And the World...

The turret on the M1 Abrams tank pivoted smoothly with a deep whirring sound, it's well-oiled and tuned machinery settled into place as Specialist Poole looked into his scope one more time at his target, swallowing nervously.

He'd only seen action so far on firing ranges and against simulated opposition forces in training exercises. He never figured he'd actually get deployed, at least not like this, racing down a rocky beach embankment with a hundred other tanks, hell the entire armored battalion in the good ol' US of A, to stop some kind of invasion from...

….hell, he realized, he still had no frikkin' clue as to what these things were. No one did.

They had been crawling out of the sea all over the world, working their way inland. National Guard troops had been almost instantly overwhelmed. From the radio chatter, he had heard that Europe had gone dark in less than an hour, having only limited ground forces to respond to this kind of threat. It seemed like only Russia, China and the US were hitting back.

And boy, did they want to hit back hard.

Inside the cockpit, there was only the roar of the jet-fueled engine, muffled by his helmet and the radio squawk – squad leaders giving final instructions as to position and vectors of fire as the tank line rolled slowly to a stop.

He looked back into the scope.

The nightmarish mass of creatures swarmed all over the beach, foothills and sand-berms next to them. They moved almost like a liquid; graceful, but through the magnified view, he could determine just how brutishly massive and horrifying each one of those fanged monsters really were.

Something even bigger churned just off the coast, hidden in the waves. He'd heard that the US Navy would be dealing with whatever that was - to the tune of about twenty some-odd attack subs and an entire destroyer group. Whatever it was, it was about to have a very bad day.

They had all stopped, organized into their firing lines. He heard the communication begin for the artillery fire. Soon, the whole coastline would be lit up like the Fourth of July. He checked his left and right target indicators once again, going over in his head where and when he was going to saturate the area. Once the shells began to land, it wouldn't be possible to pick out individual targets anymore. This was a turkey shoot. The enemy had no visible weapons, and they couldn't intimidate 80-ton reinforced armored vehicles armed with 120mm cannons with just teeth and claws.

The ground shook and his scope lit up. He squinted , even against the built-in anti-flare guard in his viewscreen. The report of exploded artillery rocked the tank back and forth gently on it's treads. The order to open fire screeched over the cacophony of violence.

He let it loose. All of it. He opened with the M1028, sending wave after wave of 9.5mm tungsten shells into the creature's mass. He followed that with airburst rounds, in case anything was laying low. Then he repeated the cycle. He had no idea how long it went on, or how much damage he was doing. Truth be told, it was all a mass of smoke and fire now. He heard the telltale ripping sound of A-10 Warthogs in the air sending Vulcan-Cannon rounds into the monsters – essentially a clean up strike. Nothing could have survived that.

"Case fire! Cease fire! Cease fire!" came the loud exclamation from the commander through the headset. Specialist Poole let out a deep breath in a huff and leaned back away from his controls. He glanced back at his Track Commander and smiled.

"Nothing left but a pink mist, huh T.C.?" he said, his voice carried electronically over the internal microphone. The Track Commander, Sergeant First-Class Warren, smiled back and shook his head.

"Let's frikkin' hope so. Did you get a good look at those things?"

"Tellin' ya, T.C., teeth as big as my Dad's buck-skinnin' knife back home...whad'ya suppose they were, anyway..."s

"Holy shit! Holy shit!, They're comin', they're comin!" came a screech over the headset, making Poole wince. He grimaced. That had come over the internal comm...

There was a banging from the driver's hatch. He was trying to open the access door, but the turret was pivoted away.

"Private Simmons? What the hell are you talking about?" Sergeant Warren called into the headset.

"They're attacking the tanks! They're ripping right through 'em...holy God! Open the frikking door!"

The turret crew looked at each other, shocked.

The Assistant gunner, Private First-Class Lowden, began to shout into the mics. "Don't turn this thing Sarge! You'll give those things a way in here!"

The Ammo Loader, Private 'Red' Simmons, stood up and promptly punched him in the jaw, knocking him back into the wall of the ammo rack.

"That's my goddamned brother, you shit-head!" He whipped his head around to Sergeant Warren. "Sergeant! Please!"

Sergeant Warren watched all of this, eyes wide. He shook his head briefly to clear it. "...the fuck is going on..." he muttered into the microphone, swiveling the turret to allow the driver's door access and simultaneously standing up in his seat and popping open the top hatch to take a look outside.

The driver's door banged open, and Private Cahill Simmons came scrabbling through, sweating and as pale as a ghost. He slammed the door behind him, breathing hard. He looked up at where Sergeant Warren was standing on his chair and his eyes went as wide as saucers.

"Sarge! Get the hell down from there!"

Sergeant Warren didn't need the prompt, he was already ducking back into the turret, slamming the hatch behind him. "Crew served! Crew served"" he screamed, panicked. The tank crew immediately started grabbing for the mounted weapons next to their individual stations, training taking over automatically. Poole slammed down the ammo belt in his SAW and whipped the short barrel around towards the driver's door.

Five thick, long claws slammed into the compartment with a screeching sound- right through the three-inch thick metal door leading to the driver's compartment. Sergeant Warren and the crew stared at them in horror as the began to tear side-to-side, ripping out ribbons of metal like they were made of tissue-paper.

Sergeant Warren slammed his foot against the pivot lever, and the turret spun crazily to the side, kocking them all to the side, off-balanced. The claws and part of a dark, slimy hand were instantly severed, provoking a blood-curdling howl from the creature on the other side and spraying them all with cold, dark, foul-smelling blood that dripped slowly down the inside of the turret walls.

The turret began to rock back and forth as the things outside began to slam into it. They could hear metal being torn violently away. Outside, the strafing runs from the A10's began to pick up in earnest, the targets dangerously close to the tank line. They also heard the rotating blades of Apache attack helicopters swooping in, their own mini-guns joining the concerto. There was the sound of multiple impacts against the side of their tank, the scream from one or two of the attackers, and then everything went quiet.

Poole scanned around at the other sweating, frightened faces in the turret, all huddled back, weapon barrels pointed out at the turret entrances and walls.

"How many were out there, T.C.?" he whispered, not trusting to speak too loudly. They could hear the A10 strikes continuing, moving off down the line, and the sound of small arms fire sporadically outside.

Sergeant Warren shook his head. "Not many. A few. Damn. Couple dozen or so. But the way those mothers moved..." He squeezed his eyes shut.

"All clear! All clear!" the call came over the headset from the external comm. They looked at each other in disbelief, then Sergeant Warren raised a shaking hand to the 'Send' lever on his helmet.

"Uh...command... this is Echo 1180, please confirm...was that an 'all-clear'?"

"Roger that 1180, all-clear. All remaining forces eliminated."

The Sergeant let out a deep breath and smiled. "Roger that..." He looked back down at his crew and frowned. "I'm...I'm gonna take a quick look is all...if I see anything, I'm buttoning us back up, clear?" They nodded at him in turn, and he nodded back, obviously not thrilled with the idea. He steeled himself and took a deep breath in, then reached up and popped open the hatch.

Slowly, carefully, he looked out.

The crew all watched him, tense, waiting.

"Sarge?"

There was no reply.

"Sarge...?!"

"No, no...it's good. All good. Come on out..." Sergeant Warren finally answered, sounding very relieved. He climbed out of the turret and they could hear his footsteps moving along the outside, then jumping off towards the ground.

One by one, the crew began to relax, taking off their sweat-soaked helmets and climbing up after their Track Commander. Poole was the last to go, instructing Cahill to stay inside and monitor further communications.

Poole squinted against the setting sun as he surveyed the scene outside. Most of the crew was standing on the roof of the tank, weapons still gripped tightly in their hands, staring at the carnage. Sergeant Warren was on the ground, looking out at the ocean.

Poole scanned the tank line, disbelief and pure shock running through his head.

Dark, misshapen, hulking dead forms littered the beachfront amid literal smoking craters of ground. There must have been thousands of them. He saw that a few of the creatures had managed to reach the line, and their dead bodies were hanging from the sides and turrets of the massive M1 tanks, unmoving, and ripped apart by Vulcan-cannon fire. His eyes moved along the surface of his own vehicle, wincing as he saw some hundreds of armor piercing round impact holes in the side of the hull, awfully close to the fuel and ammunition racks. Three of the beast's bodies were attached there, their claws sunk deep into the reinforced metal. They had managed to tear almost half-way through, he noted with detached horror. In another minute or two...

"What the jumped-up Jesus is that...?" Poole heard Sergeant Warren say quietly from down below him. Poole frowned and jumped down next to him, following his gaze.

"What's what, Sergeant? I don't see..." Poole asked squinting, then trailing off as he spotted what he was looking at.

The waves were broken about a half-a-mile off shore by a glistening, hulking...thing. It thrashed and fought against unseen opponents, and plumes of water periodically shot up around it. Poole listened carefully and could hear the deep booms of far-away explosions. The thing was getting pounded by underwater torpedoes as they watched.

It raised a half-arm, half-claw into the air, and with a sense of surreal terror, Poole realized that it was holding half of a damned submarine in it's grip. Flecks falling off of it must have been it's crew-members.

"Holy God in heaven, Sarge..." Poole whispered.

They watched as more and more underwater explosions hit the creature. The sea all around it began to turn black with it's blood until finally, mercifully, with a gurgle of pain that they could hear from the shore, it sank back below the waves.

"Son..." Sergeant Warren whispered. "God's got nothin' to do with these things..."


Crowley grunted as he threw another wave of demonic force and hellfire down at the Deep Ones trying to climb up after him to the top level of the Vault.

He and Rowena had made a mad dash upwards once the Old Ones had broken through the front door. It was an instinctual reaction, mainly, and had, unfortunately, landed them in a very bad strategic position.

They were now much, much further from the only way out of there.

The Deep Ones feinted back, then surged forward en masse again when Crowley rested. At the current rate, they would reach them in mere minutes.

Rowena hurled hexes and curses, but they were largely ineffective. The Old Ones shrugged off physical injuries without regard.

And the entire time, the Old God that was leading them waited patiently on the floor of the Vault of Hell, watching them with cold, emotionless eyes.

"We need a new plan, Mother..." Crowley muttered, flinging another Deep One that had gotten a bit too close back with a blast of kinetic force.

"Tell me something that I don't know, Fergus," Rowena snapped back tiredly, her voice full with exasperation.

"There are exactly eight-hundred billion empty cells in this Vault, minus their souls."

"Fascinating, Fergus, and why should I care about that?"

"Because, if we don't come up with that new plan, our various body parts are going to be filling up every single one of those."

"Ah. I see your point now," Rowena replied wearily. "Well, sorry to say, Lamb, I'm fresh out. You?"

"I've been wracking my brain..." Crowley grunted, flinging his hand to the side, a wall of fire appearing in front of him. The Deep Ones that had been advancing in a line shied away from it, hissing and spitting.

"So that's that hollow thumping noise I've been hearing..." Rowena answered with a smirk. A Deep One howled at her in rage and surprise as it's arm suddenly burst open with maggots and spiders.

"Would you like to hear this or not?" Crowley shot back.

"Sorry Fergus. Please continue."

Crowley sighed. "It seems to me that only the power of Creation can truly hurt these things. I was there when Charlie Bradbury turned a rather large one of these into a seagull once."

"Well then, what a pity that she's not around," Rowena grunted, throwing a hex at a Deep One, causing it to stumble blindly into a few of it's companions, and sending them all tumbling in a heap down the stone stairway.

"Mother...!"

"Sorry! I'm scared,...and when I get scared...I get extra...er...snarky..."

Crowley frowned. "As if that is even possible."

"I said that I'm sorry...what else do you want? Besides, I'm a witch. You're a Demon. We seem to be running a bit low on the pure power of Creation around here, if you understand what I'm saying." Several Deep Ones broke off in a run and circled Rowena, backing her into a corner, where she cringed away from them.

Two Deep Ones crowded Crowley and seized him by his arms, shoving him hard against a stone wall.

"Well, I've been thinking about the incident on the beach with Cthulhu." he grunted in pain as the creature's claws bit into his arm.

"Do tell...and please be quick about it..." Rowena whimpered as the Deep Ones closed in on her.

"Well, what if it wasn't the Souls of the Damned that Judah filled me up with?"

Rowena frowned. "I thought we've determined that...what else could he have given...eeep!" she shrieked as they seized her and started dragging her forcefully down the landing.

Crowley smiled. "What if they were the Souls from the other side...?"

The Old God down on the floor suddenly whipped it's head up at Crowley, eyes narrowing. It let out a deep, warning hiss. Crowley's smile grew.

"Tell me if this stings..." he growled, letting the power that he felt deep within him straining to get out flow to the surface, a raging storm that frightened him, even as he controlled it, as it threatened to wipe him away in a flash of brilliant light...

The Old God let out a howl of primordial fury and rushed the steps, just as an aurora of brilliant white light began cascading out of Crowley. It cast it's minions bodies aside from it's path of ascent like sticks, ripping up the very stone underneath it's feet in it's furious charge to get to Crowley.

It slowed as the first pulse of light hit it, it's muscles straining. It let out a low, booming growl of rage.

The Deep Ones surrounding Crowley began to burst into dark, cindery flames - almost like thin paper burning. Their frozen forms crumbled slowly to the floor, blown by an unseen gentle breeze.

The second wave of Light pulsed from Crowley, and the remainders of the Deep Ones bodies blew apart in a flurry. The Old God on the stairs stopped moving alltogether, a look of pure hatred in it's eyes.

"Liggggghtttttbrrrrringer...MooorrrnnninnngStaaarrr" it gurgled, it's voice strained.

"So sorry, but he's been supplanted," Crowley said, stepping forward. "By someone much more qualified to run this place..."

The third wave burst from Crowley, screeching with pure energy all over the Vault of Hell. The walls shuddered, large chucks of thick stone breaking off and crashing all around them. The Old God arched backwards, and then exploded into shards of inky darkness, floating away in the air like ashes.

"...me..." Crowley exhaled, the glow of Light dimming down. He stumbled and went down to his knees. Rownea rushed over, but he waved her off tiredly in irritation.

"I'm...I'll be allright," he murmured, puffs of residual Light streaming from his lips, then trailing away like smoke from a cigarette.

"Lamb...are you insane...? I warned you...that much power...it could have killed you..." She paused, considering. "Not that I'm complaining, mind you..."

"Yes, well, it hasn't killed me – thanks for the concern, Mother. At least not yet..." Crowley grunted. He rubbed at his forehead and grimaced. "Gave me a hell of a headache though. Please remind me to thank Judah once I find him and wring his neck for doing this to me..."

"The Souls of Heaven..." Rowena muttered, awed.

Crowley managed to stand up, swaying on his feet a bit before settling himself. He brushed off his suit and exhaled loudly.

"So, what do you say? We go find exactly why he did this to me...? I'm dying to hear this one..."


Aleister stared at the screen along with Castiel and the rest of the Resistance in the main hanger, watching as the Army and Navy wiped out the remains of the attacking forces in both New York and Los Angeles. The CNN camera feed switched back from coast-to-coast, even patching in from other battles going on worldwide.

And everywhere they looked, they were winning...the human race was beating back the Old Ones.

"Impossible..."Aleister muttered, jaw slightly ajar. Jesse looked over at him, frowning.

"Huh? What are you talking about?"

"They're...they're destroying them...wiping them out...even the Old Gods...they are killing them...everywhere..."

"Yeaaaaaah, and that's a good thing," Jesse said, eyebrows raising in question.

Aleister started, then blinked rapidly, breaking our of his reverie. "Yes, yes, of course...I am just...surprised is all..."

"How so?"

Aleister's eyes flicked to Castiel, who stood stoically watching the television. "It...well...it shouldn't have been so easy..."

"You call that...'easy'...?" Jesse replied, astonished. "Did we just watch the same show there, mate? Did you see how much ammunition that they sent at those things?"

Aleister grimaced. "You misunderstand me..." he said, eyes flicking back to Castiel. Jesse followed the gaze. "Tell him, Angel. If you please."

"Castiel?" Jesse asked, folding his arms over his chest. "Wanna tell me what he's talking about?"

Castiel turned away from the TV and regarded Jesse, looked back to Aleister, who nodded, and then nodded back in return before speaking.

"Those...creatures..." he started, his gravelly voice sounding very tired. "Physical harm, while possible, should not have been so effective against them."

"And you know this, how?"

"I fought these things once, and have read many reports about them taken from the War of Creation," Castiel replied. "A fully formed army of Old Ones..." he closed his eyes and shook his head. "Aleister's right. This was too easy. Something went wrong..."

Jesse's head rocked back a bit, confused. "I think you mean to say...'Something went right...' Right?"

Castiel's mouth straightened into a tight line. "For the human race, assuredly. For the Old Ones..." His eyes widened and he looked to Aleister. Aleister watched him for a moment, then his eyes widened too in recognition.

"It's the only thing that makes sense," Aleister whispered.

"What...?" Jesse asked.

"They weren't fully manifested," Castiel answered Aleister, seemingly ignoring Jesse. "That's impossible..."

"As I just previously stated..." Aleister smiled bitterly. "There should be nothing that prevented the Old Ones from fully manifesting here. We've missed something."

Jesse frowned, looking back and forth between Castiel and Aleister. "We...whad'ya mean by 'we'...?"

"Take him..." Aleister said quietly, looking over Jesse's shoulder.

Jesse felt a sharp blow on the back of his head. He managed to turn around, the room spinning...

The Resistance, all of the Ex_Heralds...watched him impassively...Castiel stood in front of him, the blunt end of Angel's Blade held upright in his hand. And his eyes...pitch back...darker than even a Demon's eyes...

"...whhaaat...?" Jesse managed to mutter before slumping to the floor, unconscious.

Aleister sighed, standing up and surveying the room. "Our power is being leeched away somehow. I want to find out how. There is no time to waste." He sighed. "Ironic, that. Locked away for untold millenia, and now there is no time..." He glanced down at Jesse's senseless form and back up at Castiel. "Lock him away. Make sure that he can't use his power to stop us."

Castiel cocked his head to the side. "Why not just kill him?"

Aleister shook his head. "He is the vessel of so much power. We need to feast upon it - use it, as the Lightbringer used us. He needs to live...for a very, very long time..." He smiled, considering. "Actually, sorry to say, well, for him, anyway...his end may never come."