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moosestories2025-07-02 08:53 am
nyc_merlin) wrote in moosestories2025-07-02 08:53 am
Entry tags:
Angel AU: The Tower
16. The Tower - a character has a catastrophic change in their life; a character makes a world-shattering decision; a character's whole world came tumbling down so what now?
—
They move as one mass out of the back of a truck, wings bound tight, arms shackled behind their backs, and muzzles fitted tightly over their mouths. 15 angels being delivered to a dockside warehouse where they’ll be processed and eventually sold. There are more guards than usual. Everyone in the business is on edge since that showy bastard Tony escaped. There’s real concern and fear among those in the business that something big is going to happen.
Frank never liked Tony but he does like the fear his stunt inspired. Extra guards and tighter bindings don’t really change anything for him besides giving him more prey to hunt. More sinners to wipe from the face of the Earth.
He moves silently along the roof, crouched low to avoid the bright spotlights that illuminate the shipping docks of the warehouse. This one belongs to Fisk, Frank’s favorite target. The man prides himself on keeping costs down to maximize profits.
The angels in Fisk’s care are kept in small cages on concrete floors. Their wings remain bound inside the cage so they won’t damage them against the bars of their cage. Angels will sometimes hurt themselves to lower their own value. It’s an action Frank admires much more than the ones who are so docile they don’t even lift their heads.
He watches a moment longer. A dark brunette catches his attention. His gaze lingers before he catches himself and looks away.
Frank breathes in for three counts then out for three until the screaming in his head dies down and he can no longer smell blood. He can’t start this fight in the wrong frame of mind.
He waits for the angels to be led inside before he makes his move. He wants the trunk gone but the doors to the warehouse still open. Frank drops down from the roof and roars.
His voice doesn’t have the power it once did. He can’t shake the walls and destroy fragile electronics anymore but there is still enough Grace in it to buy him a few seconds of time, to keep the element of surprise.
The guards don’t have lethal weapons. All they carry are shock prods and guns with weighted rubber bullets. All those things hurt but they can’t kill. No one wants product loss.
Frank grabs the first guard around the throat and takes his shock prod. It’s not enough to kill an angel but it’s more than enough voltage to kill a human. He rams the prod right against the man’s heart to make sure it does what he wants.
Battle sings in Frank’s core. He was made to be a warrior of God. He was made to kill those who would not return to Father’s side. He feels most like himself in the middle of a fight with guards trying to move the angels away while also trying to stop him.
A few notes of an old battle song slip past his lips before they change. Before, without Frank knowing it, become the old lullaby that he would sing softly.
A shock prod jams right between his shoulder blades and his wings convulse from the electricity. He turns, hand curled not into a fist but into claws ready to rake. He slashes across the guard’s face, ripping an eye out.
The demonic comes easier now. His wings are stained black and his physical form is changing. Fangs lengthen in his mouth. Wickedly curved claws tip his fingers. Frank embraces the Fallen side of his nature as he pounces on another guard and tears at his chest until he can pull his heart from him.
All the while singing softly to himself.
The scent of blood, the heat of it on his arms and splashed across his body. Frank loses himself in the gore of endless slaughter. No human escapes for long even as he is pummeled with non-lethal ammo and more shocks are brought in.
He is so lost, so gone in his Fall that he does not stop when a guard holds an angel in front of himself for protection.
It is the brunette he noticed earlier. She gasps when he claws through her to get to the guard. Blood trickles from the corner of her muzzle but her eyes look at him with gentle grace. Her face is round and soft, eyes the color of soil after it rains.
Frank is snapped back violently to the present. To the moment. His arm forced through the angel in front of him to get the guard.
He was here to free them.
Was he?
Or was he here simply for blood?
There is something snarling in him. Baying for blood. For the hunt. It has been lodged in his brain and his Grace for decades now, almost a century. This hunger for revenge. This drive to wipe out every single person involved in the angelic business until there was nothing left of it.
She was a brunette when she was born. A delicate little angel that just appeared one morning in the mass pen he was kept in with twenty six other angels. Twenty seven. She had been afraid. She had clung to him for safety and shelter.
Frank had sung her gentle lullabies each night and together with the other angels they hid her from the guards.
He killed his first human when they tried to take the little girl away.
He pulls his arm free and catches the angel, gently lowering her to the ground. His hands, his blood stained and clawed hands, carefully remove the muzzle from her. He rips her shackles apart so he can get to the wound. The wound he made.
“It’s okay,” she says softly as she lays her hand over his. “You are forgiven. And I am free.”
Frank folds over her his wings blocking the sight of her death from the other angels. He sings softly an old hymn.
—
They move as one mass out of the back of a truck, wings bound tight, arms shackled behind their backs, and muzzles fitted tightly over their mouths. 15 angels being delivered to a dockside warehouse where they’ll be processed and eventually sold. There are more guards than usual. Everyone in the business is on edge since that showy bastard Tony escaped. There’s real concern and fear among those in the business that something big is going to happen.
Frank never liked Tony but he does like the fear his stunt inspired. Extra guards and tighter bindings don’t really change anything for him besides giving him more prey to hunt. More sinners to wipe from the face of the Earth.
He moves silently along the roof, crouched low to avoid the bright spotlights that illuminate the shipping docks of the warehouse. This one belongs to Fisk, Frank’s favorite target. The man prides himself on keeping costs down to maximize profits.
The angels in Fisk’s care are kept in small cages on concrete floors. Their wings remain bound inside the cage so they won’t damage them against the bars of their cage. Angels will sometimes hurt themselves to lower their own value. It’s an action Frank admires much more than the ones who are so docile they don’t even lift their heads.
He watches a moment longer. A dark brunette catches his attention. His gaze lingers before he catches himself and looks away.
Frank breathes in for three counts then out for three until the screaming in his head dies down and he can no longer smell blood. He can’t start this fight in the wrong frame of mind.
He waits for the angels to be led inside before he makes his move. He wants the trunk gone but the doors to the warehouse still open. Frank drops down from the roof and roars.
His voice doesn’t have the power it once did. He can’t shake the walls and destroy fragile electronics anymore but there is still enough Grace in it to buy him a few seconds of time, to keep the element of surprise.
The guards don’t have lethal weapons. All they carry are shock prods and guns with weighted rubber bullets. All those things hurt but they can’t kill. No one wants product loss.
Frank grabs the first guard around the throat and takes his shock prod. It’s not enough to kill an angel but it’s more than enough voltage to kill a human. He rams the prod right against the man’s heart to make sure it does what he wants.
Battle sings in Frank’s core. He was made to be a warrior of God. He was made to kill those who would not return to Father’s side. He feels most like himself in the middle of a fight with guards trying to move the angels away while also trying to stop him.
A few notes of an old battle song slip past his lips before they change. Before, without Frank knowing it, become the old lullaby that he would sing softly.
A shock prod jams right between his shoulder blades and his wings convulse from the electricity. He turns, hand curled not into a fist but into claws ready to rake. He slashes across the guard’s face, ripping an eye out.
The demonic comes easier now. His wings are stained black and his physical form is changing. Fangs lengthen in his mouth. Wickedly curved claws tip his fingers. Frank embraces the Fallen side of his nature as he pounces on another guard and tears at his chest until he can pull his heart from him.
All the while singing softly to himself.
The scent of blood, the heat of it on his arms and splashed across his body. Frank loses himself in the gore of endless slaughter. No human escapes for long even as he is pummeled with non-lethal ammo and more shocks are brought in.
He is so lost, so gone in his Fall that he does not stop when a guard holds an angel in front of himself for protection.
It is the brunette he noticed earlier. She gasps when he claws through her to get to the guard. Blood trickles from the corner of her muzzle but her eyes look at him with gentle grace. Her face is round and soft, eyes the color of soil after it rains.
Frank is snapped back violently to the present. To the moment. His arm forced through the angel in front of him to get the guard.
He was here to free them.
Was he?
Or was he here simply for blood?
There is something snarling in him. Baying for blood. For the hunt. It has been lodged in his brain and his Grace for decades now, almost a century. This hunger for revenge. This drive to wipe out every single person involved in the angelic business until there was nothing left of it.
She was a brunette when she was born. A delicate little angel that just appeared one morning in the mass pen he was kept in with twenty six other angels. Twenty seven. She had been afraid. She had clung to him for safety and shelter.
Frank had sung her gentle lullabies each night and together with the other angels they hid her from the guards.
He killed his first human when they tried to take the little girl away.
He pulls his arm free and catches the angel, gently lowering her to the ground. His hands, his blood stained and clawed hands, carefully remove the muzzle from her. He rips her shackles apart so he can get to the wound. The wound he made.
“It’s okay,” she says softly as she lays her hand over his. “You are forgiven. And I am free.”
Frank folds over her his wings blocking the sight of her death from the other angels. He sings softly an old hymn.