Michael arrives in typical golf wear, which looks terribly wrong on a frame like that. He's wearing his favored vessel, the one they call Mr. Hunky behind his back. Not that he doesn't know. His caddy looks careworn, which is terrifically wrong on an Elohite.

Marc arrives in a sports car that looks like it last lived in a James Bond movie, though there's something odd about the license plate ... any mortal that sees it, forgets the number if they take their eyes off it for even a second. Marc emerges, trim, handsome, and fashionably ready to play.

The caddy sees you and goes all chilly, despite the horribly oversized golf bag she's pulling. An Elohite with pride, or at least dignity. Her name is Ihi'Velga: Iron Hand in Velvet Glove officially. Old Stonewall unofficially.

Marc waves in a friendly manner and approaches the Archangel of War with a broad smile.

Michael shakes his hand vigorously. “This is Velga.“

"Good to see you, old friend," Marc says to the Archangel of War, reaching out a hand to shake. "It's been too long -- well, unless you count Council meetings, and really, who wants to count those?"

"I'd be all day trying to count them!"

"Yes, we have gotten a trifle bureaucratized at times, haven't we? Price of progress, I suppose ...”

Michael sighs

"Velga, it's a pleasure," he says.

Michael relieves Velga of the bag as she shakes Marc’s hand

"A caddy, Michael?" he teases. "For the most self-reliant angel in Heaven? But then, you hardly need the exercise."

Velga: "An honor, sir."

"She's an excellent assistant."

"She must be. You never were satisfied with anything but the best. One thing we've always had in common." He pats the bag of his clubs over his own shoulder ... no rich man's toys, but the precision instruments of a serious player.

Michael hasn't unpacked his bag. The clubs are under a cloth cover, no way to tell how many let alone what quality. Even at the first hole he simply asks for the appropriate club, which Velga pulls out without revealing the others.

Marc's eyes gleam as they fall on the bag a bare second, curious as to the contents. "Well, shall we?" he asks, motioning the way to the course. "Speaking of the best, I must compliment you on the team you've put together in California," Marc says as they begin to set up. He pulls a quarter from his pocket. "Shall we toss for the opening stroke?"

"Thank you." Michael examines the coin closely before assenting to the toss.

"Velga, if you would do the honors?" he says, passing her the coin. "Some angels seem to be cautious about Trade coins." He slips a wink to Michael.

Velga smiles politely and tosses the coin high, catching it expertly. She has her hand over the coin. "Heads or tails, gentlemen?"

"Michael, I invited you. If you would be so kind?"

"Heads." He watches as Velga reveals the coin. "Heads it is." Michael takes the shot

Marc watches the ball sail over the fairway, nods in appreciation. "Yes, it's been a very impressive team," he says, pulling out his driver. "And naturally, I've been impressed with how Mitch has been able to help hold such a disparate group together." He takes the swing, drives it easily. "I hope you've been satisfied with my loan of him to you?"

"Quite satisfied. I must compliment him in fact. He was there from beginning to present. Though to say he kept them together is an exaggeration, I think."

"Well, I did say *helped* hold," Marc says genially. "And it's very true; Corat has been an impressive stabilizing influence as well, particularly for a Windy."

"Exactly. If I may boast--and you won't stop me--I think my man Corat may have had something to do with that. I'd make him one of mine properly, but Janus won't let him go with the Distinction intact. And we need that."

“Yes, you do like to keep your plans close, don't you?" he says, as they continue their progress. "Particularly this one, I've noticed."

"Really?" Michael bats his eyes, all obviously fake innocence.

Marc chuckles. "Careful, there," he smiles. "Sarcasm ill becomes the Most Holy."

“It's honest sarcasm!" he laughs. "I must admit though, the team isn't quite what I envisioned."

"Oh?" Marc says, considering his approach shot.

"I--we--sought extremes. Laurence provided perfectly as did Novalis, but she allowed her servitor to back out. And Mitchim is so moderate."

"True. It's a curious collection, even so. A gathering of Words so diverse, it would seem likely to grind to a halt at any moment ... or else, show off the Host in its fullest possible glory."

Michael smiles knowingly "Precisely."

He swings, puts it on the green. "Hmmm. Long putt, but doable."

Michael throws the cover off his golf bag and reaches deep inside it. He pulls out a paintball rifle, and begins to load it .

"I must admit to some curiosity," Marc says as Mike rummages. He then looks more closely at the bizarre equipment. "Um, what exactly are you doing?"

"Winning. Go ahead; take your shot."

"Why do I get the feeling that I just won a battleaxe again?" Marc says, with a grin and a sigh.

Michael laughs. "You're the one invited me to golf."

"Golf, yes," he says, preparing to putt. "Capture the Flag is another story."

"No no no. Not 'Capture the Flag'. Just winning at golf, and making a point. Go ahead, take your shot ."

Marc nods, keeping his composure -- and half an eye on that paintball gun. He then carefully taps the ball toward the hole. And immediately after his club finishes the shot, his ears are rewarded with a "boom...splat". Michael then hands Velga the gun and receives his club.

The 'paint' in the ball was water, and Michael just hit a nearby tree.

"Ah, I remember now," Marc says. "I think one of my subsidiaries actually invested in that video game at one time." :-D

*sarcasm “I know not of this 'video game” *sarcasm

"Have it your way, Eldest of Trisagionists," Marc says with overdone courtesy. He then begins to whistle the first Backstreet Boys song he can think of as Michael begins his swing.

Michael swings....ignoring the sound.

"Just as well," Marc says. "Though I warn you, the Partridge Family may be next."

“My dear old friend. That would be evil”

"Just making a point," he echoes, his expression matching Michael's a moment ago.

"Point. I see.” Michael takes the shot--he's not a great golfer even without the distractions.

As they set up for the next hole, Marc continues. "As I said, I'm a trifle curious. Back when I first ‘loaned’ you Mitch, you offered to provide an explanation later in repayment. Funny though -- later seems to take its time getting here."

“Your explanation: Yves and I had a discussion. He felt that we could all work as a unit, on the same team, hauling the same bricks so to speak. I told him that while we are all working on the same objective, that you couldn't put the extremes of our...I hate to call them 'factions’...on the same team without that team imploding.” He nods, watches to see if he has to say any more.

"As I observed earlier," Marc nods. "Either the gears get jammed, or the machine runs with Heavenly efficiency. So this was in the nature of an experiment, then?"

“That part was Yves' idea”

"Yes, good old Yves, always the scholar," Marc muses. "But Michael is a soldier. For him, for an experiment to be worthwhile, it has to hold some promise of shifting the War in our favor." He looks him in the eye. "Am I right?"

Michael looks at Velga. "Is he right?"

“That is what you are, sir.”

"So to simply put together a team and watch it run wouldn't be satisfying enough, if I know you. It has to hit at something big. And for it to be buried this deep, this must be a once-in-a-Symphony chance." He looks Michael in the eye again. "I'm asking you this time, Mr. Soul of Honesty." The smile takes out the sting. "Am I right?"

Marc pulls a club from his bag and polishes it a bit, waiting. Michael nods to Velga, who tops off the ammunition in the paintball gun. "Yes, you are right."

Marc places himself in his zone, remembering the Japanese businessmen he's played with in various Roles. The gun does not exist. The boom does not exist. Nothing exists but the ball and the hole. And then he swings. There is no sound from the gun. No interference at all on the shot. Marc smiles beatifically. "Your tactics, as always, are inspired my friend. Silence can sometimes be the deadliest weapon of all."

“ I am War.”

"I know. It's one reason we always worked so well together. Funny, though," he says. "Whatever you're working on must be not only big, but easily misunderstood by the suspicious or uninitiated. Otherwise, you wouldn't be so concerned about Dominic." He tries to time it so the word "Dominic" comes just as Michael begins his swing.

The shot slips--he hit a nerve. “Do you want to know why I have never reclaimed my rightful place as Commander? Or, rightful short of the Lord's contradiction?”

"I am curious," Marc admits. "Part of it, of course, would be your unshakeable loyalty to God, and by inference, whomever he tabs. But I would like to hear the rest, if I may."

“Because (he continues, as though the question had been rhetorical) I refuse to fight both the courtiers and the enemy. The Great Wall of China was not breached by Mongol hoards, but by having its financing pulled. Laurence--being a Malakite--can handle the politics very well. He's unassailable. But in war....” he trails off.

"Indeed," Marc says. "He crafts brilliant strategies, especially when the War goes as expected. But when the unexpected occurs -- or needs to occur ..." He trails off as well.

"Which is one reason I'm glad he still has the wisdom to respect your experience," he says finally, when the silence has hung a little too long. He walks with Michael as they talk.

“I am here. I am waiting. We all are. But how much grief have you gotten for handling money, ‘the root of all evil’?”

"Nearly as much as you once received for being 'prideful War,'" Marc admits, but gently, lest he hit the nerve too hard. "Yet, in the end, we are both of us dedicated in our aim and sure of our goals. Besides, as I recall, the scripture was the *love* of money. I'm Marc, not Mammon."

“Right. But can Laurence look at my tactics without distaste? And can his servitors...exactly. The populace misquotes that so much...can his servitors look across the table at yours and mine, and respect their tactics? Go along with them?”

"The ones closest to understanding their Commander's will, yes," Marc says. "The ones farther from that understanding ... sometimes not without careful explanation. So this is something that could potentially create an 'incident' if taken out of context."

Michael looks over to Velga, who puts the rifle back into the bag and hands him a different golf club. "It's deeper than that. More than an 'incident', but you have the gist of it"

"At the same time, it also has to be something with the potential to shake up the entire battlefield," Marc says. "Which would explain the rumors that my dear friend Janus is involved."

Michael smiles. "He's good at that, isn't he?"

"Only in the sense that Walt Disney was 'good' at motion pictures, or that Julius Caesar was 'good' at war," Marc returns with a smile of his own. "Your shot, I believe."

“Certainly.” He lines up the shot, appearing to be completely at ease.

"And something that ties these seemingly disparate events together," Marc continues, watching Michael. "The loa ... sorcerers ... rumors of the kami defecting from Hell .... it all seems to have a certain Ethereal tinge to it, doesn't it?"

"Can you imagine," Michael says, seizing on the idea, "if Hell could no longer count on the Dreams as their own? If these human archetypes--for they are parts of the human mind--were to align with us?"

"Sub-creation allied in defense of the first creation? Powerful, indeed," Marc says. "Then I'm right? You ARE seeking to drive a wedge (he uses the golf terms with malice aforethought) between the pantheons and Hell? And if the Dreams bring their followers with them, ultimately lined up in support of the Divine ..."

“Right. Then humanity is on our side, even without necessarily knowing it.”

Michael steals a glance at his angelic caddy. Marc unaccountably hooks his next shot, deep into the rough. "Oh, blast," he says. "Appearances aside, I probably should have brought a caddy today." He looks to the Power. "Would you mind helping me find that ball? It had a little English behind it, I'm afraid."

After a nod from her boss, Velga follows Marc to go fetch the ball

(Has she been able to hear the whole conversation ... or just bits and pieces?)

(Nearly all of it)

(How is Old Stonewall's composure looking right about now?)

(Not too good.)

(On a Power, that's practically a depressive swing)

"Are you all right, Velga?" he asks as they search for the ball. "You seemed a little .... discontent a moment ago. Am I making you uncomfortable?"

(He also briefly and subtly turns his Mercurian resonance on her, to see what her web of relationships looks like.)

“No, it's not you. I've been working unusually hard these past few days.”

(Relationships--she's a loyal soldier, trusts Michael, trusts Nisroc less but still very much. That trust has been severely strained, but it's still there as an act of faith. And begrudges Laurence, but respects him.)

"That's a pity," he says out loud. "All things need to be kept in balance, especially for the Balancers."

“It's also a war, and I work for War. Some days that's going to be brutally hard, but you serve because it's the right thing to do.”

"Indeed," Marc says. "And sometimes even in spite of what you think of your orders, or whether they even seem to make sense."

"Michael asks a lot of trust from his angels -- but to his credit, I've always seen him follow through."

"Have you talked to your more immediate superior? Seen about getting some assistance, or at least a moment to recover? Even the sharpest blade gets dulled if it’s used too long without cleaning or maintenance."

(He's still "listening" carefully, to see if the sideways reference to Nisroc brings up any more associations.)

“That was my immediate superior on the hard work. Carrying golf clubs is a break. We really should find that ball.”

(She trusts him less than Michael, by quite a bit)

"Well, then, I'm glad to have given you your chance to restore yourself," Marc says. "Ah, there it is." He smiles. "Amazing what can happen when you put a good team to work."

“You're not abusing my caddy out there, are you?" Michael's shouting, so he's careful of his words.

Velga’s smile is patently false, but what did you expect?

"Not at all," Marc calls back. "We found the ball by the way. Ready to resume?"

“Yes, let's.”

"Trust is the core of every good team," Marc says softly to her before Michael arrives. "Hard-won, but worth the winning." He then takes his shot to clear the rough and resume the course.

“Right.” Velga picks up the thread of the main conversation. “And what if your leader doesn't trust you? Or if he doesn't trust your methods, if you knew that ahead of time, would you hide your methods from him? And would you be justified in doing so, for the good of all?”

"Difficult questions," Marc admits. "And they require careful, objective examination. One must always test -- are my methods worthy of mistrust? If not, why does my leader mistrust them? Knowing that, is there anyway I can restore his trust? If not, is the good I hope to achieve worth the pain I may cause through a perceived betrayal of trust?"

She looks at Michael with cool admiration. “I'm fortunate I am not the one making those decisions.”

"We all make those decisions, or something like them, at one point or another," Marc says. "They are never easy. But they must be faced."

Marc rejoins Michael, a thoughtful smile on his face. "So you want to put the Dreams in play -- something that would also satisfy Yves' urge to reach their Destinies and Janus' need to overturn the gameboard. But the concern is whether Laurence or Dominic could see past their distaste in dealing with Dreams in order to see their use as a flanking force."

“I think they go past distaste”

"Forgive me," Marc says. "Their abhorrence at dealing with the 'heretical sons of Nightmare.' "

Michael gives Velga a signal, and her eyes go wide for just a moment. He gives it again, slightly different, and she nods. He laughs. "You see the problem there. Likely you could help.”

"As Heaven's ultimate go-between," Marc nods. "The Archangel with one foot in the celestial abstract and one foot in the corporeal necessity."

“As someone who can see relationships.”

"Of course," the Mercurian responds. "After all, isn't that what Trade is about? Lay out your proposal," Marc says. "Tell me what you would have me do. Then, perhaps, we can deal."

Michael: “Okay.” He thinks for a moment and signals with his hand.

Marc casually keeps an eye on his Perception, trying to see if he's walking into a trap.

“The Loa have cooperated, but it was a consequence (he chooses the word carefully) of one of their own going wrong. The kami --we can't take credit for that; I wish we could. It is true though. They walked away from Nybbas. They should be rewarded for that. Persuade the others that it is simply good tactics to offer them a reward, without...without conditions. Let them see what 'gift' is. Let others follow their lead.”

"In a sense, something like this could be seen as an extremely selfless act," Marc says softly. "To give without conditions, maybe hoping for reciprocation, but not insisting on it."

Suddenly a ball comes flying out of seemingly nowhere and lands perilously close to them.

"Well! Fancy meeting you two here." A familiar voice says

Marc blinks, but that's the most surprise he allows himself to show. A curious look on his face, he turns to see the owner of the voice. Michael looks at the newcomer, incredulous. A tall woman with long black hair wearing jeans and a loose top come sauntering towards them. She has a knowing smile on her face and a fire in her eyes

"My Lady of Flame," Marc says with a small gentlemanly bow as she draws closer. "I didn't realize you played."

She shrugs

“Gabrielle” Michael’s voice is unsure whether he's pleased, or shocked

"I only recently started." She positions herself behind the ball. "An interesting game, isn't it? One of many." She swings and watches the ball sail through the air

"Indeed," Marc agrees. "Though I would have thought golf a trifle sedate for your tastes."

"That's not the game I refer to, my dear Marc"

Michael seems to catch a pun. "One of many."

A knowing smile starts to cross Marc's face. "As you say."

"Well. As I said, I only just joined in. Yet another ripple in this great pond. Are you as curious as I to see how it all plays out?"

As he waits for Michael, Marc begins to play with a coin in his hands, the E Pluribus Unum rubbing under his fingers. "Of course, my lady. The curiosity of the merchant is proverbial."

Michael steps back to watch, but she addresses him anyway.

"How is your Servant doing with mine? I have heard good things thus far. Have you?"

“I am wholly impressed with your choice, Gabriel. Entirely what I'd hoped for.”

A mischievous smile plays upon her face,"And whom are you referring to?"

“Sunae...though I must admit I miss Ashbel's calm perspective. But when I asked for someone who embodies Fire, there she is.”

"Mitchim has been most regular in his reports," Marc adds. "He speaks of Sunae with high praise. He found her a touch too deferential at first, but she appears to be making herself a full member of the team ... and a useful one."

Michael says almost to himself, “I wondered why a Soldier though.”

"Why not? You wanted to shake things up, did you not? And why should Angels have all the fun? After eighteen generations, can you think of a better example of faith and devotion?"

"Redeemed, Soldiers, angels-at-arms ..." his voice trails off with a chuckle. "All we need is a Reliever and a Saint and we could start our own situation comedy. 'The Holy Bunch,' perhaps?"

Gabrielle: "Extremes my friend, extremes. All of them coming together for a common cause. What can be better?"

"You speak to the heart of my own Word," Marc says. "Disparate parties coming together and finding common ground, whatever the setting." His eyes meet Michael's for the barest second.

Michael's a little discomfited.

Gabrielle: "Always a difficult task, but not impossible. At least to some..."

"Indeed," Marc says. "But it's a task worth bearing -- and one I enjoy. I don't think Dominic has declared it a sin to enjoy one's own work yet, has he?" he says with a wry smile, glancing at both the other Archangels.

Michael retorts, “Oh I don't know about that. I think Eli would disagree.”

Marc: "Yes, Eli ... I understand he's been spotted again?"

Michael: "God only knows what is truly a sin. Last I checked Pride and Arrogance were among them"

Michael: “So is Wrath, so I'm not going to revisit old scores”

Gabriel: "I wonder who could be guilty of that? Surely no one here"

Marc: "Oh, Heavens forbid." :-D

Gabriel: "Yes. Heavens forbid"

Michael is shaking his head. He’s not feeling sarcastic enough to get into this one.

Marc: "But forgive me, my Lady. Making an Ofanite stand still may not be a sin, but it is surely unwise. Would you care to play through?"

Gabriel: "Is that what that's called? Ah. I think I will"

Marc steps aside to let Gabriel continue her game -- whichever one she chooses to resume. She steps forward towards her ball and the two of them notice that she does not have a bag, she only has one club.

Michael gets a wicked grin. "Say Gabe, would you like to borrow one of my clubs?"

She looks at Michael confused, "I already have one"

She looks at the ball, a little confused at first, but then she positions herself and taps the ball towards the hole.

Michael looks to Marc meaningfully. “You see how serenely she hits that ball”

For a moment, an image crosses Marc's mind, of a line of fire cutting cleanly and precisely through a field of grass. "Well done, my Lady."

Her brow is furrowed, "Is it supposed to curve like that?"

"Seriously Marc. How unhurried and calm."

"Yes," Marc agrees, wondering for a moment if she's feeling all right. It almost seems -- wrong, somehow. His eyes study her, closely. Then he thinks of a way to be sure. "Say, Michael -- would you mind loaning her your 'special club'?" he says with a wink.

She rests the club on her shoulder as she walks back to them "An interesting game, to be sure...I'm sure I'll get the hang of it. Assuming I have the patience for it"

“My point exactly. She doesn't know about the 'special club' so it doesn't bother her. Velga, count to ten and then get the 'special club'. But you see, for these ten seconds she'll be anxious. She'd be a terrible shot just now.”

Gabriel cocks her head, a curious look to her face. Velga, with much formality, hands Gabriel the paintball rifle. She looks at it in absolute confusion "You can use this?"

Marc waits, his fingers in an interlocking grip. "Some players seem to feel it ... livens up the game," he says carefully. He's willing to let Mike take the lead on this one.

“Since I started putting water instead of paint in the balloons...they tolerate it.”

Marc chuckles, his mind's eye full of a golf course spattered in reds and blues and golds...

A look of surprise and dismay plays upon her face

Gabriel: "Water instead of paint? Why?"

"It's a touch easier on the groundskeepers," Marc explains. "Otherwise, it'd be unnecessarily cruel."

She accepts that and she hands back the paintball gun. Velga accepts it formally, but Michael's a tad disappointed

"No thank you. I think I need to understand the game first before I start to play around with the rules. It is proper form."

'Who are you and where did you put Gabriel?'

Mischievous smile.

Marc's left eyebrow is raised until it almost meets his hairline.

"Did you really expect something so...predictable?"

“I guess”

"Forgive our pedestrian imaginations, My Lady," Marc responds. "Did you have something more suitable in mind?"

(Smile)

Gabriel: "Your turn, I believe?"

Marc smiles, nods, carefully reaches for the proper club. He readies himself to make a chip shot onto the green. Leans back...

As he gets ready to swing, it suddenly becomes really stuffy. There is that feeling where everything is so sticky

--boom--- --splat---

It's a curious fact of nature. Angels have an amazing temperature tolerance, and therefore need not sweat. However, metal does. The suddenly slick golf club spins out of Marc's hands and off into a nearby water hazard.

Gabriel: "Suitable enough?"

She asks as the temperature returns to normal. Marc looks at the lake for a second. Looks at Gabriel. Then looks at Michael. "It's her."

Michael is laughing so hard. "What is 'her'?"

“Okay, I think I will like this game"

Marc chuckles. Whatever his doubts before, this is definitely Gabriel.

"Oh, well," Marc says, looking at the bag, now short one club. "I needed a new set anyway."

Gabriel: “A sticky situation my friend. But you slipped out of it admirably."

Marc groans. Maybe Kobal did take her over and no one noticed....

Michael: “My turn.” He lays down on the grass, sniper style, and lines up a shot at the ball...with the rifle.

Gabriel: "We can do that?"

"He can do that," Marc said. "Me? That's another story."

--boom-- --splat---

and the ball careens off wildly into the rough.

Marc: "Of course," he adds, "there's a reason most of us don't do that. Need some help, Michael?" (nodding his head toward the rough)

Gabriel: "Certainly makes such a quiet game that much more interesting"

“I have excellent aim! Velga, hand me a driver.”

I know, Marc thinks to himself at Mike's "aim" comment. That's why I suspect you missed on purpose .... or would, if it didn't border on deception.

Michael knocks the ball onto the green, but barely. He's not a great golfer. Gabriel watches. She is intrigued.

"You should take some time, really study the game," Marc tells Michael. "I think you'd find it rewarding -- the quiet moments where everything seems to come together, defeat turned to victory with one stroke of the club."

Michael: “meh”

Gabriel looks around at everyone, "So what now?"

"Well, at the ninth hole, it depends," Marc says. "Some golfers choose to end the round there and call it a day. Others continue to play as we did -- well, not quite as we did," he adds, remembering the rifle, "until they've completed a full 18."

Gabriel "So where are we now?"

"And as of now ..." he fiddles with the golf card and the pencil ... "my goodness, it's close. Would you take a look at this, Michael?"

Michael looks at the score. How, he wonders, could it possibly be close??

"Of course, we've got to take handicaps into account, too," Marc says. "Michael, would you mind writing yours in?" he says passing him the pencil.

Gabriel: "That's not very progressive of you..."

Michael: “Yeah, I suck at golf. There. That look about right to you?”

Gabriel: "So that's it? How do you win? What are the victory conditions?"

“By knowing when I'm outclassed.” He taps the notepad a second, then writes something in.

"Use the fewest possible strokes to cover the course," Marc says, tapping the scorecard. "Maybe this IS a good game for a Wheel. Meanwhile, even after a short nine, it's traditional to go to the clubhouse to celebrate. Shall we?"

Gabriel thinks about it for a moment and nods.

"Lead the way, my Lady," Marc says. "After all, you know the shortest path."

“Can I take a pass on that? I'm not feeling well.”

"Of course," Marc says. He turns to the caddy. "Velga, would you mind taking these back to my car? I'll walk back with Michael a moment, until he's feeling a little more himself."

Gabriel looks away as though she hears something and starts to walk away.

"Old friends should stick together after all," he says, counting on Michael to catch the double meaning.

After a moment's hesitation, he nods to Velga to go along. "I'll get my bag"

When they realize they are missing someone, she has disappeared. Wandered off.

"Gabriel?” Michael calls out, looking around

"Gabe?"

(Marc tunes in -- does his heightened Perception hear any sign of her, or any sign of the Disturbance that would indicate she left the plane altogether.)

There is a slight bit of Disturbance, but not enough for her to have left the plane.

"Well, no doubt there," Marc says. "Definitely Gabriel."

Michael nods. “Definitely”

"In any event," Marc says, straightening his sweater, "I like your plan. I think it's a good one. I'd like to help, in any way I can -- as a partner, not just a helpful friend with need-to-know rules."

Michael laughs, starts to say something pithy, and stops.

"Go ahead. You know you're dying to."

“You sound just like Yves.”

Marc laughs, long and loud. Michael laughs along with him, but he needs to unburden, can't let the jollity be enough. "I lied to you, just now. Every word I said was true, but I deceived you."

"I had a feeling there was more to this," Marc said. "What didn't you tell me?"

Michael: "No, I'm sorry, no. Work with what's on the table for now. The experiment is real. Start with that."

(Seraph gift -- what would be Michael's price for letting him in on the rest of the plan?)

Michael senses, or maybe just worries, that he’s not trusted here. “Every word was true. The principles of the thing are what we discussed. Just not the details. (aside) It felt good to say that,

"You know, there is a possible way out of your dilemma with Judgment?"

“I actually hadn't thought of the Ethereals as a third column--maybe we should run with that… What would that be?”

"Michael, you've been looking at the forest so long, you're forgetting the trees," Marc says. "Think for a moment. Who does Dominic trust, more than any soul in Heaven?"

“Yves, I know.”

"Yes, Yves -- your partner in this project," Marc said. "If Yves can tell him... discreetly, more discreetly than I'm putting it here for the sake of example...that your plan is ultimately for Heaven's good and he reads Truth in Yves' words... that might be enough to convince him to back off *without* knowing the details. More than that: he'd be in the ironic position of using his own internal security to warn you and Yves if anyone came sniffing around ... all for a plan that he doesn't know a single detail of. You've been hoping to present him with a fait accompli, an established victory for Heaven that he can't deny. But I'm not the only angel that can make certain deductions. Sooner or later, someone else may start putting the pieces together as well ... unless --oh, the irony! -- the Holy Inquisition itself can convince them to back off before they even get started. Admit it, Michael. Wouldn't you love to see Dominic having to help conceal a plan that he would have originally bellowed at without looking closely? All from one simple statement: If you knew Michael's plan, and understood it *in its entirety,* you would approve of what it will do for Heaven."

Michael waits patiently, thinking about all that he's hearing. "But he might not approve. I know it's right, but he might not agree. Different Words, different sets of what is acceptable. Which is why I bet against the Mile Higher Club being functional. On the same team...at cross purposes. So in a sense, they're a microcosm of us. And Flowers left. The extreme of Peace would not withstand the secrets.”

"For now," Marc says. "But who can see the future -- besides maybe Yves? And parse the statement I gave you. The statement he would be listening for the Truth of is not whether he would approve of the plan ... but whether he would approve of what the plan would do for Heaven. That will ring True, True, True."

"Funny thing about Flowers -- they could wind up returning to the fold on this," Marc notes. "After all, aren't they the ones who keep saying all we need to do is greet others with friendship? In a sense, isn't that what we were discussing earlier with the Ethereals?"

"It's not all we need, but we need it.”

"Which is why I will bet on their returning," Marc says. "Meanwhile, can I make you an offer on a 'full partnership,' now that I've at least outlined a possibility that might neutralize Dominic? I'm not asking to be let in for free, I'm willing to pay an appropriate price."

"Give me a little more time. We're so very close to that fait accompli.”

"Very well. But for the record, my offer is this. Your team needs friendship, and courage, and many other things in equal measure. It also needs information. I know you have one of the finest spies in Heaven on your side and a vast underground of Saints -- but I've spent a lot of centuries building up a pretty impressive intelligence network, including people in places and positions where some of yours can't easily go. In exchange for a partnership, I am willing to give your agent full access to that network for the duration of the operation ... with the possibility of negotiating afterward to make the arrangement longer-term."

Michael thinks on this a long time

(Marc calls on one of his own Distinctions, Vassal of Trade, hoping to see what Michael hopes to gain. He’s surprised neither by what War wants nor by the fact that he doesn’t conceal it: recognition for victory)

Michael spends a lot of time thinking about the offer. Marc waits patiently, watching the wheels turn.

"You will be glad you made that offer. Be patient." He pats Marc on the shoulder. "Trust me"

"I always have," Marc says. "Trust me as well? I think it was Corat who said it: 'If you don't trust me, we can't plan.' I look forward to planning with you Michael."

And with that, he gets up, shakes the Archangel's hand, and walks away. He returns the handshake firmly and then goes home to nurse a celestial migraine.