Categories > Books > Good Omens


by minkhollow 1 review

Crossover with American Gods: War's trying to get to business, but first she has to get around one of the new guard. (Rated mostly for language.)

Category: Good Omens - Rating: PG-13 - Genres: Crossover - Characters: War - Warnings: [!!] - Published: 2005-05-25 - Updated: 2005-05-25 - 641 words - Complete


Crossover with American Gods: War's got an Apocalypse to help start, but first she has to get around one of the new guard.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Pratchett and Gaiman are geniuses, so I borrow.

There is a warehouse in New Jersey with one thing in it: A red motorcycle. It's been there for quite a while. The owners of the warehouse think they get their rent every month, so they don't ask questions.

A young woman with a head full of red hair and a very large sword in her hand walks up to the warehouse, punches a code into a keypad. She is wearing biking leathers the color of old wine, and carrying a helmet (bright red, of course). She sticks the sword into the motorcycle's custom-made scabbard before sitting down.

The thing roars to life, despite never having had a drop of gasoline grace the fuel tank. With any luck she can make it to La Guardia by five - time is, naturally, of the essence.

Unfortunately, there is a stretch limo blocking her quickest route out. With a sigh she stops the motorcycle and walks straight to the back. She's had a run-in with the technical boy before, and even without that she knows none of this crowd would do their own driving. Spoiled, the lot of them.

Knocking on his window, she says, "What's it gonna take to get you out of my way, kid? I'm in something of a hurry."

The window glides down, greeting her with cigarette smoke and the acrid scent of an electrical fire. "Yeah, well, why the fuck should I care about that?" the technical boy drawls. "I mean, I've got stuff I have to do. But you may have noticed I'm here. Talking to you."

"Don't make it sound like it was my idea." He'd been rather impressed with her when they ran into each other in the Persian Gulf nearly a decade ago; then again, he was also pissed out of his skull. Probably didn't realize who he was talking to.

"You might as well give it up. We've already decommissioned one of your lot, haven't we? Besides, it's not like you have any real power left. You're old-school, analog girl."

"First, in this particular line of work there's no such thing as a decommissioning. Pestilence could probably short-circuit you in a matter of seconds, were he here." She's glaring at him now, eyes the color of lit embers damn near boring a hole between his eyes. "Secondly, if we can't do anything now, why do I have this?"

With a flourish she pulls her sword out if its scabbard on the motorcycle. The technical boy looks like he'd love to call it a convincing hoax, if only he could find the words to do so.

"'Analog girl' indeed. You forget how quickly we adapt, techie boy," she continues, smiling as sweetly as she knows how (and fully aware it still looks bloody well dangerous). "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got an Apocalypse to go help start."

"...You're fucking with me," he attempts to retort, but his heart isn't really in it.

"No, actually, I'm not. This planet's got maybe a day's existence left... if it's lucky. If you value what life you've got left I'd suggest you get out of my way. NOW."

The technical boy slumps back in his seat, closes the window, and has his driver move the limo. The motorcycle roars to life once again and she pulls out onto the road, heading north, toward the Big Apple.

Does that mean the Big One's meant to go down up there? He doesn't know. Doesn't really give a flying fuck, either. A quote enters his mind, unbidden: It must be Thursday. I never could get the hang of Thursdays.

And he doesn't even like that book.
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