“Calm down, kid,” War runs up next to me, swinging himself up onto his horse. Both his face and almost the entirety of his horse are splattered in gold stains; he’s even sporting a wound of his own on his face, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care. I’d call his smile hellish, but I’m not sure that really sums up the level of vicious delight. I honestly don’t know what scares me more in that moment: the thought of Michael killing me or that look on War’s face.

“Easy...for you...to say.” I dodge and swerve and jump best that I can, trying to shake off the chill that runs down my neck.

I don’t know where the other Horsemen are; everything’s a blur of gold and black. The only reason I could’ve picked out someone like War is that bright red he always wears like a uniform. Something gold flashes in my right peripheral and I swing my frosty staff-thing like a baseball bat, which is absolutely not proper bongtoogi form, but it’s all I can think of right now on instinct. The impact vibrates up my arms, but the angel soldier that was absolutely going to capture or kill me flies back.

...I’m pretty sure there’s a mark on her side from where I hit her with the staff. Seriously, what the heck even is this thing?

There’s no time to even think, before I have to deal with another opponent. I never trained to fight in a melee before and it’s far more stressful than I could’ve ever imagined it to be. Despite my trust in my own abilities, the fact that I am not yet dead in this situation is some kind of miracle. Actually, it’s probably more likely due to the fact that Coach keeps a tight circle around me, smashing at any who come too close. I’m only getting the errant few that manage to slip through a blind spot or use an opening created by whoever Coach is fighting in that moment. His face is feral: lips curled back, snarling to the degree that I half-expect to see his canines lengthen into fangs.

“LUCIFER!” Michael bellows above the brawl.

The Big Bad Angel himself drops from the sky to land dramatically in front of Coach, who merely puts an arm out to shift me behind him.

“Mikha’el,” Coach laughs nastily. “Took you long enough to make your way here. You’re losing your touch.”

“Hand it over, Lucifer.”

“That it is my son, and you’re not having him. How many times shall I repeat it for you, brother?”

“As many as you wish -- you may cry it to Hell and back for all it matters, but you will hand that vile spawn over to me. Because, in the end, you only care about yourself above all others.” He holds out a hand. “You put up a good show...now hand it over.”

Coach’s hand, still holding me back, tightens on my arm and a jolt of relief runs through me.

Until he swings me around so that I’m no longer shielded by him.

Michael smiles, “I will make it quick, painless, even.”

“Coach, please, don’t--”

“Quiet, Hyun,” Coach hisses.

My stomach drops: he’s actually turning me over to Michael. What the fuck?

“Do not be upset, antikhristos,” Michael sighs. “Betrayal is what your unfortunate sire does best -- and all for the greater good.”

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My palms are sweaty. Coach pushes me forward and I can’t stop because I stumble forward, slipping and sliding a bit on the ice.

The ice! I grip the staff tight as I can, and as I get honestly way too close for comfort to killer-angel, I slam it into the ground with all the force I can to push myself down on to my knees, leaning back at an angle barely out of reach of Michael’s sword and with enough force that my abdomen and lower back are screaming. I hear a whistle. Something long and white shoots in a straight line to clatter against Michael’s sword, knocking it out of the archangel’s hand so that it clinks to the ice right behind where my head would have been. The white object, I realize, is an arrow -- Conquest’s arrow -- as it flies back away, probably returning to the white horseman’s bow like some kind of sharp, deadly boomerang.

I use the last bit of momentum to spin myself around to face the archangel. His face contorts in a mask of fury as he grabs hold of his sword. I scramble up, staff in hand. He raises an arm to strike again, and I swing in an upward strike to ward it off. I realize too late this is a contest of wood versus steel and, unfortunately, I’m on the losing end of this fight.

But the General backs up, frustrated. The staff merely swipes empty air; I’m both confused and wary. What is he doing?

Michael jerks and his eyes widen in surprise. That’s when Coach moves right behind Michael and shifts his arm, pushing. Michael jerks again, grimacy. Coach whispers something in the other angel’s ear before kissing his cheek.

Even I know that reference. I also know that it is guaranteed to piss Michael right off.

Which it does. The archangel whirls around, jabbing his elbow into Coach’s jaw; Coach stumbles back, but is right back at Michael in a moment. I stand to the side, completely forgotten by the warring brothers.

This was Coach’s plan: he used me as bait. A lot of curses aimed directly at Coach run through my mind, because a head’s up would’ve been nice! I’m just saying, let the bait know that they’re bait next time.

No, wait: no next time. No thanks. Once is enough.

The two really go at it now -- gold on gold, angel-steel against angel-steel. Coach may have stabbed Michael very literally in the back, but Michael moves as if he hasn’t even noticed he’s bleeding out his back. Those around the brothers pause to watch.

A hand grabs my arm tightly and Uriel’s voice breathes in my ear, “Gotcha.”

I don’t even get the chance to yell before something throws him off me with a crack like thunder. U-re shoots past me with a “Move, Hyun!” and slams into the archangel. And they start going at it. A black blur that I realize is Famine joins, moving with U-re in something like a partnered dance against Uriel.

For every person protecting and saving me, another is trying to kill me. I think of Death; if anyone could rightly protect me in this moment, it’s her. I scan and scan for the pale horse and it’s rider, but there are too many bodies, both on the ground and flying at each other in the air.

Coach cries out, and I turn back to the main event. Coach holds one arm, light shimmering blood dripping on the ice. His breathing is heavy, chest rising and falling. Michael aims a good kick at his chest and Coach is down.

Get up.

Michael stalks towards him; Coach grimaces.

Get up.

Michael kicks away Coach’s sword from his reach.

Get up.

Michael steps on Coach’s chest and Coach cries out in pain.

“Get up!”

I sprint towards them, deflecting and dodging around everyone and everything who starts or is still aiming for me.

“Hyun!” Is that Death? Michael raises his sword high -- the archangel slaying the dragon -- point down, and I thrust out my hand, “Don’t!” like that’ll stop him.

What am I thinking: a human kid against the archangel to end all archangels?

A flash of fire. Uriel appears with his flaming sword, yelling something I don’t understand, though his tone is pretty obvious. The staff Coach gave me feels colder than before, but it doesn’t bother me; I sweep it upwards and the ends of my fingers begin to tingle and spark from its coldness. From above I feel the heat of Uriel’s sword as he swings it down at my head. Death and War rush at him from both sides, but they’re too far away, too slow; Gabriel and Raphael and even U-re trail them from the air.

And too far out of my own reach, Michael brings down his sword to Coach’s heart.