Jeqon

He called himself Jack Yagami, the man who had once been the Throne angel Jeqon. Of the Fallen, he was ironically one of the youngest, despite now having to fit into the life of an adult rather than a student. But it wasn't a bad fit; there wasn't anything that Jack really needed to do – he'd found, in his mortality, a nagging sense like he might need to eat and drink, but little more – so he could do what he wanted instead. With Azalea's help, establishing himself was easy enough, and then everything was up to him.

And what the former angel wanted to do was run a food cart. His spatulas danced as he prepared okonomiyaki, and while Azalea had warned him to stay solvent if he could, the smiling faces of the customers would have been enough reward if he could set that aside. As he opened his kitchen this place or that, he met just about every kind of person who came through the town. Students and tourists, businessmen and shopkeeps, everybody needed to eat, and preferred to eat well.

Some were quiet, and kept to themselves, only muttering an order and paying before taking it to eat in silence. Others were boisterous, and might as well have told their whole life stories while waiting to eat. The silent type may have said less, but they were all windows onto the human world, telling Jack volumes about where he now lived, and among whom.

It didn't take Jack long to decide for himself that it was a good place. That people were basically kind, at least when offered full bellies. Not everyone was pleasant, and not everyone was polite, but the worst were the exception that Jack wouldn't let dim the rule.

And so he cooked. Food may have become known to him, but sleep was still not. He took some hours for himself, but fewer than a human would need. With no real home to go to, relying on the kindness of public facilities for human needs, he was the indefatigable chef. By the fiftieth hour he decided that as few as they were he liked the late-night customers best; they were always the most interesting whether they said anything or not.

Thus, Jack made his peace. Even if the Fall continued, if his wings were clipped some day and he came to need an apartment in which to sleep, he could live like this. It was no less fulfilling than the Weaver's imperatives.

But whether he would was not for Jack along to decide.

Jack first caught sight of them mid-afternoon on a Friday, as he was as busy as could be parked outside a train station, serving his okonomiyaki to those who came and went. At first, he thought they might not have recognized him, those brilliant white figures who lurked about the rooftops, but in his heart Jack knew that was wishful thinking. The angels would not have lingered so long and so near if they had not seen through the crowd to find their fallen brother within.

Yet, they didn't attack at once, as Jack had feared. They watched, on and off. Keeping one eye on the stalking presences, those white shadows against the fading sky, he thought he recognized more of their number than before. Ramiel, Munkar, and Nakir had returned. Muriel, so far as Jack spotted, had retired from the chase, or hadn't yet recovered from the wound that Sammy gave her, even in the Weaver's care. In her place, though, were more, and far more frightening. There was Pravuil, the eternal scribe of the Weaver's Heaven; and there was Lailah, patron of charity. Both Seraphs, and ones with more personal interest in Jack's Fallen comrades. Even though neither was a war-like angel, by their rank alone each of them might have been more firepower than the four who had come before put together. There might have been others, but if there were they didn't appear close enough for Jack to make them out.

A conservative estimate, then, put the Weaver's forces here at five Angels, each in some way more ready for battle than Jack had ever been. Jack's trigger finger itched, and he could feel the power that had once given him strength as a Throne, had once done the Weaver's miracles, sparking along its newer, truer channels. Such dramatic force was useful, and while Jack wasn't looking forward to the possibility of having to fight he did think it suited him, much as Penny's mental tricks or little Yomi's shadows did them. All the same, he didn't think that would be enough to turn the tide against the Weaver's regalia and the sheer might of Seraphs.

Jack thought that they were probably waiting for him to be alone. It was clear that the mortals could see Jack, even as they couldn't see the angels stalking among and around them, and it had always been the way of the Weaver's hosts to avoid causing disturbances among ordinary people. There were clearly limits to their patience – desperate times called for desperate measures – and so Jack couldn't use his customers as unwitting wards forever.

Just let me get another night service in peace, Jack thought. The night crowd was his greatest joy.

The sun set. The crowds began to thin, as they did, and the angels waited. Jack thought they might have been waiting for him to call on reinforcements. If that was the case, they waited in vain. Just because Jack hadn't existed many years as an angel didn't mean he was born yesterday; he knew that calling on his friends would be calling them to die.

The night shift began in earnest as the dinner rush died away. They came, as they did, in ones and twos, with silent times between. There was a businessman who'd just been let go. He kept his walking papers clutched tight in his hand and his jaw clenched tighter. His order had bacon and extra sauce, and it didn't wipe away his strife but it did loosen that tightness. There was a trio of drunk men. They didn't know each other but laughed about their luck in the pachinko parlor, laughed about their wives and occupations, laughed as they ordered and laughed as they told Jack to keep the change. There was a high school girl out well past curfew. Jack didn't ask questions, she had to have her reasons. She played with her food, but savored every bite, and Jack could hope that despite her down-on-her-luck downcast stare, her luck would be looking up. As she started to go, Jack said something to that effect; it was always darkest before the dawn, so chin up because dawn was coming. And she smiled at that and said thanks.

Always, through the night, there was an angel watching, perched somewhere Jack could see, wanting him to know that they saw him.

And sure enough, as Jack had told that kid, the dawn was coming. Time to close the shop for a moment, find somewhere to fresh up, and get new stock for a new day. It was a routine that had become routine so quickly and so easily it was as though Jack had been made to do it.

So as the sky started to turn pink in anticipation, Jack closed up the shop. He set the cart somewhere that seemed nice, and walked deliberately towards the big park near the station. That wasn't his usual destination, but after all he had the other guests he had to reckon with.

When Jack was alone in the morning light, sheltered from the main way, Ramiel descended first. The others – there were more than Jack had thought – waited all around.

“You've drawn this out for far too long,” Ramiel declared, evidently still in charge of the operation.

“I'd say I'm not the only one making things take longer than they need to,” Jack replied.

“Enough,” Ramiel replied, “Tell me where Samyaza is hiding, and I might drag you back to our Lord to beg forgiveness.”

“Well,” Jack said, “that's nice of you to offer.”

“Where is she?” Ramiel demanded, “Our score isn't settled.”

“Take off that halo and I'll tell you,” Jack said, knowing he asked the impossible, and that Ramiel likely wouldn't hear him anyway.

“I am God's thunder,” Ramiel declared in a voice to match such a title, “I am not patient.”

“Then you're out of luck,” Jack said.

Jack raised his hands and fired. A concept of force, of destruction, lashing out at the persecutors. But they'd seen his invisible force before. Regalia weapons rang with the lyrical tones of crystal heavens, and held.

Jack turned, whirling on other angels who were now all descending.

“Bang,” he declared.

Golden blood spilled. But it was too little, too late. Ramiel's spear was the first to find its mark. It wasn't the last, but then Jack was already gone.