#alternatively also need to having wings and be able to fly and dive and swoop in the open air

[the-witchy-sideblog]

This is your sign to GO SWIM BE SUBMERGED TOUCH WATER !!! GO FLY AND SWING AND FEEL THE AIR!! GO RUN AND JUMP AND FEEL THE GRASS

[listentothelittlebird]

Today I bring you: an alternate Super Sons meeting! (This is a scrapped scene from my Code Bat series on ao3, but I think this is still enjoyable without context!)

The rewrite of this is here!

“I told you, coming with me would be boring.”

“Tt. Whatever, Drake.”

The nickname had long lost its malicious tinge. Tim rolled his eyes, trying to quell the fond smile that was twitching at his lips by ducking his face back down towards the paperwork on his table.

He was in a usually vacant office, at the Wayne Enterprises building of New York. Damian was playing a video game of some sort on his phone. Tim leaned over to peer at the boy’s screen. Damian tried to jerk away from his view, but Tim had already caught sight of the display.

Tim snorted, “Is that Dragonvale?”

“Shut up,” Damian snapped, his emotions betrayed by the reddening of his cheeks. Tim laughed lightly before returning to his work, the office descending into companionable silence, the only sounds coming from Tim shifting around the papers and clicking and unclicking his pen.

Damian had insisted on coming along for Tim’s business trip to New York. Not because he wanted to have a hand at the business, no, but because the young artist was interested in sketching the streets of the city - especially from the more illegal perches they could find on the tall buildings.

A ping from Tim’s phone caught his attention. He frowned minutely, enough of a change for Damian to raise an eyebrow from where he had positioned himself in the corner of the office, right next to the window overlooking the street below. Damian had already grown bored of the same view, having sketched the same perpsective for three days straight.

“So much for a peaceful business trip,” Tim murmured, signing quickly to Damian from behind his desk, where the camera in the room was unable to see, “K-O-N is in town. Pursuing T-O-Y-M-A-N.”

Damian tilted his head to the side, a silent question of “How?”, because New York was not exactly a neighbour to Metropolis. Tim shrugged with a disgruntled look, “Let’s go. I’m pretty much done with what I have to do right now. The rest can wait until later.”

Damian kept pace with Tim as he made a quick detour to access his spare costume before exiting the building. They were becoming more and more like real brothers each day - just the fact that Damian was here with Tim, without any of their other family members, already spoke volumes on their improving relationship. “What do I do?” Damian wondered curiously, “I know you’re intending on meeting up with him. Would my presence be distracting?”

Tim pursed his lips in thought. He had to admit, Damian’s new costume - the robe dyed with faint colourings - was pretty neat, but also very easily located. Damian would definitely stand out, if he did suit up. Not to mention that Damian had little to no exposure to any metas besides Duke, and would struggle to hide from Kon’s super senses.

“If you’re ready to make your debut, then I’ll see you at the destruction zone,” Tim clasped his hand briefly on Damian’s shoulder before ducking into the nearest alleyway. Damian would take more time to make it to where Toyman was currently wreaking havoc, since he had left his robe in their hotel room.

Sure enough, when Red Robin swooped down from the nearest rooftop to land a direct hit on Toyman’s newest creation, the flash of Damian’s white costume was still nowhere to be seen.

There was, however, another tween present. It did not take a genius to realise from the boy’s red cape and blue Superman tunic that this was Kon’s younger brother, Jon.

“How did Toyman get all the way to New York?” Red Robin aimed the question at his teammate, electing to ignore the presence of the younger boy for the time being.

Superboy huffed, visibly annoyed. “He let loose a ton of smaller toy robots, miniatures of the one he’s currently on,” Kon pointed to the UFO-like contraption that was zipping about the skies. He then directed a glare at his younger brother, “And somebody decided to ditch homeland, so that their Pa has to do all the work taking the robots down himself.”

“Pa can take care of the robots just fine!” Jon yelled, angry tone still dangerously close to a whine, “And I can help you! It all works out!”

Kon looked ready to argue back, so Tim cut in with a quick, “Less talk, more work. We can deal with family squabbles later.” Both Superboys instantly fell silent.

Toyman was rather irritable, Tim realised. Particularly so for him, since he was unable to fly and was restricted to the rooftops or fire escapes along the sides of the buildings. It was one of the few times that he wished he had incorporated his gliding wings into his Red Robin suit instead of his Gotham suit.

The villain also seemed to have a shield around his robot, preventing them from inflicting much damage on the UFO he was in. Tim was also constantly weary of the civilians - they were unable to properly clear out of the way, since Toyman kept switching streets and running off in different directions.

Jon tried to punch straight through the shield, but the shield deflected the force of his blow right back at him with a displacing wave of energy, sending the boy hurtling into a nearby building. The boy growled and got back to his feet, aiming to punch the shield a second time. The buildings around them were already unstable from the force of the first blast.

“Kid, don’t!” Red Robin called, but Jon had already flown straight into the shield, forcefully flinging his fist into the barrier.

-

Damian arrived on scene just as the buildings began to crumble. He stayed crouched a distance away, just shy of the main impact zone of the concussive wave.

Damian first noted the failing infrastructures of the buildings nearest to the blast. He was moving before his thoughts had fully formed, diving quickly through the sizable hole in the building and sprinting towards the unlucky civilians that were caught up in the chaos. He had to clear the building fast, before they were crushed under it.

He lowered the last person to the ground with his grappling hook, only to look up and note the presence of not one, but two Superboys. The smaller one looked to be around his own age, which was both intriguing and concerning.

The second Superboy now looked down at him from where he was holding up the upper half of the building he had just exited. “Who are you?” the boy asked in bewilderment. Damian backed away before ducking into the alley beside him, making his way onto the rooftop of a stable building.

“I could use some help!” Red Robin yelled from one street over, where Toyman had retreated to. Red Robin was using what looked to be electrified bird-a-rangs, which were just barely able to get through the shield, but were not doing much in terms of damage.

Damian slipped a small throwing knife into his hand, aiming his shot carefully. Toyman was facing away from him, and his control panel was on full display from where Damian was crouched. He waited until Red Robin readied another bird-a-rang, before throwing his knife in sync with him.

The shield malfunctioned for a split second once more, and it was all that was needed for the knife to slip through at the same time as the bird-a-rang, planting itself neatly into the controls. The wiring fizzled for a brief moment as Toyman cried out, whipping his head back to meet Damian’s blank mask.

The shield disappeared, and then Superboy - Kon-El - was delivering a sharp punch that crunched through the robot’s metallic body easily. The younger Superboy came soon after, hanging back as Red Robin and his older brother subdued Toyman properly.

The boy wrinkled his nose briefly, before looking directly at Damian, his expression brightening. Damian took a cautious step away from the edge of his rooftop even as Superboy flew up to him, landing heavily enough to crack the concrete slightly.

“You’re the guy from earlier!” Superboy enthused, and extended a hand, “Hi! I’m Superboy!”

Damian gazed warily at the boy’s hand. “Will you crush my hand if I shake yours?” Damian blurted out. This was his first time holding a conversation with one of the Kryptonians, he realised.

Superboy froze, and his face fell as he retracted his hand, “Ah, maybe. Sorry, I- I’m new to the hero gig,” he smiled hesitantly, glancing around him, “This is the first time I’ve been Superboy in any city other than Metropolis, actually. It’s… different.”

“I can imagine,” Damian commented, shifting tensely on his feet. Superboy frowned at him, “Your heartbeat’s going kinda fast. You know you don’t need to be afraid of me, right?”

Damian huffed, wondering belatedly how his brothers dealt with their own teammates. “I’m not afraid,” he clarified, “But it isn’t every day you meet an alien.”

“I’m not- okay, fair,” Superboy paused abruptly to glance down at the street. Kon-El and Red Robin appeared over the rooftop’s edge.

“Who are you?” Kon-El questioned, more forcefully than his younger brother’s harmless query. Damian shrugged. “Canvas,” he offered, “That’s what I would prefer to be called.”

The older Kent’s eyes narrowed. “That doesn’t exactly explain who you are very well,” he stated slowly, “What were you doing in the area?”

“Passing through,” Damian quipped easily. Kon-El’s frown deepened, but lifted as Red Robin pulled up several news articles on his holo-glove.

“His appearance matches reports of a white-robed traveller in numerous countries,” Red Robin summarised, and Damian knew immediately that the older boy had planned this statement, “Reports say that he was always found returning something, like an artefact or valued possession, to the communities he visited. He was also reported fighting off supernatural beings and protecting civilians from them.”

When the two Superboys looked back at Damian again, their expressions were contemplative. “So you’re a solo vigilante who’s even more nomadic than Red Robin,” Kon-El concluded, earning a disgruntled noise from the aforementioned person.

The younger Superboy suddenly lit up in an excited grin.

“Bro!” the punch that he gave his older brother made Damian wince slightly, “Teen Titans! Let me join!”

“I’ve already said no, countless times,” Kon-El stated in exasperation, “I’ll only let you on if-”

“If I’m ready, I know, but what if I go through like, a trial period, you know? Just in case I really am ready,” Superboy pointed towards Damian, “And Canva can accompany me, because he’s experienced already, then he’ll be able to tell if I am ready!”

“It’s Canvas,” Damian snapped, before the boy’s words sunk in. Teen Titans?

“You need to ask him for permission,” Kon-El scolded, before turning towards him, “Well? Are you interested in joining a team?”

“I…” Damian was at a loss as to how to respond. This was not what he was expecting.

“How about this,” Red Robin suggested, pulling a communicator from one of his pouches and tossing it over. Damian caught it on instinct.

“Contact us if you’re interested. The offer is open.”

Damian pursed his lips under his mask and nodded mutely, pocketing the device before taking off.

[tribbetherium]

The windribbons, distant relatives of the trunksnakes and twintrunks, are a group of mostly arboreal gliders found worldwide in a various array of habitats. While none are capable of powered flight, the windribbons have over time adapted to maximize their glides, covering great distances as they travel through the air.

The windribbons' "wings" are actually sails supported by flexible extensions of their ribs, which spring out in flight to provide an aerodynamic surface, and snap shut when not in use, folding almost invisibly against their bodies when retracted and scarcely hampering their ability to coil around branches for a secure grip. Many species also have elongated scales on the edges of their rib-wings to further increase their gliding surface, and are the only part of the wing visible when folded away.

Highly active and mobile creatures, the windribbons are also surprisingly intelligent, using their two facial appendages, one on the upper jaw and one on the lower, to dexterously utilize simple tools such as sticks for probing or rocks for cracking seeds. Their versatility, as well as their ability to travel great distances, has allowed them to evolve into a wide selection of niches.

Notable species include:

▪The whiptail parasnake is a very basal and primitive member of the windribbons. Measuring about a foot in length, the parasnake lives high up in the topmost branches of the rainforest, where it pursues and preys on the numerous invertebrates that live there. The parasnake is noteworthy, however, of its methods of escaping danger: when threatened by an arboreal predator, it throws itself off the branch and plummets straight down to the forest floor below. Specialized extensible ribs, not as pronounced as those of more derived forms, spring out as it falls, catching the wind and slowing its descent to ensure a safe landing on the lower branches below. It is likely that such jumping behavior was what eventually led to the windribbons' ancestors becoming skilled gliders, though the parasnake clings onto this ancestral way of life.

▪The tangerine wyrmvern is a more derived species than the parasnake, though still fairly primitive in the structure of its wings. Measuring about two feet in length, the wyrmvern is a ravenous predator of the large flying insects common in this timeline, and residing in the dense forests of North America, skillfully leaps from tree to tree as it pursues its airborne quarry. While only capable of short glides, it is very agile in the air, able to quickly steer left, right and down to catch bugs in midair with the help of tooth-like projections on its upper and lower lip lobes. Once prey is secured the wyrmvern catches its landing by "hugging" the tree trunk with its wings, before folding them away and scurrying back up the trunk with the help of rough gripping scales on its underside.

▪ The croaking crowla, at only about 9 inches in length, is one of the smaller windribbons, but what it lacks in size it makes up for in cleverness. Gregarious creatures that gather in noisy, cawing flocks, they are most notable for their creative ways to procure food, be it probing insects from wood with the aid of sticks grasped in their flexible lips, using stones to break open hard seeds, or even dropping hard-shelled invertebrates right in the path of large forest ophiotauri to crush them open. Fairly agile on the ground and even moreso in the treetops, the crowla is able to exploit a wide variety of food sources in the forest--and at times even use their smarts to work together to earn a shared meal, such as pairs cooperatively tag-teaming to trick other creatures and steal their food.

▪The weeping willowisp is a larger windribbon at nearly three feet, and spends most of its time hanging upside down from branches with the help of its prehensile tail as it roosts. Able to easily drop into flight when need be, it can cover distances of up to a hundred feet with each glide, swooping down and up again in a curved arc before grabbing another branch with its tail at the end of each flight. Males in particular are wide-travelling in the forest as they search for a mate, and their eerie, mournful-sounding cries frequently echo through the forests in the early mornings and late evenings during the breeding season. An omnivore, the willowisp feeds on a wide array of plant and animal foods available in the canopy, though the sugary sap that oozes from the bark of certain trees is a particular favorite.

▪The treenut crutter is a resident of conifer forests where it feeds upon nuts and hard shelled seeds. Measuring nearly two feet in length, the crutter leaps and soars from tree to tree as it searches for its preferred food, which it plucks from the stem with the help of quite muscular lip lobes and cracks open with its broad hooked beak, hidden underneath its lips. This hooked beak also serves well when the females build nests during the breeding season: their sharp beaks are used to gnaw holes into tree trunks, where they then deposit their eggs and guard them until they hatch. Young are able to climb about soon after birth but only begin to take their first glides at about a month of age, until which they are entirely dependent on their parents to bring them food.

▪The fluttering bannerlisk, about 18 inches long, is a generalist omnivore that feeds on seeds and insects and dwells in the sparse trees that dot the grasslands of Africa. As trees are relatively few and far between, the bannerlisk has truly exaggerated its rib-wings to peculiar proportions, forming not only a kite-like shape but a thin, wavy sheet running all the way down its tail. Leaping from the branches like a coiled spring at full force, the bannerlisk is able to ride strong winds that can carry it for distances of nearly 400 feet in a good tailwind, using its tail to steer and guide it in the direction of its preferred target tree. Interestingly, it is able to generate a minimal amount of lift by rapidly undulating its body midflight to prolong its glides on occasion -- probably the closest that a windribbon can get to achieving powered flight.

▪The oceanic kiteskimmer is a truly peculiar species of windribbon that has abandoned the arboreal habitat of the rest of its kin for a completely different environment: the sea. A marine-dwelling family comprised of a wide array of species, none exceeding a foot in length, the kiteskimmers are swift and agile swimmers that prey upon small fish and spend their entire lives in the open ocean, leaping out of the waves on occasion to take a breath. However, despite having become aquatic, the kiteskimmers have not lost their affinity to the air: when fleeing predators or ambushing prey, the kiteskimmers speed through the water at top speed, leap out of the water's surface with their wing-ribs spread, and soar over the waves for distances of over 150 feet per glide, able to terminate their glide at will by snapping their wing-ribs shut in an instant, plunging headfirst into the water to snatch fish from above in their serrated bills. Able to alternate between diving and gliding in rapid succession kiteskimmers are able to travel great distances in quite short spans of time, especially during the summer months, when flocks of them migrate to secluded island beaches to lay their eggs in the sand.

▪The hoodwinged coburd is another unusual windribbon in that it has given up flight entirely and instead become a ground-dwelling omnivore that feeds mostly on fruits and seeds but also relishes insects and occasionally scavenges carrion opportunistically. Measuring over 20 feet long and weighing 200 pounds, the coburd is the largest of the windribbons and is simply far too heavy to get airborne. As such, its rib-wings have now been relegated to display organs, which are flashed to startle enemies or displayed to attract mates. Native to secluded islands in the Pacific, it is likely descended from an ancestor akin to the kiteskimmer, that settled onto the islands long ago, and finding a suitable environment, opted to entirely forgo its predecessors gliding and swimming abilites in favor of a life on land.

[harbingering]

Have you ever noticed that WARREN WORTHINGTON III  from the MARVEL UNIVERSE looks a lot like PETER GADIOT? But  HE also goes by ANGEL/ARCHANGEL. Having the ability of WINGED FLIGHT, SUPERHUMAN STRENGTH, REGENERATIVE HEALING FACTOR, HYPERSONIC SCREAM sure makes them a force to be reckoned with. Rumour has it they are 30 and is working as a CEO OF WORTHINGTON INDUSTRIES & PART OF THE X-MEN. 

basics —

NAME: warren kenneth worthington iii

ALIAS: angel

he only turns into his archangel persona when under immense stress. he’s gotten to a point in his life where he’s capable of keeping that side from coming out. he doesn’t like what he does when the angel of death makes an appearance

SPECIES: mutant

OCCUPATION: ceo of worthington industries

his company deals with aviation technology, alternative fuel, fancy frozen yogurt, and owns the guardian newspaper

AFFILIATION: x-men

was a founding member

RELATIVES: warren k. worthington sr. (paternal grandfather, deceased), warren k. worthington jr. (father, deceased), kathryn worthington (mother, deceased), burtram worthington (paternal uncle), mimi (maternal aunt)

his family is the fifth richest in the entire country

HAIR COLOR: blonde

EYE COLOR: blue

yellow when archangel.

HEIGHT: 6’0” (1.83 m)

WEIGHT: 150 lbs (68.04 kg)

UNUSUAL FEATURES: hollow bones, pair of feathered wings coming out of his back

his skin turns blue and wings become metal when archangel

EDUCATION: college degree from xavier’s school for gifted youngsters

PLACE OF BIRTH: long island, new york

RESIDENCE: new york, new york

he lives in a penthouse in manhattan, but also has a room at the school that he will stay in frequently as well

early life —

warren kenneth worthington iii is the mutant son of the wealthy warren k. worthington jr. and his wife kathryn, neither of them were aware that their son had developed a large pair of feathered wings. on the other hand, doctor stuart who delivered warren knew immediately what he would become by spotting the distortion of his shoulder blades.

warren would attend many boarding schools growing up. his superhero career first began after a fire broke out in his dorm. he disguised himself with a wig and a nightshirt. he ends up lowering two students to safety with a rope.  he also saved a fellow student who would become a lifelong friend.

he would briefly become a costumed superhero known as avenging angel. this caught the attention of the professor who recruits him as the third founding member of the x-men. he was a carefree student, often flying-off during his lessons and in public.  

he would end up becoming known as just angel after becoming an x-man.

powers and abilities —

warren is capable of switching between his personas.

assume he’s angel unless it’s stated otherwise. thank you!

ANGEL —

WINGS: possesses the superhuman ability to fly by means of his natural wings, which spanned sixteen feet from wingtip to wingtip. fully feathered like a bird's, the wings have a very flexible skeletal structure, enabling him to press them to the back of his torso and legs with only the slightest bulge visible under his clothing. angel flies by flapping his wings, as a bird does. the strength in his natural wings can easily break a man's arm or leg, or even put someone through a wall.

FLIGHT: his normal cruising speed averages around 70 miles per hour (112 kph), though he is capable of diving swoops that reach up to 180 miles per hour (290 kph). he can fly at 150 miles per hour (240 kph) without the help of a tail wind for up to half an hour at a time before tiring to an appreciable degree. though he generally flies beneath the height of the clouds (6,500 feet/1981 meters), he can reach a height of 10,000 feet (3000 meters) with little effort. with severe strain he can attain the highest recorded altitude of a bird in flight (african geese at 29,000 feet (8840 meters) above sea level), but can only remain at that altitude for several minutes.

AERIAL ADAPTATION: angel’s entire anatomy is naturally adapted to flying. his bones are hollow, his body processes food more efficiently than a normal human body and does not store any excess fat, and he possesses a greater proportionate muscle mass than normal. as a result, his strength, speed, agility, flexibility, endurance, reflexes, coordination, balance, eyesight and hearing are at their peak. elements of his anatomy are comparable to those of birds, especially birds of prey. his eyes can withstand high-speed winds which would damage the average human eye. he can breathe at high velocities or altitudes, and he can cope with the reduced temperatures at high altitudes for prolonged periods of time.

he shares some quality with birds including the sense of direction while his eyesight is on par with the one of an eagle, allowing him to spot movement and details even from higher distances than the average human (or mutant) could. his enhanced, avian eyes allow him to "see everything" even in the dark!

PEAK HUMAN STRENGTH: he can lift up to 500 lbs!

SUPERHUMAN STAMINA: he can physically exert himself at peak capacity for several hours before the build up of fatigue toxins in his blood begins to impair him. his physical stamina while in flight is considerably greater. the angel can fly non-stop under his own power for a maximum of approximately twelve hours.

SUPERHUMAN DURABILITY: his body is structured to withstand the friction caused by flying at high speeds. he can also withstand impact forces that would severely injure or kill an ordinary human with only mild to moderate discomfort.

EXPERT COMBATANT: he’s a skilled combatant, especially in aerial hand-to-hand combat.

BUSINESS SENSE: a talented businessman whose wealth ranks him in the lower part of the fortune 500 list.

SWORDSMANSHIP: aced in his fencing class without ever picking up a sword, and only using his wings. he can use a sword if needed someday.

ARCHANGEL —

TECHNO-ORGANIC WINGS: was given techno-organic wings by Apocalypse as part of his conversion to the Horseman Death. Their feathers could be launched as flechettes which hit like bullets and able to pierce steel, due in part to their incredible endurance and composition.

FLIGHT: these wings enabled him to fly approximately at mach 1, possibly even faster considering he had little trouble out-flying a fighter jet which can travel a speed of mach 2.35 (2,903 kph) and later still showed out flying the blackbird while above sea level at mach 4.2 (roughly 5,189 kph).

WING BLADES: his t.o. wings have razor sharp edges running along them, most likely mono-molecular in sharpness, making them very deadly bladed weapons for him to use. it’s suggested they can cleave semblances with the toughness of diamond being sharp enough cleave stone, tear through tempered steel slice, and can easily cleave grown men clean in two.

WING SHIELDING: due to their metallic trans organic nature they made decent shields to protect his body by covering up in them. able to resist an arrow barrage, bullet fire, flash flames, a missile strike and lastly can tank a bio-nuclear microwave blast from the mutant holocaust.

REGENERATIVE HEALING FACTOR: has the ability to regrow damaged and destroyed tissue due in part to both his mutations.

HYPERSONIC SCREAM: can emit an intense acoustic shrieking which could cause disorientation and internal bleeding.

[aethercal]

It’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s WARREN WORTHINGTON III/ANGEL && ARCHANGEL, a HERO from MARVEL! HE is 33 years old and look an awful lot like PETER GADIOT. I hear that they work as a CEO OF WORTHINGTON INDUSTRIES. Rumor has it they were AGAINST the Accords and ARE NOT registered under the new laws.

I wonder what they’ll find with their new beginning! 

basics —

NAME: warren kenneth worthington iii

ALIAS: angel

he only turns into his archangel persona when under immense stress. he’s gotten to a point in his life where he’s capable of keeping that side from coming out. he doesn’t like what he does when the angel of death makes an appearance

SPECIES: mutant

OCCUPATION: ceo of worthington industries

his company deals with aviation technology, alternative fuel, fancy frozen yogurt, and owns the guardian newspaper

AFFILIATION: x-men

was a founding member

RELATIVES: warren k. worthington sr. (paternal grandfather, deceased), warren k. worthington jr. (father, deceased), kathryn worthington (mother, deceased), burtram worthington (paternal uncle), mimi (maternal aunt)

his family is the fifth richest in the entire country

HAIR COLOR: blonde

EYE COLOR: blue

yellow when archangel.

HEIGHT: 6’0” (1.83 m)

WEIGHT: 150 lbs (68.04 kg)

UNUSUAL FEATURES: hollow bones, pair of feathered wings coming out of his back

his skin turns blue and wings become metal when archangel

EDUCATION: college degree from xavier’s school for gifted youngsters

PLACE OF BIRTH: long island, new york

RESIDENCE: new york, new york

he lives in a penthouse in manhattan, but also has a room at the school that he will stay in frequently as well

early life —

warren kenneth worthington iii is the mutant son of the wealthy warren k. worthington jr. and his wife kathryn, neither of them were aware that their son had developed a large pair of feathered wings. on the other hand, doctor stuart who delivered warren knew immediately what he would become by spotting the distortion of his shoulder blades.

warren would attend many boarding schools growing up. his superhero career first began after a fire broke out in his dorm. he disguised himself with a wig and a nightshirt. he ends up lowering two students to safety with a rope.  he also saved a fellow student who would become a lifelong friend.

he would briefly become a costumed superhero known as avenging angel. this caught the attention of the professor who recruits him as the third founding member of the x-men. he was a carefree student, often flying-off during his lessons and in public.  

he would end up becoming known as just angel after becoming an x-man.

powers and abilities —

warren is capable of switching between his personas.

assume he’s angel unless it’s stated otherwise. thank you!

ANGEL —

WINGS: possesses the superhuman ability to fly by means of his natural wings, which spanned sixteen feet from wingtip to wingtip. fully feathered like a bird's, the wings have a very flexible skeletal structure, enabling him to press them to the back of his torso and legs with only the slightest bulge visible under his clothing. angel flies by flapping his wings, as a bird does. the strength in his natural wings can easily break a man's arm or leg, or even put someone through a wall.

FLIGHT: his normal cruising speed averages around 70 miles per hour (112 kph), though he is capable of diving swoops that reach up to 180 miles per hour (290 kph). he can fly at 150 miles per hour (240 kph) without the help of a tail wind for up to half an hour at a time before tiring to an appreciable degree. though he generally flies beneath the height of the clouds (6,500 feet/1981 meters), he can reach a height of 10,000 feet (3000 meters) with little effort. with severe strain he can attain the highest recorded altitude of a bird in flight (african geese at 29,000 feet (8840 meters) above sea level), but can only remain at that altitude for several minutes.

AERIAL ADAPTATION: angel’s entire anatomy is naturally adapted to flying. his bones are hollow, his body processes food more efficiently than a normal human body and does not store any excess fat, and he possesses a greater proportionate muscle mass than normal. as a result, his strength, speed, agility, flexibility, endurance, reflexes, coordination, balance, eyesight and hearing are at their peak. elements of his anatomy are comparable to those of birds, especially birds of prey. his eyes can withstand high-speed winds which would damage the average human eye. he can breathe at high velocities or altitudes, and he can cope with the reduced temperatures at high altitudes for prolonged periods of time.

he shares some quality with birds including the sense of direction while his eyesight is on par with the one of an eagle, allowing him to spot movement and details even from higher distances than the average human (or mutant) could. his enhanced, avian eyes allow him to "see everything" even in the dark!

PEAK HUMAN STRENGTH: he can lift up to 500 lbs!

SUPERHUMAN STAMINA:  he can physically exert himself at peak capacity for several hours before the build up of fatigue toxins in his blood begins to impair him. his physical stamina while in flight is considerably greater. the angel can fly non-stop under his own power for a maximum of approximately twelve hours.

SUPERHUMAN DURABILITY: his body is structured to withstand the friction caused by flying at high speeds. he can also withstand impact forces that would severely injure or kill an ordinary human with only mild to moderate discomfort.

EXPERT COMBATANT: he’s a skilled combatant, especially in aerial hand-to-hand combat.

BUSINESS SENSE: a talented businessman whose wealth ranks him in the lower part of the fortune 500 list.

SWORDSMANSHIP: aced in his fencing class without ever picking up a sword, and only using his wings. he can use a sword if needed someday.

ARCHANGEL —

TECHNO-ORGANIC WINGS: was given techno-organic wings by Apocalypse as part of his conversion to the Horseman Death. Their feathers could be launched as flechettes which hit like bullets and able to pierce steel, due in part to their incredible endurance and composition.

FLIGHT: these wings enabled him to fly approximately at mach 1, possibly even faster considering he had little trouble out-flying a fighter jet which can travel a speed of mach 2.35 (2,903 kph) and later still showed out flying the blackbird while above sea level at mach 4.2 (roughly 5,189 kph).

WING BLADES: his t.o. wings have razor sharp edges running along them, most likely mono-molecular in sharpness, making them very deadly bladed weapons for him to use. it’s suggested they can cleave semblances with the toughness of diamond being sharp enough cleave stone, tear through tempered steel slice, and can easily cleave grown men clean in two.

WING SHIELDING: due to their metallic trans organic nature they made decent shields to protect his body by covering up in them. able to resist an arrow barrage, bullet fire, flash flames, a missile strike and lastly can tank a bio-nuclear microwave blast from the mutant holocaust.

REGENERATIVE HEALING FACTOR: has the ability to regrow damaged and destroyed tissue due in part to both his mutations.

HYPERSONIC SCREAM: can emit an intense acoustic shrieking which could cause disorientation and internal bleeding.

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[not-a-space-alien]

Into the Unknown, Part 8:  Beneath A Purple Sky, or: Crowley’s Adventures in Wonderland

Prologue | Dramatis Personae | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

Series masterpost

On AO3

“Fuck!  Shite! Fuck!  Fuck!”

Anyone within a mile of Crowley would have been able to hear the stream of curses pouring from his mouth.  But he was up in the stratosphere and plummeting like a comet, yelling into the empty sky.

He tumbled head over heels, utterly disoriented, his vision a blur. He burned all over.

He hadn’t burned like this since he Fell.  He registered dimly it was the same pain as Falling, God’s presence burning you to Hell, the same pain as the time he had been in Heaven under the protection of angel dust that had rubbed off.

It was at this point that he made the connection that Falling hurt so much because you had just become a demon, but were still in Heaven and in contact with the Divine Aura until you nose-dived out of it into Hell.

And what he felt right now was a little like that, except God had been right there, and touching him at that.

Crowley had no idea how he had survived, or where he was at the moment. The stinging sensation of God’s holy aura had been overpowering for a single, terrifying, painful moment, then it had just…disappeared.

Maybe he was in the process of dying.  Somebody, he hurt all over.  It was fading, though, as he got further from the source.  Or maybe as he just continued on with dying.

But no, that couldn’t be right, because he could still feel things.  Over the dwindling stinging in his demonic core, he felt the wind rushing past him.  He wasn’t Falling, just falling.

Priority number one was to stop this free-fall that had consumed him somehow. He could almost feel the atmosphere’s friction rubbing him like a comet at terminal velocity.  His vision started to return, fading back in to show him a view of the earth spinning beneath his feet, a whir of land and trees alternating with a clear purple sky—

Wait, the sky was purple.  Why was the sky purple?

Crowley phased his wings into existence and tried to snap them open, but they shrieked in pain as he moved them.  He grit his teeth and steadied himself, splaying out like a skydiver.

A second glance confirmed that the sky was indeed purple.  Despite the direness of the situation, Crowley couldn’t help but stare upwards at it for a few moments.  His tie flapping up and hitting him in the face jarred his attention back to the situation.

Crowley tried easing his wings open slowly and had a bit more success. In the end, he was able to slow his fall enough to look at the ground below him and determine where he was.

Somebody, he was so high up.  He had barely noticed the air was too thin to breathe.  For a moment, he could’ve sworn he could see the curvature of the Earth.  A huge carpet of rugged waves hurtled towards him as he fell, and he realised he needed to take evasive action or land in the ocean.

He didn’t know exactly where he was, but he was able to steer himself so he would land in what he thought was Great Britain, at least.

He landed heavily in a tangle of trees, snapping branches beneath him and thumping into a carpet of pine needles in the dirt.

He just lay there with his wings askew beneath him, spread out looking up at the sky.

It was purple?

Crowley groaned, feeling the aches from the descent racking his body on top of the burns the Divine Aura had inflicted.  His hand worked its way down his shirt and unbuttoned it to assess the damage. There was a huge hand-print of red, blistered skin wrapped around his midsection where he had been grabbed, but other than that the damage seemed to be minimal.

Thank somebody.  That could have ended very differently.

His fingers worked at a patch of raw skin on his face, and he miracled a burn salve into existence and applied it to himself.

“God,” he moaned.  “Fuck. Damn.”

A winged figure flickered across the sky, too fast for him to see who it was. Crowley collected himself and managed to get to his feet, teetering over to a tree for support.

He was still trying to catch his breath when a strange little angel appeared in the tree above him.  They had a spacey look in their eyes.

“Hello?” said Crowley.

WHERE DID YOU COME FROM? said the angel, cocking their head.  STRANGE, STRANGE.

“Um,” said Crowley.  “Space? Is that you?”

I SHOULD GO FIX THE HOLE, they said, then flitted away up into the sky.

Crowley plopped back down on the ground, exhaustedly putting his head to his knees.  He ended up sitting there for a few minutes to gather up his will to move, then set off towards where London should be if his rudimentary navigation during free-fall had been accurate.

********************

Crowley healed some of his more debilitating injuries on his own, but to save his energy he left some of them for the more thorough recovery session he anticipated once he was reunited with Aziraphale, Maltha, and the rest.

Somebody, he hoped they had escaped from the Judgement Room alive.  He had no idea what had happened.  He had to get back to them ASAP.  But going back up to Heaven was absolutely out of the question with how he had left it.

There should be somebody in London, he thought, if he could just meet up with someone to make contact, and he could decide where to go from there.  Last he heard, Botis and Kyleth were still in the hotel across town.  They might be his best bet.  At the very least, Kyleth could peek her head into Heaven and see if it was safe.

Crowley stopped in the middle of this train of thought, legs dangling and hovering in the air.  Surely this was where London was, right?  He had been there millions of times.  He had let his wings fly him there based on muscle memory.

Crowley had never gotten lost before, not in Great Britain, his home.

He flew up higher into the sky to orient himself to try and counter his sinking stomach.  Had he hurt his head somehow?

The M25 was gone.  London wasn’t where it was supposed to be.  And was Mayfair…in Ireland?

Crowley shook his head, but he traced his path around the bodies of water and confirmed that, yes, this big ol’ island under him was indeed the UK.  Frustrated, Crowley swooped lower over a large city, scanning it for familiar landmarks.

Okay, there was Big Ben.  That was a start.  Crowley alighted on the hour hand of the clock, the machinations of the clockwork rumbling behind him.

Wait, what did the clock say?  He turned back to look at it.

Big Ben only had six numbers on it.  One through six, spread out evenly over the face as though it constituted a whole day.  And in Arabic numerals, not roman.  Also, the clock face was a completely different colour.  Also, it wasn’t Big Ben at all, just some other iconic clock tower soaring above the city heights, some new and completely foreign clock tower Crowley had never seen in the hundreds of years he had lived in Great Britain.  He stared at it, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

The bell rumbled, and Crowley leapt off before the hour hand turned and the bell deafened him.

“Okay,” said Crowley, wringing his hands.  “I must have hit my head a bit in the fall.  No matter.  Should clear up soon.”

That purple sky felt all too real, though.  He felt like he just needed one thing to orient himself.  If he could just find Aziraphale….or anyone.

Crowley rubbed the silver ring on his finger, trying to activate the charm. It stayed unlit.

He frowned.  When had he used it last?  Surely it had been longer than 12 hours by now?

Crowley pushed down the pit in his stomach, swooping down to what he thought might be familiar territory.  He drifted for a while up in the stratosphere, shading his eyes with his hands and peering down below.

There, a patch of green nestled among the grid-work of the city.  It looked weirdly like St. James’s park, considering it definitely wasn’t.  And there, oh sweet someone, sitting on a bench by the pond—

Aziraphale.  Crowley dove straight towards him like a parched man after water.

The angel’s attention pricked up as Crowley approached, folding in his wings and jogging over, panting.  “Aziraphale!  Thank f— Whew, I thought I would never find you.”

Aziraphale’s stare on him was hard.  He hadn’t gotten up from the bench.

Crowley doubled over with his hands on his thighs.  “Are you okay?  Are Maltha and Noah okay?  What happened?”

“You…” said Aziraphale.  “You’re dead.”

Crowley straightened up.  “Ah…Nope…Gotta say, Aziraphale, I expected a bit more of a warm welcome…”

Aziraphale stood up, eyeing him critically.  “You’re dead.  How are you…?  I killed you.”

“A little concern?  Anything?  Wait, did you say you…?”

Aziraphale drew his sword.  Crowley held his hands out and backed up.  “W-wait, Aziraphale, it’s me. Crowley.”  It was at this point that Crowley notice the gold ring, which he had so lovingly slid up the finger of Aziraphale’s sword hand, was nowhere to be seen on the hand gripping the weapon pointed at him.

“Stay right where you are,” said Aziraphale, bringing the point of his sword up into Crowley’s chest.  Crowley held his hands up higher.  “You won’t make any sudden movements if you value your life.”

Crowley’s despairing eyes swept up Aziraphale’s weapon into the angel’s face. “Angel, I…”

Aziraphale materialised a communication device of some sort; it looked rather like an ethereal flip phone, which he snapped open.  “I need to speak to Azrael right away,” he said into it.

“Aziraphale, it’s me, Crowley.”

“I’m aware,” Aziraphale snapped.  “My demonic nemesis I vanquished centuries ago, somehow come back from the dead to haunt me.”

“What?” said Crowley, his heart growing heavy and threatening to break.

“I’m sure the warrior on patrol heard the disturbance and is en route, so don’t think of trying anything.  We’ll get to the bottom of this, serpent.”

A few humans had gathered nearby, gawking at Aziraphale’s weapon. Aziraphale dispelled them with a miracle-laden suggestion they head home and forget what they had seen.

“Can—Can I talk to—”  Crowley swallowed.  Something was terribly wrong.  Aziraphale was acting like a proper angelic asshole.  Who would Crowley have a chance of getting to who might help?  “Can you call Raphael on that thing?  Or Victoria?”

Aziraphale glowered at him.

“Anyone?  Any archangel?”

“Archangel?” said Aziraphale.

“Yes, archangel?” said Crowley.

They stared each other down.  Had Crowley been a cat, his tail would have been floofed out.

“Ah, here comes my backup,” said Aziraphale with a smug smile, and a pair of wingbeats sounded nearby.  “Looks like Hastaphael is on this route today.”

“…Who?”

Crowley nearly fainted when a second angel alighted by Aziraphale, likewise drawing his sword.  The newcomer was an angelic warrior, but the face, the aura….

“Hastur?” said Crowley, absolutely floored.  “Are you an angel?”

The warrior gave him an ugly sneer.  “What are you talking about, demon?”

“He’s not making an ounce of sense,” said Aziraphale.  “This is clearly an anomaly.  We ought to take him to Gabriel.”

“Where’s his Eye of Satan?” said the angel with Hastur’s face.

Crowley yelped nervously as the warrior angel roughly grabbed him and pulled his collar down, exposing his bare neck, then twisted his wrists to perform the same inspection.

“It’s always on the wrist or the neck,” said Aziraphale.

“I know,” the warrior growled.  “He dunt got one.”

“It was on his neck before.”

Crowley tried to lean away from the grabbing hands, but the warrior clamped a hand on his jaw and tilted Crowley’s head to peer at the other side of his neck.

“I think there’s been some kind of misunderstanding,” said Crowley, voice muffled underneath the warrior’s hand.

“Doesn’t matter,” said the warrior.  “Only good demon is a dead demon.  Let’s run him through.”

“We should take him to Gabriel,” Aziraphale said.

“What for?”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale snapped.  “This is clearly an anomaly, though!”

“We can file a report after we—huh?”

Another pair of wingbeats approached.

“He’s got backup,” the warrior growled, shoving Crowley away and raising his sword to the sky.

“I-I do?” said Crowley.

Crowley let out a grunt of surprise as Aziraphale tackled him, pinning him to the ground.  “Don’t think about going anywhere,” Aziraphale said.

A circle of grass nearby wilted and burnt with a sizzling sound, and a demonic warrior leapt out.  His wings flared as he barreled onto the scene, shouting and sword drawn back for a blow.

“Botis?” said Crowley.

“Unhand him!” Botis shouted, flapping his wings.  “Or face a solid pounding.”

The angel called Hastaphael waved at Aziraphale in a dismissive way. “Run him through.”

Crowley let out an eep and rolled out from under Aziraphale as Aziraphale retrieved his sword, still seeming conflicted.  Crowley hit a pair of armored legs and peered up to see Botis’s ugly but familiar visage sneering at him.  “Get out of here; I’ll find you later.”

That was all the permission Crowley needed; he leapt to his feet and sprinted away.  Botis seemed to be immensely enjoying the fight as his sword clanged loudly, audible even as Crowley lost sight of the park and was swallowed up by the streets of Not-London.

***********************

So, this was some sort of alternate timeline.  That was the only explanation for everything he had seen.

Crowley had no idea where—or when?—he was, what this strange place was, but clearly he was not in his own time and place.  The landscape was different, and none of his friends recognised him.

And based on Aziraphale’s reaction, it sounded like Crowley had existed in this place, except Aziraphale had killed him a while back, and therefore his appearance had been interpreted as an unexplained miraculous resurrection, the same kind they had just been working to solve when he had been thrown out of Heaven.

Had he time-travelled somehow?  Well, it couldn’t have been backwards, because the city had been modernised.  He had seen people with mobile phones on his mad dash out—Not any brands he recognised, though.  He had seen someone with what appeared to be an iPhone, but when he doubled back to look at it again, the icon on the back of the device had turned out to be a pineapple and not the signature apple with a bite out of it.

He had been responsible for that particular bit of iconography and he was curiously sad to see it go.

Surely he couldn’t have gone forward in time, either.  There would have had to be some serious changes in the intervening years for Aziraphale to hate Crowley enough to kill him, but accept Hastur, who was, oh yeah, still an angel here somehow.

If it wasn’t back or forwards, had he gone….sideways?

Damn.  What was so different about this place that not only did Aziraphale and Crowley not get along, but hated each other so much they actually killed one another?  Aziraphale and Crowley had never even made a habit of discorporating each other, let alone going at each other with holy water and aural weapons.

Crowley found it disturbing in the highest degree.  Clearly whatever God had done to him, he had been transported to some place where the capital W-War was still on.  And in a heightened state at that, if warriors were patrolling and appearing at field agents’ sides in seconds.

Crowley had never been defended by a demonic warrior before the ineffable plan had been turned on its head six-thousand years in.  Demonic warriors were there to have a go at angelic warriors, and angelic warriors were there to keep demonic warriors from having a go at angels that were not warriors and therefore not very good at defending themselves.  The angelic warriors mostly did their job by sitting around and making their presence clear as a deterrent, and not much else.

And they had just appeared to interfere with a quarrel between two field agents seconds after it broke out…?  

Crowley had sprinted away from Botis, Hastaphael, and Aziraphale until he was too far away to feel their auras.  Then he kept going for good measure, sure that if Botis wanted to find him again he would manage to somehow, considering he had no idea how Botis had found him in the first place.

He legged it out of this strange city that wasn’t London, not stopping until he was back in the forest, because the city unnerved him.

Panting heavily, Crowley leaned against a tree and dropped down.  He curled around himself.

This sucked, plain and simple.  He had thought God was going to kill him, but He had done something else different entirely, and he couldn’t figure out what.  Seeing Aziraphale want to kill him was worse, almost.  He didn’t like this one bit.  He hated it.

Where was his Aziraphale?  That must have been a different Aziraphale. Somehow.  And how was Botis here, but not Maltha?  Or any other of his friends?

Well, Botis’s loyalty must just be a constant no matter the universe.

He still ached from the wounds he hadn’t healed earlier.  He materialised his staff and started giving them some attention, but he was interrupted by the sound of wings drawing near.

Crowley stood up and stretched his legs as Botis touched down, sheathed sword jangling against his heavy armor.  “There you are.  Are you hurt?”

“A little,” said Crowley.  “But it’s not—”

He was cut off as Botis seized his arm, inspecting him.  “Hmm….These look like holy water burns,” said Botis, with a critical eye on the injuries he had been tending.  “You really need to be more careful.  If you just followed SOP for interacting with angels in the field, we wouldn’t be in this situation.  The rules are there for a reason.  What were you even trying to do?”

“To do?”

“Yeah, lollygagging around in that park with an angel nearby.”

“I was—I was trying to talk to Aziraphale.”

“Talk to him?”

“Y—Yes?  Botis, what’s going on?”

“What’s going on?” Botis echoed dimly.  He still had a hand on Crowley, and he began to sort of pat him down.  “Where’s your Eye of Satan?”

“Okay, what is that?”

Botis twisted Crowley’s wrists and examined his neck the same way the angels had.

“Please fill me in,” said Crowley. “I feel so lost right now.”

Botis blinked at him.

“Eye of Satan?”

Botis held his right hand out, wrist-up.  A tattoo of an eye stared back at Crowley, nestled among a lace of occult sigils.

“O—oh,” said Crowley.  “And that’s…?”

The ink on Botis’s skin writhed and pulsed.  The eye blinked and the pupil darted up to look at Crowley.

“Ah!” said Crowley, taking a step back.

“Botis, what’s going on?” said a disembodied voice, and the eye blinked again. “Who is that?”

“Demon I had to rescue from angelic warriors,” said Botis.  “He doesn’t have an Eye.”

“What?”

Botis’s gaze moved from the tattoo back up to Crowley, mustache bristling. “Wrists and neck are both blank. Unless you authorised him to have it somewhere else?”

“No,” said the voice.  “Bring him down as soon as you can so we can fix this.  What class is he?”

Crowley wrung his hands and stepped in, determined to take back some modicum of control over the situation.  “Field agent,” he reported.

Botis glared at him and said in a strained whisper, “Don’t be stupid.”  Then he looked back down at the tattoo, the pupil of which darted back and forth between the two of them as they talked.  “He’s a healer.”

“If he’s injured take him to field encampment 27, then bring him down to speak with me,” said the voice.

“Yes, Lord.”

The tattoo fell still.

“What—What the fuck was that?” said Crowley.

“That was our Lord Satan, and you forget yourself,” said Botis.  “Show some respect.”

Crowley felt dismay weighing down his heart.  “Oh.  Of course. I-I haven’t done anything, though.  Surely Satan is too busy to pay any attention to little old me.”

“Lord Satan always makes time to pay attention to details,” said Botis.  “Now, follow me.”

Now that was something Crowley hadn’t thought he would ever hear a demon say.  Satan was usually rather lackadaisical about the details—it’s why Crowley was able to get away with not actually doing his job.  Satan paying attention to you wasn’t a good sign.

“But, look, I haven’t done anything wrong,” said Crowley, trying painfully hard to keep the whimper out of his voice.

Botis looked at him strangely.  “I never said you did anything wrong.”

“Then why am I being…?”

“Punished?” said Botis.  “Nobody said you were being punished.  We merely need to present ourselves to Satan to correct an anomaly.”

The idea that you would be summoned to speak to Satan for any reason other than if you had done something to piss him off, and therefore were in for a bad time, was utterly foreign to Crowley.  He was having a very hard time wrapping his brain around it.

“What does Satan want to…?”

“We need to get you treated first, at any rate,” said Botis.  “We can’t have you walking about with burns like that.”

And treating injured demons in the field…?  Part of the entire reason why Hell was shite was because there weren’t any healers, and if you got hurt you just needed to deal with it yourself.

“What’s wrong?” said Botis.  “You seem confused.”

“Uh,” said Crowley.  “I—Uh, um…We’re going to field encampment…?”

“Twenty-seven, yes.  It’s over in this direction.”  Botis steered him by the arm.  “Come on, then.”

“Oh—Okay.  Um, hey Botis?  Thanks.”

Botis turned back and eyed him strangely.

“For saving me back there?  They were going to kill me.”

“Just doing my job.  You can trust me to do my job,” said Botis.  “After all, it’d be a funny old world if demons went around not trusting each other.”

******************

Crowley picked up rather quickly that this wasn’t his Botis, much to his disappointment.  Gone were the “sirs” and protective exclamations about Crowley’s safety and basically everything that had made Botis nice to have around.

It was the same way that Aziraphale hadn’t been his Aziraphale. He had no idea what that meant, the full extent of what was going on, but he was reasonably smart and able to tell that something was terribly amiss.

His earlier thoughts about being transposed in time or thrown into a parallel dimension had been half in jest, but he had no way of knowing how close he was to the truth.

Botis led him to a field encampment.  He didn’t like this version of Botis very much, so he was relieved at the thought that maybe Botis would leave him alone here.

The camp was hidden by a protective miracle to keep humans from stumbling into it—it appeared to be nestled in a fold of space-time that a simple teleportation miracle would straighten out.  There was a fence made of wooden slats, tents, a gate—the whole nine yards.  It looked remarkably like one of the angelic field camps that would occasionally be positioned in Heaven’s territory on Earth.  It was bigger, though.

And did they say this one was number twenty-seven?  Heaven probably had only a dozen or so of them scattered about the globe.  There wasn’t generally much need for them.

Botis escorted him via an overly firm grip on his arm to a tent with an icon of a green staff on it.  When he pulled the curtain aside to enter, Crowley saw the interior of the tent was dominated by medical cots and demons dressed in scrubs running about madly like ants.

Crowley’s eyes widened.  “Botis, is this…?”

“The infirmary, yes,” said Botis, trying to flag someone down.

“These are all infernal healers?”

“Yes,” said Botis distractedly.  “Ramikale, I need to speak with you.”

Crowley was too overwhelmed to take note of to whom Botis was motioning. There had to be at least half a dozen demonic healers in here.  Real healers, who were created as healing class, and fell as healing class.  He could tell just by looking at them and feeling their auras.

“Botis, who are these demons?” said Crowley, but Botis ignored him, as he had finally caught the attention of one of the medical demons.

Crowley was shocked when she pulled down the mask on her face, revealing the familiar visage of his friend Ramial, except her eyes glowed an infernal red. She had the same eye tattoo as Botis, but it was on her neck.  “What is it now, Botis?”

“I found this demon wandering about,” said Botis.  “He has no Eye—”

“No Eye?  That’s an anomaly.  Satan won’t be happy.”

“I know, so I’m taking him down to Hell, but first we need to treat his injuries.  If it’d be possible to put him at the front of the queue, that would expedite things for Lord Satan.”

“Sure.”  The healing demon hovered over Crowley as Botis spoke, pecking at him with a trained eye. “Holy water burns, it looks like.”

“Ramial?” said Crowley.  “Did you…?”

The healing demon gave him an annoyed look.  “Did you get into a fight?”

“Yeah,” said Botis.  “I caught him walking right up to a principality as though he wanted afternoon tea with ‘im.”

“You know very well you’re not supposed to engage angels directly,” said the healing demon.  “What did you hope to accomplish?”

“I was…” said Crowley, floundering.  “Ah…Just trying to talk to him.  What’s wrong with that?  Are you....Rami...”

Botis leaned in to whisper, “I don’t think he’s well, you know, mentally.”  The volume was enough for Crowley to hear if he hadn’t been so stunned.  Instead, he reached out a hand to stroke the medical demon’s cheek, thereby confirming Botis’s proclamation in the minds of everyone observing.

Botis left the tent, abandoning Crowley to the clutches of the healers, two more of which had come and started grabbing at him.  They all had the same eye tattoo on their necks, and the pupils thereof would occasionally flare to life and rove about before falling inanimate again as the nurses conducted their inspection of him.

“Very intense burns,” one noted, their voiced tinged with clinical, impersonal interest.  The three of them corralled him into a medical cot, and he lay on it uneasily.

“Must have been a direct hit,” said the other newcomer.

“Interesting shape the wound has taken,” said the original healer, stripping Crowley’s shirt off.  “Almost like a hand-print.”

This was enough to snap Crowley back into reality.  Should he try and hide the source of the wound?  Even if he told them, he wasn’t sure if they would believe him, especially since they were already convinced he was daft.

Did any of these demons know it was possible to get into Heaven?  Did any of them know about—Well, whatever phenomenon could have possibly shafted him into a place like this…?

His thoughts went back to the little angel he had seen upon first coming here.  They had mentioned something about a hole. An entrance Crowley had come through, perhaps?  Maybe he should try and find that place again, to see if there was any way of going back.

Back from where, he had no idea, though.

But part of Crowley wondered if he should be so quick to try and leave. He was surrounded by infernal healers.  These demons were equipped to understand him in a way even Aziraphale wasn’t.  Even Maltha.

“How did you get this wound?” said one of the healers, yanking his attention back to the situation at hand.

He looked at their cotton-clad face, mind drowning in so many layers of static he had no idea what to say.

“Was it holy water?” said a second, with an expectant look.

Crowley stuttered, then nodded.

“Told you,” said one.

“Hey…” he said as they began treating his wounds.  “You guys…how did you fall?  All three of you?  How many more of you are there?”

One of them gave him a dirty look.  The second simply shot up his eyebrows.  The third tutted and patted his head, assuring him they would treat his head injury as well.

Try as he might to connect with them, they treated him as a stranger, even the demon wearing Ramial’s face and aura.  Eventually he gave up and fell silent under their hands whizzing here and there and their chatter, speaking rapidly and efficiently at each other in a way only beings who have worked together seamlessly for thousands of years could accomplish.

They were faster than any healer he had ever seen.  They were faster, and better, than even Raphael.  Than Maltha.  And they had nowhere near the aural power of an archangel or archdemon.

He was on his feet again being shoved towards the exit of the tent in a matter of minutes.  He picked idly at the white cloth wrapping his wounds, trying to take it all in.

“Botis, we’re finished!” one of the healers hollered, disappearing back into the sea of beds and injured demons.  “He’s yours again.”

A shadow fell over Crowley, and he looked up from his bandages.  Botis was in front of him again.  “Now we shall go see our Lord Satan.  She’ll make sense of this.”

“Botis, I was thinking, before that maybe we—Wait, did you say she?”

“Of course.  Hell has always had a queen.”

Relief flooded Crowley.  The most likely candidate for Queen of Hell would, of course, be Maltha.

“You hit your head pretty hard, haven’t you?” said Botis.

“What’s the Queen’s name?”

“Satan, of course.”

“No, I mean—”  He broke off and took a breath.  The realisation was dawning on him that Maltha might not be the same.  It wouldn’t be his Maltha.  And it might not be Maltha at all.  If Ramial had fallen and Hastur hadn’t, who knew what side everyone was on in this place?

What side.  He hated the thought.  Two sides again.  He resolved to get out of here as soon as he could, his earlier waffling completely abandoned.  “Botis, before we go down to Hell, let’s make a stop back to…”

He paused with horror, realising he wasn’t entirely sure he’d be able to locate his point of entry again.  He’d thought it had been somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, but…

Botis tapped his foot impatiently.  “Back to where?”

Botis’s eye tattoo flared to life again, and the same voice from earlier snapped out, “Back to nowhere.  You’ll bring him down immediately as I commanded, Botis.”

“Yes, my Lord,” said Botis.  “I apologise.”

The tattoo became inanimate again.  Botis reached out and seized Crowley’s arm from where he had crept back away from the strange talking tattoo.  “Come on.  I’m sure this won’t take long.  Our Lord Satan is very efficient.”

Crowley grimaced at the thought, but he saw Botis’s hand resting on his sword hilt.  Surely Botis wouldn’t cut him down if he tried to run…?  But they all seemed dead set on having him meet Satan.

He squared his shoulders.  Well, he’d changed since the last time he’d seen Satan.  He’d faced Satan down and won.  And he’d probably be seeing Satan eventually one way or the other, so it’d probably be best to face it head-on.  He was already scheming his best schemes.