The heavenly host has given up before the apocalypse has even started. They believe that Michael Langdon, the Antichrist, cannot be stopped. One angel thinks that there's still a chance to prevent the end of days. Michael can be made good. Obviously, it won't be any easier than lighting a lighter in a raging rain storm.

*This story will follow the show as closely as possible as long as details are relevant.

Four Years before the End of Times

"Angela, Zachariah isn't taking appointments right now. Angela! Excuse me-you cannot enter his offi-" the secretary was screeching. Her voice echoed in the marble hallway, with its high ceilings and length. It stretched far to the elevators at the very end.

The secretary, a small mousy woman in a pale pink skirt-suit, failed to stop the other woman, Angela, from pushing her way through the double mahogany doors. Angela, who wore a dark gray pants-suit, strode right into the office, her heels clicking with enough authority to prevent the secretary from actually yanking her back. It also helped Angela that her legs were much longer and she was just too quick.

She crossed to the middle of the grand office and stopped on the large persian rug. The middle-aged man at the big desk had jerked in his chair with surprise. He had been hunched in front of his computer, looking intently at the screen. His computer had made a strange human-like noise before he abruptly cut off the sound. His face-it was flushed with a sheen of sweat on his receding hairline.

"What are you doing here?" Zachariah sputtered while hurriedly composing himself and fixing his suit. Most of his desk, also mahogany, hid his body from his stomach down, so Angela couldn't see what was making him shift in his chair, but she did raise an eyebrow at him.

"Esther, what is the meaning of this?" he barked, looking accusingly at his secretary, who cowered at the doorway behind Angela. "I said I was clearing my schedule for the rest of the day!"

The short woman looked frightened and waved her hands to placate him. "I'm so s-sorry sir, I just couldn't stop her. She barged righ-right in!"

Angela took a step toward the man, who was both of their superior, but she wasn't afraid of him. Zachariah looked far from put together like she was: His tie was loose, the top button of his collar unbuttoned, and although she couldn't see it, his shirt was also untucked. She stood rimrod straight, a thick file in her left hand. Her clothes didn't have a wrinkle in them, and her dark brown, wavy hair was carefully tucked to her right shoulder. Her equally brown eyes bore into his, which struggled to stay on her.

"I'd like to speak with you, sir. It's very important."

Zachariah yanked a tissue out of a box that was nearby and wiped his forehead. "I said I cleared my schedule!" he said again.

"I know, sir," Esther insisted.

Finally, the man looked at Angela. "I am busy."

Angela blinked slowly and briefly looked at his computer. His pink face looked guilty. "Yes I can see that…." she said at length. "But this is a grave matter sir."

Zachariah's hands moved quickly beneath the desk (tucking his shirt in) and then he was standing. "I don't care!" he said, mustering a little more authority. "Esther, escort Angela out."

Esther took a step toward the taller woman. "Angela," Esther tried cautiously, scrunching her small features.

Angela looked back at her over her shoulder and, steadfast, said, "Esther, please close the door."

Zachariah gripped the edge of his desk. "Esther, get her out!"

Angela's tone hardened. "This cannot wait, sir."

"Esther!" he snapped, veins bulging at his temples.

Angela wasted no time. "This is about Michael Langdon."

Esther gasped softly behind her. Zachariah sucked in a breath and exhaled it sharply. "Wh- what ?"

Angela was stepping backward, but not to leave-to close the doors herself. It didn't take much strength to urge Esther out of the office, as the little woman stared at Angela in shock. Angela gave her a polite smile that didn't quite reach her dark gaze.

"Esther, please leave me and Zachariah," she said courteously. "The fate of the world depends on this."

"Hey!" Zachariah yelled.

Esther gave a small grunt, mouth open and eyes wide, and a shake of her head, and the doors shut before her. Angela smoothly turned around and strode back to Zachariah's desk with her folder. He was aghast. He started around his desk toward her. Angela put the file down with a pointed slap.

"Michael Langdon is above your level of clearance!" he said.

Angela didn't waver as he stopped before her, didn't back down from him. "That was before the budget was cut and we let go half of the employees," she retorted.

Zachariah got close to her face, short of actually touching her. She was as tall as him in her heels. "I don't care," he said, seething. His voice got low and shook. His face was becoming red. "Michael Langdon is no longer a concern of the department."

Angela didn't move a millimeter. "I know you still have pull with our superiors," she said levelly.

"Things have changed."

"I heard about the meeting you had with them. I heard that they're giving up already!" Her eyebrows narrowed as she'd said this-giving way to her disbelief.

Zachariah shrugged his shoulders as he dabbed again at his forehead with the crumpled up tissue still in his hand. "That's the decision that was made." It had been final.

Angela shook her head. "We can't give up."

He sighed and looked away at the file she'd brought. He didn't touch it. "It's called picking our battles, Angela." She could sense his resignation, and it fueled her resolve even more. She clenched her fists at her sides, searching his face.

"This is the only battle," she countered.

Stepping away, Zachariah tossed the tissue in a small trash can and glance back at her, pointing at himself. "I still want to have my wings by the end of this."

Angela blinked rapidly, incredulous. She leaned a hand on the edge of the desk, trying to catch his eyes again as his gaze ducked away. "What's the point of still having wings? So you can admire the flames of hell as they cover the burning earth?"

He had jumped slightly at the question. His previous frustration was gone. It seemed like he wanted to avoid this argument too. "Better humans than us," he said.

She watched as he crossed the office to a small wet bar where he proceeded to fill himself a glass of amber colored liquid. For several moments, she was speechless, the clinking of ice the only sound in the room.

"I can't believe you're saying this right now," she said at last.

He took a much-needed, noisy sip and turned around to face her again. "Look, Angela, I know you've always supported the original mission, but...God's gone, and honestly, our superiors would rather change course. And I agree. We're all gonna ditching this fucking popsicle stand."

Angela raised and dropped her hands. As she stared down at the file, a gloom came over her. "I can't believe everyone has lost faith."

Zachariah's face was grave while he regarded her. "Yeah, and you know what? When we still had faith, we had to be chaste, obedient little servants. Now, we have a little freedom ourselves." He took another drink. "We have an opportunity to do things we've missed out on for over two millennia." He drained the glass, poured another one, and went on.

"Why don't you, I don't know...enjoy yourself for a little while, till they all nuke themselves to death. Live a little in the meantime. It honestly won't hurt you, I promise." He even gave her a small, knowing smile.

But Angela scoffed at the suggestion as she straightened and crossed her arms over her chest, incredulous at his nonchalance. "What, like you? Masturbating to porn?" Her eyes flicked to his computer.

The man's expression vanished as he followed her gaze. He downright scowled, had nothing to say to being called out.

Angela shifted her weight to one hip. "It's no secret around here. Everyone knows what you do in your spare time. Big surprise that you cleared your schedule for the whole day. I wish the others weren't too busy indulging in their own sick fantasies."

Bristling under her scrutiny, Zachariah cleared his throat and pursed his lips. "And? So what?"

"We're like the Russians during the '90s," Angela said sadly. She put her hand on her forehead.

The man drank more, a glaze appearing in his eyes by now. "Look. We're not killing anyone," he said touchily.

"Just your dignities," she muttered, eyes closed.

"Come on..." Zachariah said in a tone, which suggested that he was going to try to convince her otherwise. In fact, he turned back around to fill a second glass.

Hearing him, Angela looked back at him and approached with new zeal. "We're the heavenly host! We haven't been relieved of our duty yet! We have to fight until the end!"

Zachariah held out the new glass and said, "Our department is going to shut down soon, Angela, and we're going to pack our bags. The apocalypse is nigh, and we already lost." He held the drink midair. She didn't take it, as if not noticing it, or ignoring it.

She took him by the arm, instead, earnest. "Michael Langdon can be stopped. Sure the chance is small, but we have to take it. We can't let it slip away. We don't have much time."

The man's face was deadpan, his voice turning flat. "No one is going to support you on this. You wanna go get yourself killed, knock yourself out. But you're going to be on your own."

Angela swallowed, faltering, their eyes locked. What he said was the truth. She doubted anyone would back her up on this. She hadn't actually thought Zachariah would go for it when she barged into his office. She just knew that she had to speak her mind, knew that she couldn't simply crawl into a hole and wait for it to all be over. No one else would have the guts to do anything. Most of everyone in the department-what remained of it-either felt the same way Zachariah did, resigned, or were too scared to do anything, thumbs up their asses.

She felt fear. She wasn't foolishly confident. She knew the risks, the dangers, that the odds would be against her. Yet courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. Many great humans were long dead. Nelson Mandela one of them. Though many more still lived. She couldn't let the chance to save them slip away, even if catching that chance was going to feel like using tweezers to grab the end of a thread that was fluttering in high winds.

She had nothing to lose. She really didn't. If she died in the name of the cause, then at least she'd go out in action, fighting the good fight. She would've done all she could, which was more than could be said for the rest of them.

Zachariah shoved the glass into her, she quickly took her hand back from his arm, looking down at the whiskey owlishly. She had to grab the glass before he let go. Some of it splashed on her shoe.

"If I have to go alone, I'll go alone," she said, her jaw clenched. Instead of drinking it, while he drank his, she stepped back over to his desk and took the file again. She replaced it with the whiskey.

Zachariah looked at her ruefully. "At least have a drink before you get on the highway to hell on earth," he said wryly.

"No thank you. Goodbye, Zachariah," she said to him.

He walked over to pick up her glass while knocking back the rest of his. She touched him again on the arm and sighed, frowning. He too let out a huff, genuinely feeling sorry for her and patting her on the shoulder.

"Maybe you can at least get laid while you're there."

Her expression turned stony and she stepped away. "If God saw you now, Zachariah," she scolded.

He spread his hands, holding both of the glasses. "He would strike me down. But, alas, he got the fuck out of dodge a while ago. Asshole just didn't give enough of a shit to bring his firstborns."

Angela grimaced at his words, but she didn't say anything else. She started for the door and her boss went back around his desk to his computer, sitting down with the second glass of whiskey. He woke up his screen and it went from black to a paused video of a woman in an angel's outfit (what was left of it: the halo and wings) and another woman, who had on nothing but a pair of devil horns. They were sixty-nining.

He waited until the doors to his office were shut and stared at them for a full minute before resuming his previous task.

Angela bid Esther farewell as she passed her own desk in the hallway. Esther was anxious in her seat and even stood up.

"Wh-where are you going?" the small woman asked, unable to help it.

Angela stopped to look back. "To earth," she said evenly, having adopted a staunch posture once again. There was no time to waste.

Esther shook her head frantically. "Oh my God. Be careful out there."

There was a hint of a smile on Angela's face. She knew Esther's concern was genuine. "I will. Thank you, Esther."

"If I don't see you again, I just...I just wanted to tell you that...I always-uh," blushing oddly, Esther looked down, "I always liked you. I...wish we had the chance…to…"

Angela had no idea what she was talking about. She waited for Esther to finish whatever she was going to say. But instead of doing so, the short woman ran around her desk, heels clacking, and reached up to the other woman's face once she got to her, taking her by the cheeks to give her a kiss on the lips. Angela all but froze and Esther's mouth moved over hers for a good solid four seconds.

When the women parted, Angela took a step back, gaze wide as saucers and the breath in her lungs stalled. Esther was breathing rapidly, on the other hand, her own face red and a slow, relieved smile splitting her face.

"Uh…" Angela had no idea what to say. Angels didn't kiss other angels. At least, that was how it always had been. Times were different now...clearly. Before anything else untoward happened, Angela spun back around. She called out a quick, final goodbye and didn't look back all the way to the elevators.

Esther stood, watching her, and her smile turned upside down. The sound of Angela's quick strides receded down the long hall.

Once she got to the elevators, she jabbed the button down on the panel and impatiently waited for the lift to arrive. Behind her, on the marble wall hung large letters that said Department of Spiritual Protection. Dust covered the once shiny metal surfaces. Angela's mouth still burned with the fervor of the secretary's kiss by the time she was traveling down the floors. She had pressed the very last button of what looked like a hundred buttons total on the left side of the metal door, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

Trying to suppress the mortification she felt-thankfully no one was there to see what had happened-she opened the folder. She'd already, literally, read it over a million times. She had it memorized by now, word for word. Nothing beat actually looking at the contents, though.

There was a small picture of Michael Langdon on the top left corner of the first page, followed by an entire profile, which spanned twenty pages, back to back. But the first page had his basic stats, such as: Age (which gave a birth date that should've had him as a child; instead, he looked like a man in his mid to late twenties); his approximate height and weight and coloring; but most importantly, for species, the file had him as HELLSPAWN in all caps.

Everyone in the department had already been calling him the Antichrist. Ever since his extracurricular activities had become known and Constance Langdon, his grandmother, had committed suicide in the infamous Los Angeles house. The department hadn't touched the Murder House with a ten-foot pole. It wasn't their territory-even before a house had even stood there.

There were damned locations all over the world, just as there were holy places. Both sides had been fingering the earth since it was created, the great tug-of-war. Unfortunately, the side of the light hadn't expected the devil's sneaky plan of using one of said damned spots to make his hellspawn. They were expecting an antichrist to rise-they just hadn't known when he or she would. Heaven hadn't been prepared enough in advance to send their own savior to be born. The angels had long been slacking since God left. He'd vanished sometime after Christ ascended.

Not all angels liked humans. In fact, many strongly disliked them. Angela, however, always felt that urge to protect them, to be what God had always wanted her to be. She was one of the few that still gave a rat's ass about the original mission. She didn't have her name in the book of Revelations, but the bible was a loose series of stories anyway. She felt it in her gut that she was doing the right thing.

The elevator stopped on a floor and a pair, a man and a woman in business attire, walked in, both giving Angela nods in greeting. The man pressed a button that was rows before her destination.

"Going to the ground?" he asked with surprise.

"Running an errand," Angela said smoothly.

"Oh, fun," said the woman.

Angela answered only after a beat, looking straight ahead, not at them. "A troubled boy needs to be nudged on the righteous path."

The man couldn't help but snort. "Good luck with that."

The woman hit lightly him with her elbow.

Shifting marginally, holding the folder before her, all Angela said was, "Thank you."

She needed all the luck in the world.

A/N

I had this idea stuck since I first laid my eyes on Michael. Hopefully, I'm the first with this concept of angels and whatnot. I still have my other story, Devils in the Windy City, but I suppose it's on hiatus again. My muse is just not there, yet I can't completely give it up. I hope to continue it later sometime.

In the meantime, I had to satisfy this muse. I imagined Angela as Troian Bellisario, but you can imagine her as any brunette with dark eyes. For a few chapters, it'll be pre-Apocalypse, and then I will skip to present day.

Next chapter, we will see Michael with Ms. Mead and how Angela will make her approach.

If you enjoyed it so far, let me know! Feedback is extremely helpful and lets me know if I should continue. Favs are great too!

Thanks!