Chosen side

Death stared at Adam.

"You . . . are part . . . of us," said War, between teeth like beautiful bullets.

"It is done. We make . . . the . . . world . . . anew," said Pollution, his voice as insidious as something leaking out of a corroded drum into a water table.

"You . . . lead . . . us," said Famine.

And Adam hesitated. Voices inside him still cried out that this was true, and that the world was his as well, and all he had to do was turn and lead them out across a bewildered planet. They were his kind of people.

In tiers above, the hosts of the sky waited for the Word.

("Ye canna want me to shoot him! He's but a bairn!"

"Er," said Aziraphale. "Er. Yes. Perhaps we'd just better wait a bit, what do you think?"

"Until he grows up, do you mean?" said Crowley.)

Dog began to growl.

Adam looked at the Them. They were his kind of people, too.

You just had to decide who your friends really were.

He turned back to the Four.

"Get them," said Adam, quietly.

***

Good Omens - Saturday