The clock in the coffeeshop, a little digital thing, begins to chime sonorously, deeply, sounding out the hour.

It is, incidentally, 1979.

An aged voice whispers into Renosham's head: "Come below. We must talk."

Reno folds his newspaper with calm precision, pays for his espresso, and puts on his pimp shades as he walks out of the coffeeshop.

There is, naturally, a set of stairs leading downwards next to the coffeeshop, hugging the wall of the shop and the direction of the sidewalk and street.

Reno struts on down the stairs, bell-bottoms swishing around his ankles.

Hell, as it often is, is approximately fifty feet below Bethesda, and the staircase, with neat, ninety-degree bends, spirals downwards into the Abyss. (And, most specifically, the Archives.) Of course, with Calabite wings, one hardly needs a staircase; it depends, one supposes, on the formality of one's mood and the strength of one's attachment to Vessel-form.

Reno is not terribly attached to his vessel-form, and slowly transits to his normal greased-hair-and-bat-wings Celestial form as he descends the stairs. The suit stays, though, butterfly collar and all. His Bleak Lord did not state that it was an urgent matter, though, and there is all the time in the world. Hence, he walks.

In the troposphere of Hell, the inhabitants below become more visible - scurrying Lilim, squelching Shedim, and stalking Habbalah. There are also one or two imps polishing the stairs and the rails.

Renosham picks an imp up by the wings as he passes, and lifts the critter to eye level. "Hello. Where is our Prince at the moment?"

The tallest stacks, associated with the oldest subjects - sex and politics - reach this height, although they are some distance away horizontally.

The imp shrills, "Down, milord. Down and down and down."

Renosham twists part of his browridge into a question mark. "All the way down?"

The imp ponders this question. Then it says, "Just above it, milord."

Renosham drops the imp. Damn. This is heavy, if He is all the way down there. A strong flex of his wings carries him over the banister, and he begins the gliding descent down the centre of the staircase.

Around seven miles above the bulk of Hell - three above the tallest spire of Shal-Mari - the Greater Stacks fill in and then rise past the horizon. These focus on subjects dear to Hell, as hate; or dear to Heaven, as purity. The bulky and over-full filing cabinet in which Kronos' copies of Asmodeus' files are stuffed stands as an unsightly contrast to these gloomy but traditional shelves.

Around three miles above the bulk of Hell, starting one centimeter above the tip of Andrealphus' palace - albeit in a somewhat different location - the vast sweep of Kronos' Archives truly takes form. Now, every subject can be found, and the demons shuffling, sorting, filing, refiling, and (on rare occasions) studying are of the lesser and unDistincted breed.

Renosham drifts downwards, ever downwards.

Roughly level with the battlefields of Gehenna, the structure of Kronos' "operations" takes form - the warriors and interventionists who wait and watch for emergencies, the Tether staff, the training centers, and the planning rooms. These hide in nooks and crannies stuffed at odd angles in the stacks, but one does not have to see them; one can feel their presence as one passes.

Renosham descends still. He must reach the bottom. He leans forward, tucking his wings tight against the polyester of his suit, going into a dive for the sake of saving time, past another dozen levels.

A mere mile below Sheol, a full six miles above the entrance to the deepest Abyss - that is, the Lower Hells - an Impudite Knight swelled with self-importance and clothed in black silks flutters towards Renosham. "Your course?" he cries. "Your purpose?"

Renosham snaps his wings out, an instant braking maneuver that takes such an infintesimal amount of time that only his Prince could measure it. "I have been summoned."

The Impudite weighs this statement for flaws, clothing fluttering slightly in the wind. Then he says, softly, "Ah." After a moment, he adds, "You may go. Beware; our Prince is generous today."

Specks of white swirl in the darkness of the Library Below.

Renosham nods, having welded his terror into emotional armour a Habbalite would be proud of in the descent to this point. He furls his wings again, and continues ever down.

Four miles below Perdition, it is snowing, and the cold is bitter, and the books are rimed with frost. The demons who move here, as dark and majestic as glaciers, pay no mind to Renosham, but this is no insult; they move without regard for the others of their kind as well. One, passing almost near enough to touch, and too fast to avoid, has no eyes.

Renosham offers a silent prayer to the First of the Damned, asking that please, let him not be due for a 'promotion'.

Six miles below Hades, one mile before the end, two shapes are visible in the white, not by sight, for the winds and snows are blinding, but by sheer force of presence: a respectable and quiet man, old and black-garbed, whom Reno knows as Lord; and another, a man of some power, turned to motionless but living ice by the cold.

Renosham opens his wings to drift again, coming down a distance from the two, showing a healthy level of respect and subservience.

Kronos turns, and the snows that rage through this space no longer touch Renosham; instead, they flinch away from the Calabite's skin.

Kronos says, "Welcome, Renosham."

Renosham keeps his eyes on his elevator shoes. "I have come at your call, Inevitable One."

Kronos' eyes are deep and lustrous black, with the reflection of the snows and Renosham in them; although neither Renosham nor the place seems to be the same. The Calabite appears older, in the reflection, and on a mountainside, and his intestines are strewn messily along the slope; three harpies argue over a single piece of them.

Kronos says, "It is your birthday, Renosham. Is it not amazing how time passes?"

It wasn't Renosham's birthday when he left Earth, at least not as best as he can recall.

Kronos says, "I have been told that it is a custom, on a birthday, to give gifts."

A flicker, and the image in Kronos' eyes changes. Now, Renosham is sprawled half-in and half-out of a cauldron of boiling water, a leering Malakite behind him holding his upper body under.

Kronos murmurs, "I have been informed correctly, yes?"

Renosham says "That is my understanding, Ceaseless Lord."

Kronos nods pleasantly. Something blurs up beside him and then blurs away, faster than any hummingbird.

Kronos says, "If you study the shelf beside your left hand, you will find a box. I have kept it at a bearable temperature for you. It is yours."

Renosham lets his eyes slide to the left, fully expecting to see the shelf that was not there before.

There is, in fact, such a shelf. Cloaked in dimness, but a shelf; one of the Greater Stacks, studying - Destiny, from the feel of it. A small black box, metal, sealed, with an intricately carved silver logo on the top, sits among the books.

"Thank you, Cold Prince." Renosham reaches for the box, inwardly preparing for any sort of nasty effects on his flesh when he takes it.

There are no nasty effects on the flesh. The box has a radiant aura of despair and agony, but this does not transfer itself to Renosham; it simply radiates, one prolonged and silent scream that shows no sign of ending.

Kronos says, "It is a reliquary, Renosham."

The image in Kronos' eyes flickers. The leering Malakite is now breaking Renosham on the rack. It looks painful.

Renosham examines the box, noting the size and shape, salient features. "I am honored, my Lord."

>> Renosham says "Must...ignore...urge to run screaming."

Kronos says, "The salient feature of a reliquary, Renosham, is that once a day you may pull a point of Essence from it." He wraps his hands over the top of his cane, and taps his right index finger on his other hand. "It does not matter how it functions. It does not matter what is inside the box. All that is important is that you may draw a point of Essence from it once a day."

Kronos says, "I do not require that you remember this." Another hummingbird blur fits up to him and away again. "I simply suspect that you will find it useful."

Renosham says "I concur, Lord."

The cold still figure beside Kronos moves, every motion gentle. "I would also like to give a gift," it says. For half a second, Renosham catches himself reflected in the ice of the figure's eyes, being drawn inevitably into a pool of viscous incarnadine liquid, bubbling, clingy, and apparently acidic to the touch.

Renosham blinks, daring to look up at the figure in surprise. He immediately regrets it and goes back to watching the snow avoid his feet. "I would be honored by such."

Kronos murmurs, "Ah. Renosham, Yves. Yves, Renosham. Welcome to the party."

Kronos murmurs, "You may speak your mind, Renosham; you will not be chastised."

Renosham racks his brain for 0.023 seconds for a proper address, and manages "Greetings, Reflective One."

>> Renosham isn't afraid of being chastized. He's afraid of being this close to the Pit with both sides of the universe looking at him with various painful forms of death in their eyes.

Renosham nods. "I feel, Lords, that there is more at issue here than the anniversary of my creation."

Yves half-smiles. In his eyes, a flicker of an image: Renosham, in a void colder than space, discharging his SMG at full auto into his own chest. Kronos' show the slightly less disturbing scene of Renosham struggling valiantly against a Gehennan demon despite the gaping wound in his side.

Yves says, calmly, "It has come to my attention that a problem will materialize in 1999, the year in which God is to father his second human child."

Renosham says "A second Messiah?"

Yves says, "We feel it best to take steps to alleviate this problem now, rather than attempt a slipshod solution later."

Kronos inclines his head. "He will unite the world."

Renosham nods. This is comfortable ground for him. Eliminate a problem before it's a problem. No problem. The specifics are a bit weird, but the work is the same. "How may I serve your best interests?"

Yves says, "I am granting you a Vessel of angelic make; it may be uncomfortable at first, but you will grow used to it over the next few years. It does not have a Role, but I have taken steps to preserve your current Role through this discussion."

There is a nagging, slowly fading discomfort. Difficult to place.

Renosham nods, slowly working his way back into stoicism instead of abject terror as he rationalizes the experience as Just Another Briefing.

Kronos reflects. "I did not invite your friends," he says, abstractedly. "I shall provide you with a last gift, to rectify this oversight; then, we shall get on with your duty."

Yves' eyes show a momentary vision of Renosham emptying a clip into Gabriel, but the view is too brief to see what happens afterwards.

Renosham momentarily considers his friends to be lucky, but nods to Kronos. "Of course, my Lord."

Kronos says, "Have you ever been tempted to join the other side, Renosham?"

Renosham says "Never, my Prince."

Renosham says this with full confidence, because well, it's the truth.

Kronos says, "How strange." His eyes show an image of a Shal-Mari crowd stoning Renosham; his wings are tattered and his expression has gone numb and sad.

Renosham says "I never thought of it as such."

Kronos says, reflectively, "Should events in the coming mission tempt you thus, know that you have my permission to become Bright."

Renosham blinks. "I will remember that."

Kronos nods. "Very well, your orders. I will be returning you to Pleasant Valley, Mississippi, on January 18th, 1999. You are to bear witness to the conception of the savior on January 29th, 1999, when God visits Mary Olson of said town. Others there may assist you, or call upon you for assistance; you will know them by a mark upon their brow."

Renosham says "I am only to bear witness?"

Kronos says, "You are to make sure that the conception comes about. And, if all fails and the cause is doomed, you are to be in Mary Olson's house on the night of the 29th in hopes that a miracle will save you."

Renosham swallows. "I understand."

Yves murmurs, "And assist those with the mark; they shall also assist you."

>> Renosham says "Happy birthday to me."

Yves' eyes and Kronos' eyes flicker, and then one image shines in both of them. Renosham stands in a Cathedral in Heaven, and an unbearable brightness approaches. There is a pure clarity to the vision that shows it is not 'a possible future'. It is his Destiny. And his Fate.

Then the life fades from Yves again, and the cold figure stares off quietly into space.

Kronos raps his cane sharply against a chunk of ice. "It is now January 18th, 1999. You may return to Earth at your leisure."

Kronos says, "Your Role appears to have relocated to Mississippi."

"With your leave then, Lord, I will ascend immediately."

Kronos nods. "You may go."

Renosham goes. Like a, well, like a bat out of Hell.

Renosham decides, for the sake of knowledge, to take his new vessel when he arrives Earthside.

The Calabite appears on Earth, in a small car zooming along the road, hands on the wheel, black box on his lap, in Pleasant Valley, Mississippi. His new Vessel is - female. A natural redhead. A nice dresser. Not overwhelmingly gorgeous, but nothing to sneer at. How strange.

Rena blinks. "Er."

Rena pulls her car off the road at the nearest clear shoulder. Time to sit down and shake for a few minutes, maybe go break something.