Shutting his eyes, Morningstar opened his hands, palms up. He looked like a supplicant. Wind battered him, whipping coppery hair around his head. His trench coat snapped in the barrage of air. The papers on my desk broke free of the blotter and swarmed around him like a miniature hurricane, with Morningstar as the eye.

In a thunder crash, Morningstar exploded. His body shattered into thousands of pure white pieces. The light stabbed my eyes, and I turned my head. Paper flew everywhere, slapping against my back ineffectually.

When I turned back around, Morningstar was gone, and my office was a mess of paper. I stared at the spot where Morningstar had been, incredulous. He was gone, just like that.

Moving out from behind the desk, I sat cross-legged in the spot Morningstar had stood and started cleaning up the debris. Residue warmth tingled beneath my legs. Collecting a stack of overdue tickets, I tried to decide if his disappearance was a good sign or a bad one.

I could interpret his last words in two ways. Either his work was done because I had been corrupted to his evil ways, or Satan really was an agent of God and was sent to bully me into some tattered semblance of faith. Forming a pile of all the papers I could reach, I concluded that I preferred the irony of the second option. An angel is still an angel, whether his message is pleasant or hurtful. Satan simply had the misfortune of always being the bearer of bad news.

The truth was, I did find it easier to believe the bad things about God, and my religion, than the good. Evil seemed possible and rational. It was not in the least bit fanciful to feel that dark powers lurked under the surface, ready to soil and destroy humanity. During secular times, Satan had remained a popular figure in the media despite the proclamation that "God is dead." Yet, Satan only exists if there is a God.

I had faith all along; my faith was just twisted, focused on evil. I, too, had fallen victim to the idea that goodness was just a myth, but that evil was powerful and real. Michael had been obvious in many ways when he first appeared to me, but I refused to see him for what he was. I had no faith that my life, or any life, was important enough to warrant the attention of an archangel, of God. So much so, it took the Devil to convince me that there was a God after all.

Pulling more papers toward me, I laughed. Michael was right about one thing. The problem with goodness was that it wasn't nearly as flashy as evil. Evil had the advantage of being dramatic and spectacular. It was easy to discount the goodness that wandered into your life wearing blue jeans and looking like something out of everyday life.

Too energized to be able to focus on the rest of the cleanup, I pulled myself to my feet. I wanted to talk to Michael. Tell him everything I'd realized.

As I reached for my backpack, my peripheral vision registered movement outside. A buzz vibrated at my temple, where the filament connected my LINK receptor to the armor. Strange, it was almost as if the uniform was trying to call me. But that was impossible, so I ignored the tingle.

I crept over to the window to look outside. A car sat conspicuously parked on the street. That a car should be on the street was strange enough, since no tunnel exited anywhere near my building. I always had to park in the lot connected to the second-story walkway, but that tunnel didn't exit out onto the street. A car would have had to travel for a kilometer from the nearest street-level traffic tunnel to park directly outside of my office. Once out of the electrified traffic tunnels, you had to rely solely on your battery. Most cars didn't have the power to stray too far. That is, except cop cars.

My temple ticked again. This time I decided to answer it. I mentally flipped the "go" command. A window opened in the right-hand corner of my vision.

I ought to kill you, Mouse said.

Excerpt from the New York Times, August 30, 2076.

You nearly did, I told Mouse. I kept my attention focused on the car outside. I tried to discern if there was anyone still in the car, or not. Are those your henchmen here to finish the job?

Who? What? Mouse asked. What do you mean? I've been in your armor hiding from Phanuel, since you and that Kantowitcz character broke into my hub.

I focused on the LINK window. I tried to figure out which Mouse I was talking to. The image had the same dark, ruffled hair and round ears as the real-time Mouse. It was impossible to tell by looking. Page?

You know someone else who can live in your uniform? The page smiled with Mouse's face. This, by the way, is a rocking sweet home away from home. Those Israeli's have great tech. I'm thinking about converting. Do you think they'd let an AI be a Jew?

I have no idea, I muttered. I don't have time to chat, page. I've got some possible company here.

Hey, the page said. I'm not some companion software programmed just for your entertainment, I called for a reason. I wanted to warn you about Mouse.

Thanks, I said, as I looked around the room for something to prop the door shut with. But, I already figured Mouse was out to get me when he pulled the gun.

The page looked hurt. He did? I take it the body went to New York?

Yeah. In the closet was a piece of plywood I was using as a makeshift shelf. I quickly brushed my shoes off it into a pile and pulled the board from its brick supports. Pushing the board under the doorknob, I tested it for strength. It would hold for a while. With that, I commanded the uniform's holographic defenses to on and headed out the window onto the fire escape; I started down the ladder. Even though I knew I was invisible, I kept twisting around to check that no one in the car noticed me.

Bummer. The page's voice startled me; I'd forgotten he was there. Dee, whatever you do, don't access the LINK. Phanuel is after me, and Michael. ...