outside_omens | (no subject) (Reply)

Date: August 4th, 1999, mid afternoon Setting: Soho, London Status: Private, Michael, Crowley, Aziraphale Summary: Righteous, sadistic, all one and the same...

Michael glanced around guiltily. He still hadn't gotten the hang of being back on earth, and the 20th century just seemed to complicate things. He'd seen people with pieces of medal stuck through totally arbitrary pieces of their face, but he, an arch angel, a patron saint, a smiter of the unrighteous, couldn't manage to go two steps down the street without gathering a small crowd. After spending a good twenty minutes stepping outside, freaking out and running inside again, repeat ad nausium, he'd finally just imitated the attire of the nearest human male, slammed a hat over his (slightly glowing) long blonde hair, and made a dash for it.

Who knew shining white togas and golden sandlas would cause such a fuss?

But anyway, he had a job to do, and damn- er, bugge- er, and blowed if he was going to let a few mortals get in his way of doing it. The demon Crowley, nee Crawly's flat was just up ahead.

Getting into places is no trouble for an Angel. He was standing in the middle of the kitchen, panting and sneaking furtive glances out the window, muttering to himself about 'flaming swords' and 'he who is without sin', when it hit him - he'd forgotten the holy water.

(The priest he summoned to him to hurriedly bless a few buckets of tap water later thought it was a dream. "My brothers," he said the next morning, "Last night I was visited by the Angel Michael, and he was shining with the light of heaven...though why he was wearing a Van Halen shirt and leather pants must surely be one of the mysteries of God.")

"Ok," Michael said to himself as he paced through the stylishly appointed flat, "Ok ok, we're back in business, yea, and I shall get on with the smiting verily," The buckets were hoisted and, rather unceromoniously, thrown against the walls. And the couch. And the shower. And (Michael took rather more pleasure then needed at this) the bed. However, he stepped up when it came to the pot plants. Holding his Angelic hands over the lot of them, he spoke the Words, and gave them sentience - and a holy water pistol each. "Take vengeance, my brothers," he whispered in what would have been, were he not an angel, a rather sadistic tone of voice.

And then, after every surface in every room had been doused, he fled.