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I am well: I am the great in power,
my eyes are given to me, and I am transfigured.
What is this, going on its belly, your strength at your mountain?
Look at me, I have gone against you; your strength is with me.
I am the one who raises strength. I have come and taken the earth gods for Ra.
I have rested in the evening, at the circling of this sky.
You are in your chains.
This is the order for you from the beginnings.
The Book of the Dead, Spell 149
There’s a storm brewing over Cairo.
It’s been hovering over the horizon line for days - it began with just a hint of white wisps doing their best to thicken, and it grew, and kept growing, until there was nothing to the west but a layer of dark, heavy clouds, with swirling winds and vapors enough to suggest some great turmoil within.
But, they do not break.
For a week, they do not break.
There are almost never rainclouds over Cairo, and never for a whole week straight.
With each day that passes, the people of the city grow more and more nervous.
They theorize endlessly. They say that there was some great storm in the desert, or in the north - that the clouds came from over the sea. Some say the rain will never come - that the front will grow, and grow, and then one day the veil will simply dissolve, fading back into the sky as if it had never been at all.
Some say that it’s an omen - a curse.
They whisper that the people never pay any attention to the earth anymore - that the traditional ways are dying off, abandoned, and that this storm is just the beginning of the old world fighting back against its destruction.
In fact, it is neither a storm, nor a curse.
It’s cover.
The angels, called down from the heavens above by their commander, are preparing to intervene in the lives of a few locals.
The orders came all the way from Raphael himself, though they’re not accompanied by any hint of what their purpose is - no discussion of why the angels ought to intervene.
They simply state where to go, what to do - who to save.
Or, as Gabriel comments, for what must be the fiftieth damn time (with the fiftieth damn metaphor) -
“Ol’ Ralphie sounds the horn and all us hounds go running.”
“We’re not dogs,” Balthazar mutters, letting his wings flare and fall again, same as he’s been doing for hours now, trying to combat the boredom of just standing here.
“What’s wrong with dogs?” Gabriel counters. He’s lying on his back along the low wall, wings already tucked away into the ether, tossing the golden cuff that is their charge up into the air.
“Nothing,” Balthazar sighs, a hint of exasperation sneaking into his tone as he stares out over the dunes. “Yet still I bear no relation to one.”
“You’re not a dog?” Gabriel asks, sitting up straight, catching the cuff as it hurtles through the air back toward his face. “Are you sure, Balthazar?”
“Quite sure,” Balthazar turns his unimpressed expression on his companion. “Nor am I a lackey, or an acolyte, or a golem, or any of the other mindless beings you’ve named which exist only to serve their masters.”
“Mindless.” Gabriel snorts, letting himself fall back flat along the wall. “You clearly never met Yossele.” And, when Balthazar goes back to ignoring him, “What are you then?”
“I am an angel,” Balthazar says shortly, letting his wings beat, pumping up several plumes of dust. “That is all.”
“Don’t think they’ll buy it,” Gabriel mutters.
But he goes back to tossing the cuff, and for a long while neither he nor Balthazar speak.
It’s still dark out, the stars bright in the sky, when the men of letters finally arrive.
Three of them - two new recruits, Arthur Ketch and John Winchester, and one old hat, Rufus Turner.
And with them, they have -
“Mary Campbell.” Hunter.
“Mary,” Gabriel coos, turning her attempt at a handshake into a kiss pressed atop her fingers. “I knew someone by that name, once.”
The hunter just gives him a cool quirk of her brow, her hand retreating to rest on the handle of the scimitar at her side.
The three men of letters, meanwhile, continue to hang back.
“Rey,” the older one - Turner, says, his eyes fixed on Balthazar even as he speaks to Gabriel. “Since when do you keep company with the non-human?”
“Hm?” Gabriel turns, as if only just remembering Balthazar’s there. “Oh, don’t worry about him. Buddy of mine owed me a favor, let me borrow his little helper for a bit. He’s leashed, promise - won’t do nothing without my say so. Watch this - Bal, give ‘em a little loop-de-loop.”
Balthazar grits his teeth, glaring over at Gabriel.
He knew, going into this mission, that - since he, unlike the arch-angel, can’t alter his form on this plane - he’d be easily identified as a non-human creature, and that, as such, they’d need to put the humans at ease about his identity.
It doesn’t make it any less degrading.
But he lets his wings spread, and does a quick twirl through the air, throwing Gabriel another flat look when he lands.
“Bravo,” the idiot grins at him.
“What is he?” one of the men of letters - Winchester, maybe, asks.
“Half Simargl,” Gabriel says, before Balthazar can speak. “He’s lucky - he got the good half. His brother’s all dog, no wings.”
This vessel’s teeth are going to be ground into dust before the night is through.
“And why exactly do you need a ‘little helper’?” Turner asks, his eyes narrowed. “You know something we don’t, Rey?”
Gabriel shrugs.
“All those non-human things are way harder to kill than little old me. I like having a bit of a shield when I’m off doing dangerous missions.”
“You’re expecting danger?” the young hunter asks, watching Gabriel carefully.
“I expect everything,” Gabriel replies, tapping his nose and winking at her. “Never much liked surprises.”
“Alright, enough chatter,” the other young man of letters says, and thank god he has some strange accent, so Balthazar can at least tell them apart when they’re talking. “Do you have the artifact?”
Gabriel holds up the cuff, and the men hold up their torches, peering at it.
The one with the accent reaches for it, but -
“Ah ah,” Gabriel says, quickly pulling it back to nestle against his chest. “I agreed to let you lot make use of its services, but that doesn't mean you’re getting your hands on it. I will accompany you on your little mission, and I will be the only one using the cuff.”
The man who had reached out scowls.
“I,” he says, “am the premiere artificer of the men of letters, I have a vast expertise with all sorts of antiquities, I can - ”
“You could have knowledge spewing out both ends,” Gabriel says. “Don’t change the fact that you aren’t touching my cuff.”
“Mr. Pesh,” the man replies. “I can assure you I am highly qualified to handle the artifact. In fact, I think in comparison to yourself - ”
“Why is he still talking to me?” Gabriel turns to the older man, Turner, who snorts in response.
“Excuse me,” the man splutters, and Gabriel turns back to face him - most likely to insult him again.
But the other young man steps forward, a hand on the first’s arm.
“Let it go, Ketch,” he says quietly.
The man - Ketch - and Balthazar mentally applauds himself for guessing correctly - grumbles, but he lets the other man, Winchester, pull him back a step - though he’s still a bit red in the face.
Gabriel shoots Balthazar a look, and he would return it, but he catches sight of the hunter watching him, and forces his face to stay neutral, instead.
“So,” Turner says after a moment. “Now that we’re all clear on who’s doing what, we ready to move?”
“Can’t he just fly us there?” Ketch mutters, still glaring over at Gabriel and Balthazar.
Balthazar’s wings flare, and he lets them flap, just once, shooting a spiral of sand into the air toward the men of letters.
“You could ask him,” Gabriel grins. “But, personally, I’m not really sure I’d risk it.”
They end up riding out on their camels - including Gabriel, who magics one up somehow. Just one, of course - and Balthazar gets the privilege of flying ahead, with Gabriel calling out instructions occasionally, under the pretense of Balthazar needing to be directed.
It’s ridiculous, having to wait until Gabriel’s say so to make his way forward, but it does give him the excuse to fly a little looser - a few more spins, a chance to ride the wind a bit without really going anywhere.
They travel through most of the day, and are halfway to their destination by the time night falls and they break to make camp. Gabriel sets up his tent a slight step away from the others, grumbling all the while about how difficult humans make everything.
He attempts, several times, to order Balthazar into helping him - and Balthazar fumbles it repeatedly, so that every time he’s worse off than before.
Finally, Gabriel just waits until the others are unloading extra provisions from their camels to magic the damn thing into place.
It’s a clear night - they’re far away enough from the city, now, that the ‘storm’ clouds are merely a shadow in the distance.
A chill descends on the dunes, yet even with the fire they use to cook their food and keep warm, the stars above are clear and bright in the sky.
The hunter, Mary, spends most of the evening speaking with Rufus, while Ketch spends it needling Gabriel for information about the cuff - trying to impress his knowledge upon the angel. The other man, Winchester, seems caught between watching Ketch with exasperation, and watching the hunter with a reserved interest.
He’s the first to retire, though - then Rufus and Mary, then Gabriel - after loudly and clearly commanding Balthazar to sleep - so that Ketch is the only one left awake with the flame.
It’s not long - maybe an hour later - that Balthazar hears the man approach Gabriel’s tent.
He watches, peeking out from underneath the wing draped over his front, as Ketch sneaks his way in, easily procuring the cuff from where Gabriel had ‘hidden’ it.
And sees, with bated breath, the man emerge again, and begin to fiddle with the cuff - until, with a few choice incantations, he’s able to get it to open enough to fasten it around his wrist.
The cuff begins to glow, then, while the man starts chanting furiously - at the same time the air around him is moving, some sort of wind rushing in, drawing sand up and around him in waves.
The glow, the wind, the chanting - they all grow in intensity at the same pace, until the others emerge from their tents, and Balthazar stands, no longer forced to pretend to be asleep.
And they all watch, as the cuff lifts, and the man’s body follows, rising into the air.
Rufus and Mary are talking with Gabriel, trying to figure out what to do, while Winchester is shouting up at Ketch to take the damn thing off - but Balthazar knows, without question, that it’s too late.
There’s another brief moment of the spellwork gathering force, and then the night explodes - a shining beam of light shooting up from the cuff into the sky.
It burns bright - too bright for any of the humans to look at it directly.
And, with one final rush, the energy dissolves. Though the pillar of light remains, dimming slightly with each moment that passes, the body of the man, Ketch, falls from the sky, corpse burned to a crisp.
And the cuff, in perfect condition, rolls from his wrist as he lands in the sand.
The humans rush to him, as Gabriel turns to Balthazar.
“That’s us done then,” he says quietly with a wink.
Balthazar just rolls his eyes, and Gabriel goes to join the humans, feigning concern over the late man of letters.
Even in the dead of night, the sky is still flickering, faintly, with the remnants of the light from the pillar, smoke rising lazily through the air from where it struck.
At first Balthazar is listening, dimly, to the human’s futile arguments.
But, staring off into the distance, his eyes narrow slightly.
There’s a thin line of dust rising - not from Cairo, where they came.
From the desert.
It’s easily mistaken as part of the smoke still spiraling through the air, but the longer Balthazar stares at it, the more certain he becomes.
Because the dust - it’s not white, like the smoke, nor tan, like the sand.
It’s black.
“Rey,” Balthazar says, moving back towards the others, using Gabriel’s ridiculous excuse for a code name.
And again, when he doesn’t respond.
“Rey!”
Gabriel just flaps a hand at him, still arguing with the other humans on whether he could’ve warned the idiot as to what would happen if he messed with the cuff.
Balthazar allows it for another minute, watching the black dust heave closer through the night sky, until -
“Gabriel,” he hisses, and that -
That gets all of their attention.
The humans are watching them suspiciously as Gabriel turns to face Balthazar, anger in his expression, but Balthazar merely points out over the desert.
Gabriel’s gaze follows. He doesn’t see it for a moment, until he does, and then his eyes go wide, at the same time his mouth thins.
“Get on your camels,” he barks at the humans.
“What - ” Rufus begins, but -
“MOVE!” Gabriel shouts, and there must be some hint of the angelic commander he never wanted to be in his voice, because they - all of them - jump to obey.
The camels can rush, when properly motivated, but Balthazar is still able to fly ahead, doing his best to scope out the landscape for somewhere that might give them cover.
He finds a place, finally - some caves up ahead, and the humans look immensely displeased when they arrive, at being asked to leave their camels outside, but there is truly no time for their misplaced sentimentality.
“Inside,” Balthazar hisses, “and perhaps you’ll live long enough to see a camel again.”
Once inside the caves, Balthazar and Gabriel both rain down enough force to shatter the rocks at the entrance, plunging them into darkness and securing them within.
For a moment, there’s just silence - just the grinding noise of the rocks settling.
Then a flame flickers to life - the hunter, Mary, holding a small torch in her hand.
Rufus turns to Gabriel and Balthazar.
“Would you two like to explain what in the hell is going on?” he hisses.
The two angels exchange a glance.
Gabriel shrugs.
“Demons,” he says, turning back to Rufus.
“Bull,” Rufus replies. “We’ve tussled with demons before - ain’t nothing the five of us couldn’t handle.”
“We’re not talking about the sniveling deal-makers,” Balthazar shoots back. “There’s only one type of demon that can move a hoard like that - outside a vessel, over such miles.”
“Knights of hell,” Gabriel says. “Commanders of the underworld’s armies.”
“What do they want with us?” Mary asks, eyeing the pair.
Gabriel and Balthazar exchange another look.
Because that -
That’s certainly a question.
But -
“Above our pay grade,” Gabriel shrugs.
“Hold on,” the other man of letters - Winchester - finally pipes up. “Who even are you? You told use your name was Rey, but he called you - ”
“Gabriel,” Rufus finishes, staring at the angel.
Gabriel sighs.
And shrugs at Balthazar, because - yeah.
They’re gonna have to wipe them anyway.
What a disaster.
“Used to be called Reshep - Rey Pesh, get it?” Gabriel pulls his wings from the ether as he speaks, stretching them and flapping them as wide as they can go in the small cave. “Mostly known by Gabriel now.”
The humans just stare, for a moment.
Then -
“Are you angels?” Mary asks breathlessly.
“We are indeed,” Gabriel grins at her. “And we need to get you lot out of here before those demons show up.”
“They can get through that?” Winchester asks, nodding at the caved-in entrance.
“They can get through anything,” Balthazar says. “When they have a mind to.”
“So,” Gabriel claps his hands at Balthazar, “what do you think?”
Balthazar stares at him, for a moment.
Then he sighs.
“You’ll take them back to Cairo,” he says. “And call for reinforcements. I’ll distract the demons in the meantime.”
“Uh,” Gabriel says. “No offense, but that sounds like a terrible plan.”
“It’s the only plan,” Balthazar shoots back. “You’re a stronger flier, you can get them out of here faster.”
“Why don’t we both just go?”
“Because the second we transport out of this cave, the demons will be on our tail again,” Balthazar hisses. “I stay here, keep their attention here, you get them out and call for bloody help.”
“Bal,” Gabriel starts, but Balthazar shakes his head.
“Just go,” he says. “We’re wasting time already.”
Gabriel stares at him, for another moment - clearly trying to think it through.
But there’s no helping it.
They can’t risk the humans - their mission was clear, if nothing else, on who was to survive the night.
“You’re not actually considering this, are you?” Mary says, watching Gabriel. “We can fight.”
“No,” Gabriel says. “We can’t.”
He takes a step toward Balthazar, and -
And pulls him into a hug.
A ridiculously human gesture, but Balthazar allows it.
“Coming right back for you,” Gabriel says in his ear, and Balthazar nods.
There’s a loud, scraping thump that sounds against the rocks piling the entrance, making them all jump.
“Give me your light,” Balthazar says to the hunter, who’s still staring at him in disbelief.
“But you - ” she starts, but Balthazar just snatches it out of her hands.
“Go,” he shouts at Gabriel, as another thump shakes the pile of rocks.
Gabriel grabs hold of two of the humans, the third holding one of the other’s hands, and then -
Then they’re gone.
And it’s just Balthazar, in the quiet of the cave.
Balthazar doesn’t expend all his strength on holding the rocks covering the entrance in place.
But he does spend some - just enough that the demons outside know there’s still someone within - know there’s an angel, specifically.
Just enough to keep their attention on him.
He continues holding the line, until, finally, he feels Gabriel reach out through the conscious stream the angels all share.
Humans are safe, his brother tells him. Going for back-up now.
Balthazar sends back his thanks, and then -
Then he realizes.
The demons aren’t pressing against the barricade anymore.
If they’re distracted -
He needs to distract them back.
He lets his defense fall - leaves the barricade open to their manipulation.
Not completely - just enough for them to think he’s made a mistake.
The rocks come crashing down in an explosion of dust and debris.
Balthazar coughs, using his wings to push the dust back and away, and watches, as a group of demons sidle their way into the cave.
They smile at him, and flash their eyes black, but he’s not worried about them - about any of them.
None except for the man in the center - the man who steps in last, slowly, over the settling rubble of rocks, and looks to Balthazar, whose wings are spread high, blade steady in his hand.
The demon smiles, slyly, and his eyes flash - not black, but yellow.
It’s Azazel, Balthazar tells Gabriel, sending off the thought quickly, desperately, before the knight demon’s eyes flash again, and a shrill ringing sounds throughout the cave - or maybe it’s just in Balthazar’s head.
None of the demons react at all, while Balthazar’s face is twitching, eyes squinting, arms shaking.
Everything inside of him is screaming at him to cover his ears - to screw up his face, his whole body, and disappear into the ether where that sound can’t follow him.
He glares up at the demon instead.
Azazel cocks his head.
And smiles again.
Then, the demons are on him.
He’s able to kill two, wound another, but there’s too many, in the end, for him to keep them off him for long.
It doesn’t help, either, that the knight demon keeps pressing that incessant ringing into his head - louder, more insistent, the sound jumping in volume every time he’s able to fight back against it.
He holds the demons off for as long as he can, but eventually they’re able to get him pinned - and one of the others that’s been hanging back moves forward.
Balthazar’s eyes are watering from the noise, but he can see, just barely, the man pulling a set of cuffs from a pack at his side.
They’re bright, etched with wardings, and Balthazar struggles hard, but he can’t do anything - can’t stop the demons from settling them around his ankles, his wrists.
The second they clasp shut, it’s like the world goes muted.
The ringing stops, but so does everything else - the earth, the wind, the breathing of the world - the murmuring, constant, in the background, of his brothers and sisters.
It’s all quiet, he can feel none of it - the thin tendrils of his magic hovering just out of reach.
He’s alone.
He feels -
He feels dizzy, unwell, and he flinches, startled, at the sensation of fingers touching his cheek.
It’s Azazel, crouched in front of him where he’s slumped against the wall of the cave, and he can’t use his hands or his feet but he tries to flap his wings at the demon, but those - those are being held down, too, by the others.
The knight smiles at him.
“Hello angel,” he says, delicately lifting Balthazar’s blade from his limp hands. “I’ve a few questions for you.”
Whatever the questions are, the demon doesn’t ask them.
Not right away - not until Balthazar’s vessel is dripping blood, cuts from his own blade strewn across his body, and he can feel his grace - thrumming, ready to jump in, to heal him - always hovering just slightly out of reach.
“There we are,” Azazel says, after flinging another cut across his chest. “I think you’re all primed up now, hm?”
Balthazar heaves in his breath, just trying to focus.
He has no idea what the demon’s talking about.
Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter as much as the way the man’s grinning at him, twirling Balthazar’s blade between his fingers.
“So, angel,” he says. “What were you doing out here in the desert on such a fine summer night?”
Balthazar just glares up at him.
The demon grins again, and leans over, but this time -
He doesn’t strike a cut across Balthazar’s vessel, this time.
He lines the blade up, and presses it deep into the joint of Balthazar’s right wing - and Balthazar screams.
And watches, in a muted kind of horror, as some small wisps of his grace rise up and fade, disappearing into the ether.
Azazel tsks.
“So eager to help you,” he says, “and you’re just out of reach.”
He presses the edge of the blade into one of the cuts on Balthazar’s vessel, making him hiss, and asks again -
“What were you doing, angel, out here in the desert?”
“Taking a midnight stroll,” Balthazar says through gritted teeth.
The demon hums.
“By yourself?”
“Do you see anyone else here?”
The demon shrugs, conceding - and then Balthazar’s screaming again, as the blade cuts deeper into the joint of his wing - deep enough now to hit the bone.
He pants, in the aftermath, eyes closed, because he can’t - he can’t watch his grace withering away, fading up into the stream of magic that circles the world.
“Now,” the demon before him says. “Why don’t I tell you what I already know - so we don’t have to waste time with you pretending to be ignorant. How does that sound?”
“Go on,” Balthazar says, “I’m sure it won’t take long.”
The demon laughs at that.
“I know,” he says, tracing the cuts that are already open on Balthazar’s skin, “that you’re here on orders from up high. I know that you were here with some humans - meddling in their affairs. All I need to know is which ones, and why.”
Balthazar snorts.
“Seems we’re both out of luck then, mate,” he says. “You know everything I do.”
The demon watches him, for a moment, eyes narrowing in thought.
“I can believe,” he says finally, “that you don’t know why you’re here. Your superiors never were much for transparency. But to claim that you don’t even know the humans' names?”
“Humans all look alike to me,” Balthazar says. “I don’t much care to tell one from another.”
The demon nods.
“A good argument,” he says, stepping closer again, which makes Balthazar’s breath catch. “But, angel, if you want me to believe it - I think you’re really going to have to convince me.”
He drives the blade in again, and he doesn’t stop, this time. The blade is flat - not notched - and yet still, perhaps due to the demon’s unnatural strength, he’s able to saw it down into the bone.
He doesn’t even pull it back, this time - just leaves it there, settled halfway down the bone of Balthazar’s wing, and Balthazar can’t scream any louder than he already is - can’t feel any more disconnected from himself, his grace, the world. And he knows, somehow - already, he knows.
There’s no coming back from this.
“Any names come to mind?” the demon asks, flicking the blade still embedded in Balthazar’s wing, making him keen.
But he shakes his head, breath heaving.
He squints up at the demon.
“Why - since when does a knight of hell care about humans?” he chokes out. “Why are you here?”
Azazel grins at him.
“We’re looking for someone,” he winks. “Someone special. So many potentials - don’t know yet which one’s the winner. But you angels, and your meddling. You keep leading us right to them.”
Balthazar grits his teeth, glaring up at the demon.
“You won’t find them,” he bites out. “I’m not going to tell you.”
“Oh, I know,” Azazel shrugs. “You’re so loyal. At this point, we’re just having some fun.”
His hand shoots out, jostling the blade until it’s loose, and he raises it high, and brings it down hard.
A splintering crack, a frenzied rush of magic, and Balthazar’s scream - all together they fill the room with sound, and light.
He feels lopsided, suddenly, and he crashes down to his knees, tears streaming already down his face, because he knows, he knows - why he feels so light, why the pulsing of his grace feels more distant than ever.
But he doesn’t look - even as he can hear the sound of feathers, can feel the meat of the severed limb settling onto the ground behind him.
He doesn’t look.
Dimly, he can hear the cacophony of demons laughing around him.
And in front of him, the creature’s very voice sounds like a sickly yellow fever.
“One down,” Azazel hums. “One to go.”
The demon continues asking him, as he hacks away at Balthazar’s left wing, about the humans.
Balthazar doesn’t even bother responding anymore.
He just screams, and tries to focus on anything other than the pain, in-between.
The demon drags this one out longer than he had the other - gradually sawing the full width of the bone, instead of breaking it off halfway.
Balthazar’s not sure which is worse.
Probably this - the way he can feel his grace leaking away with each drag of the blade, and god, at this point he hopes the others don’t arrive before the demon can finish him off.
It just hurts.
And it’s so human , the pain - he can’t heal it, can’t hide from it.
He doesn’t want it anymore.
The bone’s almost through - he can feel the weight of his wing dragging down on what little is still connected to his body, the vessel, when he’s left alone for some time longer than before.
He blinks his eyes open, to see the demons whispering to one another.
Nearby, there’s a sound like thunder.
Balthazar tries to watch - to keep his eyes open - but he’s losing himself.
He’s already lost so much.
He doesn’t realize, really, what’s happening around him - the demons holding back the angels trying to enter the cave.
All he knows is that Azazel is approaching him again, and the knight doesn’t cut at the bone, this time.
He just grabs Balthazar’s wing, which is somehow still flexing weakly, and twists.
And Balthazar’s screaming again - but it’s barely audible over the great rush of noise in the room - demons exorcized, angels flying in, the shriek of magic in the air as Balthazar’s grace is cut from him completely.
His body slumps forward, unable to hold itself straight, unused to the extreme absence of weight on his back.
He groans, at the feeling of hands on his face - at the grace that reaches out to him - another’s grace, and it burns, their healing - everywhere.
He’s hurt, and he screams again, until his voice is hoarse and his siblings put his body to sleep.
Balthazar was right.
There’s no coming back from it.
His grace is gone.
They can’t renew his wings.
They heal his body - the body of his vessel, his forever, now.
And their fight carries on without him.
His brothers and sisters visit him occasionally - always healing his aging vessel when they do.
But he’s no longer an angel - not anymore.
His mind is quiet these days - no stream of murmuring in the background.
No orders, or plots, or missions.
It hurts, at first, but he grows used to it with time.
It is much easier to enjoy the smaller, simpler - more human things, now.
But he does, at times, miss the fight - the thrill of being in the trenches with his fellow angels - of aiding the humans in doing what’s right.
So, when Cassie comes by -
Well, he gives the angel a bit of a hard time over it.
But he’s happy to answer the call.