***LUCA***

There are three times when angels really aren't supposed to answer their phones. One, when driving. Two, when in a business meeting. And three, when flying. So when my phone goes off in my pocket and shatters my concentration with the accordion intro to "Come With Me Now," my first instinct is to ignore it completely as I follow Russell and Jasmine over Ocean Beach. Then the tune gains its hard-rock edge, and I have to at least check the screen and see who's calling. Otherwise I'll probably find myself waving my wings in time to the music, which is also not recommended.

It's Mom and Dad. I reject the call and put the phone on vibrate, because as much as I want to talk to them and let them know I'm all right, that would be a lie. We're flying out over the ocean as an imminent hurricane whips the water into a froth below us, and the rain and wind are flying in our faces the whole way. Perfect conditions for us to lose an epic battle against the scrivs, if in fact they're hiding out in the Farallones like Lincoln said they would.

But maybe there won't be a fight. Maybe I'm psyching myself up for nothing. Maybe we'll get to the Farallones and there won't be a single evil light scriv in sight. Maybe they'll have all decided to keep on winging their way into the sunset, perhaps for a Hawaiian vacation - in which case, the islands would be safe in the hands of McGarrett and Danny and Chin and Kono...

Yeah, wishful thinking, I know. It was Alex who first introduced me to the concept of the wish hand never filling up faster than the one you shit in. And, like Alex, I'd much prefer to fill the wish hand first if at all possible, thanks.

We finally get within easy visual range of the islands, and we see a massive pile of scrivs rise between them. They're gathered together in the shape of some kind of giant monster, blackness flowing over them and gluing them in place. But if I look really closely, I can barely discern the shapes of individual scrivs inside the collective beast, all dramatically backlit by the low-hanging sun for a second before the clouds gather behind them, blocking the light.

Damn, that was a great description. I'll have to file and save that for later, to prove that Alex isn't the only good writer in our dorm room. Like, next time I write an essay comparing and contrasting capitalism vs. communism, if Blanco gives any assignments like that next year, I'm ready to ace it now, that's for sure.

The scriv-monster rises higher and higher as we fly lower, closer to the water. It makes surprisingly little noise, probably because it's an organic creation, not a bunch of metal plates and gears and computer chips. It raises one fist high in the air, ready to fight. Then it pounds that fist down into the water, sending a huge wave up to splash us. Or, it would splash us, if not for Garza, a water elemental, diverting the worst of it away from us. If only Juliet were here, then we could have at least one elemental of all six types - light and dark included. But between our many lights and darks, me and Mattia representing fire, and Paul and Gideon as land elementals, I guess we'll have to do.

At some point, I'll have to ask how it is that even light scrivs can put on this black-energy shape-shifting shit. Logically speaking, they wouldn't have that power at all, would they? Or maybe it's just nature's way of showing how closely related they are. Like with angels and demons, and how we're really not so different, other than a few tiny changes between our species.

But for now, I'll have to keep my energy focused on locating and exploiting whatever weak spot this big boy may have. There's always gonna be one. And when you take into account how it's a conglomeration of sentient beings...well, a team is only as strong as its weakest player. Something Paul and I found out the hard way last year - one of our basketball teammates, previously a star player (the only one I've ever known personally to give Paul a run for his money), ended up seriously falling from grace after a random drug test turned up traces of weed in his locker. He got expelled and sent back home, and without him, we found ourselves losing a string of games for the remainder of the season. In the end, we narrowly missed our shot at the Gold Country Regional Championship.

If you're wondering how this connects to the "weakest player" thing, wonder no longer. I suggested this to Gideon after we lost our final game of the season, and he was mystified at first, thinking I was mixing my metaphors. Then I explained that there was no weaker player than one that no longer existed in our ranks.

"That sounds like he's been wiped from reality," Gideon said with a nervous titter.

"That's probably what he wishes for himself right now," Paul said.

"And I don't blame him - he never struck me as any level of stoner," I chimed in. "Alex is more of a stoner than this guy, and he's been stone-cold sober his whole life." I chuckled under my breath. "Well, he did try smoking once, but does that really count?"

"Did he inhale?" Gideon rolled his eyes at his own joke, then added, "I bet if you dig deep enough, it'll turn out they got him out 'cause he was too good, and there was some kind of secret betting scandal where you guys weren't meant to win the title."

"Maybe if this were Texas high school football," Paul laughed, "I'd buy that theory."

As much as I'd enjoy chasing the rabbit back in time about three months, I'm soon forcibly brought back to the present when the scriv-monster opens its mouth and calls, "Troirai?" No shit - its lips actually move in sync with the name. These guys are seriously coordinated - have they seen the school of moonfish from Finding Nemo? I bet that was another key inspiration of theirs.

Bringing himself to a stop and signaling the rest of us to do the same, Russell calls up, "Who wants to know?"

"Our names aren't important," says the monster. "As far as you're concerned, we're all your nameless, faceless enemy."

"Is that the theme of your attack?" I ask. "Or did you just pick it 'cause it looked cool? It really does, though. Look cool, I mean. Muchos kudos." I flash them the thumbs-up, hoping against hope that none of these scrivs happen to be native speakers of Spanish or Greek. And that, if there are, none of them are afflicted with extreme nationalist pride. What did they call it in Ender's Game? Oh yeah - "an advanced case of Spanish honor." That line got me to laugh immediately after reading it, but then it got me to laugh even harder when I realized that was a nine-year-old boy at most saying it.

The monster's head turns very slightly. I get the feeling I'm under a laser light, and it's trying to vaporize me or something. "You brought mortals into the fight with you, Troirai?" it asks, scoffing with pure disbelief. "Mr. President was right - Troijen's kids really are cracked in the head."

"Egg-scrambled, even," says another voice, a female one, through the same mouth. Very disconcerting.

"I may be egg-scrambled," says Russell, "but those are the ones you wanna fuck with even less, guys."

Provoked at last, the monster strikes, swiping its left arm in the direction of Russell and Jasmine. They fly up and dodge the attack expertly, then respond by firing their respective opposite elementals until they collide. The result is nothing like what happens when angelic or demonic opposite elementals strike in midair. Instead of evaporating into steam like fire and water, or swirling into a temporary mini-tornado like land and air, dark and light react in a way more akin to the typical matter-and-antimatter scenario. In other words, they react very explosively. The concussive shock wave fans out and hits everything in its path, causing those of us who aren't scrivs (as well as Kensi, who probably hasn't experienced it before, I'm guessing) to fold in half and lose about a hundred feet of altitude each before we finally regain control of our wings.

"Sorry!" Russell calls down to us.

"Yeah, next time, a word of warning might be nice!" Mattia yells.

"Duly noted!" says Jasmine. She wraps a band of light around the knuckles of one hand, then the other. Watching her closely, I try to copy that move with my fire power. It doesn't create a solid band, but it does leave my hands wrapped in what look like fingerless gloves of flame. It's more appropriate for a metal concert than an airborne fight over the ocean, especially with the driving rain threatening to put my power out at any moment, but I'll take it as is. Because while flaming fists at a metal concert might be a serious safety hazard for everyone, today, it's only a hazard for the scrivs I'm attacking.

I'm pleasantly surprised to discover that the dark coating binding all those scrivs together isn't as solid to the touch as it appears. As I land flaming punches (without the rum) on the surface, it deforms under my fists, and is slow to restore itself to its original shape. Basically, the scriv-monster is made of dark-energy memory foam. Or, at least, its outer shell is. And this outer shell can easily be re-shaped into anything. Even a series of absurdly sharp blades on its fingers. How sharp are they? One of them passes within millimeters of Russell's skull, and when he reaches up to the top of his head to check for injuries, he comes away with a bit of loose hair in his fingers.

"Aww, thanks, guys!" he calls up to them mockingly. "I think you might've finally fixed my incurable cowlick!"

The scrivs make another pass with their finger-blades, this time clipping the very top of his wing and sending small tufts of black feathers spiraling down to the water. "What are you gonna say to that?" asks the first voice that spoke to us - I think this might be that of their leader.

Russell grins. "Another thank you," he says, "for not seriously wrecking my ability to fly."

"Are you ever gonna stop talking and actually fight us?" the scriv-monster asks. "Look at your young comrade with the flaming fists."

"That's 'flaming fists of fiery destruction' to you!" I yell, landing a good one-two punch on a less foamy part of the monster's body. Underneath that is one of the scrivs, who briefly breaks from his previous position to repel me. I push him back into place, but the damage has already been done - the slot for his body has already been filled in as all the scrivs who used to be around him adjusted their own positions accordingly.

Unhappy about being relieved of his status as a cog in the machine, this scriv gets vicious, waving a bar of light in my face like a sword. He never actually gets close enough to touch me. But his light is pretty blinding, which screws with me enough on its own that he doesn't even need to draw my blood.

Whereas that's exactly what I want to do to him. I don't even know this guy, and I want to hurt him. Guilt racks me, but I have to keep it down. I've had plenty of practice at that - Catholic guilt really does exist, and I have to repress it so hard in order to be remotely socially functional. But this is more than that. This is a moral thing, more basic and deep-seated than the tenets of any organized religion. I'm disobeying the Golden Rule, attacking this guy - but then again, he would do unto me what I wouldn't want him to. Hell, he is doing unto me what I don't want him to.

So I have no choice. I punch his jaw with a flaming fist, then push my forehead forward (try saying that three times fast) until I feel his nose break under my brow. Squish, crunch, crack all in the space of a single split second. Next thing we know, he's bleeding profusely onto his mouth, chin, and skintight black uniform. I'm actually surprised to see that, like me, he bleeds red. I guess I was expecting scriv blood to be blue, or gold, or even clear like that of a spider. Anything but the dark red common to all Primers. Now that I know we have this much in common, I hate myself even more for injuring him so badly.

That is, until he swipes at me again with his light-sword. Jesus, he's pissed. Not to mention blinded by agony. Telepathy gives me a taste of that pain, which I push past to swoop behind him and tug on his wings. Not too hard - I'm sure that, like with angels, scrivs consider it a serious, unforgivable taboo to deliberately hurt someone else's wings - but just enough to make more of his nerve endings send pain signals to his brain. Then I kick his ass, literally, for good measure. At that point, his body finally gets the message, and gives up on staying afloat. He falls, barely managing to catch himself and spread his wings again a few feet above the waves. Then he angles off until he finds himself some footing on the nearest small island.

That same island shakes as Gideon descends to it as well. Not because he's falling, but because he's grabbing some land to use on the scrivs. Paul looks down, gets the idea, and follows suit. Just like last night on the ferries, those two are in an environment where their elemental puts them at a serious disadvantage. It's not as much of a disadvantage this time, though, because at least they has more easy access to land than he did on the docks. And it allows them to work on the scriv-monsters feet and ankles, which nobody else is targeting. Everyone else is focused on the torso - or, in Kensi's case, the head. Everyone except Lincoln, who doesn't want to attack his comrades but doesn't want us to attack him either, so he's hanging back. I wouldn't be surprised if he just turned tail and took off so he wouldn't have to stick around. Of course, where would he go? Back home, where his dad would probably rip him a new one for cowardice? Going into hiding somewhere in Prime, even though he probably believes the plan to wipe this 'verse out is still on? I don't think so.

Whatever his motivation is, he's very interested in following the progress of the fight. Which means his head bobbles around, trying to follow one of us after the other in quick succession. As a result, he doesn't see Mattia approaching, and nearly gets the back of his head whacked when she flies in.

"What'd I miss?" she asks, her face red with exertion as she flies up next to me. She then pops up a pair of almighty fireballs, which she throws, both at once, into the scriv-monster's stomach, making it pinwheel for a moment and lose balance. The upper half stays suspended in midair for a moment while the lower half falls backwards, a ton of scrivs raining down on the ocean. Then the upper half lands on the island, looking a lot less threatening now that it's only fifteen feet tall instead of thirty.

Below us, Paul cries, "Holy shit!" I look down and see him, along with Gideon, staring up at my sister in shock and awe.

He's so busy looking at her, in fact, that he fails to see one of the scrivs pop out of the monster's side like a spider hatching from its egg sac, his leg outstretched and ready to kick him.

"Look out!" I yell, both in and out of my head. I fold my wings and plummet, stretching my hands in front of me to accelerate my fall. But I'm not fast enough - the scriv's foot connects with Paul's back, right between his wings.

There are two places no angel (especially a male one) wants to be kicked in - his balls and his spine. They have two things in common. One, they're both erogenous zones if you handle them right. And two, the same bundle of nerve endings that makes them erogenous zones also makes them extremely susceptible to pain.

With a roar, Paul falls. He's lucky he at least remembers to land on his ass so he won't break anything. If he had, it would've been a long flight back to the city for him. Especially if he'd ended up breaking his leg, which would've required one of us (whichever one drew the short straw) to fly underneath him and support that leg lest it flop around in the wind behind him.

But the scriv isn't done with him just yet. Just as I land on the wet, rocky surface of the island by Gideon's side, he waves a light-sword of his own at Paul. This guy's light-sword is bigger than that of the guy I fought earlier, and he holds it two-handed, katana-style.

Also like a katana, he uses it more to slash than to stab.

Gideon works on wrecking the scriv's footwork by sending tremors his way. Meanwhile, I corner him and pin him down with my foot, holding my still-flaming fist in the direction of his face. Fully aware of the irony inherent in the word I've got in mind, I say, "Freeze."

"Luca!" Gideon runs up to Paul, who's clutching his chest. Blood stains his shirt, which has a huge slash running across its front.

I run up to him as he hurriedly sheds the shirt, exposing the bleeding gash over his left pec. "Huh," he says, poking the bottom of the cut, right under the tip of his sternum. "I must still have all the adrenaaaaah!" He falls to his knees, his entire body going taut. Adrenaline may be a powerful anesthetic, but it never lasts long enough.

"I have to cauterize the wound," I say less than a second after the thought occurs to me.

"Wait...what?" Paul blinks a couple of times. "Y-You're not serious!"

"At least it's something I can take care of," I say, heating up my hand until the flames have licks of blue among the usual orange and yellow. I'd rather have fully blue flames, like Azula, but those are very hard to generate, especially under pressure. What I have now is the hottest I can get. "Grit your teeth and bear it, dude," I say. "You'll thank me when you get to boot camp."

Paul nods once, tersely. "Do it," he says before obeying my order.

The last, unwanted thought in my head before I can apply my finger-slash-blowtorch to Paul's chest is, Please, God, don't let me kill him.

Behind me, Gideon cries out in pain. I turn around just in time to see him tumbling onto the rocks, like he fell...or was pushed.

Then I'm pushed, and I land on the ground too, scraping myself all over.

Oh God...I left that scriv unattended too long.

He charges up that light-sword of his again - and this time, he's not slashing, but stabbing.

Right through Paul's chest.

He gasps, blood from his punctured heart and lungs spraying from his mouth as well as the wounds on both sides of his body. The scriv, disgusted, kicks him. He slides off the light blade, dead before he hits the ground.

Even though it's too late - hell, maybe because it's too late - a screaming Gideon smashes his bleeding fists onto the rock, his elemental so emotionally enhanced that he sends a seismic spiderweb of cracks running all over this tiny island. The largest of these opens under the feet of Paul's killer, making him fall again - this time into the water.

And me, all I can do is stare in abject horror.

It's not the first time I've witnessed the death of someone I care about. Alex would tell you it never, ever gets easier.

Socan I.