Fic: Zone of Abandon
Ficlet: Zone of Abandon
Summary: OLD GO fic (Crowley, Aziraphale)
Note: I wrote this in 2003 and promptly lost it, but apparently I've had it all along. I'm putting it here mostly because it ought to be somewhere, even though it's not very good.
~ Zone of Abandon ~
He was resting by a dead fountain with a military-issue rifle in his lap and a burning cigarette stuck between his teeth. The pale smoke did not coil in the air but drifted almost directly skyward, a thin pillar of grey slipping inexorably toward oblivion.
Another man came out of an empty building and stood beneath the brilliant blue sky. He spotted the figure sitting alone in the shattered, devastated square, and after staring at him for a moment that stretched in the air, he smoothed the pale strands of hair out of his face and started forward. His footsteps echoed, thin and loud over the stone, bouncing desperately between silent buildings, seeking an escape. As he drew closer the man with the rifle took his cigarette out of his mouth and tapped it lightly with a finger, scattering ashes along the grey stone, and over his boot. He made a face.
"You've got blood on your shirt," the man with the rifle said, without looking up.
"There was a checkpoint," the fair-haired man self-consciously ran a hand over the front of his shirt, fingered the buttons, lightly touched the dark dry stain, in the pattern of spray and splatter. "There was a checkpoint, and, and soldiers. Things got ugly. A woman was shot--"
The dark man made a negating gesture with his cigarette, waving it in the air. The smoke danced in ripples near his hand, but further on, above his head, resumed it stately ascent.
"Doesn't matter. Not to me. Doesn't matter."
"I was in the city," the blonde man added, "Do you know they shoot the press here?"
"I know."
"That was your doing."
The rifleman scowled. He stuck the cigarette back between his teeth and spoke around it.
"It isn't really evil, you know."
"How can you say that? What kind of--"
"But it isn't. It isn't. It comes from somewhere else. Beyond malice. Far beyond malice."
"They hate those men, for showing the truth. It's always been that way. Any kind of regime--"
"We can't talk about regimes any more. Politics have moved beyond the jursidiction of you or I, mine or yours."
"But evil is evil. It has nothing to do with malice, with desire. All that matters is results."
"The road to hell, eh?"
"That's why they call it that."
There was a pause. After a while the rifleman passed the cigarette to his companion, who accepted it, held it daintily between thumb and forefinger, and stooped to stub it out on the side of the fountain. The rifleman grunted.
"And what happens now, angel?"
The fair man shrugged.
"Nothing happens. Nothing ever happens. A lot of people are going to die."
"What were you doing at a military checkpoint, anyway?"
"Refugees. I was doing what I can."
"There's never enough, though. No-one can do enough."
The fair man didn't answer. Instead he seated himself beside the rifleman and gazed off into space. Apparently without the man's awareness his hand moved again to his shirt, absently, fingering the pale buttons, and again the spatter-mark of dark redness crusted into the light material.
(He could feel it against the ridges of his skin, against the whorls of fingerprints that he wasn't supposed to have, the sense of the dry darkness. The blood. Blood was not a liquid. It was a piece of a body, it was thick with life. Someone's life, someone's body, was crusted into his shirt. He was walking around wearing someone's life.)
The rifleman crossed his legs, lifting his feet off the ground, and rested his military issue rifle (5.56mm Galil MAR [micro assault rifle]) across his lap. He produced another cigarette from somewhere and lit it without a match.
"Where are you going next?" the fair man asked, in a subdued voice, so that his words nearly disappeared into the sky along with the smoke.
"Doesn't matter. I'll find someplace. There's always work for someone like me."
"They're good people, you know."
"I know. That's the problem."
"All people are good people."
"I know."
And then silence again, for a while. When the rifleman spoke after that his voice was not subdued, but there was a brittle edge to it, a dark quality like the fine edge of obsidion stone being ground away, flaking away, small chips scattering, falling to earth.
"Angel."
"Hm?"
"Why are we here?"
--
In Hebrew, no man's land is called "the zone of abandon." //Yehuda Amichai, trans. Bloch and Kronfeld
--
Apparently I wrote this at some point after seeing a graphic video of a journalist being shot. I still remember that video, actually.
I realize it's not very good. But I always felt an attachment to this story. Not sure why.
Summary: OLD GO fic (Crowley, Aziraphale)
Note: I wrote this in 2003 and promptly lost it, but apparently I've had it all along. I'm putting it here mostly because it ought to be somewhere, even though it's not very good.
~ Zone of Abandon ~
He was resting by a dead fountain with a military-issue rifle in his lap and a burning cigarette stuck between his teeth. The pale smoke did not coil in the air but drifted almost directly skyward, a thin pillar of grey slipping inexorably toward oblivion.
Another man came out of an empty building and stood beneath the brilliant blue sky. He spotted the figure sitting alone in the shattered, devastated square, and after staring at him for a moment that stretched in the air, he smoothed the pale strands of hair out of his face and started forward. His footsteps echoed, thin and loud over the stone, bouncing desperately between silent buildings, seeking an escape. As he drew closer the man with the rifle took his cigarette out of his mouth and tapped it lightly with a finger, scattering ashes along the grey stone, and over his boot. He made a face.
"You've got blood on your shirt," the man with the rifle said, without looking up.
"There was a checkpoint," the fair-haired man self-consciously ran a hand over the front of his shirt, fingered the buttons, lightly touched the dark dry stain, in the pattern of spray and splatter. "There was a checkpoint, and, and soldiers. Things got ugly. A woman was shot--"
The dark man made a negating gesture with his cigarette, waving it in the air. The smoke danced in ripples near his hand, but further on, above his head, resumed it stately ascent.
"Doesn't matter. Not to me. Doesn't matter."
"I was in the city," the blonde man added, "Do you know they shoot the press here?"
"I know."
"That was your doing."
The rifleman scowled. He stuck the cigarette back between his teeth and spoke around it.
"It isn't really evil, you know."
"How can you say that? What kind of--"
"But it isn't. It isn't. It comes from somewhere else. Beyond malice. Far beyond malice."
"They hate those men, for showing the truth. It's always been that way. Any kind of regime--"
"We can't talk about regimes any more. Politics have moved beyond the jursidiction of you or I, mine or yours."
"But evil is evil. It has nothing to do with malice, with desire. All that matters is results."
"The road to hell, eh?"
"That's why they call it that."
There was a pause. After a while the rifleman passed the cigarette to his companion, who accepted it, held it daintily between thumb and forefinger, and stooped to stub it out on the side of the fountain. The rifleman grunted.
"And what happens now, angel?"
The fair man shrugged.
"Nothing happens. Nothing ever happens. A lot of people are going to die."
"What were you doing at a military checkpoint, anyway?"
"Refugees. I was doing what I can."
"There's never enough, though. No-one can do enough."
The fair man didn't answer. Instead he seated himself beside the rifleman and gazed off into space. Apparently without the man's awareness his hand moved again to his shirt, absently, fingering the pale buttons, and again the spatter-mark of dark redness crusted into the light material.
(He could feel it against the ridges of his skin, against the whorls of fingerprints that he wasn't supposed to have, the sense of the dry darkness. The blood. Blood was not a liquid. It was a piece of a body, it was thick with life. Someone's life, someone's body, was crusted into his shirt. He was walking around wearing someone's life.)
The rifleman crossed his legs, lifting his feet off the ground, and rested his military issue rifle (5.56mm Galil MAR [micro assault rifle]) across his lap. He produced another cigarette from somewhere and lit it without a match.
"Where are you going next?" the fair man asked, in a subdued voice, so that his words nearly disappeared into the sky along with the smoke.
"Doesn't matter. I'll find someplace. There's always work for someone like me."
"They're good people, you know."
"I know. That's the problem."
"All people are good people."
"I know."
And then silence again, for a while. When the rifleman spoke after that his voice was not subdued, but there was a brittle edge to it, a dark quality like the fine edge of obsidion stone being ground away, flaking away, small chips scattering, falling to earth.
"Angel."
"Hm?"
"Why are we here?"
--
In Hebrew, no man's land is called "the zone of abandon." //Yehuda Amichai, trans. Bloch and Kronfeld
--
Apparently I wrote this at some point after seeing a graphic video of a journalist being shot. I still remember that video, actually.
I realize it's not very good. But I always felt an attachment to this story. Not sure why.