Chapter Text
The event known as the "Pulse" began in autumn, at exactly 3:03 PM on the sunny afternoon of October 1st, 2005, on the eleventh birthday of a boy named Adam Crowley. Though, for the rest of the human beings who fell victim to this violent apocalypse, that fact was of absolutely no importance. Just as "Pulse" wasn't exactly the right term for what was about to happen to the world, but by the end of the following day, there wasn’t a single scientist left capable of correcting the mistake. Either because they had been brutally killed or because they had lost their minds.
At 2:50 PM, a man like tens of millions around the world strolled along, swinging his hips as if they were independent from his body. He was heading south along Boylston Street in Boston, his short blood-red hair blowing in the wind, his golden eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. He was there for work; he was a comic book artist on a clear upward trajectory. For the first time in his life, his work was paying off, and he felt like everything was following a natural, proper course. He had waited his whole life for this, after all, not just anyone could boast about making a living off their art, especially without help from family or connections.
His comic was called StarMaker, and it told the story of a space outlaw who had been exiled from his home planet for questioning authority. Years later, he found his way as a bounty hunter, frequently crossing paths with The Principality, a celestial-looking alien who constantly sought to thwart his plans but, in reality, helped him escape his adventures unscathed. It was the story he had dreamed of his whole life, only now, four years after divorcing Lilith, coming out as bisexual, and convincing his editor that his story would be a success, he had finally begun to draw it. It was the first queer story in his publishing house. While its beginnings could be mistaken for mere rivalry or friendship, the latest volume made the characters’ romantic inclinations unmistakably clear after a tragic yet passionate stolen kiss before being separated by their opposing factions.
Now, with a contract for an animated adaptation, two invitations to conventions that winter, and a deal for a thriving franchise, Anthony J. Crowley finally felt like life was smiling down on him. So much so that he hadn’t hesitated to splurge on a birthday gift for his son, Adam. In his right hand, he carried a new snow globe paperweight featuring a dog that looked remarkably like Adam’s pet, Dog, as well as a small box containing a modern cell phone, quite an upgrade for an eleven-year-old. In his left hand, he held a folder with the storyboard for the new StarMaker chapter, the one that would launch him to the stars.
It was an excellent day to be alive.
After wrapping up the non-negotiable meeting for the animated series approval and the new visual novel chapter, he signed his contract for his new salary and royalties. He felt on top of the world, finally capable of spending a little extra without worry. His flight back to Tadfield was in an hour and a half, and he would make it in time for Adam’s birthday at 7:00 PM.
Spending time with his ex-wife and her new husband, Lukas, wasn’t exactly a hardship. Their separation had been amicable. Crowley had long since stopped feeling attracted to Lilith and had finally admitted to her that he had been fantasizing about his (very straight) coworker for months while jerking off. (Though, to be fair, he didn’t use those exact words.) He couldn’t keep lying to himself, nor to his "family." She had taken it maturely enough—so much so that she introduced Lukas as her new boyfriend the very next month.
Luke —for friends— Morningstar was a lawyer. The divorce had only taken two months, mainly due to court formalities, and custody of Adam was shared. Of course, Crowley had loved and desired his wife, enough to want to start a family and share "the best years of his life" with her. But after a lifetime of pretending to be something he wasn’t, neither his late mother nor his few friends were particularly surprised when he finally came out.
The sound of an ice cream truck parked next to the park pulled him from his thoughts. Lilith had pushed him into following a strict diet based on a television model, which had resulted in a constant lack of appetite that, fortunately, had not extended to Adam. However, his new life and more importantly, his new salary, had led Crowley to indulge in a few guilty pleasures, including a certain apple cream ice cream he hadn’t had since childhood.
On the side of the truck, large, childish letters read Mister Sofftie, and in front of it, a line of three people waited their turn to order a treat: a boy not much older than Adam, a woman in a business suit with a dog inside her purse, and a young blonde teenager. Both women were talking on their phones, staring vacantly in opposite directions. Crowley joined the line behind them.
Even though his flight was in an hour and a half, all he had to do was return to his hotel four blocks away, grab his small suitcase, and check out. It wouldn’t take more than twenty minutes, half an hour if he took his time eating the ice cream. The airport was only a fifteen-minute taxi ride away.
The sound of someone stepping into line behind him didn’t catch his attention. Instead, the voice of Freddie Mercury blasting through the ice cream truck’s speakers was enough to pull him back into memories of his son.
Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?
Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality
The music playing from the truck was none other than Queen’s famous Bohemian Rhapsody, Crowley and Adam’s favorite band. The idea of downloading the song to set it as the ringtone on his son’s new phone lit up the redhead’s face. The small device Adam currently had was barely functional for calls; they had given it to him when he was old enough to walk to school alone (though he was always accompanied by his group of friends or one of his parents). His ringtone was a poorly recorded snippet of Bohemian Rhapsody, captured in awful quality through his old phone’s recording app, but Adam loved it all the same.
The line moved forward as the boy ran off with his ice cream cone, seemingly looking for his parents. The businesswoman’s conversation grew louder as she ordered (or rather, demanded in a petulant tone) a triple-scoop cone while shushing her barking dog—just as Crowley glanced at the watch on his wrist. It read exactly 3:03 PM, not a minute more, not a minute less.
Any way the wind blows doesn't really matter to me, to me
"I can't hear you, Lisa." said the woman in the suit, taking her ice cream in one hand, the change in the other, and holding her purse with her small dog inside. She walked alongside the ice cream truck. "No... No, I can't hear you, Lisa."
Crowley followed the line, somewhat dissociated in his thoughts, a result of the music playing from the truck. He didn’t notice the woman's dog barking in fear while she raised her voice against her phone, nor the blonde girl clutching her phone tightly against her right ear, shaking her head in a spasm.
"Repeat, repeat, repeat what you're saying, Clarence, I... I'm losing you, losing me..." exclaimed the young woman, ignoring the vendor asking for her order.
The Mister Softee truck guy waved a hand in front of the girl's face. She let out a loud laugh and pointed at the special waffle on the menu board. The vendor sighed in annoyance, fed up with an exhausting job that paid far too little to deal with stupid customers.
In the distance, a man’s scream failed to catch anyone's interest—except for the man standing behind Crowley. A halo of golden curls took two steps back, looking in the direction of the growing shouts, worried.
Mama, ooh, didn't mean to make you cry
If I'm not back again this time tomorrow
Carry on, carry on as if nothing really matters.
"Cla... Cla... Cla... Clarence," the girl stammered with a shrill laugh, looking up at the sky.
The vendor held the waffle in front of her face while, with a repulsive grimace, he stretched his hand too close to the young woman’s skin.
"That’ll be four-fifty," said the Mister Softee guy, losing patience.
Crowley thought about how much ice cream prices had gone up. He wasn’t one to splurge, no matter how secure he felt about his finances at that moment.
Then, closer screams pulled him from his thoughts. Not far away, the woman in the suit had dropped her ice cream, which made the redhead chuckle mockingly. However, his amusement quickly turned into shock when she trembled with rage and hurled her phone onto the pavement, shattering it, while her dog yelped, trying to jump out of her grasp.
"Rast!" the woman cried, looking at the sky with a tone that was a mix of fury and madness. Or at least, that’s how it seemed to Crowley. She could have just as easily said "rats" or some curse.
Crowley turned back to the truck just in time to see the blonde teenager lunge into the air, throwing herself at the ice cream truck window and sinking her teeth into the vendor’s forearm. The man’s scream pierced the air, and in an instant, more cries rose across the park. A distant explosion froze time in Crowley’s mind, paralyzing him while the girl scratched and kicked. The Mister Softee man began punching her face, but she didn’t let go; she only roared louder.
Mama, ooh (any way the wind blows)
I don't wanna die
I sometimes wish I'd never been born at all.
A strong, solid arm wrapped around Crowley’s waist and yanked him back, dragging him out of his shock. It released him almost instantly, and when Crowley turned, he found himself staring into a nest of golden curls, glowing under the afternoon sun. A masculine yet angelic face, and a pair of huge eyes, wide as blue ponds in surprise. He had no time to admire them before the teenage girl fell onto her back with a piercing laugh, her nose shattered as she kicked wildly in all directions.
"RAAST!" The suited woman’s scream drew their attention to her. She had crouched obscenely on the ground, knees spread apart, eating the ice cream she had dropped with both hands.
Her dog seized the opportunity to escape, jumping out of the purse that lay on the ground and dashing toward the road, dragging its leash behind it. Before it even made it halfway across the street, a speeding bus ran over it, turning it into a pulverized mass of fur, flesh, and blood. There wasn’t even a whimper. The bus, full of passengers, continued its infernal journey, running a red light and crashing into the front of a parked taxi.
"Fuck!" exclaimed the blue-eyed man.
"The poor thing reached dog heaven before even realizing what happened to him," Crowley thought, stepping back alongside the man—only then realizing he had said it out loud.
I see a little silhouetto of a man
Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the Fandango?
Thunderbolt and lightning, very, very frightening me
Crowley approached the girl on the ground, who was still laughing. In his panic at the situation around them (or maybe out of naivety), he genuinely thought she was crying from the beating on her face—until she looked up at him with an unnaturally wide smile, showing bloodstained teeth.
However, the teenager suddenly got to her feet and threw herself against the Mister Softee truck window again, clawing at the air and slamming her face against the glass until it turned red.
The suited woman's growls caught his attention as she dropped to all fours and took off running after a pair of women fleeing the park in terror. Only then did Crowley take in his surroundings, seeing chaos erupting everywhere: across the street stood a Four Seasons hotel, and in an instant, a speeding car crashed through its entrance. A man in a tracksuit chased a Labrador through the grass, the dog running faster than any of the panicked people going in every direction. Just then, another explosion, several blocks away, sent a tremor through Crowley, while screams filled the air more and more.
Spare him his life from this monstrosity...
A choked gasp came from beside Crowley. When he turned, he saw the curly-haired man’s face turning bright red, his eyes bulging as he struggled for air.
Behind him, a man twice his size had wrapped a massive arm around his neck, lifting him off the ground and licking his face. The blonde man kicked and scratched desperately at his captor's face, but the brute didn’t stop licking him.
A gigantic hand slid from behind the attacker and landed on the soft thigh of the curly-haired man, caressing it with lascivious intent. His fingers pressed against the delicate bulge in his pants, making the blond man gasp in pain.
The sheer panic in his eyes spread rapidly to Crowley’s.
Bismillah!
We will not let you go (let him go)
"Mine... little yellow duck... to fuck..."
With a swift motion, Crowley smashed open the box containing the paperweight for Adam and, with a single blow, struck it against the perverted giant’s head. The man barely loosened his grip on the blond, but it was enough for him to break free, collapsing to his knees, gasping for air. The sound of the Mister Softee truck engine roared behind them, and the music blasted at full volume, deafening the frightened men. They barely managed to comprehend what the giant said.
"Who AM I?"
Behind them, the blonde teenager laughed hysterically, tearing at her own hair as she lay on the ground, her face shattered. But it was the giant who held Crowley’s full attention. He stared at the poor blond man, who could barely stand, as if he were about to devour him. Crowley feared that intention might be far too literal when the giant reached a hand toward the blond while the other clutched his own crotch with unsettling force—just as the screech of the Mister Softee van’s tires echoed against the asphalt and sped away, accompanied by a chorus of voices.
Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me, for me, for me.
"WHO. THE FUCK. AM I?!" the giant roared as he charged at the blond man alongside Crowley, his jaw stretching open in a monstrous way, tearing his cheeks apart.
The blond fell backward onto the ground as the giant, with both hands, pressed his waist down with ruthless brutality, trying to pin him. It seemed the massive man had no other thought in his head but crushing the life out of his prey.
Crowley barely had time to react. A pressure in the air and a cold sweat invaded his body in mere seconds as the giant turned toward him, revealing a gaping, mangled mouth like that of a ravenous beast. His eyes widened like black voids, fixated on Crowley with such raw hunger that it chilled his blood. A foul stench emanated from his open mouth—a mix of sour saliva and something much more putrid. It was then that Crowley understood he was about to become prey.
He stood frozen, trembling in fear, yet incredulous at the speed of the events unfolding. His hands clutched the folder with his drawings as if it were the only thing that could save his life, the last shred of his humanity. He thought of Adam, of what his life meant, of the blond man behind the monster, and how his eyes had been the only thing offering him any comfort in this cruel world that had twisted within mere minutes. Just as he felt the crushing weight of death looming over him, the only thought in his mind was that at least the last thing he would see would be those eyes—the piercing steel-blue gaze of that blond man staring at him from over the giant’s shoulder.
The giant lunged with a guttural roar, and Crowley barely had time to brace himself. In that instant, something strange happened—the blond reacted with unexpected speed. With a trembling yet determined hand, he pulled something from the outer pocket of the bag he carried. Crowley barely had time to recognize it before the blond pressed it against the giant’s back. It wasn’t a phone, as Crowley had first assumed, but a taser—a personal defense weapon capable of delivering an electric shock strong enough to take down a man of great size.
The monstrous giant’s body convulsed violently. A spasm shook his massive torso before he collapsed face-first onto the ground with a heavy thud. The crackling glow of the electric discharge still lingered in the air, and the giant—who had, until that moment, been a creature of sheer brute force—now lay motionless, his body nothing more than a lifeless mass on the pavement.
Crowley stared in shock at the blond man, who now looked at him with a surprisingly serene expression. He calmly placed the taser back inside his bag and knelt in front of the redhead, his hands cradling Crowley’s face with a tenderness that made it seem as if what had just happened was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. Then, in a voice so warm and soft that it almost sounded paternal, he spoke.
"Are you alright, dear boy?"
The words that left his lips were incredibly gentle, soothing—like a father comforting a child after a nightmare. For Crowley, that softness was the most surreal part of everything that had happened so far. A man who appeared to be his age, strikingly attractive, with the gaze of an angel, yet with the gentleness of a grandfather. It was strange. Even stranger was the contrast between his pristine appearance and the bloody, chaotic scene unfolding around them. Crowley felt a knot in his stomach. The violence, the blood, the chaos—none of it seemed real while that man looked at him with such profound warmth and tenderness that it unsettled him. It was as if, somehow, the world had stopped being dangerous, simply because of that gaze.
In that moment, something inside Crowley shifted, as if his mind had just unlocked a door that had been shut for far too long.
"Shit!" he thought. A crushing urge overwhelmed him—a need to kiss him, to pull him into his arms and hide from everything else. Amidst the blood, the violence, the madness that surrounded them, a primal and wild impulse took hold of him. But within that impulse, there was also a fragility—one he couldn’t quite understand or process.
He looked at him, at the man who had, with a single move, brought down the giant who had threatened him. And all the fear he had felt minutes ago dissolved. What remained was a strange mix of gratitude and unsettling admiration. This man, with his aura of calm and restrained power, seemed to be the answer to something Crowley hadn’t even dared to understand.
And in that moment, the world around them didn’t seem to matter. There was only him—the blond man—and that inexplicable need to be closer.
Until the giant’s voice rose behind the blond.
"Yellow... ru-rubber duck... L-let me h-have you..."
Before Crowley could act, the blond stood up and extended a hand to him.
"We need to get out of here before he gets up or something worse finds us."
Without a second thought, Crowley took the angel’s hand. He got to his feet, still clutching his folder, leaving behind the giant’s body, whose massive hand reached weakly toward the blond man but lacked the strength to do anything more.
They left the park with the intent to cross the avenue in the middle of utter chaos. The streets seemed horribly unsafe—people ran in all directions, strips of flesh hanging from their bodies. Others moved erratically, much like the ones in the park, chasing men, women, and elderly alike—running like rabid animals, their clothes torn and their skin soaked in blood. Just then, from above, a passenger plane flew over them at a horrifyingly low altitude. Within seconds, to Crowley’s horror, it crashed at the far end of the park. A black cloud of smoke rose into the sky from the explosion, and all the crazed lunatics stopped in their tracks, lifting their heads like meerkats before stampeding toward the blast, drawn by the fresh wave of screams that echoed through the trees.
The blond man tugged at Crowley’s hand, pulling him quickly into the street. His sharp eyes never stopped scanning both directions with an almost animalistic focus, as if anticipating any sign of danger—or any vehicle that might run them down. Crowley, dazed, barely registered what was happening until he suddenly realized he was still holding onto the blond’s soft hand tightly—as if his gentle touch was the only thing anchoring him to reality in the midst of chaos.
"What do we do?" Crowley asked, horrified at the charred body hanging from a car at the other end of the street. The flames consumed it, but what was most disturbing was the laughter. The laughter. It came from the corpse, grotesque and filled with agony.
"We need to get off the streets," the blond said firmly. "We’ll be safer inside a store or something. Then we can figure out what to do."
"M-my hotel is just a few blocks away," Crowley said, his throat tightening. "Let’s go there."
Both ran quickly, leaving behind the park and the avenue, with the feeling that the entire world was crumbling around them. Suddenly, something stopped them in their tracks: a child, dressed in the uniform of a private school, was devouring the neck of an old man in a corner next to some trash cans. The man caressed the child tenderly, but they could do nothing for him. It was the kind of horror they couldn't be part of, even if their hearts broke at the sight.
They picked up the pace, dodging people who ran in terror, their eyes filled with fear. The hardest part was distinguishing those who were simply scared from those who, somehow, were no longer afraid and had become heralds of violence. The latter were the most dangerous. Those who had allowed themselves to be consumed by madness.
Suddenly, a naked, muscular man blocked their way. His body was covered in blood, swaying his hips so that his member moved with him. In one hand, he held a butcher's knife; between his teeth, something that looked like a human intestine dangled. His eyes reflected a wild insanity. Crowley, his heart pounding frantically, took a step back.
"Behind me!" ordered the blond man, extending an arm in a protective gesture in front of Crowley. His voice was firm but laden with fear. His hands trembled as he searched for the taser in his bag. "Back! Don't you dare come any closer!"
Just as the mass of muscles seemed to raise the knife to strike, Crowley was about to pull the blond man away to flee when a deafening sound shook them. A gunshot rang through the air, so sharp and powerful that it made them both drop to their knees. A gun barrel —a Colt .45, Crowley recognized instantly— appeared between them, and with a single shot, the bloody man was taken down, his head exploding into a cloud of blood.
"Gentlemen," a deep, firm voice said. Crowley looked up and saw a police officer, weary in posture but serious in expression. "I'm Officer RP Tyler. You are my witnesses in case you're called to the station. This man intended to attack you, so I used my weapon in the line of duty."
"Thank you very much, officer..." Crowley began, but the question gnawing at his mind came out before he could stop it. "Do you have any idea what's happening?"
"No, young man. But the best thing you can do is get off the streets and find a safe place," the officer replied, walking toward his patrol car.
"Officer!" the blonde man shouted, his tone carrying an urgency that surprised Crowley. "Be careful with the cell phones!"
"What did you say?" The officer stopped and looked at him, confused.
"I can't explain it well, sir." the blonde continued with quick, pleading words. "But I'm sure it's related to that..."
"We communicate via radio frequency... makes sense." said the officer, raising a hand in a calming gesture. "I'll report your concern to the station. Be careful."
Before Crowley could react, the officer had already left, tires screeching as his patrol car disappeared into the distance.
"Cell phones?" Crowley asked, jogging beside the blonde as he tried to understand the connection.
"The teenager and the woman..." the blonde began, his voice low, as if trying to process something much bigger than the two of them. "They both had one when they went mad. Also... look at the ground."
Crowley looked down and on the sidewalk, he saw something he had missed earlier: the street was littered with broken screens and abandoned cell phones. All of them were covered in skin, blood, and human remains. The shattered devices gleamed like fragments of an apocalypse, as if chaos had been born from them, as if a virus had spread from those small screens.
Crowley took the lead and started to jog with firm steps, guiding the blonde man through debris that hadn't been there hours before and the chaos of the streets. The ground felt uneven beneath his feet, but he kept the pace, as if his legs were the only thing he could rely on. The blonde's face, beside him, remained alert to every movement around them, but he kept looking at Crowley's hands, as if waiting to reconnect with them, hoping they would offer him some sense of security. For a moment, Crowley forgot everything else and took the blonde's hand that was trailing behind him; he just wanted to get to a place that offered some semblance of normalcy and keep them safe.
When they finally arrived, the hotel stood before them, discreet but well-regarded. Its wooden and glass facade, with a warm brown tone that perfectly complemented the streetlights, appeared intact, almost as if everything else had no bearing on its existence. It was a middle-class building, one of those places where families typically stay, or business travelers who find themselves halfway between modest luxury and everyday comfort. The reflective glass windows caught the light from the few remaining streetlamps, and the dark wooden frames gave it a cozy, almost homely feel. On the door, a metal sign displayed the name of the place, The Old Carpet Inn, in golden letters that still shimmered under the streetlights.
Crowley ran toward the entrance, passing between two red brick columns flanking the door. Through the glass, he could see the lobby: a warm-toned carpet, an empty and disheveled reception, with a floor lamp glowing in one corner. The place seemed deserted, though it didn't feel completely abandoned. There was an eerie stillness, as if all the guests and employees had vanished suddenly, leaving only echoes of a normal life. The blonde stopped for a moment, looking at the facade with a mixture of relief and caution. Crowley, breathing heavily, grasped the door handle and entered, bringing him inside.
"This should be a safe place." he murmured, more to himself than to the blonde man, but doubt was evident in his voice. How safe could a place be in a world that had already crumbled? He tried to open the door, but it didn’t budge—it was locked.
The hotel, which only moments ago had seemed to offer a possible salvation, turned out to be an empty trap. A floor-to-ceiling metal curtain covered the windows, a barrier Crowley had never seen before, not even in his darkest travels through Boston. The entrance, usually free of obstacles, was blocked by two huge, worn velvet armchairs, violently shoved against the door. The silence reigning in the lobby was unsettling, and the air felt even thicker.
"We have no other choice." Crowley murmured, glancing at the locked entrance. He quickly turned around and pointed toward the alley, the only place that didn’t seem completely sealed off. They decided to go around the hotel, their pace quickening as the tension took over.
The alley was dark, dirty, and full of the remnants of what seemed like a normal life before the chaos. Trash, crumpled bits of paper, broken bottles, and cardboard scattered across the ground. The stench of decay filled the air, and the tall, narrow brick walls loomed around them. Amidst the filth, the hotel’s service doors were locked, as if someone had made sure no one could enter from that side. The blonde stopped for a moment, his face tense as his eyes scanned the alley, seemingly trying to listen for something beyond the distant screams and emergency sirens.
Suddenly, a low, almost imperceptible moan came from one of the massive trash bins. These square bins, common in the streets, were always filled with food scraps and waste. But this moan sounded pitiful... Crowley tensed, and the blonde quickly approached the bin, the illustrator by his side, alert. When they peeked inside, they saw something that made them stop dead in their tracks.
Inside the trash bin, curled up among the garbage bags, was a young girl. Barely a teenager, maybe not even of legal age yet. She wore a navy blue dress, adorned with ruffles that must have once been charming, but now were stained with mud, blood, and filth. Her hands, also bloodied, covered her ears as if she was trying to block out more than just the surrounding noises. Her eyes were closed, but as soon as the blonde saw her, he reached out gently and extended his hand toward her.
"You’re safe..." the blonde whispered, his voice soft, contrasting with the harshness of the situation.
The girl, almost as if responding to his voice, slowly opened her eyes. They were completely bloodshot, a furious red that contrasted with her chocolate-colored irises and pupils. In an instant, horror swept across Crowley’s face as the girl, without a word, lunged toward the blonde with a speed that shocked him. But it wasn’t an attack. Instead of biting or attempting to tear at his flesh, the girl hugged him with desperate strength, burying her face in the blonde’s chest. A tight embrace, full of fear and despair, as if, in that gesture, she was clinging to the last bit of humanity left. The blonde, breathing heavily, held her for a moment, unsure of what to do. He glanced at Crowley, who couldn’t stop watching the scene, confused and somewhat horrified by the intensity of it.
"I don’t... know what’s going on, but I’ll get you out of here." the blonde said, trying to calm the girl while still holding her in his arms. Crowley took a step forward, watching, unsure if he should intervene or simply stay still. The girl kept trembling, her hands firmly covering her ears, as if trying to protect herself from something beyond what her eyes could see.
It was a strange, surreal scene. Amidst the chaos and destruction, this moment of human vulnerability was happening in the most unlikely place: a filthy alley in Boston, in front of an apparently safe hotel that cruelly denied them entry. The blonde gently took the girl and, showing a strength that in another situation would have made Crowley gasp with excitement, pulled her out of the trash and carefully laid her on the ground.
"I need you to follow us, we’ll go with you." he whispered now, looking alternately at the girl and Crowley, who immediately understood the situation.
They walked in silence towards the entrance, and if it was barricaded, it was still a place with people inside, fitting the parameters of the previous "normal" day. And if they weren't allowed in by the good people, they would make their way in by force. The air was tense, anxiety palpable. Crowley, visibly frustrated, let go of the blonde's hand and stepped forward, walking furiously towards the massive glass doors. His eyes glowed with a clear threat, the need for protection pressing against his chest.
"Let us in!" he yelled, his deep voice laden with rage. "I'm a guest. My things are inside. And I don't care who I have to get through to keep my people safe. I know you're there, don't make me do this!"
The girl flinched at the shouting, clinging to the blonde, who did not overlook how the redhead referred to them possessively. Crowley grabbed a brick resting next to some flowerpots by the street and lifted it with one hand, ready to smash the glass partition. His gaze locked on the glass, a mixture of desperation and determination reflected in his eyes. The blonde, calmly observing, reached out to the teenager, who had stayed hidden behind him, and placed his hand on hers, hoping the gesture would bring her some comfort.
"Stay with her," Crowley said in a low, firm voice. "She needs protection just as much as we do."
The air was thick with danger, and in the distance, Crowley saw a group of lunatics running erratically. Their bodies were disheveled, clothes torn and dirty, giving off an imminent sense of chaos. One of them carried a sharp piece of metal with a "stop" sign at the end, swinging it like an improvised weapon. Crowley panicked.
"I'll break the damn door down now if you don’t let us through!" Crowley shouted, his tone threatening with no room for negotiation. "I'm talking to you, Brown, I know you're there!"
At that moment, the door suddenly opened, and the blonde, with a quick, unhesitating move, shoved Crowley and the girl inside the hotel. The sound of the door slamming shut and the unmistakable crash of furniture being moved frantically to block the entrance was all that remained when the group took refuge inside.
The hotel’s interior was dim and unsettling. The air was heavy, with a faint smell of dampness, and the wooden floor creaked under their feet. The reception area was small, with a low light above the counter that barely illuminated the face of a middle-aged man dressed in an outdated hotel receptionist uniform. His carefully trimmed mustache and somewhat rugged appearance contrasted with the silent atmosphere of the place. Quickly, the receptionist, who seemed to have been expecting a situation like this, and with the help of the blonde, repositioned two additional armchairs to block the entrance. The scraping sound of furniture against the floor filled the air for a moment, drowning out the shouts of the lunatics running outside. Once the door was secured, the man looked at Crowley with a mixture of relief and concern.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Crowley," said the receptionist, his voice deep. "I was afraid it was another one of those crazies..."
Crowley nodded, his expression still tense but with a reluctant trace of gratitude. "It's fine, Mr. Brown... thanks for letting us in," he murmured, although the discomfort in his voice made it clear that there was still some lingering resentment.
The receptionist nodded and, without saying another word, withdrew into a back room, leaving the three of them in the reception area.
"Do you know him?" the blonde asked, wary of their host.
"I always come to this hotel, Mr. Brown has been the manager and receptionist since it opened."
The blonde approached the young girl, who was still trembling and in shock, and helped her sit on one of the armchairs near the now-extinguished fire, which had tried to provide warmth to the guests on the cold autumn night. The atmosphere in the hotel was strange, as if time had stopped there, and a sense of isolation surrounded them. The blonde, with his soft and charming voice, crouched down in front of the girl.
"What’s your name, dear?" he asked, his tone full of compassion.
The girl didn’t respond immediately, her face still pale and her gaze vacant. Crowley stepped closer, crossing his arms over his chest as he calmly observed the interaction.
"I’m Aziraphale McFell..." the blonde began, looking at the girl with gentle eyes. "And he’s Mr...."
"Crowley, Anthony J. Crowley... just Crowley..." said the man, his tone cold and controlled, though his gaze softened as he looked at the girl with what could have been concern, or perhaps compassion.
A faint murmur escaped the girl’s lips. "Ana..." Her voice was barely audible, as if she was barely finding her voice again after being lost in the abyss. "Anathema Device."
The three of them remained silent for a moment, the weight of the situation settling over them like a thick fog. Crowley, looking at the girl, couldn’t help but think of Adam, just a few years younger than him, wishing that this pandemonium wasn’t reaching him wherever he might be. Ana stood up, searching for what could be the bathroom.
Aziraphale, the blonde, sat down by the fireplace, dropping his suitcase and closing the vent, waiting for it to go out.
"What are you doing?" Crowley asked.
"They don’t fear fire... seems like it attracts them in some way..." Aziraphale said, staring at the slowly dying flames. "Crowley..." He said his name in a tone that somehow relaxed the redhead’s agitated chest. "Thank you for saving my life... it’s a pleasure to meet you."
"You saved me, really..." Crowley said, sitting beside him. "The pleasure’s mine, Aziraphale."
The hotel room fell silent, marked only by the distant echoes of the city, sirens that didn’t stop, the rumble of explosions that wouldn’t cease, as if chaos was about to swallow everything left of the reality that once was known. Aziraphale sat at the edge of an armchair, watching Crowley. The unease in the air was palpable, and though the blonde seemed calm on the outside, Crowley couldn’t help but notice the growing danger around them.
"We need to leave by morning at the latest." Aziraphale said, his voice calm but firm. "It’s not safe to stay in the city. There are more and more sirens, and the explosions haven’t stopped. It’s only going to get worse."
Crowley looked at him, his face reflecting a mix of horror and relief at the same time. Aziraphale wasn’t just a brave man; he also seemed to have a cold, calculating mind, able to see beyond the immediate. In the midst of all the chaos and tension, that quality was something that caught Crowley’s attention. He had met many people in his life, but something about the way Aziraphale viewed the world set him apart from all others. He noticed it in the small gestures, like the way he moved, his posture, and that calmness that was so intriguing. He was also incredibly intelligent... and that intelligence, though sometimes incomprehensible to him, was oddly attractive. A feeling that Crowley wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to explore just yet, but as always, couldn’t avoid.
Aziraphale stood up from the armchair and walked to a small table near the glass door, looking outside. The city seemed like a distant, desolate place, as if it were nothing more than a memory of what once was a bustling metropolis, and barely an hour and a half had passed.
"I think I’m going to return to my bookstore," Aziraphale said, his gaze fixed on the loneliness of the street, not a soul to be seen. "That’s where Jim is, my cat. It’s always been my refuge. We’ll be safe there, it’s far from the city. I was going to take the subway, but now I think that’s impossible."
Crowley watched him in silence, feeling there was something Aziraphale wasn’t saying. But he didn’t push. Instead, he allowed himself to relax a little, observing how the blonde, always so confident, also had moments of vulnerability. His anxiety was evident in the way he kept spinning the ring on his pinky. Crowley couldn’t help but feel uneasy too, partly because somehow, Aziraphale’s words aligned perfectly with his own desire to return to what had once been his life, though that life was shattered now far beyond just a simple divorce or the possible loss of his job. Hell! The loss of the world as he once knew it.
"And you?" Aziraphale asked, turning slightly toward Crowley. "What will you do?"
Crowley took a deep breath, his expression softening. There was something about this blonde man, something that made him feel strange, but at the same time understood, as if he knew exactly what he needed to ask without words. His son, his life... the things he had left behind. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. He needed to go back.
"I don’t know, but I know I’m going to find my son." he said, his voice now deeper, more determined. "One way or another, I’m going to find him. I don’t care what happens outside. This place isn’t going to stop me. It won’t. He matters more to me than anything else."
Crowley’s tone left no room for doubt; his decision was firm. Aziraphale nodded slowly, a look of understanding crossing his face.
"Then," Aziraphale said at last, with a faint smile, "I suppose we both have our own paths to follow."
Crowley, still with a weight on his chest, nodded. "Seems so."
They both fell silent for a moment, each reflecting on what was to come. The sound of the city continued to filter in from the outside, the world falling apart in ruins, but in that hotel, in that small refuge, there was a brief respite for Crowley, beside a man he considered an angel. At least for that night.