Then…. Something happened. Something so terrible not even Crowley could have imagined in his wildest dreams. Another world war broke out. But this time the rotten and cold breath of death ravaged over the countries with an incredible speed.

The demon had never seen so much destruction, so much despair spread in such a little time. At first, he had been the happiest man alive, dancing in the gunpowder and spark filled air of Warsaw, while the civilization around him went down in flames. Another task the humans had fulfilled for him, without any effort on his side. Genocide, homicide, concentration camps, war crimes, death… destruction… structured extinction, music to his ears. He didn't miss out on the opportunity to notify the head office and claim this victory for himself.

When all of sudden he remembered someone, who wouldn't feel as amazing as he did, while staring down at the burning inferno, that once had been called Berlin. Aziraphale. In that moment his smile died, like a withering flower. "Fuck." He hissed, rubbing the bride of his nose. His heartbeat was racing, but not from euphoria, rather due to panic. Immediately his thoughts were overturning. Nevertheless, he was trying to find a hint, where his old friend's current location was. Damn humans with their delicate, but braincell wrecking alcohol…

Moscow? No. Rome? No. London! Yes! He had to be in London. Surely hiding with his books. Yessss. He tried to convince himself, for not slipping more into the fear, that was knotting his organs. His position on the rooftop of the Reichstag, surrounded by a strange symphony, consisting of the distorted howling of the air raid sirens, bomb impacts and people's screams wasn't his most desired place to be anymore. A sigh left his lips, while he focused on another familiar spot. It took him only seconds to manifest at another place.

Demons weren't subjugated by the laws of the human physic. At the moment he could still suppress his panic and worry, soothing himself with the conviction of having the familiar scent of old books, pastry, lavender, and incense in his nose at any second. Also hearing an upset Aziraphale scolding him, because he never bothered with the doors. Unfortunately, his feet didn't touch the carpet covered ground, instead he stumbled into the debris and remains of an old book shop. A blunt pain rushed through his back, when he hit the ground. No… was the first word, that came to his mind. Quickly he got up. He didn't even care about his expensive clothes being covered in dust.

"NO!" he yelled frustratedly. Distressed he removed his glasses, while his heartrate reached new peaks. Luckily, he didn't need oxygen, because out of tension he was unintentionally holding his breath. Green, snake-like eyes, wandered around, spotting one tragedy after the other. Books covered the wreckage. Tousled. Torn. Burnt. Pages were laying around, like snowflakes… fragments of a life's work… an existence. "AZIRAPHALE!" Crowley yelled at the top of his lungs, until his voice cracked. His movements became more erratic with every passing second. The ashes on the ground was cold… The impact must have been days ago.

Still he didn't give up. The shattered shop window crunched under his feet, but he didn't feel the pain of the pieces cutting through his soles. Currently he wasn't feeling anything, but spiking fear. "BE ALIVE YOU BASTARD!" he yelled into the ruins. The sunset bathed the macabre scenery in a fiery red, matching the fire that had destroyed all this knowledge. The manifestos of so many existences. Aziraphale's existence. Crowley's hands were bruised by the rough, pointed, and sharp debris. However, he kept moving them away, carelessly throwing them around. He didn't even know what he was searching for. Or if he wanted to discover something at all… His vision blurred, but he refused to give in to his tears. Why would he cry… he was immortal after all… he couldn't be dead…? He couldn't. "For hell'sss sake…" he hissed. Not even the foundation walls were still existent. They had bombed it to the ground.

The desire to burn humanity to the ground grew with every book-corpse, he brought to light. His whole body was tensed. His thoughts were screaming in his head, but he couldn't understand a word from them. No pain made it through his nervous system. Adrenaline blocked everything out. He didn't find anything useful. More and more evidence that his worst fears were true. Nothing else.

After what must have been hours, he gave up. With his back curved, he pressed one of the pages to his chest. A suffocated scream slipped from his lips, transforming into a violent sob. His sharp nails ripped the paper in his grip, while he tried to pull himself together. However, the stabbing pain inside of his chest, resembling guilt and the shattering knowledge of having lost the only constant in his life, while he had been celebrating so carelessly. What a macabre joke of the divine plan. For one second, he thought about praying, only for hysterically laughing at himself. Never. That wicked game was played on the backs of the weakest, while the highest powers just watched and laughed their fists off. Neither of their principals cared about the invalid fate of their servants, even though they pretended to.

The only person that had ever cared about him, was gone… they had killed his best friend… He couldn't bear to let these words slip from his lips; it was captured in his throat by sobs. Rage and Despair fought inside of him, like fire and ice. The cold, entirely numbing acknowledgement of his loss tried to extinguish the hateful raging, hissing flames of despise towards… towards everything. He felt like he was about to explode. A metallic taste spread over his tongue. While holding the sobs and screams in, he had bit his lip bleeding. One of his hands came up to them, because he hadn't felt any pain. Crimson red blood dripped onto the ground, causing a soft hiss. Demonic blood burnt like acid. Frustrated he cleaned his face with his sleeve.

Suddenly the rage inside of him merged with the despair, stabbing him into the stomach like a sword. How pathetic he was. Crying like a baby… He leant back, wiping the tears away from his eyes for clearing his sight.

Fortunately for him, because it made an envelope on the floor stand out. He frowned had he been lying there before? Or was he getting crazier? Both was plausible. To his annoyance his hands were still shaking, while he reached out for picking it up. The paper was withered, the wax seal had melted and smudged, burnt holes and cracks adorned its surface. Without actually knowing why he was paying attention to this worthless piece of garbage, probably out of the poor disbelief that this would make the tide turn, he tried to open it. By now he discovered that his hands were bleeding as well. "Fucksss." He hissed, taking his scarf off and wrapping it around his palms, otherwise the paper would run through his fingers.

It took his blurry eyes a while to decipher the messy handwriting. His heart skipped a beat. The language was German. "The Germansss? What?" he mumbled to himself in pure disbelief. All of sudden his head was empty. Only the words echoed inside of his head. Better said in his whole body, replacing the constant throbbing of his heart.

"Sehr geehrter Herr Aziraphale,

Wir schätzen uns sehr glücklich, dass Sie auf unser Angebot eingegangen sind. Es wäre zu schade gewesen, diese kulturellen Schätze unserem Feind zu überlassen. Insbesondere da es sich um Erstausgaben handelt, die dem Deutschen Volk keinesfalls verloren gehen dürfen.

Wir erwarten Ihre Lieferung pünktlich und in vollem Umfang, zum vereinbarten Datum. Kommen Sie pünktlich.

Sieg Heil!

Adolf Strauß"

Due to his contact to the German leadership, Crowley spoke German fluently, but his nerve wrecked brain needed an incredible long time to process the written word. His eyes widened, until his pupils were almost human like. His heartbeat increased, thundering through his body. An agreement? A meeting? With the Nazis?! Aziraphale, the biggest moralizer in the entire world had made a deal with those… those hellhounds? He could barely believe it. Still it sparked some hope inside of him, which started to melt the metaphorical blade cutting his guts.

Maybe… Maybe he hadn't been here during the bomb impact. His body came back to life. Serpent eyes shot up to the date of the letter. 01.06.1940. A week ago. As if a lightning had hit him, he jumped to his feet. The chance was small. Almost void. However, he refused to give up now.

New energy was flooding through his veins, reviving his demonic aura. His eyes started to glow, showing off the purgatory inherent in them. Finally, the cuts on his hands healed, while he miracled himself some new clothes. Those power-hungry, small-minded parasites had messed with the wrong demonic powers. Sometimes the world referred to them as the devil's personal army, but they had no clue. Crowley would show them.

"There are plenty of ways that you can hurt a man

And bring him to the ground

You can beat him, you can cheat him

You can treat him bad and leave him when he's down.

But there is nothing worse than hurting hissss besssst friend." He quoted his favorite band Queen, while he waited for his entire power to return to him.

Finally, he felt the familiar sparkling under his skin, signalizing him that his pilot flame was burning again. Instead of simply dissolving into a cold of smoke, his silhouette was framed by flames. With the letter clutched in his hands, he started to imagine the Pariser Place at central Berlin.