Shannara810

His prison looked like a luxury hotel suite that had been bleached into a nightmare. Everything was white, perfect, and completely fake. There were no windows, just the annoying hum of lights that never turned off and that pristine, mocking sense of comfort that made him feel like a lab rat in a cage.

Adam sat cuffed to a metal chair, his lip split and throbbing—the price he’d paid for sinking his teeth into Zachariah’s forearm until he’d tasted blood and grace. It had taken two of Zachariah's goons to pry him off and lock him into that chair, and the memory of their grip still lingered under his skin, cold and bruising.

Zachariah stood a few feet away, dabbing at his arm with a pristine white handkerchief, disgust curling his features. He eyed the blood on the cloth like it was a stain on his honor.

"You are an animal," the angel hissed, tossing the soiled fabric aside. "To think you are supposed to be the vessel for the greatest warrior of God... and instead, you behave like a rabid stray."

Adam lifted his chin, eyes burning with a raw, defiant fire. A thin trail of blood trickled from his split lip, mixing with the dark, tacky smear of Zachariah’s.

He jerked his head forward, sneering, daring his captor to come closer. "Scared, Zach? I bet your face would look a hell of a lot better with a bruise or two."

Adam's muscles strained as he thrashed against the restraints, the cords on his neck standing out, but he couldn't break free. The handcuffs bit sharply into his wrists, tethering him firmly to the heavy chair and rendering every desperate, frantic movement useless.

The angel smirked at the boy’s attempts to free himself, a look halfway between amusement and pure contempt. "You know what strikes me, Adam? Your persistence. You really believe Michael cares for you. That your connection is… affectionate."

Zachariah leaned down, letting his act of "good and worried servant of the Lord" slip. Just for a heartbeat. "Michael isn't 'sad', brat. He's broken. Spending time among you monkeys has infected him with doubt. So, it's time we recalibrate him. You'd be surprised how cooperative a broken toy becomes once you take it apart and put it back together correctly."

Looking right into Adam's sky blue eyes, he grabbed the boy's chin. "But you? You are merely a spare part. A fallback plan till his true vessel — our dear Mr. Winchester — is ready to fight for us."

At those words Adam felt a cold knot tighten in his gut, but he forced himself not to look away. Don’t give him the satisfaction, Adam. Give him nothing.

It was a noble resolution, and one he was determined to keep. Even when his captor snapped his fingers and the room began to tilt.

A wave of agonizing, white-hot nausea ripped through his stomach, so intense it made everything blur. Adam’s breath hitched, his body folding in on itself in sheer, blinding agony. He gritted his teeth until his jaw ached, fighting the darkness encroaching at the edges of his sight. He was trembling, shackled and reeling, but he pushed back against the pain with every ounce of his crumbling strength, refusing to let that winged prick break him and win.

Halo, you have to wake up! Please, we're in trouble!

But nothing. Not even a flicker. Something was blocking Michael out, and no matter how hard Adam pushed, how loud he screamed inside his own head, he couldn't find a way through.

"Still feeling sassy, little puppet?"

Zachariah crouched until they were face to face. Adam could smell the ozone-and-cologne scent of him. "Does your 'friend' hear you now? No? How sad. But I'm not surprised: Michael is nothing more than a weapon. A glorified, heavy-handed nuke that thinks he's daddy's perfect son."

Daddy’s perfect son.

It was just a stupid string of words, but every ounce of spite in Adam’s body ignited. Michael hated them. Adam hated them.

And that was enough to keep him upright. Though every nerve ending in his body screamed for him to give in, Adam buried the agony beneath a rising tide of fury. He’d let his body be broken, he’d let the room burn around him, but he’d be damned if he let this monster lay a finger on his best friend.

If Michael—the most powerful being Adam had ever known—wasn't answering his silent pleas, he had to be in deep, desperate trouble. Far worse than anything Adam was currently facing.

"Pfff. You sound like a petty accountant complaining about his boss. Is that the best you’ve got?"

"You insignificant little gnat. You think that mouth of yours can touch me? I’m an angel of Heaven. You don't even know what you’re messing with."

A dry, jagged laugh left Adam's lips.

Hook, line, and sinker. It really seemed like someone had a serious problem with hubris.

"You’re just cannon fodder, man. You know, the guy who dies in the first five minutes just to make the real villain look tough? If you were the one actually running this pathetic show, I’d be dead by now. But I’m still here. So, what’s the matter, Angel of the Lord? You scared I’m right?"

Zachariah went perfectly still. For a fraction of a second, his mask cracked.

Wait. Was that... fear?

It was a mere flicker, gone as soon as it appeared, but it changed everything. The crushing pressure in Adam’s chest shifted. For the first time, he realized his captor wasn't just being arrogant—he was desperate. "That's it, isn't it? You're terrified. If Michael doesn't fall in line, they're going to bench you."

A controlled chuckle cut through the air as Zachariah hopped up onto the edge of the table, settling between the clutter of grease-stained wrappers and cold fries—the same mess he’d used to try to coax Adam toward 'reason.'

"Oh, I see." The angel's fear was gone, tucked back out of sight. "You truly believe Michael will save you. A weapon does not have friends, Mr. Milligan. It does not have attachments. And it certainly does not need a seventeen-year-old boy playing the martyr for him."

Zachariah pressed two fingers to Adam's temple, in the way you'd brush hair from a child's face. A new burst of pain flared white behind Adam's eyes—an invisible blade carving slow, deliberate lines into his mind. Zachariah wasn't just hurting him; he was taking his time, making sure Adam felt every jagged inch of it.

And Adam’s world simply shattered.

Somewhere distant, he heard himself make a sound he didn't recognize as his own. Blood trickled fresh from his mouth, dripping onto his collarbone, and he couldn't tell anymore if his skull actually ached or if his brain had simply run out of ways to describe agony.

"Do you want the truth, Adam?" Zachariah spoke slowly, deliberate, clearly enamored with the sound of his own voice. "Do you want to hear what your 'friend' Michael truly thinks?"

Adam gritted his teeth, sweat and blood trickling down. "Fuck... you..."

"Still with the attitude. Seriously, kid, someone ought to wash your mouth out with soap. Didn't your mother ever teach you how to talk to your superiors? But we can discuss that later."

Zachariah cleared his throat, his posture shifting. When he spoke next, his voice changed—the pitch dropped, the cadence smoothed out.

"So you're Dean Winchester. The Righteous Man." A beat, almost amused. "Funny, I expected more from something my Father was so proud of. You're just… what's that human word? Right. A prick."

Adam went cold. He knew that tone. He knew that voice down to the marrow.

It was Michael.

"See? To Michael, you and the Winchesters are nothing but cutlery. There is no friendship. There is only the Apocalypse. And you are nothing but the lubricant for it. So, hand Michael over. You don't have to suffer more. It's not your role: you're just a temporary host. Let Dean Winchester do what he was born for. Your family doesn't deserve your sacrifice."

How dare he? Nobody, nobody got to play games with Michael.

Adam was white-hot with fury. He spat a mixture of saliva and blood at the angel's feet. If the son of a bitch thought that performance would break him, he was dead wrong. It only made him fight harder.

"You think I care what happens to Dean?" Adam laughed, his lungs burning from the inside. "Met him once and we hated each other on sight. It was a real charming family reunion."

The kid leaned forward as much as the restraints would allow. "And my… father? Just some guy who’d crash for a night, spin Mom some half-assed story, and vanish again. He isn't family. My family is my mom. My family is Michael. People who actually chose to stick around."

Adam's lip curled, bitter. "So don't you dare stand there and act like Michael not wanting to be your good little soldier makes him broken. Family isn't a script you're born into, Zach. It's who shows up. And Michael showed up. That's more than I can say for anyone who actually owed me that much."

Zachariah opened his mouth to unleash another wave of venom, but Adam cut him off, still goaded by a fire that wouldn't die. "So, stupid son of bitch in a suit... who’s really running this circus?"

That did it. Whatever thin control Zachariah had been holding onto snapped clean in half. His face twisted, turning an ugly, mottled shade of rage. "Careful, boy. Some questions get people killed."

Adam's bloody smile didn't waver. "Yeah? Add it to the list."

"You arrogant little worm. You think you understand the cosmic order? We don't need you to make Michael cooperate. A body without a soul works just as well."

The angel raised his hand, his eyes burning like dying stars, ready to tear Adam's mind apart for his insolence.

Mike, Mike I need you! Please, wake up! I don't know how long I can resist!

If Michael didn't wake up, Adam's life was going to burn right there and then.

But then, the air in the white room buckled.

The doors blew off their hinges, shattering, as a blinding, golden light poured through the void, carrying with it the scent of summer rain and something older, something infinitely more dangerous.

Zachariah spun around, his arrogance curdling into sudden, genuine panic.

Because standing in the epicenter of the destruction, wings unfurled in a display of terrifying, raw power, was someone everyone in Heaven had long assumed dead.

Gabriel.

The archangel glanced at the trembling, tortured boy in the chair, then back to the shocked Zachariah, his green eyes so sharp they could have cut through the fabric of the world itself.

Gabriel tipped an invisible hat, his voice a low, dangerous purr that vibrated in everyone's bones.

"Honey, I'm home!"

The air in the room felt like it was about to explode.

"Seriously, G," Gabriel teased, lazily flicking a poker chip into the center of the table. "You’re going to give yourself a stroke over a pair of twos. It’s a game. Don't blow a fuse over it."

Ganesha let out a huff that sounded like a steam engine, his trunk curling defensively. "I haven't seen a decent card in ages, Loki. One more bad hand, and I’m turning this motel into a smoking crater."

Across from them, Odin sat perfectly still, his one eye locked on the deck. The air around him shimmered with magic; honestly, he wasn't even trying to be subtle about his attempt to peek at the future.

Gabriel sighed, leaning back and propping his feet on the edge of the table. Why did he still play with them? He really needed new friends.

"Odin, buddy, please! Try to lose with a little dignity."

"I am not losing," the All-Father growled, checking his cards again. "I am... waiting for the threads of Fate to align in my favor."

"Yeah, well, the threads of Fate are currently telling me you're about to get cleaned out," Gabriel remarked, though his heart wasn't in the game. His attention wasn't on the cards, the furious elephant-god, or the Norse King trying to cheat his way out of losing his favorite horse. His focus was entirely on the woman to his left.

Kali hadn't said a word in the last twenty minutes. She just sat there, swirling a glass of dark red wine, her eyes sharp and amused as she watched the petty bickering.

When she felt Gabriel’s gaze on her, she didn't shy away. Instead, she leaned in, her shoulder brushing against his, a fluid and deliberate invitation.

"You're awfully chatty tonight, my clever Loki," she purred, her voice a low, melodic sound that seemed to bypass everyone else in the room. She shifted, her knee grazing his under the table—an electric jolt that made Gabriel’s breath hitch. "Is this your way of distracting us from your bluffing?"

Gabriel let out a laugh that was a little breathier than he intended.

He closed the space between them until he could smell the faint scent of jasmine and gunpowder that always clung to her.

"Bluffing? Me? I’m offended, sweetheart," he whispered back. "I’m just enjoying the view. Although, I have to say, the view is significantly more distracting than the game."

Kali’s lips quirked into a slow, wicked smile. She reached out, her fingers dancing lightly over the back of his hand before she took a slow sip of her drink.

"If you're so distracted," she added softly, "then maybe you should end this night. I find I've grown quite tired of hearing Odin complain about his luck."

Gabriel felt a grin spread across his face—the real one, not the mask he wore for the others. He looked at the pile of chips, then back at her, his expression turning sharp and eager. "You know, I’ve been thinking the exact same thing. Why are we wasting our time with these dinosaurs when we could be... doing literally anything else?"

"Are you asking me to leave?" Kali teased.

"I’m asking you to save me from this nightmare," he replied, standing up and offering his arm with a sweeping, courtly flourish.

Kali took it, hooking her arm through his with a playful tilt of her head.

"Ganesha can have the table. There's this little Italian joint... their spaghetti is genuinely sinful."

The goddess looked at his hand, then up at his face, her ruby lips curling into a knowing smirk. "Finally. I thought you'd never get the hint."

With a mischievous grin, the archangel prepared to whisk her away, but the moment shattered before he could even move; the brassy, high-energy opening riff of Cherry Bomb exploded into the room.

Hello, Daddy, hello, Mom / I'm your ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch, cherry bomb / Hello, world, I'm your wild girl / I'm your ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch, cherry bomb

"Seriously? Right now?" He groaned, pulling the phone from his pocket. His mood soured instantly when he saw the caller ID: Adam (The Flannel-Clad Headache).

He should’ve known that giving the kid a direct line would come back to bite his ass, but he’d underestimated just how quickly.

Gabriel shot a fleeting, apologetic glance at Kali, his frustration mounting; this call was the death knell for any chance of tonight going the way he’d hoped. He swiped to answer.

"Hello? You’ve reached the Trickster. I’m currently busy with a very sexy, hot lady, so leave a message at the sound of the beep—or don't, I really don't care."

"Hey, Gabriel! It’s Adam!"

Gabriel rolled his eyes. "Adam, my favorite mortal! How’s the honeymoon phase going with my big, brooding brother? Still staring into each other's eyes while the world burns, or are you guys already picking out curtains for your little love nest?"

"Uh, good I guess? But it’s kind of an emergency."

Gabriel sighed, the sound echoing with the weight of someone who had spent too many millennia dealing with heavenly temper tantrums. "Seriously, kid? Our last hang-out was intense enough to last me a few centuries, but—"

"Michael won’t answer."

Gabriel’s hand hovered over the table. A card—the Ace of Spades—slipped through his fingers and hit the felt with a sound like a guillotine blade. The entire room went cold.

"What?!"

"We were walking home from school, and then we just… blacked out? Can an archangel black out? Because I have no idea how we got here."

"Here where, kiddo?"

"I’m not sure. The room is completely white and there’s this guy, Zachariah? He’s going on and on about how Michael has to 'start the Apocalypse,' and Mike… he’s just—he’s kind of on standby. I mean, I can feel his Grace inside me, but he won’t answer my prayers—"

"Hold on, what?!"

"I didn't know who else to call. Zachariah has left us alone for now, but he is gonna come back and I don't know what to do. I’m stuck here, and your number is the only one my phone can actually reach."

The Trickster took a sharp, rattling breath. He rubbed his face, his skin flushing with a sudden, divine heat. He had known it. He had known that kid was a walking catastrophe, a magnet for every piece of celestial baggage in the galaxy.

"Stay right where you are, kid. Don’t move, I’m coming. And for the love of everything Holy and Unholy, don't say 'yes' to anything!"

"Okay? But please, hurry up. I'm worried for Mike."

Gabriel hung up. The phone dissolved into golden dust, leaving his hand empty and trembling with suppressed power.

For a split second, the dim lighting of the poker room didn't just flicker: it screamed. The ceiling tiles rattled as his Grace bled out, painting the walls in impossible, shifting colors.

Odin narrowed his one eye, his hand hovering over his spear. "Trouble, Loki?"

Gabriel turned, his grin returning, but it was thinner now—razor-sharp and devoid of mirth. He flipped the entire table over with a single flick of his index finger. Chips, cards, and golden goblets scattered like confetti.

"Change of plans, guys," Gabriel replied, his voice shedding any playfulness left. "Apparently, my brother’s little boy-toy has triggered a magical lockdown, and I’m the only one with the key to his cage."

He squeezed Kali’s arm in a silent, fleeting apology, before he kissed her cheek, his eyes glowing with a terrifying, celestial intensity that forced the other gods to look away. "My lady, save that fire. I’ll be back to reclaim it soon."

And with those words, the reality of the room began to buckle, folding inward with a thunderclap.

In a final, blinding flash of white-hot light, Gabriel vanished, leaving behind only the stinging scent of ozone and a heavy silence.

@gem-wildee, @bethmints