ONE GOOD SOUL
And the Corruption Thereafter
Wynter A. Thompson was very, very flustered.
Life had been quite simple, really. Every day, she would get up, dress well, arrive to school fashionably late so that the teachers always excused her, get good grades in everything, return home, continue to get good grades, go to sleep, and repeat steps one through seven again and again until summer came around ( at which point she would mainly do the same thing again, except the small exchange in words in step two, turning from "arrive to school fashionably late" to "arrive at extra-curricular courses" in a manner that no one is really sure whether or not it could be termed 'late,' but dismiss it as simply being easier to mark Wynter as 'present').
Now, this was of course able to be fluxed; but in minor ways, like the occasional weekend science-convention, church volunteer work, or trip to the WiseFries fast-food when she really was in need of some "enthusiasm." All she had to do was stick to the schedule, and Wynter could easily see herself making it through to college. No real social interaction was necessary in her eyes, and family matters would be resolved just like that: things that are tedious, and which a well-performed "I Love You!" every once in a while can take care of on its own. Because of these definitions she had made for herself, Wynter considered herself, in a minor faction, "quite perfectly well-calculated," which unfortunately was exactly how the outside world had labeled her from the start.
This was, of course, until things around her started to shape out as, well, "abnormal."
To understand what Wynter has in mind as "abnormal," one might want to direct themselves to that strange Sunday afternoon, when, after dusting off the candle stand in the front of her local church, (no one really knew what kind of church it was: it wasn't of the normal kind, to say the least—not one cross, literally hundreds of candels that sported colors other than just white, and it didn't seem to even sponser the little plaque or lettering announcing that it was a "Holy Church," and the fact that not one drop of holy water was admitted in was of course cause for worry in the community; point being, the "church" had really just showed up one day, no one able to remember ever seeing it before, but not being able to deny that it must have been there the whole time) Wynter was surprised to hear two voices conversing.
Normally, of course, this would be of no coincidence. But it was; problem being that the voices belonged to two /particular/ hosts, which no one within the right mind set (at least from Wynter's perspective) should be naturally inclined to hear conversing together without argument.
One host being the dark, mysterious guy who had been (or, Wynter rather hoped had been...) checking her out from his sleek Bentley's rolled-down window two days earlier, on the school campus, with Queen music projecting from the speakers. Too Wynter, he had seemed rebellious, stylish, and the kind of guy that hair gel actually looks good on even though he has long hair and full-round no-light shades, which again looked good on him, never-the-mind normal stereotypes. Here, we can see her thoughts running somewhere along the lines of "Hot... ouch... very cool... somebody pinch me... ahhh... I wonder what color eyes he has?"
These being the complete opposites to the thoughts that ran through her head whenever she thought of her "Old World" English teacher, Mr. Speare. A second-hand bookseller, likely quite intelligent in his own right, one of those kinds of adults that you just want to hug out of... sympathy, and obviously gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide.
He, of course, was the host of the second voice in the conversation that went something like so:
Cool Guy: "So they approved of the selection up there for you, right?"
Mr. Speare: "Of course, of course. She's a perfect choice, my boy, glad you pointed her out. Honestly, I wouldn't have paid her much attention otherwise, what with her always arriving at my class in the state that she does…"
Cool Guy: "Angel."
Mr. Speare: "And how she acts like there really is no reason to the whole of it…"
Cool Guy: "Angel."
Mr. Speare: "Its like she's some wind up toy for one of your hellhounds to chase around for a millennia or so, always doing the same thing, over and over, I swear, well, I don't swear, I mean…"
Cool Guy: "AZIRAPHALE!"
Mr. Speare: "She really needs to—oh, I'm sorry, Crowley, what were you saying?"
At this point, Mr. Speare had finally come to realize that the topic of their thought un-audienced discussion had was standing about 3 yards to their direct left, down praying aisle 40, seat 04. Wynter had at this time, obviously, completely abandoned her dusting duties, finding that a much more interesting project was at hand.
Mr. Speare looked a little shocked, if not disgruntled, to say the least. The cool guy who apparently really HAD been checking her out, with long hair tied back and no-light shades, had his head to the ground, and almost looked like he was sincerely wishing himself out of the situation. Of course that wouldn't work; humans can't just wish themselves away to another situation, time and place.
Or, as we said, Wynter was flustered to find out... perhaps they can.
Suddenly the three were standing in her first period English classroom, dusting-needed books and all. The two adults, (as Wynter now found she could discern that the cool sunglasses guy in fact, was not, a late teenager) now in completely different garb and appearance—one having blondish-brown hair that obviously had its own structure of dimensions, clad in a somber tweed jacket, corduroy pants and a tartan tie, and the other, retaining his shades, with an Italian leather jacket that fit perfectly and a pair of car keys hanging out of its pockets—were staring straight at her, as if they were thieves who had just kidnapped their first human and weren't quite sure whether to tie her up and gag her or to treat her politely and serve her some brew tea with biscuits on the side for snack.
Crowley (Wynter wasn't quite sure how she knew this, but that was a sub-shock in comparison to what had just happened) walked over to a guilty-looking Aziraphale, keeping one eye-frame on Wynter at all times.
The demon reached up and patted the dithering angel on the back.
"Well done, Angel. Well done."
