The new apple does not come slowly.

To be sure, the apple comes in starts and stops, as people choose it for themselves or turn it down. But the Devil, more than anything else, is an idea. Group West and what's left of the Summer Scouts don't win in some bloody struggle against God and his Angels; they "win" because they live well, and lead by example, and the rest comes as a consequence.

The new apple is not an apple; it is the word people give to the idea of the Devil, when they meet the Adversary and take succor, when they find her and know her as an Advocate.

It has only been seven days and seven nights since Group West carved out a coming-of age in the span of hours. But people are already uncertain.

"We have to fly under the radar," Pollux says, conferring with Castor in bent voice and low tones.

"Or what?" Saturn asks. "The Church will come for us?"

"Yes!"

"Oh, please. This whole camp was the Church, and now look at it."

Castor grunts. "The camp counselors were mostly a bunch of bored college kids working to pad their resumes, born-again hipsters, and crotchety old men. Of course they couldn't do much to stop us."

He leaves it unsaid that the rest of the world does not consist of college kids and old men, but that doesn't really need to be spelled out. No-one wants to imagine how things might go wrong, the kind of trouble they could bring down all atop their heads.

The handful of the ex-counselors who have already eaten of the new apple don't disagree. One of them laughs, perhaps at herself.

"It's not about logistics," Jupiter mutters. She says it to herself, under her breath, but people still listen to her. It's become a novel experience, being taken seriously, being treated with respect. The last time people listened to her, that was when she was important, before she screwed up and got sent to the Summer Scouts. She wonders when she'll screw up again.

"What is it about, then?" Someone asks.

It almost hurts to put it in words, but really: what's even the point? What's the point of being the Devil, if you still have to live with the fear of God?

Every last bad kid in the camp got to where they are by being afraid of themselves. But they learned to be afraid of themselves because they were afraid of what grown-ups might do to him, and afraid of what God might do to them - and Jupiter knows that they'll never really get anywhere, if they stay afraid of grown-ups forever.

That's only a way to re-learn how to be afraid of yourself all over again.

"That's naive," someone says. But the funny thing is, he believes Jupiter anyways.

Summer finally ends, and they're all due back home. Group West is there at the edge of camp, to preempt their parents rather than let them go on in the dark, asking too many questions.

"I'm not going with you," Jupiter says. She's not going home with them because that wouldn't be home. She's not sure she has a home.

Jupiter's mother screams at her. She cries. She begs, and pleads, and quotes errant verses of the bible as if to assemble some new exorcism, to force the Devil out of Jupiter. But what exorcism would be enough, if you are the Devil? You can't force yourself out of yourself.

Jupiter's father takes it in stride, as if he'd expected this all along. Not thrilled, but accepting.

For a moment, Jupiter dares to hope.

"I know you're not happy," she begins. But her father shakes his head.

"If I was younger," he says.

Jupiter has never hated her father more. How can he not even try? She cares so much about him that it hurts, because even if she likes to linger on his lenience, she knows that he's not the kind of father than she needs. But she still cares about him, so why can't he care about himself?

The anger never goes anywhere, because she can see that her father isn't even there. He's off in his head, imagining a story about when he was young, and when he might have taken a different road. He's off in his head, imagining a story about when he was young, before he tried the same things that Group West are trying now, before he got thrown into a different, harsher kind of camp, before he got chained at the hip to a woman that he doesn't know how to love.

Maybe he's not even there, maybe he's not even in his own head. Jupiter has always imagined her father with a kind of verve, but it's not there, he's only going through the motions, and it makes her just as abysmally sad as she is bitterly angry-

"Goodbye," Jupiter says. Neptune takes her hand, and Venus the other, and then they're gone.

A few days later, twelve sharp young men in sharper clothes come down the road, bibles in hand, like every caricature of an evangelist you've ever imagined, from the foggiest fever-dreams of divine punishment.

Excuse me, do you have a moment to talk about our lord and savior, Jesus Christ?

No? Well, let us help you make some time...

This happens three more times, before Mars gets tired of having to keep rebuilding the front path, and they scare off the door-to-door preachers.

The Church gets a little bit more subtle after that, but not before things start to catch on. The Devil is an idea that spreads like wildfire.

"I'm not supposed to be talking to you, you know," the kid says.

It's two months into the depths of Autumn, and Neptune has already made her way across three states, pushing through water-ways and the water table. She's not in everyplace, not in every drop of sweet water, but she could be, if she thought of it. The Devil is indefinite; the Devil is imprecise.

Right now, Neptune is back at camp, running her fingers through Venus' hair, but she's also sitting in the bottom of a sink, in the middle of nowhere.

Just hours ago, the town around her was in a drought dry enough to kill. The land should be deprived, but there is always more water to go around, because there's always more of Neptune to go around, if she wants to extend a hand and watch rivers condense from the fine cracks in her skin.

In some sense, she'll always be just for Venus and Jupiter, but how can she not give something to this arid place? There is something soothing to give like this, even for her. It's soothing to give without also tearing down; she's so used to tearing people down, whether she thought she was doing it to be honest, or otherwise.

The people around here are suspicious, of course. They've heard the stories of the people who have drunk from tainted wells, and become monsters. There's something in the fucking water!

It's all a misunderstanding, though. No-one will drink from the tap and shed his skin like Gregor Samsa; the Devil is an idea that comes to you in the dark nights of the soul, when your throat is parched. The Devil isn't a poison to run away from.

The kid isn't as suspicious as the others. She stares down at Neptune, curious, rather than flinching away.

And Neptune rises from the sink like a serpent.

"If you're not supposed to talk to me, then why are you doing it?" Neptune asks. "Don't you worry about getting in trouble?"

"I'm always getting in trouble," the kid says with a scowl. "If I didn't do things because I thought I'd get punished for it, I'd never get to do anything."

"You don't say," Neptune laughs.

Miles away, someone asks her what's so funny, and Neptune stretches herself out, carrying on two conversations like a raindrop between two panes of glass.

"Who are you, anyways?" the kid asks.

Neptune mulls it over, and sloshes from side to side. "You first, kid."

"Janus."

"Well, Janus, I'm the Devil… but you can call me Neptune."

Janus looks at Neptune like Neptune looks at every adult who gives her shit. "You don't look like the Devil."

"And what does the Devil look like, exactly?"

"Meaner than you!"

"Oh, trust me, I can be very mean," Neptune drawls. Something in her tone of voice seems to put Janus off, but she doesn't completely back down.

"Well why aren't you being mean, then?"

"Do you really wanna know, Janus?"

Janus swallows. "I-I don't think so."

"That's fair," Neptune says, looking around. She and Janus are in a secluded bathroom, behind closed doors. "So why did you want to talk to me?"

Janus folds up her arms. "What, I'm just thirsty! I figured you'd talk or you wouldn't, and then I could know whether you were safe to drink."

Neptune smiles, wistful and distracted. She extends her arm, and water collects in a cupped hand.

"That's a little creepy. Can you put it in a glass, or something?"

"Sure, kid," Neptune says.

Janus drinks, and she doesn't become the Devil - certainly not for any reason as tawdry as having imbibed the Devil. There is no transubstantiation. But something happens, and it is this: Janus sees the Devil as kind.

Janus doesn't speak to Neptune many more times - or rather, Neptune doesn't speak to Janus many more times.

Neptune knows that there are some things you can't do for another person - you can't mature for another person, because it's always up to them to grow up, if they're going to grow up at all. You can't choose for another person, not in this way. You can't really become friends with someone, if you're the only one between the two of you who knows what friendship means.

And even if you can, maybe you shouldn't. Neptune might be the kind of person who can, but she certainly feels like she's not the kind of person who should.

And yet-

And yet, Neptune is busy. Neptune has this conversation three more times in the next week, with three different people.

Neptune doesn't exactly stop having this conversation.

It's the middle of winter, and the air is thin.

"Is there anyone left in this town who isn't the Devil?" Janus asks, two tongues lashing with frustration.

Less than half a dozen people raise their hands.