#were they really gone long enough to anyone but the occultists to notice?

[mzminola]

I think the best way to deal with the whole "Oh no how did the anti-ecto acts happen in this universe without the JLA intervening?" issue in Danny Phantom / DCU crossovers is just to have it been passed during that time Lex Luthor was president.

[theparanormalperiodical]

Top 10 Scariest Horror Films You Didn't Know Were Based On A TRUE Story feat. Trailers + Where To Watch

There’s something about horror films that are based on real events that just make me weak.

So weak, in fact, I’ve decided to spend the last *checks watch* one and a half years of my early 20s delving into the facts and the fiction haunting the horror genre. 

My parents must be so proud.

Most of these films wear the badge of ‘this is reality or close enough to it, anyway’ with dignity, leveraging gullible paranormalists like me to drive ticket sales. The Conjuring (2013) is just one of these films that is explicit in its basis in reality, going on to rake in 16 times its budget and inspiring me to delve deeper into my occultist journey.

(No, really, they’re so proud.)

But the ventures of Ed and Lorraine Warren are not the only experiences of horrifying and haunting events to be reinterpreted via the silver screen. There are some horror films you wouldn’t expect to have reality flushing through their veins.

Some of horror’s biggest hitters aren’t just living in your nightmares. They actually happened IRL.

Which is, ummm, fine, yeah, it’s not like I need to sleep anyway.

*Stay tuned to discover the horror films you didn’t know were based on true stories and the real accounts that inspired them.*

Jaws (1975)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U1fu_sA7XhE 

This cinematic classic follows the adventures of a great white shark as it terrorises the summer resort town of Amity. A couple of corpses later, and the local police chief, rookie marine biologist, and wild-card shark hunter track the beast down themselves.

Most horror films use a person or a story as a basis for a film. Jaws, however, is an amalgamation of experiences recorded by the writer of the novel inspiring the film, Peter Benchley.

Benchley admittedly had a life-long obsession with sharks and was inspired to write a book on a rogue great white after reading about a bloke called Frank Mundus.

"...in 1964, I read an item in a newspaper about a fisherman who harpooned a 4,500-pound great white shark off Long Island. I remember thinking at the time, Lord! What would happen if one of those monsters came into a resort community and wouldn't go away?”

Quint, the wild card shark hunter, was based directly on Mundus.

Another influence, although not referenced by Benchley, was the 1916 New Jersey shark attacks.

In high summer, five Americans were attacked by a great white off the coast of the Jersey Shore with 4 falling victim to their wounds. For the next 11 days, the same shark cruised along the 70 miles of the beach towns and small villages. The shark even performed the first shark attack reported in US history, countering the long-standing belief that sharks couldn’t bite through human bone.

(Spoiler alert: they can.)

When beach goers came to the beach early morning to discover the 3rd victim bitten in half, this was disproven. After that discovery - which bares a striking resemblance to the opening scenes of Jaws - the story hit The New York Times front page.

Just like the film the mayors tried to deny there was a deadly shark making the rounds to secure profit to their seaside resorts. And just like the film a swimmer was even mauled in an estuary.

It wasn’t long before they settled on the identity of the perpetrator and the locals set off with rifles and pitchforks.

(Not sure how useful they’d be against a shark, but okay.)

The shark met its end after it attacked one of the hunters’ boats, a scene we also witness in the film.

You can rent it for £2.50 on Amazon Prime.

Deliver Us From Evil (2014)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YWDM_p68HAQ

We follow a policeman who has a side gig as an exorcist as he encounters strange goings on in the Bronx. Ralph Sarchie chases up the paranormal activity and attempts to untangle why possessed people are painting ancient messages and images in various places.

Here’s the thing: none of this actually happened. As far as we know, anyway.

What this film is based on is the real Ralph Sarchie who wrote the memoir Beware The Night as an ode to his work as a demonologist. It’s based on his character, his tone of voice, and how he carried out his work.

Sarchie presents his work as his destiny, as some form of divine intervention he believes was signalled by his survival of a severe illness he contracted when he was 10.

He claims to carry a splinter of the ‘true cross’ - I guess the one Jesus actually died on - and considers himself more of a priestly figure armed with relics and holy water than a paranormal investigator.

Sarchie has worked on many possessions and hauntings, claiming he didn’t charge a cent despite the high fee he probably got from the book sales and the film’s debut. The most famous tale is that of the ‘Halloween Horror’:

A woman named Gabby began to see a woman floating in a cloud of white smoke in the corner of her bedroom. It wasn’t long before this smoky woman began to speak through Gabby according to her partner Dominick.

Gabby’s friend then says this was the ghost of a woman murdered on her wedding night. She then apparently saw the spirit of her father. Activity followed with flying books, moans and growls, and the word ‘HELP’ written on the mirror. Eventually an incubus rocks up and is hell bent on attacking various family members.

When Gabby gets possessed in the presence of Sarchie and his paranormal-busting-partner, he exorcises her of the spirit.

In total, Sarchie has assisted in 25 exorcisms and hundreds of ‘house exorcisms’.

You can watch it for free on Netflix.

The Blob (1958/1988)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TdUsyXQ8Wrs

*cue the canned screams*

In some rural town in America, a meteorite crashes to the ground. Someone investigates and a jelly globule attaches itself to their hand before consuming it. It then begins to consume their entire body. It’s not long before it starts to consume, well, everyone and everything in its path.

8 years before the horror icon first became a cult classic, two police officers in Philadelphia saw something float down from the sky. They thought it was a parachute and decided to investigate.

What they discovered was a six feet wide purple glob of odourless gloop. It was filled with crystals and gave off a mist. One of the police officers took the plunge - quite literally - and dipped a hand in. He kept the hand, but noticed the sticky residue left on his hands.

The gloop quickly disappeared and left the grass underneath it unbent. It was allegedly only there for 25 minutes. They were the only ones that saw it. It soon made its way into the press and the FBI asked the Air Force to investigate. They declined.

You can watch it for £3.50 on Amazon Prime.

Wolf Creek (2005)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8S13W69FQhs

Two British tourists are backpacking across Australia when they run into trouble in Wolf Creek National Park. A helpful local offers to help fix their broken down car and provide some shelter. Turns out the helpful local is actually a psychopathic xenophobic murderer. He entraps tourists, lures them to his shelter, and tortures/kills them.

Most gory horror films can be compared to real life murders and other crimes. Unfortunately, even the most imaginative forms of torture or murder has probably already happened. But the film was directly based on the backpacker murders committed by Ivan Milat in the 90s.

Milat murdered 7 people aged 19 to 22, preying on those encouraged to backpack across Australia after several tourism campaigns revealed how cheap and easy it was. In ‘92 and ‘93 the bodies were discovered in Belanglo State Forest with the wounds and injuries suggesting the scenes played out in film were similar to those Milat committed.

In late ‘93 a force dedicated to hunting the unknown killer emerged. It used gym memberships, gun licensing, and police records to narrow down a list of 32 suspects.

It was only when Paul Onions, a British backpacker reported he was nearly murdered near Belanglo State Forest that the police could pinpoint that Milat.

You can watch it for £2 on Amazon Prime.

Open Water (2004)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z9q1qJi1nMs

It’s everyone’s worst nightmare: being left in the middle of the ocean. A distant couple decide to take a relaxing break and head out for a scuba-diving vacation. Their holiday is ruined, however, when the guy driving the boat f*cks up the head count and thinks everyone is back on board after a diving sesh. The couple come back to the surface and discover the boat is gone.

Yep, this all happened in real life.

In 1998, Thomas and Eileen Lonergan went on a scuba diving trip to Australia’s Coral Sea. They were mistakenly stranded by the boat crew leading the dive and their absence wasn’t noticed until 2 days later when a bag containing their belongings was discovered.

The crew and other rescue teams searched the area but did not discover their bodies. Personal belongings were found.

A diver’s slate - a device for communicating underwater - was one of these items.

"Monday Jan 26; 1998 08am. To anyone who can help us: We have been abandoned on A[gin]court Reef by MV Outer Edge 25 Jan 1998 3pm. Please help to rescue us before we die. Help!!!"

The other items that washed up, including a wetsuit, suggested they had probably not fallen victim to shark attacks but had become disoriented, dehydrated, or injured by coral. Alternate theories claim it may have been a murder-suicide to avoid the slow, distressing death of being left at sea, or that it was a faked death/disappearance. No bank accounts had been tampered with, however.

Tougher regulations for scuba-diving in Australia shortly followed their disappearance.

You can watch it for free on Amazon Prime.

The Rite (2011)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_hG3ktopqv8

We follow exorcist-in-training Father Gary Thomas as he navigates the loss of this faith. When the opportunity for fighting growing demonic possessions arises, Thomas decides to become an exorcist. We see Thomas as he is confronted by evil and reaffirms his devotion to God.

Portrayed by veteran actor Anthony Hopkins, Father Gary Thomas is a real American exorcist - one of the 14 Vatican-verified exorcists working State-side. He did in fact study in the Vatican to become an exorcist, and another student he met there would chronicle his experiences in the book The Rite: The Making of a Modern Exorcist.

Thomas even spent a week on set advising the director, utilising his experiences of the 100 odd people he had seen possessed in his career.

Just like in the film, Thomas echoes that most people that come to him for an exorcism have been abused in their past, linking mental health issues to demonic attachment. Thomas also has a lot of praise for the film, claiming the way those possessed moved in a serpentine way is accurate to those he has seen:

“I was beginning to do some deliverance prayers. Within a few minutes she began to tremor and her facial countenance began to change. You saw a snake. She began sticking her tongue out like a snake and hissing and rolling her eyes. She coiled herself up.”

- Father Gary Thomas on a possessed Venezualan woman

You can watch this on Amazon Prime for £2.50.

The Silence Of The Lambs (1991)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W6Mm8Sbe__o

Anthony Hopkins refers to a staple horror film - a film with truth spilling like blood from a bloated corpse…

This psychological horror sees an FBI trainee as they work with an imprisoned serial killer to hunt down a murderer, Buffalo Bill. Add in just a dash of transphobia and we arrive at the film that made my parents actually walk out of the cinema when they first saw it.

First, let’s talk about Hannibal Lecter and his role as an advisor to the FBI: this has actually happened, using a seasoned killer to catch another. The most famous example of this is none other than Ted Bundy, one of the most infamous in history. Bundy told investigators to stake out the graves of victims or the places where bodies had been dumped as necrophiles like himself would return to the site.

Bundy actually helped them catch Gary Ridgeway who killed an estimated 90 people.

Now let’s turn to Buffalo Bill. The characters were never directly inspired by real people but their crimes were. He was an amalgamation of other crimes with Ed Gein serving as the main inspiration. Ed Gein, most known for skinning his victims and wearing the skins, took 9 lives and would also inspire the character Norman Bates.

He would make clothing out of body parts, make soup bowls from dug-up skulls, and build chairs from human bones.

Ted Bundy even made another appearance in Buffalo Bill’s character in terms of how he lures his victims, acting hurt and helpless until the victim was just within reach.

You can buy this film on Amazon Prime for £8.

Scream (1996)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AWm_mkbdpCA

This satirical slasher redefined the genre, putting comedy firmly into horror as we know it. It follows Sidney Prescott, a preppy high school student, as she navigates high school drama and a rampant serial killer.

Just like The Silence Of The Lambs, the crimes witnessed in Scream had basis in reality. Daniel Rolling - the Gainesville Ripper - was an American serial killer who murdered 5 students in Florida within the short span of 4 days back in 1990.

Rolling would sexually assault, rape, threaten, and kill his young victims before leaving them in ‘sexual’ positions. He even decapitated one of those murdered and left the head on the shelf opposite the rest of the body amongst other vile acts. He later claimed his motive was to become a ‘superstar’ like Ted Bundy.

Yeah, that’s enough of that.

You can watch this on Amazon Prime for £2.50.

The Hills Have Eyes (1977/2006)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CUQd9OB75dw

It’s time to hear about another vacay gone cray-cray. In the middle of a roadtrip to California, a family’s car breaks down in a mysterious area closed off to the public and they encounter a strange community of cannibals.

Instead of being based on modern crimes that hit far too close to home, this film is based on a historic event - or the legend of Sawney Bean.

Bean was a mythical leader of a cannibalistic group of insurgents in the 16th century. He grew up in a community of witches and later began his own community full of his children which he expanded with rampant incest. They would leave traps and eat their prey in a cave.

The King of Scotland, James VI, even led a team to root the family out of their lair. According to legend they were burnt at the stake while others were hung.

This tale also bears similarities to urban legends from Russia: there is a trope in the Southern Urals which claims after the Chernobyl accident irradiated peoples would become savage peoples, echoing the nuclear testing themes shown by the film.

You can watch this on Amazon Prime for £2.50.

The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1978)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BKn9QIaMgtQ

In this cult class gore-fest we see a group of friends visit an old homestead but instead run into a family of murderous cannibals.

Yet again the crimes of Ed Gein make an appearance. The friends walk in on a home full of furniture made of human remains and meet a man - Leatherface - wearing a mask made of human skin. We also witness various people butchered in different brutal ways.

But this film also has a more political inspiration. Tobe Hooper - the director, producer, and writer - pinned his inspiration on changes in the cultural and political landscape, focusing on misinformation that overran America during the 70s.

*looks into camera a la Jim from The Office*

Hooper pinned the claims of a true story onto the film, responding to how he felt he was being lied to by the government regarding things like Watergate, the 1973 Oil Crisis, and the Vietnam War. The news only confirmed the brutal acts of humanity.

"man was the real monster here, just wearing a different face, so I put a literal mask on the monster in my film".

You can watch this for free on Amazon Prime.

Well that was, uhh, fun?

If you enjoyed these traumatic discoveries - you know, that some of the most terrifying horror films of all time are based on real people and crimes - then make sure you like ‘n’ reblog to let me know.

I post a new article on horror and the paranormal every Saturday + a new real ghost story everyday so make sure you hit follow to tag along for the ride!

[thenightling]

What might have Been (Sandman fan fiction)

What might have Been...

Someone out there really does not want me to write Sandman fan fiction so naturally I must write more.  

This story was inspired by the fact that over on his Tumblr Neil Gaiman was asked on at least two occasions that if Alexander Burgess had freed Morpheus, would he still have been condemned to eternal waking or if he would have shown mercy? Both times Neil Gaiman answered that Morpheus would have shown mercy.  And yes, Neil Gaiman has a Tumblr.   So this is a story of what may have happened of Alexander Burgess had freed Morpheus back when he probably should have.

Note: This story does contain a depiction of early twentieth century homophobia and some period accurate slurs.  Based on my own personal experiences as a non-straight person I understand if the scene might make some readers uncomfortable.  However you might find the end result of what happens to the abuser somewhat cathartic.  

             What might have Been…

            The boy stared intently at the glass cage in front of him.  It was domed and rather egg-like in shape and tall enough to hold a man or something very man-like.  The leadened quartz-crystal was as clear as any well-made window.  Alexander Burgess watched the creature with the fascination of a child watching a pet lizard in a terrarium.  

           The naked being in the cage stared back at him with cold intensity and a proud contempt as well.  The creature was pale as chalk, and his eyes were like back pools of water with twin stars serving as pupils floating in the darkness.  Later Alex would be able to compare this vision to the claimed “Grey” alien encounters he would read about in grocery store tabloid magazines.   One stark difference from those creatures though was that this creature had a shock of wild, black, hair that reminded Alex of a disorderly pile of raven feathers, thick and heavy hair that framed the pale face staring out at him from behind the glass.  The creature was improbably thin.  It was clearly intelligent and generally humanoid.              If Alex hadn’t seen the summoning for himself, if he had not detached himself so thoroughly from the alienness of this entity, he might have even found him beautiful or attractive. But all potential for that had been lost to fear and the unavoidable and frightening knowledge that this was not a human being.

           Alex did not know why he found The Creature so fascinating.  He had discovered who and what the creature was in the Paginarum Fulvarum.  The King of Dreams.  That revelation had somehow not resolved his sense of curiosity. This was the being accountable for everyone’s dreams, all of humanity’s secret fantasies and all those shameful imaginings that come late at night when people are at their most vulnerable.  For Alex there was a secret shame in his own dreams…

           “I hate you.” Alex whispered.  It was a childish proclamation but there was some hidden pain there.              The bony, wraith-like, creature moved his head slightly, acknowledging Alex’s words without responding verbally.  He never spoke to them.    

Alex wasn’t even twenty-years-old yet but he knew he was not like other men.  He was not “manly” by the usual definition of the term.  And he believed that if his father knew about his secret yearnings, his Desires… He would be disowned…

It was this thing’s fault, wasn’t it? The cruel bastard there in the box.  He was the one who gave him those dreams.  The dreams that Alex dared not describe to anyone.  Dreams of other young men.  The feel of their lips against his face.   The tingle through his scalp as the lips vibrate against his earlobe as something gentle and inviting was whispered into his ear.  Their affection, their touch, their love…              How Alex dreamt of that love, that sweet, terrible, sinful love.  And why?  Why was this such a taboo?  His father had used magick for so many cruelties.  He had even killed with it.  So why were his desires, ones that could never hurt anyone, considered to be so much worse?  …And who decided that a form of love could be deemed evil anyway?  Wasn’t love supposed to be ultimate redeemer?  The ultimate absolution?  As far as young Alex was concerned humans and the powerful beings that governed the universe- they were all hypocrites.  All of them!  Hypocrites who took pleasure in the befuddlement of others by tempting them with …with deviant dreams…

 Alex had enough of staring at the alien-like boogeyman there in the cellar.  He got up off the cold, damp, floor where he had been seated, eye level with the crouching, naked thing.   Almost staring each other down, as if in a contest of wills neither was entirely sure about.   Alex stood up.  Unlike the pale creature imprisoned there, Alex could leave.  He could leave at any time.   …Then why did he feel just as trapped as if he was the one in the glass bubble?

The months passed and not much had changed.  Alex had grown a bit, but that was normal.  He had read somewhere that some men grow until they’re twenty-five. He was taller, leaner.  He discovered he needed spectacles, which wasn’t too surprising.  He had squinted often when reading father’s dusty old books.        

One thing was different though.   Father had hired a new gardener.  A pretty, red-haired boy, barely Alex’s own age.  And Alex had the distinct feeling that perhaps this young man was also… different.  Different in his capacity to feel for men what most men usually only feel for women (or so Alex believed).

It was a warm summer afternoon when Father finally took notice of Alex and the peculiar way he watched the gardener.  Alex, whom he often ignored.  Roderick Burgess found it distasteful and rather Crowley-esque that his own son should look at another man in that way.   He watched as Alex observed the gardener.  Roderick hoped what he was seeing here wasn’t what it appeared.   But it seemed so.   Alex was as infatuated with the near androgynous gardener boy in a way that he should only feel toward women.  Well, something must be done about that!  

 “Father, please!”  Alex tried to shield himself with his arm as his father’s heavy, old, walking stick came crashing down on him again.            “You are an EMBARRASSMENT!   The heir to the Order of Ancient Mysteries, my ONLY son… a worthless, useless… Mary!”  There was another crack from the gentleman’s cane being used in a very ungentlemanly fashion.            “No, Father, I…  Magus. Magus, Please, I-“            “It’s that boy, isn’t it?  That Elliot? Well, he doesn’t work here anymore!  I sent him away.  You’re lucky I don’t just stop his heart to rid myself of this shame!”            He was one to talk of Shame.  His father, the infamous occultist, rival to Aleister Crowley, head of The Order of Ancient Mysteries, and source of scandal after scandal. The papers always had something to say about Father.  They never spoke about Alex.  Alex knew how to keep a low profile, to keep to himself, to go virtually unnoticed in his father’s shadow.              The threat to stop Elliot’s heart was very real.  Alex knew his father had enough magick to do such a thing to someone without the occult means to defend himself.            “No!  He’s innocent!”            “Innocent?!”  What did that matter to someone like Roderick?  Alex had always been too damn soft and now he had gone over to fairyland as far as Roderick was concerned.   Well, at least he knew his son hadn’t soiled his bed with his deviance yet- he had not acted out his profanity in the house, at least there was that.  “Look at you!  You’re a disgrace!”            Alex was cowering and crouched in the corner of his room, which was in disarray from his father’s attack.  He knew he couldn’t hide what he was from him.  His father was just too powerful…  

It also didn’t help that Alex had kept those old novels under his bed.   The picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde, Carmilla by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, a few selected Greek myths carefully bookmarked in a thick, leather-bound, volume, and the closet drama Goethe’s Faust parts 1 and 2 translated perfectly from German into English.  Anyone with the ability to read between the lines, as they say, could tell what Mephisto’s relationship with Faust was really all about…            Alex couldn’t tell what was worse, the words his father said or the cane coming down again and again.  He was too afraid to fight back.  There was no telling what his father or his father’s minion might do if he tried.  Sometimes he had nightmares of his father’s darker wrath, much more extreme than this.            “You dress like a fairy!  Look at you! Growing your hair out like a girl, walking around in long velvet jackets like they’re frocks!  You think you look like Henry Irving or something?  No, you look like a little girl!  No woman will ever find you attractive.   I should have realized, the way you bury yourself in those books, like a little wanna-be priest.”            Alex saw nothing wrong with dandy fashion and as for his hair, plenty of respectable men had hair longer than his. His hair wasn’t even really shaggy. Oscar Wilde’s hair had been longer than this at the time of his death.  Though he knew that was, as far as his father was concerned, an awful example.             He whimpered and tried to wait out the pain and dared not argue the accusations.              “They stare at you, you know.”  Roderick continued in his tirade to shame him.             Alex knew the only person who actually scrutinized what he wore was his own father. He kept to himself too much to be the focus of anyone else’s attention.  “You think I don’t see it?  How they turn and look at you and whisper on the street what a pansy you are.  Maybe if you dressed normal you wouldn’t forget you’re supposed to be a man!”            No one was actually saying he was a pansy. That was clearly Father’s own insecurity about his masculinity talking.

           “Clean yourself up.”  Roderick said, finally too exhausted to beat him anymore.  And in an after-thought “If anyone asks, you fell off a horse like the clumsy idiot you are.”

            Roderick walked from the room, gentleman’s cane (if you could call it that) still clutched in his hand.

           Alex slowly pulled himself to his feet.   He was trembling yet, and sniffling, trying to choke back the threatening sobs.              Alex had long ago abandoned the childish (as he saw it) hope that a parent’s love was truly unconditional. The child in him still insisted it was supposed to be unconditional, that parents are supposed to love you and accept no matter what, and Alex still craved his father’s approval and acceptance.  It had been some naïve governess from Alex’s childhood who had taught him that foolish notion he could not shake, that a parent should love you without condition. And he never could quite let go of that belief even if all of his life experiences insisted that no parent (at least his parent) could not love in that way…              Could Roderick Burgess love at all?

Alex finally left his badly disheveled room once he was certain his father was no longer nearby. There were papers and books scattered, along with a knocked over chair and some random knickknacks.  Some ceramic and glass items were broken, fragments of childhood playthings lay on the carpet.              Something had broken tonight and it was not merely some old toys…            Alex walked …or more precisely he stumbled, down the hall.  Alex’s back ached where he had gotten the brunt of the caning.  He knew the marks were going to scar.  Everything ached.  His shoulders, his legs, especially his back.  One eye was blackened and his cheeks were red from the heat of crying.  He wiped furiously at his own tears.  It was foolish to cry.  And it was dangerous to dream…

He would never really be free. He was as much his father’s prisoner as the creature down in the cellar…  If he tried to run away he knew his father and his magick would find him.  And… he had nowhere to go anyway…              Even if his situation was “Normal” and there was no fear of magical ramifications for his defiance, to whom could he turn?   Where could he run?  There was no sanctuary for someone like him…

           Alex made his way to the secret passage, to the stone staircase that spiraled its way down to the windowless chamber.  He knocked on the heavy wooden door and announced himself for the two guards his father had watching the prisoner.  One of the guards opened the door for him.  They knew better than to question the boy’s condition but there was a slight trace of pity in at least one of them, a softening to the man’s usually unreadable expression.                          Alex managed to steadily walk to the glass cage, hiding that he was in pain.  He slowly laid his hand against the cool glass.  “Please leave us.”            “But the Magus says-“  One of the men started to protest.            “My... Father,” Alex practically spat the word, “is the one who pays you.  And I speak on his behalf.  Now go!”            The men exchanged looks and then shrugged, deciding not to argue with the young man.  They both were eager to have a tea and coffee break anyway.                        Alex lowered his hand and stood outside the cage. He looked at the pale, emaciated figure behind the glass.  He had never changed.  Not since the day they had captured him.  He had not aged, nor had he grown a beard.  And yet Alex felt as if he, himself, had changed so very much in that time. Changed in such a way that he saw now that he was in no better of a situation than this creature here.                 Trapped in darkness, trapped behind the glass, unable to touch or be touched. Alone…  Naked, exposed.  Everyone could see everything about him.  And yet he- The King of Dreams- was unashamed.  Proud.  Not trembling or cowering from a brute of a father. Alex’s contempt for the creature mingled with long, distant fear, was now being replaced by a different emotion.   Something not unlike empathy and maybe even envy.  Envy at the defiance of will, envy at the hidden power that such a fragile, delicate looking thing could have…            Almost beautiful.  The King of Dreams was almost beautiful…    

            Alexander Burgess saw this weakened, helpless wretch, and he saw himself.  A prisoner locked away from light.  A prisoner stripped of dignity. Utterly at his father’s mercy until he said or did what his father wanted…  Would this proud creature eventually cower and break as Alex felt like he had broken.                Alex bit his lip.  If he freed this creature it… he might kill him… or worse…            But maybe… Whatever his fate might be, it was better than this.  Right now, as it stood, they were both prisoners. But if he freed him, this so-called King of Dreams… At least one of them would be free.  And Alex would have some small revenge on his father, the Magus of The Order of Ancient Mysteries…                          Maybe it was some half-hearted attempt at self-destruction, a suicide without noose or razor- that Alex felt he would either die by this creature’s hand or by his father’s but he wanted this thing to end and let it end tonight.  This felt like the only true way to end it.              Alex had gotten a hold of the heavy brass key and placed it into the lock at the base of the crystalline cage.  He was really doing it.  The key fit easily into the hole of the metal base just within the binding circle’s confines.   Alex dragged his foot over the old, chalk, binding circle, deliberately breaching it, as he turned the key.  The crystalline cage opened at a discrete seam.            The pale figure stood up slowly, cautiously, moving like an uncertain animal. He blinked those wide, black eyes, like doe reacting to being offered food by a human.  

           The King of Dreams stepped out of the cage and toward Alex.  He tentatively moved beyond the binding circle as if worried that Alex might change his mind and try to stop him, or perhaps that someone else might.              Alex stepped back but only slightly.              Alex waited for whatever was to come next.              The pale figure moved to him, the glassy black eyes stared at him, stared deep into his own and for a brief moment Alex felt… understood... maybe even accepted.  And most importantly he felt… forgiven.  Not for the sin of what he was- this creature saw that as no crime, but for how he had treated him.  For taking part in the summoning spell, for being complacent in his father’s abuses and humiliation of this proud entity.              “I’m sorry…” Alexander said, swallowing back fresh tears.  “I’m sorry… It was my father, he…”            The pale figure put a finger to his own lips.* “Shhh.”            Alex was trembling, afraid of what he might do next. And for a second, there was such a softness to the usually cold creature and a slender hand touched Alex’s cheek but only for a brief moment.              Alex had never heard him speak and he was startled by the soft sound of an audible voice coming from him.  He didn’t say anything really other than the “Shhh.”           Alex blinked several times.  The King of Dreams moved past Alex, toward the stairs.              Alex went to bed shortly after that as if nothing had happened.  He had just felt so very tired.  He tried to behave as if he had not just released his father’s prisoner.  The next morning though things were different.   Alex had slept peacefully and felt quite well rested.   Even his black eye had seemed to have mostly healed and his back didn’t hurt anymore. There would be no scars after all.  But something was wrong in the house of Fawny Rig. The servants were in a tither.              Roderick Burgess would not wake form his sleep. He was alive.  And he seemed to be dreaming.  He would moan and mutter, and occasionally whimper or beg for it to stop, crying out in his sleep, but he would not waken.            Alex stood to the side of the bed. “Father!  Father, please!  It’s me, Alex!  Please wake up!  …Please.”   But the situation was hopeless.

            And despite everything he had suffered at his father’s hands Alex still grieved.  He wept as if his father was dead and he knew his father’s fate was worse than death.  Alex still mourned. Alex still pined for what might have been, still longed for a father that would love him unconditionally and accept him for who and what he was without question.   If the world’s most infamous sorcerer couldn’t even do that… who could?   Who could… love him?  

            Alex was scared.  He had been in his father’s shadow so long he did not know how to function without him and he had been so isolated, he had so few friends.  All he could do was rely on the servants, the lawyers, and his father’s money to support himself.              His father was moved to the hospital and eventually diagnosed with some sort of Encephalitis Lethargica.  A sort of brain swelling related sleeping sickness but Alexander Burgess knew better…  Somehow he knew…      

           His father would never wake up…            The years passed and everything that was Roderick’s passed into Alex’s hands.  His father died years later in that hospital bed but Alex was not sure of his father’s nightmares were truly over.   He imagined his father’s soul was still trapped somewhere, still suffering an endless nightmare leading into another nightmare, and each time he thought he was waking he would just find himself in yet another new nightmare.  Somehow Alex knew this.   Where his father was now condemned to eternal waking did he know his body had died or did he have a futile hope that he would one day wake up?  

             The estate, Roderick’s fortune, everything was now Alex’s.   No one was there to be critical or to tell Alex what to wear, how to speak, or… who he could love.   And Alex eventually met a beautiful young man named Paul.  Oh, how he loved Paul.   They would travel to such places together.   London, France, Berlin…   They traveled together on a private yacht and drank Champaign on the deck as they watched the sunset over the Mediterranean Sea. There was no secret prisoner to worry about, nothing to shackle them to Fawny Rig like Dorian Gray shackled to his painting.  They could go anywhere. They could do anything. They were free.                And Alexander Burgess lived Happily Ever After…                  It was a pleasant dream.   Too pleasant…

Elderly Alexander Burgess woke in a cold sweat. There were fresh tears in his eyes.   He sat up in bed and Paul was there beside him.  At least there was that…  At least Paul was there.  Paul was real.  

But that’s not how the story played out, not really.   Alex had never been brave enough to defy his father.  He had not slipped down to the cellar the night that he should have.  He had never freed the prisoner.  Even when his father had died he had never freed the prisoner that he both resented and related to.  And he had been the one punished with six years locked in a nightmare that would seem to end only to reveal a new nightmare was starting, and on and on it had gone.   He had woken from that “eternal” curse to his beloved Paul waiting for him.  He had been forgiven.  He was relieved that Paul was here.            Paul looked at him now. “What is it, love? Did you have a bad dream?”            Alex nodded.  “I don’t know what’s worse… that nightmare that I was trapped in or…” He bit his lip before choosing the words. “…knowing I could have saved us all… saved myself…if I had just done the right thing at the right time…”

           “Hush now, darling.  You’re still half-asleep. I’ll get you some tea.”              Alex was soothed and sighed.  There was no use dwelling on what might have been.  But sometimes those dreams of what he could have done- what he should have done, if he had just been brave enough… Sometimes that felt so much worse than the actual punishment the Lord of Dreams had subjected him to before finally forgiving him…

           But at least he was safe now.  At least he had Paul. And at least he had been forgiven. And he was loved and accepted for who and what he truly was.  And his cruel, old father, was very much dead. A loveless old man was gone.  But Alex was alive.  Paul was alive.  And they were in love.  And no one could take that away from them.  And Alex and The King of Dreams were both free from the shadow of Roderick Burgess forever.

           There was no point on dwelling on what might have been.  That did not matter now.  What mattered was the love that Alex had finally found and the freedom that he and The King of Dreams both had gained.

The End

[crowley-fe11]

Let’s Make a Deal

[Lost RP anyone?]

You both like ineffable husbands.

Stranger: (AU human(?) Aziraphale, demon Crowley) Crowley didn't get summoned often. He wasn't a crossroads demon, even if he was capable of making a deal. He stay on Earth, stuck to temptations for the most part. There were times when direct orders came from Downstairs for him to do more than his usual. Sometimes it was nasty business, but that was part of the package deal of being a demon. Today had been business as usual, and he was out and about causing his usual brand of chaos when he felt that unmistakable tug at the core of his being. He had just enough time to duck into an alley and out of sight before he couldn't fight the spell anymore and he was suddenly in an old-looking shop, or maybe a personal library?  Hard to say, just lots of shelves of books. The demon frowned looking at his surroundings, noticing that not only had someone managed to summon him, but that person had the forethought to put down a devil's trap so he couldn't just walk right out the door either. He glared down at the painted sigil at his feet before noticing the man that summoned him, an ancient book in his well-manicured hands. "You rang?" The demon asked, giving him a slightly icy look from behind his dark glasses.

You: Aziraphale blinked when he saw someone suddenly standing in the centre of the circle, closing the antique book in his arms, one of the more occult ones in his collection. "Hello!" he greeted, offering the demon he'd summoned a smile. "Sorry, I just never anticipated such a ritual would actually work..." That did open up more possibilities, he supposed. "It was a bit of a long shot, but I'm to assume you might be in the business of making deals, is that correct?"

Stranger: "Oh, it worked." Crowley wasn't exactly thrilled about it, being summoned wasn't much fun, mostly inconvenient. Shame there wasn't a way they could just book an appointment and he could come over, but that wasn't how it worked. "It's not my usual area, but yeah, I've done it a few times before. Really, it depends on what you're asking for." He'd hate to have to go get a crossroads demon, he found them pretentious, and they were often out of touch with what was actually a good deal. "What about you let me out of here and we can talk?" He asked, giving him a winning smile, which teeth that were just a little too pointy looking.

You: "Right, well, I realise trapping you may not have been the most considerate thing to do, so if you'd be amenable to having a seat for a while while we discuss, that would be lovely," Aziraphale answered, not completely certain the other could be trusted enough to release him just yet, but he did offer to make a deal. Therefore, there was something on the line, right? "I could even pull out some wine, if you'd like?" Did demons even drink wine? It only seemed polite to offer, having summoned the other.

Stranger: "No, it was smart on your part. If you'd gotten any of the other demons you'd probably just want to leave them trapped and hope no one lets them out." Crowley supposed the summoning spell was likely for the nearest demon and since he was usually the only one on Earth it was likely to be him, he supposed that was a good thing. "Don't tell them I said that though." He added, looking curiously at the man again. He wasn't giving off the usual Satanist vibes. Curious occultist maybe? "Oh, I'm very fond of alcohol, wine especially. It's my favorite human food. Does it count as food?" He asked himself, but looked at the man for conformation.

You: Aziraphale couldn't help a chuckle at the demon's response, moving to the edge of the circle he'd drawn to rub off the outer edge, effectively freeing the other. For better or for worse. "My name is Aziraphale, by the way, and you're welcome to make yourself comfortable," he told the redhead as he gestured to the sofa and chairs nearby, looking up at him with a smile. He was rather curious how this might go. Perhaps he'd even get to learn more about demons, if the other would allow for it. "Do you prefer white or red?" He asked as he looked back at the demon once he'd taken a couple steps toward the wine cellar.

Stranger: Crowley breathed a sigh of relief as the circle was broken. It was like there had been a weight bearing down on him that he hadn't quite realized was even there until it was gone. "Thanks." He told him as he stepped out. "I'm Crowley, pleasure." He looked over at the seating arrangement and easily made himself comfortable on one side of the sofa. "I'll drink either, but I lean more toward red if it's all the same to you." Crowley was watching the man curiously from behind his glasses. This was easily the most polite summoning he'd ever experienced, which was a nice change of pace. It was often all demands or acquasations. Not just a chat and some wine.

You: "Of course, I'll be right back," Aziraphale told the other, quickly making his way down to pick out whatever bottle of red wine he thought Crowley might enjoy. He came back with one along with two glasses and a corkscrew, smiling at the demon as he worked the bottle open. "I usually like to let the bottle breathe for a few minutes first, but it's up to you," he told the other, soon taking a seat in the armchair next to the sofa, the end table with the wine and their glasses easily in reach for both of them. "In case it's abundantly clear, this is my first time, so I'm not entirely certain how this all works," he admitted with a nervous laugh, looking over to the demon.

Stranger: "I'll be here." Crowley told him, but he did consider leaving. He wasn't trapped anymore, and while the man could summon him again he got a feeling he wouldn't. There was something about Aziraphale though, and it made the demon curious to see what sort of deal he would even want to make. So he lounged back into his sofa a bit more before the human returned. "I usually give it a few minutes if it's good wine, and judging from the label, I'll agree to wait." It looked vintage, and not cheap either. This man seemed to know his wines. "That really depends on what you're after. Demon deals aren't all that much like popular fiction. You don't have to sell your soul, it really depends on what you're looking for. A good deal should be beneficial to both parties."

You: Aziraphale nodded as he listened, somewhat relieved that his soul may not be required for this, though it really did depend on what Crowley thought of his request. "Now, I know at least in a great deal of folklore- and I know this may not be the same at all- but the idea of being granted a wish often has the tendency to backfire," he started, fidgeting with his hands slightly as he spoke. "Would I need to be terribly specific with what I'm looking for? Or would we be able to discuss the details prior?"

You: (brb!)

Stranger: "I'm a demon, I'm not a djinn. Temptations are more my usual area. Trying to get good people to do bad things, that kind of stuff." The demon gave a very brief explanation. It was more in-depth than that, but now wasn't the time to go into it. "It would be best for you to give me as many details beforehand, that way I can make sure you get exactly what you're looking for in return. We can work it out both ways, what you get, what you'll give in return. Nothing is official until the deal is sealed, so you don't need to worry about it too much."

You: "Oh, good," Aziraphale answered with a relieved smile, drawing in a deep breath as he thought of how exactly might be the best way to approach it still. "Things have been fairly lonely. They have for a long time," he admitted. "It's been difficult to get into meeting anyone, even just to make friends, and it seems that the only acquaintances I have are my regular customers," he explained. "But I'm not looking for suddenly just having someone I'm close to. Building up to a friendship, or anything would be nice, but I don't get many opportunities for that..."

Stranger: Crowley was quiet, just listening intently to Aziraphale as he started to talk. He could tell right away that he must be pretty desperate if he'd resorted to a demon to help him with this. Which he found a little odd, as he seemed like a nice enough of a person. "So you want friendship? Not a partner?" He asked, wanting to make sure that he had all of this right. "You don't want me to just make someone fall in love with you?" The demon looked a little confused, as that was nearly always the case when someone lonely wanted a deal. They'd already become infatuated with someone and had usually been rejected, so they got desperate enough to ask a demon to take away their freewill. which even Crowley thought was wrong and in poor taste, but they were talking about people that were going to end up in Hell.

You: "A genuine connection, at least," Aziraphale answered, his eyes widening at the thought of just demanding something so forward. Perhaps this sort of request was unusual after all, based on Crowley's confusion, and figuring that the wine had been open for long enough at this point, he filled both their glasses. He gave his own a careful swirl as he tried to find the right way to describe what he was looking for. "Someone I could enjoy spending time with. Perhaps they could grow to be something more than a friend, but I want companionship more than anything, if that makes sense." He hoped it did. Perhaps this was a complicated request...

Stranger: "Huh." This was certainly a first, and not in the least what he had been expecting. He took the glass and unlike Aziraphale, he just took a sip. While Crowley did enjoy the taste of it, for him wine was always more about getting a nice buzz going, or maybe getting nice and drunk, though, not while he was in the middle of negotiating a deal. Which this was, and he was trying to think of how to make that work. "It does make sense, you want a friend, someone more than just a fling, or fake love. You want a real connection, yes?"

You: "Yes, along those lines," Aziraphale answered. "Though I'm hoping for it to come fairly naturally. I just know I'm also rather oblivious at times, so that could be tricky." Though as much as he was certain people summoned demons for their own agenda, he was rather curious about how it worked on Crowley's end. "Though what are temptations like, anyway? What do you usually tempt people into doing?" He asked curiously. He wasn't sure if it was his place to ask, but part of him also wondered if it was a tool Crowley was considering using.

Stranger: "Let me think on that for a few minutes. I've never gotten a request quite like this before." Crowley took another drink of his wine, trying to think of how he could make this work. He knew people, he had minions even, but ordering one of them to pal around with Aziraphale didn't seem to be what the human was looking for. "It really just depends. Sometimes Hell wants me to tempt a specific person into doing a certain thing, but usually, I just feel it out. I've got some pretty famous temptation under my belt, but most of those just happened organically, you get a feel for what people really want to do, and I just give them the nudge they need."

You: Aziraphale hummed, figuring if Crowley needed more time to think things over, it wouldn't hurt to probe a bit further. Besides, the demon was surprisingly easy to talk to. Usually, Aziraphale could be a bit awkward, or if things seemed to click a bit with anyone, he came off as clingy and ruined things. But Crowley seemed to put him at ease, which he never would have expected an occult being to do. "So, theoretically, if we happened to cross paths, and you decided to tempt me, you'd be able to sense how you'd best be able to do that?" He asked curiously.

Stranger: "Usually people want to be tempted, and while I can sometimes sense some of the darker things they want to do, often it's just paying attention. You find someone drinking too much at a bar, looking a bit upset, sad, maybe angry. Have a drink with them, and next thing you know they're telling you how their husband is sleeping with his secretary. Ten minutes later and she's ready to light all his things on fire. Or I might meet a politician at a fancy dinner party. He's already crooked, but he just needs someone to fan the flames a bit, tell him taking bribes or a little embezzlement wouldn't hurt. Most humans already have the desire to do bad things, they often just need someone to assure them that it's a good idea." Crowley stopped there, and took another drink.

You: "I mean, I'll admit I've been a little petty about some things, but I haven't gone quite so far," Aziraphale answered, taking a sip from his glass. He already knew he must be different from Crowley's usual clientele, especially since he expected something different for his request. He knew he was already a people-pleaser as much as he could be, preferring to see the best in others, though it wasn't always the case. "So, do you end up getting summoned very often?"

Stranger: "That's the great thing about you humans, not everyone can be tempted. You have free will. I can sidle up to you and say all the right things, push all the right buttons, but you still have the choice of saying no." Sometimes that could be frustrating, especially when Hell really wanted a job done, but even they had to accept it. "Not often at all, no. It's been quite a few years actually. I don't think there are many real summoning spells left out there. Most of what I seen in books these days is TV mumbo jumbo. Which is fine by me. I might be watering my plants and next thing I know I'm in some creepy cult leaders basement halfway across the world. Speaking of, are we still in England? I noticed your accent, of course, but that doesn't mean you live there now."

You: "That is fascinating... But yes, we're in London. Soho, more specifically, but hopefully I haven't pulled you too far away from what you were doing, or if you were in the middle of something," Aziraphale mentioned, wondering if he'd inadvertently pulled Crowley away from something important. Though it seemed rather intriguing that a demon would be taking care of plants. Perhaps it was just an example he came up with, though it would be something if it turned out to be a hobby of his... "If I did, hopefully there's a way I can make up for it, somehow..."

Stranger: "Perfect. I live in Mayfair." Which meant he could even just walk home if he didn't feel like flagging down a car, or calling an uber. "I wasn't doing anything terribly important, just a bit of scouting for a scheme I'm planning." The demon finished his glass of wine and set it down softly on the little table. "I wouldn't say no to another glass of wine." He smiled, this time more genuine than the pointy toothed-one he had given him earlier. "Can I ask you something? It's a bit personal, but you seem an easy enough person to get along with, and I'm trying to understand why you'd make a deal to get companionship. Do you have some dark secrets or bad habits that run people off?"

You: "Oh! That's not far at all. Maybe I would've been better off looking for your phone number," Aziraphale joked, though he soon thought over Crowley's question, filling the demon's glass once again. "I think most of the reason is that I am rather painfully awkward most of the time. I'm not really the type to go out, unless it's out to eat when I decide to treat myself. And on the odd chance that I think I have a friendship budding, I seem to end up pushing them away in one way or another. Thankfully, you're incredibly easy to talk to."

Stranger: "I'll give it to you, then you can just call or text me next time." Crowley joked back, but he just might. "Thanks." He picked up his glass once it was refilled and took another sip. "That's it?" Crowley maybe sounded a bit disappointed. That maybe he had stumbled onto some hidden secret, but no, it seemed not. "I mean, no matter how bad anything is that you might do, I'm a demon. I assure you I've seen and probably done worse. Hell's no picnic, but then even we couldn't get quite as creative as some of the things humans have come up with. I lived in Rome you know. Had to deal with Calugila, and that man wasn't just evil, he was completely insane." He shook his head to stop his ramblings. "But really, that's it? You're just awkward?"

You: Aziraphale smiled at the idea of Crowley giving him his number. He was certainly charming, and part of him wondered if he'd get to see behind what his dark glasses hid, though they did add a certain eccentricity to the other. "Oh, I've ready a great deal about Caligula... I'm sure he must have been a challenge to put up with," he answered with a smile, wondering what else Crowley had seen, though the demon had asked a question. "Well, I also may not be the best at customer service. I get a bit fussy over how customers handle the books in my shop," he added, wondering if that could also play a part. "Especially the first editions... I don't need anyone causing them harm."

Stranger: "Oh, he was a nightmare. All I did was damage control. Think about that, a demon, trying to make him do less bad things. Don't even get me started on his parties..." The demon took a larger drink of wine this time. "That sounds perfectly reasonable though. You don't have your dead mother upstairs in a rocking chair that talks to you? Maybe you secretly bind books in human skin? Or you eat your couch when no one's looking?" Clearly, he watched a lot of television and movies, but he was just finding it hard to believe that Aziraphale seemed so sweet, and just being a bit awkward caused all his problems.

You: Aziraphale was certain he wanted to hear more of Crowley's endeavours over the years, though he shook his head at all his questions, laughing as he looked to the other with an amused grin. "I'm afraid not. I lead a rather quiet life, to be entirely honest," he answered as he smiled at the other. Perhaps it could be perceived as a bit boring, and very routine, but he enjoyed the simplicity behind it, and he lived for the simple pleasures. He was just hoping he could enjoy them with someone rather than just on his own.

Stranger: "Huh." Was all Crowley said for a moment. It was obvious to him that Aziraphale wasn't lying to him, or trying to deceive him. As he would have picked up on that. "I don't think I've ever met anyone quite like you." He said after a long moment of just studying the man. He meant it as a compliment. "Which is saying something. I've been around since the beginning, and everyone likes to say that everyone is unique, and while that's true to a point, you see a lot of cookie cutter people. Same traits, same motivations, you, not so much."

You: "You really think so?" Aziraphale asked. He hardly felt unique. He enjoyed a life of comfort, took solace in his books and some wine in the evenings. He enjoyed going out to eat, and walks in the park. Nothing about him seemed terribly remarkable, yet Crowley seemed genuine about what he said. "You must have been around for a very long time, then... Have you mostly been on your own? Or, I know you mentioned there are other demons..."

Stranger: "I do, yeah." Crowley gave a small nod and took another sip from his glass. He was looking quite at home on Aziraphale's sofa by this point. "I've been around from the beginning. A few hours into the first day of creation, there I was." He'd been an angel then, but that didn't change the fact that he'd still existed at that point. "I've lived on Earth since day 7. I go down to Hell once every century or so on average, and every so often a demon or three comes topside to cause trouble and I run into them."

You: Aziraphale smiled as he listened, rather curious how Crowley played into things. "Sounds a bit like some family of mine," he offered. As much as he wanted to enjoy the visits he got from Gabriel, he always seemed to be there in an attempt to serve his own interests, and he seemed to feel even more isolated after those visits. Not exactly the same as demons coming from Hell, but he could relate in a way.

Stranger: "Hopefully your family isn't as bad as all of the demons of Hell." Crowley did chuckle a little at the thought. He got it though, he always liked it best when the other demon just stay put. Whenever they came to Earth it just made it all the more complicated and he often had to undo their messes when they went back to Headquarters. "If they are, then maybe you'd be better off to ask me to get rid of them for you."

You: "Oh, I can manage when they come around," Aziraphale assured him with a smile. "If anything, having someone to vent to would be better." He'd rather not blot them out of existence, or do anything to bar them, per se. But if he had someone around who might be able to make him feel better, regardless of how Gabriel might try to bring him down, that would make a world of a difference. "I can only imagine what it's like for you..."

Stranger: "That's good." He'd met plenty of people that had overbearing, pushy family that had never learned limits. Aziraphale, from the sounds of it, had found what worked for him in that area at least. "I manage. I got lucky with my first job and Hell, for the most part, just lets me do my own thing. I've met some pretty amazing people over the years, some awful ones, but it's a mixed bag." He shrugged. "Hey, one thing I never asked you. What are you willing to give to get what you desire?"

You: Aziraphale nodded as he listened, though he wasn't sure exactly other than his soul he could give as an option. He didn't initially think the summoning spell would work as described in the first place. "Well, you mentioned that there's options other than selling one's soul, correct?" He asked to verify. "What are some of the other's you've seen whenever you've made deals?"

Stranger: Aziraphale's answer was pretty telling. He'd not thought this through, probably didn't even think he'd show up. He really did just seem like a nice person. Desperate, but sincere. "Favors usually. I do a little demonic-miracle for them, and someone might pass a law for me, or owe me a favor, or look the other way when I want to sneak into a government building, that sort of thing." Crowley shrugged. "But there are things you could do for me, even if you're not the powerful or the super-wealthy. Your shop is in a very convenient place in Soho. It's amazing, honestly, that organized crime hasn't forced you out yet."

You: "I'm very fortunate for that," Aziraphale agreed, wondering where exactly Crowley might be going as far as what favour he might ask. Hopefully it wouldn't be something too intense, though this was a negotiation, and he didn't see why he couldn't also look into the possibilities and what might work for him. Though the demon was surprisingly open with him, and he didn't have any doubt that they could come to an agreement on what would be a fair price to both of them.

Stranger: Crowley had to wonder if Aziraphale had really just gotten that lucky, or if there was more than met the eye here. Maybe he came from a powerful family? Or had ties with them? Or he could be very wealthy and just not show it. This was pretty prime real estate, after all. "It would seem so." And he didn't try to hide the fact that he was watching the man. "Have you have dinner yet?" He asked, changing the subject, but still having his reasons for asking.

You: "No, but I am starting to feel a bit peckish," Aziraphale answered as he looked over at Crowley with a small smile. "Is there anything you're in the mood for?" He knew the other mentioned enjoying alcohol, though he wondered if he enjoyed any foods at all. If anything, he wanted Crowley to feel welcome still. And at this point, he could go toward just about anything as far as dinner went.

Stranger: "I honestly don't eat much." Crowley told him truthfully. "But why don't we go somewhere and get something. Or we could order in if you don't want to go out." Crowley would probably, mostly just order drinks, but he found Aziraphale surprisingly good company, and he still needed to know more about him to figure this all out. It was partly his job, but he felt invested, he wanted to know more about him. "I can get you into any restaurant in the city. No reservations needed."

You: "Oh, that could be dangerous," Aziraphale chuckled as he looked to the demon, thinking over the possibilities. "I mean, if you really don't mind, there's a sushi place that opened up fairly recently that I've been meaning to try," he suggested, hoping Crowley knew of which one he was referring to. "Are you sure it wouldn't be any trouble?" He asked, wanting to be sure he wouldn't be taking advantage.

Stranger: "Dangerous is my middle name." Crowley grinned, even though he still hadn't ever picked anything that the J stood for. He supposed that was one of the nice things about being a demon, he could change his name whenever he wanted. "I haven't sushi in years, and I do remember they have some very nice plum and rice wines." Which was much more up his alley, but he might eat a piece or two of sushi. "It's not any trouble. How far away is it?"

You: "I mean, it wouldn't be a long ride, if we take a cab. Or if you wanted some fresh air, we could walk and it would be maybe twenty minutes or so?" Aziraphale suggested, wondering what Crowley's input might be. While it'd be quicker driving, he didn't mind taking a bit more time to talk if they walked. Either way, he'd certainly take any of the demon's suggestions as far as drinks went.

Stranger: "It was nice outside a little while ago, I suppose it depends on how hungry you are." Crowley could walk, or get them a car, he really wasn't that picky about the whole thing. He was honestly still relieved that he had been summoned and gotten to stay on the same continent. The same country and city was really a plus. "I'm honestly pretty easy going, and I am here for you." He smiled, this time a little more charming than all the others.

You: As much as Aziraphale knew Crowley was at least partly doing this for his job, his heart still fluttered a bit at that smile. Oh, he really did enjoy the other's company. "Then perhaps a walk would be nice," he decided, reaching over to cork the remainder of the bottle before he finished his glass, soon smiling over at the demon as he got up. "Shall we?" He asked with a smile of his own.

Stranger: (brb)

Stranger has disconnected.

[writeanapocalae]

Nano Day 6 Writing

Day 1 | Day 2 | Day 3 | Day 4 | Day 5

Anton woke up alone and cold and hurting in the darkness. His eyes were heavy, his head throbbing, and his ribs ached in a way they hadn’t in years, back when he would chase down suspects and things would get physical and the bruises on his ribs were expounded by the binder he had to wear for too long. He wanted to sleep. It was dark enough for it and, as he curled in on himself, he could imagine that he was warm enough.

He checked himself, hands roaming over his body. There were some wet spots, mostly on his hip and thigh but the pain there was more from pressure, from a blunt force, than any cuts. He must have landed on something wet. Checking the floor though, it was all dry beneath him. He had been brought somewhere else after he’d landed.

He still had his backpack on, but his flashlight was gone. His clothing was, mostly, in shape, and there was a large gash on his face but it had been wrapped and taken care of. That meant one of the others had been the one to bring him here, from how he’d been laid out, in the same position he often slept in, there was no doubt in his mind that it was R.

And then panic started to set in. They had been under attack from killer androids, something had gone wrong with their programming and they were acting with murderous intent regardless of the fact that their batteries should have all been drained by now. They had fallen, through the floor, for many floors, and now he was alone. He was alone. They had left him behind or they’d been killed. They didn’t have a plan, a way out, and there was no cellphone reception so he couldn’t even contact any of them.

He wrapped his arms around himself, hugging his chest tightly and pulled in a few heavy breaths, trying to subside the anxiety growing in his chest, making his heart pound and his terror start to flair. He couldn’t afford that, not right then. He had things he had to do, his coworkers – his friends – that he had to find.

He may not of had service but he pulled out his cellphone anyway. The battery had been full that morning, it wasn’t too drained yet. He turned on the flashlight function and took a look around himself. There were shelves, brooms and mops, cleaning supplies, and random parts in well labeled boxes. He had been brought to a storage unit, of all things. While there was a lot in there, he doubted there would be anything of use to him or to the investigation. The parts in the boxes, while he didn’t know what they were for, all seemed basic, like joints and connectors, wires and tubes, basic building blocks for pseudo human bodies.

There was a note on the door, stuck up with a piece of scotch tape. The roll was set down, perfectly, on one of the shelves, as if it had never been moved. The font face was arial, perfect and clean. R had been the one to bring him here, but it wasn’t there now.

Anton whimpered as he pulled himself to his feet. Dragging the light over himself he couldn’t see much in terms of damage, just a few tears in his slacks and sweater. He couldn’t see the color of the liquid in his slacks, the black of them obscuring it, but he could see the stains that had dried on the floor.

They were pepto bysmol colored. The same as the fluid that was coming out of the broken computer. The same color as the scar on R’s hip.

It was something that Anton had noticed immediately, even before he’d made the purchase. A small symbol, on R’s right side, just where hip became waist, on the back. It looked like the number seven, with a diagonal line making it an x, and a dot in the corner. It had been cut perfectly. R didn’t know what had caused it because of the memory wipe and neither did the shop keeper. Anton had researched it but there weren’t similar marks on any of the other Caecus androids. R was unique with this.

Now he wished he’d looked into it further, had allowed Sarah to search R’s brain and dig into the supposedly deleted files. She had said that they weren’t actually deleted, that they were just compressed down to such a small size that they had no real impact on the RAM. She could get them out. But R had seemed scared, at least to Anton, and he couldn’t get past it.

The symbol looked similar to the markings on the piece of paper, the sigil that the amateur occultist had been working on. [give her a name maybe?] He wished he’d paid more attention. Where had all of his attention gone?

Of course, it had gone into him having a crush. It was a stupid one, one that he felt guilty for having, but he was so absorbed in these emotions that it was hard sometimes, to focus on anything else. And R didn’t know, didn’t have to know, never would. It would never be able to feel anything that Anton felt.

None of that was important now though. It wasn’t what was needed of him. He had a task to do, people to find, and they had to get out of there. He was too frazzled, focusing on everything he didn’t have time for.

There was a piece of paper on the door. It was easy to read even from a distance, once he had the light on it.

“My apologies for your current situation, Anton, but I had to relocate you for your own safety. They are blind in some ways but not in others, they see you but not in the way you see yourself. Sound is your greatest foe. Stay where you are for the best chances of survival. I am currently locating the others and will return for you soon. - R”

Perfect. Everything in the note was perfect because it was an android and it was perfect. Anton had no interest in staying where he was, where it was safe. He’d been shot before, stabbed, had gone through a lot to be who he was now, some of it of his own accord. He wasn’t going to just sit idly by.

He was a detective, even after all this time. He would go out and investigate. There would be no stopping him.

He took a few steadying breaths. He went to the door. He closed his eyes and exhaled.

He opened the door.

He was in a short hallway with rooms to either side of him, bathrooms across the hall from him. One, if not both, of the other rooms would lead to more halls, where he was sure would be examination rooms or offices or something of that nature. He could find his way back here, if he needed to. R had thought it was safe for a reason, at least.

He lowered his phone so the light was focused on the floor. R didn’t really leave footprints, not unless the rest of it was completely covered in grime, but there were a few pink dots on the floor. It made concern grip Anton’s heart like a vice, slowly starting to squeeze. He had been hurt and R had taken care of him but R had fallen all that was too. It could have been injured as well and put Anton’s well being before its own. He wouldn’t have been surprised by that, R was loyal and obedient and programmed to always take perfect care of its owner. Anton didn’t want it to be hurting though, even if it couldn’t feel real pain.

He followed the trail of pink. It wasn’t real blood of course, didn’t even function as blood. He didn’t know what it functioned as. Until now he didn’t realize it was something inside of R. He’d have to ask Sarah about it later. Once he found her.

The door was unlocked and quiet, even when it clicked behind him. Everything was quiet. And dark. He shined the light from his flashlight over the next few steps, down the hall. As expected, there was a hall with doors on either side. There was an exit sign, way down the lane, pointing in the direction of some stairs or an elevator or something. Every door had a black box in front of it, where a key card was meant to swipe. He wouldn’t be able to open any of them, not unless they unlocked when the power went out.

He went to the first of them and, as quietly as he could, jiggled the handle. It was locked tight. He was certain that the elevator would also have a key-card lock and, even then there was no way he would take it. There was no electricity and, more than that, there was no way that the elevator would be safe. It had been four years.

There had to be a generator. There had to be something to get the power back on. His phones flashlight would be fine for now but it wouldn’t last too too long. He had a few hours, at most. Lights would help all of them, the problem being that it would help all of them, including the androids, but he knew that R could see in the dark just fine and it had said that these androids see things differently than they were supposed to, so he was sure that the lights wouldn’t affect them as much as it would the humans.

He’d have to find the generator though and looking for it meant not looking for his friends. It was a debilitating decision.

He looked at his phone. He had no way of contacting anyone. He had no way of knowing they were alive. He suddenly felt very very cold. He could have been the only one alive, the only one buried under so many stories of a dead building, empty aside from androids that had somehow gone all wrong. He could feel a tingling in his hands and feet, a sensation of fear that he’d never felt before. He had been afraid before, he had been afraid for multiple years in conjunction. It hadn’t been like this before. That had been a hot oppressive fear, the kind that made him want to be small and invisible. He still wanted to be small and invisible but now it was cold and outstretching and digging in. There wasn’t anything there. There was no sound.

He wanted to scream, just for the echo.

@detectivesebcas​ @inthemoonshadow​ @etjwrites​ @lordfenric

[a-copper-butterfly]

Title Suggestions Needed!

OK so i posted this before but i have edited it a bit and added a new intro. im still not sure if i should continue this but what the hay, have a look and give us some feed back. :)

here is my re-write of good omens where the ineffable husbands raise Adam.

Monday, five days before the end of the world.

It was sunny, well, as sunny as it every was in the centre of London.

For those you don’t know, London is a vaguely potato shaped blob about ten miles across, with its own weather system which is almost entirely different to that of the rest of the UK.

Warlock was moping along his nose glued to his phone (not literally, thought Crowley sometimes wished he could get close enough with some glue without the little nuisance noticing.) Warlock had perfected the art of nearly completely ignoring the world around him, but remining just aware enough that he could complain at anyone who might distract him. His mother was walking along admiring the sculptures, pausing now and then to read an information sign. She did this much in the same manner as most people the world over when they want to look more intelligent than they are. They don’t actually read what is written on the information board, just frown and nod like you agree with what ever had been said then point to it and repeat a few lines when a friend or family member joins you. Thus, the whole cycle repeats itself.

A little way from the stroppy pre-teen, representatives of both heaven and hell discussed the fate of the world.

“I mean, he could just disappear,” suggested the Demon. He was slouched on the wooden bench. This was a master level slouch of someone who had trained for years to hold his body in such a position. A normal person if attempting this would pull a muscle if not worse.

The Angel that sat prim and proper next to him frowned,

“I don’t see how hiding him would help?” he said, which earned a glare form his companion. The thick sunglasses that covered the Demons yellow eyes obscure the fond irritation directed at the angel.

“I mean kill him Angel,” he clarified.

The Angel shuffles in his seat uncomfortable about this conversation. He tried to change the subject, but not too much avail.

“Are you going to get him a dog?” Azriaphale looks over at Crowley, know full well that he had been asked to provide the hound and that this was purely a diversion.

“I thought you were going to sort that out.” Crowley responded, rolling his concealed eyes.

“Why are we getting him a dog anyway.”

Crowley gave a side glances at his companion, silently noting the use of “we”.

Azriaphale wasn’t done with his grumbling, “Do remember the hamster?” he continued.

“Sir hamserlot? Yeah.” Crowley cringed at the memory of the tan and white little rodent. The poor thing when through so meant names it was a wonder it didn't have identity issues.

“How meant times did we have to pull that poor creature back from the jaws of death?” Aziraphale says shaking his head. The poor thing had eventual snuffed it permanently when the boy had gotten it into his head that hamsters could swim. They can, much like rats, but being put in a crudely made ship and pushed out on a duck pond in the middle of winter would be terminal for most rodents or any other small mammal.

A dog is a bit bigger. This was the only argument Crowley could come up with at the time.

“Well” Azriaphale relented “he is a bit older now.”

Crowley shuffled further into his slouch.

“It's the end if the world Angel.” He muttered gloomily, “Just give the kid what he wants. And he wants a dog.”

Aziraphale flinched at this painful truth.

“Well you have a point dear. Fine, he can have a dog.”

There was a pause as they watched Warlock ignore the world around him and play on his phone. The cartoonish sounds of games annoying the people around him. Crowley smirked; apps had been one of his ideas. Well, according to hell they were. Humans were always doing his job for him; he just took the credit when the higher ups asked about it. He sighs and slips back into the conversation about the end of the world.

“We’d better be there when the dog arrives” Crowley said darkly.

“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary. I think he can look after himself and a dog for a few hours. He is old enough now, don’t you think?” Aziraphale smiles nodding in agreement with himself.

Crowley shot the angel a withering look.

“I meant the hellhound and Warlock, not some overly excited puppy with a bladder size of a spoon. This is going to a monster. The biggest they have got, according to downstairs.”

Aziraphale lip touched in a pout. “Oh” was all he said.

“I'm going as waiting staff don't want people recognizing me.” Crowley continued. “Can you bring him?”

“He said he doesn’t want to go. Said warlock isn't fun to hang out with anymore.” Aziraphale said, fumbling with a button on his sleeve cuff.

“Too bad. He is going to seeing a lot more of him whether he likes it or not. That is if there is anything after.” Crowley responded darkly. He still hadn’t figure how they were going to make it through the next few days.

A sudden though shot through Aziraphale mind.

“I could be the entertainment! I’ll brush up on my magic!” he said excitedly, beaming at the idea.

“Oh no, angel, please don’t. Really, it’s humiliating.” Crowley protested, “You can do miracles, why bother doing sleight of hand when you’re not good at it?” Aziraphale bounced in his seat. This was going to be fun.

  One late august night just outside the small village of Tadfield,

 When a snake regurgitates its food, its normally because it had been grabbed or handle soon after eating or is otherwise subjected to stress.

As Crowley knelt in damp grass on the bank beside the road, he wiped his mouth. The light from the Bentley’s open door revealing the grey sludge that was even now burning the grass. The small part of Crowley’s mind that wasn’t screaming in panic wondered when the last time he had eaten was. Without the help of the rest of his brain, he guessed around six years ago.

Pushing himself up onto wobbly legs, Crowley slid back into the driving seat, switched on the radio as he did so. As he pulled the car back onto the road, Crowley checked the rear-view mirror. The carry cot was still there. This was real.

“Shit, shit, shit, why me, why me?” he muttered to himself. The radio crackle,

“BECAUSE YOU EARNED IT CROWLEY” came the voice of Freddy Mercury.

“Fuck…” though Crowley.

 Sister Annabelle Houghton was totally normal, much to the annoyances of her parents. They were traditional occultists who gave her supposedly cursed china dolls and pretty, frilly dresses in attempts to get her possessed. They had even moved at an old house which the nice estate agent had made very clear was the site of quite a few murders and ghost stories. It even had its own graveyard in the garden. Her swing was hung in an old knarred oak tree which legend had it was used as a hangman’s gibbet, but she never used it. When Annabelle eventually grew up, her parents had lamented and had sent her off to the Sisterhood of Chattering Nuns of St Beryl. Not too worried about this, Annabelle went along as she thought it might be interesting.

Now she sat looking out of one of the convent’s window keeping watch for the arrive of Master Crowley and the baby boy he carried with him. The Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of this world, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness. She was very excited; this was a big day and she, Sister Annabelle, would be part of it. A cup of tea sat on the windowsill beside her. It had gone cold hours ago, No matter.

A car came screaming through the gates of the convert an excitement jolting up her spine. Sister Annabelle leapt from her seat and began to quickly click her way down the hall towards the foyer. She turned the corner expecting to see one of her sisters talking to Master Crowley but broke into a run when she saw which sister it was. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Sister Mary Loquacious, she was a lovely person when you were sat having a chat, it was just that things, important things, tended to go wrong when she was involved.

“Mother Superior! Mater Crowley is here!” she half-yelled, her fists full of her skirt as she leaped down the three little steps leading up to the corridor. Crowley quickly ducked behind a column in responses to the shouting. Shouting mostly lead to pitchforks, torches and a bad time for him.

“Greeting Master Crowley” she said, tried to smile and make her voice sound cheerful but her eyes were screaming at Sister Mary Loquacious. If she wasn’t holding The Anti-Christ, she may have shoved her out of harm’s way (harm’s way meaning any damage Sister Loquacious could cause to others, not the other way around). Sister Annabelle stopped next to her sister, peering at the bundle in her arms. The baby gurgled quietly. She quickly curtsied to Master Crowley who was still looking between the nuns wondering if he could slip out before anyone noticed.

The double doors leading to the hospital rooms flew open and a furious old nun stormed through. This was not part of the plan. She ran her icy gaze over the two nuns, who both know the consequences of that stare. Her eyes found Crowley who was trying not to look like a rabbit in the headlights, he was a demon after all. There was no escape now.

Long hair, sunglasses, modern suit, snakeskin shoes? Not what she though one of hell’s best demons would look like. She raised an eyebrow and forced a smile.

“Master Crowley, you’re just in time.” she walked slowly with an air of control. Crowley drew himself up to his full height. The Mother Superior had the eyes of a school master and they are well known for making even the naughtiest individuals squirm.

“Sister Annabelle, please go and retrieve the child of the ambassador and inform the other sisters that the switch will be taking places presently.” she smiled at the terrified nun who swallowed and nodded, turning to hurrying down the hall. Crowley tried to sidle towards the door. He stopped dead when the older nun eyes dropped on him. He tried to give her a confident smile.

“Master Crowley, if you would just pop over to the desk, we have a few papers for you to sign just to keep everything in order.” she turned and glided over to the foyer desk and began to draw papers out of a file. Crowley reluctantly followed her, dumping the now empty carry cot on the desk before propping himself up on it.

Sister Mary Loquacious frowned. She rocked the Anti-Christ in her arms. He was chewing on his hand. She had checked, it didn’t have claws. She looked up at Master Crowley and frowned again. She walked over to the desk,

“Umm Master Crowley?” she asked and terrifying yellow eyes looked at her over dark sunglasses. Something in the very pit of her soul screamed and told her to run. It was the same part that makes skulls scary, even though they are always smiling. She took a step back,

“Yeah?” he grunted. Mother Superiors levelled her glare at the Sister. She didn’t notice, now over the shock of yellow eyes she felt bolder,

“What is going to happen to the spare baby?” she asked. Crowley rolled his eyes to the Mother superior who was trying to set the younger nun on fire via sheer force of will. Without taking her eyes of her pray the Mother Superior said,

“Yes, that was something I was going to ask you as well Master Crowley. We are willing to go through with the switch, but we want nothing to do with disposing of the baby,” her eyes now turned on Crowley “We may be satanic Nuns, but we are not monsters.” Crowley paused at this juxtaposition. He huffed and turned back to the paperwork, one of hells better inventions,

“Put it in the carry cot, I will deal with it,” Crowley replied absentmindedly. “Sure, why not?” Crowley thought “Not like it will matter in a few years anyway”. Sister Mary Loquacious ginned the kind of grin that would suggest she didn’t quite understand what was going on.

“Sister Mary, please take The Young Lord down to Sister Annabelle.” Mother Superior said as she started pulling out more official looking papers. Crowley slouched at the prospect of more paperwork. Sister Mary Loquacious nodded happily and pushed through the double doors leading to the hospital rooms. Now that The Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of this world, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness was out of eyesight, Crowley felt a weight off his back. He no longer wanted to vomit.

Sister Mary Loquacious had found a potable cot for the anti-Christ, in which he now rested. his red blanket tucked around him. She pushed him down the hall spotting sister Annabelle pushing a similar cot out of room 4. Sister Mary paused outside room 3 ready to make the swap. A putrid smell began to waft up the hall. Both sisters gaged. A similar smell began to rise form the baby in the cot in front of Sister Mary and the babies began to cry in unison. Sister Annabelle reached Sister Mary, her face pushed into her shoulder and her eyes watering.  

“I think our lord has made us an offering,” she gaged as she spoke, “and this little man has also given us a gift too”. She pushed open the door to delivery room 3 and hurriedly pushed the cot in. Sister Mary followed with her own charge.

 “You change the babies and I will fetch the carry cot from Master Crowley.”. It was clearly just a excuse to getting out of having to be in same room as the stench for any longer but Sister Mary didn’t want to argue. The smell was truly awful.

In the bed, Mrs Young turned over a frown wrinkling her brow, some internal mothering instinct told her that a baby needed changing but something else told her it wasn’t hers so sleep on.

Sister Mary hesitated as she plucked the Anti-Christ from his cot and laid him on the changing table beside the door. She unwrapped the blanket and dropped it back in the cot. The baby whimpered as she removed the dirty nappy and cleaned him. She cooed at him. “Imagine little me changing the Destroyer of worlds’ nappy and powdering his little tush.” Sister Mary thought to herself. The baby in the other cot began to cry.

The mother in the bed yawned but stayed asleep. In an attempted sooth the baby, Sister Mary picked the ambassadors baby up. He was a chunky baby and quite heavy. Sister Mary had to shift him about a bit before they were both comfortable. The white blanket was lost in this juggling. As she bounced the baby the door to the room opened. Expecting sister Annabelle, Sister Mary turned to face the door where a man peering around the door.

“Err Hello. I’m the father, the husband, whatever.” He stammered, walking over to stand by his wife. Looking up he wondered over to the babies looking down at the baby on the changing table.

“Is this him?” he asked in awe. The baby looked up at him and immediately began to cry. Terrified about what he had done he scooped up the baby and began to pat his back.

“Umm no, these two not yours. Your baby is with your wife over there.” She nodded towards Mrs Young and the cot next to her.

Sister Mary was beginning to gag over the smell coming from the baby in her arms, she laid him on the changing table and began to clean him up.

After soothing the baby in his arms, Mr Young laid the baby down in the empty crib. He picked up the white blanket and tucked it around the baby. He walked over to the cot next to his wife and looked down at the baby. A small part of him was hopeful that he would look upon the face of his child and instantly recognized it as his own. But when he looked down at the sleeping baby, he looked identical to the two with the nun. This one was a little smaller but there wasn’t a moment of recognition. Of course, he didn’t say that. He smiled and looked back at the nun who was disposing of the nappy in a small bin next to the table.

“You know he looks like me.” He said proudly. The Nun smiled at him, rewrapping the baby,

“Have you thought of a name?” she asked. There was a nervous air about her. That probably came with having to look after two babies at once. He had new respect for people with twins and triplets.

 They had discussed names but not come to any solid concoctions, they had a name if it had been a girl and after twitching the blanket back it couldn’t be used anymore. The baby snuffled in its sleep; Mr. Young jumped back afraid that he would make it cry like he had the other child.

“We haven though of any names for a boy,” he explained as the nun had finished changing the baby in front of her. Then, looking down at the second with a frown, she looked at the baby in her arms. After a moment hesitant, she seemed to come to a conclusion and plopped it in the second cot wrapping it in the red blanket.

 “Well, what about the classic like Luke, John, Adam. Bible names and the like?” She rocked the babies in the cots. Mr. Young though about this for a second as he looked back at his son. He didn’t really look like any of those names, but they were good honest names. Suddenly a nun scuttled into the room. She looked a little out of breath. She looked at Mr. Young the way one would look at a velociraptor. She managed to school her features and smile at him.

Sister Annabelle had returned to the front desk and immediate run into Mr. Young who had asked what room his wife was in. Directing the man to the room without a though until she had picked up the carry cot. She had just sent an imposter into the same room as The Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of this world, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness. Picking up her heels again, she took off down the hall and was now stood with Sister Mary, two babies and the carry cot. She turned her slightly manic smile on Sister Mary. She winked. Sister Mary Winked back. They smiled at each other.

 “Baby removal services,” she laughed pushing the baby with the red blanket out of the room. She pointed at the carry cot next to the remaining baby and nodded down the hall. Sister Mary nodded back. She placed the carry cot on the changing surfaces and placed the remaining baby in the white blanket in it. Scooping up baby and carry cot she moved to leave the room,

“Umm,” said Mr. Young using the tone of someone who doesn’t want to be a bother but is no doubts going to be a problem.

“Is there any paperwork I need to fill in,” he asked nervously. Always ready to be helpful, Sister Mary nodded and beckoned for him to follow her. It wasn’t until they entered the hall that she realized this might have been a bad decision. She could see Master Crowley’s back to her when Mr. Young held the door open. Trying to think fast she walked up to him putting the now full carry cot next to him on the desk.

 “Here is you son Master Crowley,” she said as way of explanation. The yellow eyes turned on her and the primal urge to run shot up her spine. Mr. Young was too distracted to notice, walking up next to her and leaned against the desk.

“Umm, does the birth certificate need signing?” he asked looking over the desk at all the papers. The Mother Superior who had been overseeing Crowley filling out all the correct papers in the right places. It wouldn’t do to have buggered up the paperwork on such a big job. She pulled a file over the papers and put on her best plastic smile. She flicked through the relevant files and produced a birth certificate for Mr. Young. She also pulled one out and handed it to Crowley. Conscious of the presents of Mr. Young, Crowley took the offered page. Mr. Young peeked into cot at the baby.

“He’s a cute one,” he says trying to rope Crowley into a conversation so he can talk about his own kid. Crowley doesn’t acknowledge him. Not deterred, Mr. Young filled in the birth certificate leaving the name till last. He still needed to talk to his wife about it.

“Though of a name yet?” he asked. Again, this was met by silenced. Mr. Young looked over at Crowley, he was well dressed and very out of places here. He didn’t have the look of expectant father. He looked worried.

“We were thinking about Adam,” he continued. This conversation was going to happen even if he had to do it himself. However, this got a reaction out of the other man. He laughed. He snorted then laughed out loud.

“Something wrong with Adam?” Mr. Young questioned, getting slightly defensive over a possible name for his son. The man pushed his long hair back away from his face. He was handsome, even Mr. Young had to admit that.

“No, it’s a fine name. But I knew an Adam once, he was a complete bastard,”.

Sister Mary giggled under her breath. But then frowned at the thought of how a demon knew the original Adam. She puzzled over this for the rest of the conversation.

Mr. Young let his shoulders drop,

“What would you suggest then?” he asked sheepishly. Crowley turned on him and Mr. Young had to squash a sudden urge to back away and make himself small. Crowley looks him up and down before speaking. His emotionless sunglasses making it feel like he wasn’t blinking. He wasn’t but behind the glasses no one could tell.

“Something royal may be. Henry, James, William?” he suggested. Mr. Young felt better about these names.

 Crowley looked back at the almost complete page in front of him.

“It doesn’t matter, it will all be over in eleven years anyway.” Crowley mumbled glumly as he looked at the last section of the certificate

FIRST NAME:

It was blank. He stared at it. Did he have to name it?

“Oh,” Mr. Young said confused. In an effort to change the typic he looked into the cot again, “You know, he looks like an Adam.” he added.

Crowley huffed but he couldn’t think of anything better. Plus, it made sense in an ironic way. Crowley scribbled the name down on the final dotted line on the page pushing it towards the nun. He snatched the carry cot of the desk and strode out the lobby. Mr. Young tried to wave goodbye, but Crowley was long gone.

 Sister Annabelle handed the baby to the ambassador’s wife who looked down at him with the love of a first-time mother,

“Sorry that took so long Your Ladyship, he is such a scrumptious little man. Every nun in the convent had to coo at him,” Sister Annabelle sighed as she stood back, her job was done. She really needs a cup of tea now.

Mother Superior quietly pushed open the door and came in.

“Oh what a little lord,” she said causing all nuns in the room to smile. “Have you thought of a name?”

 The convent burnt down that night. However, the only paperwork that was destroyed was form that night. Apart from the birth certificate of one James Henry Young

 Crowley pulled the Bentley into a short dead-end road that was the entrances to a farmer’s field. He cut the engine and the lights of the snarling beast of a car disappeared, leaving only the dark hedgerow in front of him.

The silence enveloped the car, seeming to seep in through all the gaps in the doors and poured out of the vents. Soon Crowley was engulfed in it. He paused, appreciating the moment. The sound of the engine cooling was the only noise that could be heard inside the car. The carry cot next to him cooed. He looked over at his new acquisition and pulled it closer to him. He carefully pulled the small and oh so delicate baby out and laid him across his knees looking up at him. The baby yawned but seemed very much awake. The white blanket that was bundled around him stopping his arms from moving.

Crowley huffed and rubbed his faces pushing his glasses off slightly. He squeezed his eyes shut and began to mutter at the baby,

“Okay first test,”

He pulled his glasses off completely and crouched over the baby sticking his tough out. Letting the glamor over it drop so the tips flicked over the babies scrunched up little nose. His eyes almost glowed yellow in the darkness he didn’t show his true, true form just these small parts. The Baby screeched and Crowley jerked back worried, but unsurprised, that he had terrified the poor thing. When the screech turned into a gurgling laugh, he looked back at the baby who had wiggled free an arm and was grabbing at Crowley with a gummy grin. Slight confused Crowley rewrapped the baby in his white blanket and shifted it to be cradled in his arms,

“Okay so you passed the first test. Now we need to go other some ground rules if this arrangement is going to work out.”.

The baby babbled at him trying to wiggle free of his confines. He seemed fine with the whole yellow eyes and snake toung though. Probably knew no different, Crowley wondered leaning back in the driver’s seat.

“So I will house you, feed you and take care of you until you have worked out how to use a toilet after that we can look into the walking, talking, reading, writing business but there are some conditions that you have to uphold,”.

The baby sneezed, looked shocked at this strange turn of events, blinked a few times before looking back up at the demon. Now that he had the baby’s attention again Crowley continued,

“Firstly, the family you came from, the one that has the antichrist.” The baby watched him with uncanny eyes that seemed to understand what he was saying. That or more worryingly for Crowley he was ranting at a newborn infant that had no idea what was going on and was just watching him make noises in the dark car.

“Warlock, they called him Warlock.”

The baby gave him a half smile, hoping that the smile was from recognizing the name.

“You’re gonna have to be friends with that brat. secondly you will not get in my way or interfere with my work.”

The baby yawned at him. It seemed that all the excitement was getting the better of him its eyes began to slip closed. Crowley rocked him slightly trying not to enjoy holding the child, a small part of him that was thought to be long dead, started to thaw. He placed the baby back in the carry cot in the passenger’s seat. The baby whimpered at the movement but settled back in the crib snuggling into the blanket.

Crowley backed out and onto the road, where was the nearest mother care?

 Azriaphale had just got back to the book shop when the phone rang. He paused hanging his coat up on its peg, before picking it up, he suspected who it might be but wasn’t sure. He plucked the phone from the handle and held it daintily to his ear,

“I’m dreadfully sorry but I’m afraid we are closed at the...,” his polite but discouraging scripted was cut by a very familiar voice,

“It’s me Angel.”

It sounded although Crowley was making this call from a phone box. Oh dear, what trouble had he gotten himself into now.

“Crowley? Is that you?” he asked anyway knowing the answer,

“Yes. We need to talk.” He said matter of factly.

“Yes, I rather think we do.” Azriaphale thought of the conversation he had had with Gabriel earlier that day.

Crowley looked through the window of the Bentley at the sleeping baby inside. He hung up the phone and got back into the car. He looked over at the child. He was so small. Crowley stroked his cheek with a black nailed finger.

“You have no idea what is going on. I envy you Adam,” the baby sighed in his sleep.