Ineffable Interludes: Good Omens

Speeding Up The Timeframe pt 1

TW: death, illness, war, violence

Speeding up the Timeframe

PLAYLIST:

War Pigs (300 Edit)by Black Sabbath

This Is War by 30 Seconds To Mars

Southern Poland, 1945:

NOTE: battle tactics and events are not 100% historically accurate.

Aziraphale had never held a gun.

His primary weapon was a sword. He'd trained with a spear, bow and arrow, quarterstaff, hand to hand, and—on one memorable occasion when he and Azazel got bored—a mace, but never a gun. They hadn't been invented until recently, and Aziraphale hadn't been called to battle in centuries.He fumbled to load it, and the bouncing of the jeep wasn't helping.If he wasn't crammed in with thirty-odd other soldiers, he would have fixed it with a miracle.

A pale hand snatched the weapon away and prepped it with practiced motions. Aziraphale knew that hand, recognized those thin fingers.

"What are you doing here?" he hissed at Crowley.

"Spreading some chaos," the demon replied vaguely. His hair was cropped short—a shame, at least to Aziraphale—and his eyes were hidden behind tactical glasses. "Dealing with bad guys."

"Aren't we all,"said a nearby soldier, reminding them that a more detailed answer would have to wait.

"Enough chatter," called their sergeant. "When these doors open, you're going face-to-face with hell. I don't care if you shoot to kill or shoot to maim. We're getting these prisoners free no matter what it takes, and if we have to murder every last goddamn Nazi in the camp,so be it."

Aziraphale decided then and there that he wouldn't be killing anyone. Just as quickly, he realized that he might not have a choice.

But thank God for Crowley, who read the angel's mind. "Stick close to me. I'll do the dirty work, you get to the prisoners," he whispered.

"Thank you,"Aziraphale breathed.

Radios crackled, and a voice said, "Godspeed, lads."

Every time Aziraphale thought he had seen the worst, humans came up with something else. After the Plagues, after the Crusades, Spanish Influenza, after all that—the event that would eventually be called the Holocaust was the worst, at least to him. He was glad that he had been charged with the role of Warrior for this assignment, because these victims needed divine help.

He leapt from the Jeep with the others, Crowley a dark presence at his side. Aziraphale knew immediately that there was no way to avoid causing harm, so he aimed low and took out the legs of the Nazi soldiers. The Allied Forces had no such qualms: they shot to kill, or rather, sprayed bullets indiscriminately to kill. Crowley did a little of both, true to his demonic nature. Bodies were dropping in all directions. Aziraphale wanted to help them, but he had his instructions.

"Ezra!" Crowley called out his alias. "Get to the bunk house!"

Aziraphale ran for the nearest barracks. Seeing where he was headed, the Nazis opened fire on him. Miraculously, none of the bullets touched him. He arrived at the doors and threw them open with all his angelic strength. "Run!" he ordered the people who spilled out. "We're here to help, go!" He repeated it German, then Polish, then Russian. But to his horror, most of the people couldn't run. They could barely walk, and some remained huddled inside the building. Aziraphale forced himself to leave. There would be time to heal them later. For now, there was still more to do.

A chorus of screams rose up. Nazi forces had surrounded one of the barracks answer setting it afire, preferring the prisoners die than fall into Allied hands. The people inside were shrieking, pounding at the windows and doors. Allied soldiers were already running toward it but too slow, too slow—with all the old, dry wood, and petrol splashing everywhere, the fire would be out of control before they broke past the guards.

But Crowley, oh, Crowley was there like an avenging angel, which he was in a sense. He dropped out of the sky—perhaps he had been flying, perhaps he jumped—and faced the building. He held his hands out in front of him, ignoring any danger.

"Crowley!"Aziraphale shouted. "Be careful!"

The demon didn't answer. As bullets sliced the air around him, he began drawing away the fire. The flames leapt from the building to his hands and disappeared, absorbed by his body. Crowley shook as he drew in more and more fire; soon he'd removed every lick of flame from the building. The prisoners were safe.

Then, to the horror of everyone around, Crowley spun around and unleashed the stolen fire into the Nazi soldiers, vaporizing ten of them in one sweep. He struck down every one in reach, and disappeared. Aziraphale was nauseous at what he'd witnessed. He had never seen a demon using their full combat powers, and certainly never Crowley, who he cared so deeply about. His friend was unrecognizable.

The Allies broke down the door and let hundreds of sick, emaciated people spill outside. The air and wind were frigid, but there was light, and fresh air, and hope.

The Nazis were beginning to realize that they didn't have hope, and began to react accordingly. Many threw down their weapons and ran, or simply surrendered. That didn't save them, because prisoners began taking the fallen weapons and turning against their former captors. It was a chilling sight, watching the broken, starved people flinging themselves into battle.

 Aziraphale took advantage of the wave of confusion to liberate another bunkhouse. He darted past the defenders and shot the lock off the door. The door flew open—and something struck the back of his head. He fell like arock. When he opened his eyes, he saw a deranged-looking Nazi soldier standing above him, holding the gun he had just smashed into Aziraphale's head. Aziraphale raised his own gun, only to find that his hand was empty. He was unarmed, and the soldier was preparing to shoot him.

1. Author's notes to follow next part.