtiel opens his eyes and sees the young woman from earlier working over the blind man.

"You there, theurge," he calls. "Can you sense that? The Saint has unveiled himself. He's destroyed the Emim and is fighting the Rephaim even as we speak." He chuckles softly. "I never knew he had it in him."

"Nope. I think that's it. If a dybbuk bit my ass, I didn't feel it. But seriously, there was an Emim? Urgh...I really do need to improve my 'vision'..."

Dante zoned out for a bit. When he got the time, he'd have to train some more.

Despite the fact that the blind man likely wasn't paying him any attention, Shealtiel says, "There were twelve. As I said, I have revised my opinion of our resident Saint."

Jeanne was startled by the old man speaking; she had thought Shealtiel was asleep. Still, she closed her eyes and concentrated. She could, in fact, sense a strong theurgic power in the distance, and with a nod she asked, "You know him?"

While she said this, she returned to Dante's wounds. If they were, as he said, the only ones, it would be a quick heal. Laying several fingers across one, she closed her eyes and pushed some of the energy she had stored up into the gash.

Any infection he may have had was killed with the first wave, and the second was directed to knit together blood vessels. Slowly the healing progressed from the deepest part to the shallowest, flesh coming back together to form a smooth surface. There was nothing to be done about the blood as she had no access to water or a cloth to soak it up.

Feenai had planned to go up the ladder right after the red haired woman but when the man above helped them up she decided it wasn't quite so important and let the rest go first. Everyone else was wounded and she was not, aside from some soreness from when the blind man had been pushing her along. I know I found the way out, and possibly helped everyone, but I feel guilty for not getting hurt. I don't really know what I will do about this...

She wearily climbed up the ladder and saw everyone resting and tending wounds. Jeanne was helping the blind man, and there was a lot of blood all over. Feenai tore the sleeves off her shirt and started soaking up the blood. With the Network connection active she couldn't have her shields up and the surface thoughts of the others were rolling about in her head. At least they don't seem to hate me for not fighting.

After the blood had been soaked up, at least as much as the small bits of cloth would allow, she took them and tossed them in a corner and sat down facing everyone, but staring at the floor. She started thinking of what she could do to help.

Shealtiel considers for a moment. "No," he says eventually. "I've never made his acquaintance, but he's made himself known around the city. I just put little stock in holy men loyal to a dead god. Still, Typasius seems to have lived up to his legend. Which we should all be thankful for, I suppose."

Oh? The other psychic, eh. Dante sat up suddenly, hitting his head on a low shelf. "Thank you for your help," he replied to the theurge in response to the speedy and relatively painless treatment.

"And you," he whispered, turning abruptly and grasping the coffee-aura-ed psychic by the chin, "should be more careful." With a mischievous grin, he planted a quick kiss and murmured, "Thanks for helping us out, too..."

"I...wha..." Feenai couldn't even find words to express herself at the blind man's sudden kiss. I was so absorbed in feeling sorry for myself I didn't even notice him approach. I SHOULD be more careful, I don't even have my mental shields up and he surprised me so easily.

"You..you're welcome," she stammered, blushing heavily. "My name is Feenai. What's yours?" The name Dante came to the forefront of his mind as she asked the question. She also read that he was very hungry, so she took the bag of succor capsules out of her pocket. Taking his hand and placing one in it, she continued, "It's Dante, right? I know it's not really food but this will at least keep you from being too hungry for a little while."

Shealtiel notes both names and files them away. He is too exhausted to even try to figure any of these people out, yet, though things seem pacified, at least for the moment.

More worrying is the Babylonian psychic when she eventually wakes up. At least the fact that and this Dante seem to have been working together below is a comforting sign. Shealtiel is in no condition for another conflict.

Jeanne nodded at the words of the old man, although she was a little insulted by the way his words showed contempt for religion. "God may be dead but he is still worth our reverence," she said, finishing the healing of Dante's second wound and then standing up. She felt as though healing the assassin's wounds had taken little effort, and so she was about to move on when she saw him move over to Fee and kiss her.

A flash of anger rose over Jeanne, although as she took a deep breath, she realized that it was misplaced. If they were all to be together, they needed to tolerate each others'...quirks.

Had he been in better spirits, Shealtiel might have taken the effort to address the young theurge's quaint tautology, but he suspected it wouldn't be worth the effort. Ironic how theological education tended to move one away from God. Or had it been the Eschaton that had accomplished that for him....?

Seeing no reason to pay further attention, Shealtiel laid back as best he could on the crate and attempted to rest. He could still feel the spiritual reverberations of the Rephaim and Typasius' battle. He couldn't help but wonder what Acacias was preoccupied with, to be letting his comrade face such a foe alone.

Lev opened his eyes after a few minutes, his body beginning to recover after the infusion of holy water. He took a few minutes to recover his wits before trying to sit up. He pulled his torn pant leg upwards, feeling of the skin on his leg. His eyes widened in alarm as he jagged scars, fresh ones making his 'map' completely unreadable. He twisted his head this way and that, shouting at people.

"Lost! I have no map! They destroy map! We...we..."

He stopped, realizing what company he was in. The company from before, the group that had stood the trials in the sewers. It was slowly coming back to him, now that he was in what seemed to be safety. His eyes spotted Rue, becoming instantly distressed to see that he had failed in keeping her completely safe. He addressed her with genuine worry, or as much worry as the man could muster.

"Are you...complete? In just one piece? Original piece, not one piece but smaller piece than as you began."