Stating the Obvious: The following fanfic is a sequel to "Second Chances".
Disclaimer: I have no right over the Prophecy franchise, the movies, the characters and whatnot. Nor am I versed in the mythology of the movies as a whole.
Author's Note: Well, without further ado, here is Allison, her third reincarnation and, I must say, I like this one. I think she's grown. She's still the full of faith, slightly doe-eyed, driven by the find of a purpose Allison that she was in the beginning. But she has died, in my writing, twice, and she has lost a lot...most of it because of the choices she's made and the ones she didn't make. That kind of thing tends to wear on you...and for Allison, I'm afraid it will...oh, it will *insert evil laugh here* And John is so deliciously John. I like John. Lucifer. Mmm, I thought a little about Viggo Mortensen's interpretation of Lucifer in the first installment, but still, with a touch of John Light to keep it so very John. Enjoy!
Chapter 1. They Come at Night
Her apartment is mostly bare, which she finds oddly comforting; it's a studio apartment in the wrong side of town, but there's not much to be afraid of these days.
Things are strangely calm aside from the gunshots, disputes in the distance, couples yelling; she doesn't enjoy the environment but, somehow, she feels safe here. She feels it's safer for them.
She doesn't have a lot, although the space is there. Her bedroom simply holds a mattress, a bible, a crucifix and she had managed to find a picture of her parents – the Crowe family – from the newspaper. The living room has an assortment of books and notes – research, she tells John, for purely learning purposes, but based on the theme, she doubts he believes her.
The kitchenette is almost as bare, except for the coffee machine and the boxes of tea, a small table and a couple of chairs. She doesn't have to eat – not really – but she can still enjoy the taste of things; granted, it triggers bodily needs that she could do without – not going to the bathroom for hours at a time had been something worth getting used to – but she finds the little human gestures remind her of what little humanity she has left. She also has boxes of cat food and cat litter; after a stray had become infatuated with her, nights of constant mewling led Allison to give in to the tabby companion.
Her life is otherwise simple; a job – librarian, convenient in many ways – a boyfriend, an apartment, a pet and nothing out of the ordinary…but whenever John isn't with her, whenever she isn't distracted by her human side, by her emotions, she could feel it. Something is coming.
Change.
She's sitting on the frame of the open window, looking out the fire escape, Simon resting on her lap, her fingers gently stroking the back of his ears. Her legs are stretched, her feet touching the other side of the window frame and she's looking at the dark sky, the moon hiding behind the clouds, wondering if one day she'd back at the gates, able to walk in…would she even do it? Would she really leave John behind?
There's mostly silence in the street, the distant sound of an ambulance, traffic is unusually light, and the air conditioners hard at work.
Simon breaks the silence by lifting his head and hissing, breaking Allison away from her reverie, and she follows the feline's sight, seeing a figure – possibly male – standing in the alley, staring at her window, wearing a long coat that stands out to her – it's hard to miss.
It could be Gabriel, Michael or even John, but her second transformation has made her perception that much clearer. She can smell him – she recognizes him. A seraph. Those were never her favorite, thanks to Stark, and she knows exactly what he's looking for.
She lets go of Simon, letting him run up the steps of the fire escape, as she goes inside, not even bothering to close the window – the last thing she needs is to have to explain to her landlord why her door was broken in or having the cops called, so inviting him in seems like the best idea at the moment.
Or not.
Angels, regardless of which hierarchy they belong to, are able to move faster and jump higher than could ever be considered normal. By the time she goes to her bathroom to get the dagger she had taped just under her sink, she feels the intruder in her apartment. There would be no point in hiding, she knows, but the dagger is another matter.
She steps out of the bathroom, chin up, facing the Seraph before her. His hair is slicked back, his eyes sinister, and he eyes the room before his eyes ever find hers – what is he trying to find?
"I hadn't expect you so soon," she sounds braver than she expected – then again, she has died twice, and this time, she hadn't wasted time laying low. She used her time. She has learned.
He tilts his head to the side, it almost looks like he's smelling her, looking for something, but it makes no sense…she's been under the radar, so far. What is he looking for?
"It is true. You have become his whore."
The sentence might as well had ripped out her heart, as she had not expected it at all, and her grip on the dagger tightens.
"His stench is everywhere. On you."
Her eyes narrow, "I'm sorry, did you want a turn?"
As soon as the words leave her mouth, the snarls begin and she's seeing red, an irrational anger coursing through her veins as she moves the dagger in front of her chest, ready to thrust in his direction, but he grabs her arm and pushes against her chest, twisting her hand far enough away so that the dagger doesn't touch him. With his other hand, he grabs a handful of her hair, pulling it back, and she pushes herself towards him, sneaking her leg between his without lifting it and then she hooks it behind his knee, putting enough force to cause him to lose his balance and momentum, having them both fall on the floor.
The fall onto his torso is a clumsy one – it's different in her classes – but she's able to regain control and straddle his waist, putting more weight onto the dagger, aiming for the chest, but there are two hands battling with her now and his strength is relentless.
He must've had some classes of his own because he uses his body to throw her off balance, and uses one of his hands to squeeze her wrist – the one holding the dagger – so tight that the pain registers and his movements are gaining on her, and it's either lose the dagger or lose ground.
She can't lose the dagger. She lets herself be thrown off, but once her back meets the floor, she rolls away, towards the wall, and she thought it'd be the best tactic – get as far away as you can and stand your ground, gain enough space to plan your next attack, her trainer would say – but then her arm meets the wall and she's about to turn, palm down, knee pulled to her stomach, ready to stand, but there's a shoe on her neck and even though she can't die that way, she knows it'll hurt.
She doesn't have time to contemplate on the pain, as in that instant, a hand goes through the angel's chest and she can see it's heart, cradled in a hand, but she doesn't see who the hand belongs to until the body is pushed aside, inches away from her head, and she sees him.
"John," she coughs, her throat feeling the effects of the pressure it had just endured.
"While your lessons in battle are somewhat endearing, you need to understand, sweetheart," he crouches, looking at the heart before bringing it to his nose, savoring the smell. He smiles, "these are soldiers you're fighting, not the children of men."
She sighs, registering the fact that he saved her life even while insulting her intelligence, "At least I fought."
His eyes linger on the dagger, still in her hand, and he isn't smiling, "You were just going to carve his heart out, were you?" She stays silent, listening, "You need a more direct approach when killing an angel, Allison." He lifts the heart between them, giving it a squeeze, "You need to be willing to carve through the body, reach into the cradle of the soul, and be willing to extinguish its light with your own," he begins to crush the heart in his hand, "bare," there is blood running over his fingers, onto the floor, "hands." The heart is nothing but a forgotten piece of twisted organ, which he drops.
That's when Allison notices Simon lurking near, his nose close to the floor, eying the pool of blood. She sits up, reaching for the feline, "Oh no, you don't."
"Your cat has better predatory instincts than you."
She rolls her eyes before standing, the cat still in her hands, the dagger forgotten, "Thanks for saving me, again," she murmurs. He has saved her before, even if it wasn't intentional, at first.
"I felt your anger," he shrugs, and to her quirked eyebrow, he adds, "angels are connected to each other. I felt Gabriel when he rebelled, enjoyed his dance onto my domain. I feel you because...well, it should be obvious." He steps closer to her, his blood-soaked fingers on her cheek. She should be angry, disgusted, appalled, but after spending week – over a couple of months, really – with him, her body finds him normal.
"So, you can you feel what I'm thinking now?" Her smile widens when his lips quirk, "Not that, John. That," she nudges the body with her foot, "you're cleaning up. Just be thankful I don't have a carpet."
She walks away, towards the window, scanning the outside to make sure there aren't others waiting.
"When did you turn domestic?" He, at least, has the courtesy of stepping away from the blood.
She doesn't answer, her eyebrows furrowed, "What did they want?"
"I thought perhaps you'd know."
She shakes her head, looking back, uncertain, but she says it anyway, "He called me your whore."
To that, he smiles, walking over to her and as he stands behind her, he starts to scratch Simon's head, letting him lick the blood from his fingers and smiling wide when Allison glares at him for it.
"And you're accepting the title?"
She looks away, letting Simon go out the fire escape, seemingly entertained with some noise around the dumpsters. "I believe he came here to kill me, but not because of who I sleep with or what they might think I am. Something else is going on, John. They're up to something."
There's a certain pride in his eyes – oh, yes, Allison has learned – and he pulls her back to him, letting her back rest in his embrace.
"They have been for ages...as have I."
"Armageddon?" The word is heavy on her tongue, but it's always what it is – what it has been from the start.
"Yes." He whispers and she tenses in his embrace, the decision dangling before her.
She's been researching – reading book on angels, on different prophecies, trying to predict outcomes, of how a war in heaven could end, could be stopped, could be won. Trying to interpret the bible is even worse. The truth of the matter is, when you read between the lines, you see far more than you're prepared to.
The coming of another Armageddon only means that she has to make that choice again, the choice she has always made.
To end the war, welcome the Apocalypse, free the souls of man into the kingdom of heaven...but lose John.
Lucifer has no place in God's plan – not the good part of the end, at least.
As if sensing her thoughts – it's who she is – he turns her around and his kiss is angry, painful. He hates the idea of losing her to Him, she knows, as it has already happened before.
The body is soon forgotten, as is the blood on his hands, and the blood that will always remain unseen, on her hands.
After thought: I have to be honest, this story is becoming difficult to write, and this chapter explains why. The first time I brought Allison back, she didn't know why, she didn't know if she was just reincarnated as a reward or just 'cause, life happens. This time, she knows Michael and Gabriel are playing the chess game again, it's just a matter of why. And I do loathe chess games, so this one might be a little harder working out...