Chapter Text
Ant Pathrose, America's golden boy.
Many years ago he stood, freshly a teenager, in front of a council of strong willed angels. An oil cross is traced on his forehead, he closes his eyes to accept it. It is spoken.
“You will come to earth to be an example of good, you will be a totem of morality. You will not falter to hateful wrath nor murderous revenge, you will fix evil and you will purify the down and vindictive.”
He holds his palms out, cupped, and swallows.
“I will be a totem of good.” He whispers.
“Your good deeds will be rewarded on earth and in heaven.”
Ant imagines growing older, maybe 40, sitting on a throne of gold, half naked with silk thrown over him being hand fed grapes.
“Go.”
He hears a sharp sliding sound of a blade while he glares at his endless feed and holds the neapolitan ice cream someone was too lazy to go out and grab herself.
A skinny man with a bleach dyed hoodie over his head is holding a kitchen knife to a mid-fifties looking cashier, he's alarmed but not all that worried, sliding his hand under the register and pressing a small red button.
Man.
Ant puts the dessert down on the empty conveyor belt, rolls up his sleeves and takes his hood off. The man turns, scoffs, then turns again with wide eyes.
“Uh–”
Ant holds out his hand, making a grabby motion, and glares at him.
He's always glad to help people, that's what he was made for, but it's not exactly his speed to do it after dark especially after tumbling ass first down a flight of stairs when he struggled to equip his wings, remembering he didn't wear the jacket with the holes torn into them only halfway down.
For some odd reason most criminals he's met, if they've heard of him, have some moral Christ induced panic when they look at him. He once thought it was a part of his abilities but Foolish never had the fear of God struck into him while making his fifth cup of coffee and locking eyes with Ant, nor Hannah when she extends her vines to hold his glasses above his head– although he wishes she did.
He figures it's something to do about disappointing God, but if he was so scared of that, why would he do it to begin with?
If so many things disappoint God, why exist in front of him anyway? Have you no shame?
The knife is placed in his hands and he holds it while he begins to sputter out any excuse that comes to mind. He discards it tucked behind the gum and the lighters and grabs his bicep, waiting to hear the sweet sweet release of police sirens.
“Please, I just– let me go.” He struggles pitifully, Ant stands still, a steel grip around him.
“He'll forgive you.” Ant whispers. He thinks it'll ease him, but it doesn't.
He jerks his head to the ice cream now at the very end of the belt, smiling politely. The cashier's face has dropped back down to business as usual, scanning, reading the price and taking his cash with little to no care in the world. He waits for a couple minutes, checking the time, fidgeting with the bag in his hand. And finally, sweet sirens.
He grabs the bag and hurries out the door with the man still writhing against him, police hurry out and cuff him almost instantly. It's the kind of privilege he gets, he's automatically in the right, no matter what, because he's an angel.
“Ask the cashier what happened, I gotta go.” Ant explains quickly, tucking the cold dessert into his book bag and zipping it up for safe travels.
He begins to walk down the dirty sidewalk, sirens still blaring, busy traffic, buildings stretching far above him. Versara City, an overpopulated crime ridden mess, what he was assigned to fix. He walks past plenty of posters of himself, of the Spirit League, even one with a QR code that directs you to a link to donate.
He whips out his phone again, scrolling through his contacts until he lands on “hannah rose” with a pink heart tacked on at the end. He clicks on it, ready to tell her he fought some emo looking criminal just to satisfy her sweet tooth, then is met with the cruel flash of cameras and a sudden flood of microphones and phones. If you're ever in a horrible situation, call the paparazzi, they'll get there faster.
“TELL US MORE ABOUT THE ROBBERY, WERE YOU HARMED?”
“CAN YOU SIGN MY THIGH?”
“TELL MY FRIEND HELLO!”
“No one was harmed, it was a rather quick and easy ordeal. Just wait for the crime record release, they have more details than I do.” He stops and speaks into three separate microphones.
“WHAT'S YOUR CONDOM SIZE?”
“ARE YOU MARRIED?”
A particularly rough looking reporter, some young woman, stumbles in front of him with a big chunky microphone with the stamp of a news company on the handle.
“Have you heard that Lucifer might've released more devils last week? Have you come in contact with any?”
He blinks at her then side steps her. “No comment.”
His wings stretch out from their hiding, fortunately with holes this time, and he hears exaggerated reactions from the very excited audience.
“CAN I MARRY YOU THEN?”
“WHERE'S THE SPIRIT LEAGUE?”
“I MISSED YOU!”
His white wings flap, creating a shadow forecasting off the street lights, and they cheer as he soars into the air, finally far enough to be disconnected from the world, even for just a second.
He floats with the stars, clouds, the moon. Other than the occasional flock of crows he dives head first into, flying is his getaway. There's no air paparazzi (yet) and no sirens and no criminals. There's no expectations.
He lays his palm flat across a blue screen, it flashes green and slides the door open into the kitchen.
The Spirit League.
Hannah Rose
Foolish
Tina Kitten
Sam
Ant Pathrose.
Amidst a League of angels sent by the council of heaven for the same reason as he was, for some reason he was their makeshift leader. He figures it's because he was sent here when he was young and knows the ins and outs of the planet Earth, but realistically it's because he’s a doormat. He'll grab you tampons, he'll lend you his card, he'll sleep on the floor if your mattress is stained if it meant you'd get a good clean nights rest.
He places the bag of thawed out ice cream on the kitchen counter and Hannah looks up from her phone and smiles from cheek to cheek, quickly snatching it up.
Their shared living area was rather large and underground, all having their own rooms, own suits hanging along with folded ones just in case, masks of forgotten villains hung up in a case.
“I had to fight off some kid for this, you're welcome.”
He doesn't say it groggily, or even with spite, he's welcoming her in advance just in case she does stop and say thanks.
“Oh I know, I keep getting tagged in your edits,” she doesn't. “Check this one out.”
She disconnects her earbuds and slides her phone across the counter. A video which appears to be a slideshow of his jawline along with a pop song plays. It has 5 thousand likes.
“That's sweet.” Ant says, passing her phone back to her and wriggling out of his jacket.
“D'you wanna see the one of your hands?”
He shakes his head vigorously but with a smile. I'd rather die, but thanks!
She pops the lid open and digs in with a spoon. It's not sanitary but it's not like anyone else is gonna eat it, Ant's lactose intolerant, Foolish hates sweet things, Tina has her own brand of dessert she exclusively eats from and Sam is rarely home enough to consider it.
“Oh– what was that reporter talking about anyway? I'm pretty sure heaven would inform us if Lucifer did something like that again.”
He shrugs heavily, checking the fridge for an apple he can cure his bored mouth with, his eyes landing on a case of raspberries. Good enough.
“I think she's misled. I didn't catch what news company she was working for but they could be feeding her false narratives, but we'll be fine.”
He doesn't watch the news, he listens to podcasts from random individuals autoplaying in his headphones. What it was like growing up as a woman in a male household, one dad and three brothers. How to properly tend to your garden. What did Jesus want for you?
He wanted love.
“They wanna see the League fail so they can stop having their football games interrupted or something, I don't care.”
She plays another edit out loud, this time with a Justin Timberlake song called SexyBack.
He gathers his case of raspberries in his arms and totes it over.
“I'm going to head off to bed, make sure Foolish gets to sleep, I'm sure we got plenty of bullshit to handle in the morning.”
He walks past her as she chirps out a quick “Night!”, tiredly slumping down the hall, entering his room at the very end. He sheds his boots, putting on loose shorts and a white stained t-shirt and sliding into bed. The case of fruit stays on his night stand, although a breeding ground for rotting it's not enough to worry about anyway.
He instinctively pulls out his phone, opening his social media of choice tonight. With a handful of raspberries in his right hand and his phone in his left, he is bombarded by tweets of headlines, his name 2nd in trending behind a pop star scandals hashtag.
“I would literally die to be that reporter, WHY DID MY GRANDMA HAVE TO DIE I WAS LITERALLY DOWN THE STREET”
Replies:
“Oh you're going to hell LOL
but same.”
Scroll.
“Why tf was he out so late, and what was in the bag? No way he's going on a late night protein shake run for Foolish LMAOO”
Scroll and a quick bite down on the fruit in his hands.
Quote tweet of a clip of the short interaction with the reporter.
“She was so brave for that cuz people think we're conspiracy theorists, have you heard of Velvet Iscariot? No way he's anything like these wannabe villains.”
“What?” He whispers, squinting his eyes to make sure he read it correctly.
He goes to the search bar, seeing his name just now surpassed said popstar, and looks up tweets involving Velvet Iscariot.
“I DON'T WANNA GO TO HEAVEN ACTUALLY [crying_emoji]”
Attached is a photo of a red haired man looking down into his untouched fingernails. The second one is a photo of him staring slightly to the side, he's wearing black eyeliner, he looks absolutely divine. His eyes are dark, his mouth stretches out to the side in a smirk. He's not sure what he's smirking at. He's wearing a black button up and dress pants, first three buttons undone.
Replies:
“No way he's actually a devil though right? Stop harassing this random ass guy [laughing_emoji]”
“Spirit League got bigger issues than hot man with dyed hair and a criminal record, give him to ME.”
He powers his phone off and the darkness is welcome, wiping his hands on his shirt and closing the case of fruit. He places his phone softly on a circle charger and it starts to charge automatically. He rolls over.
His room is messy, boxes pile up since Tina is renovating her room for the third time this year and she has nowhere to put her furniture she's gonna make Foolish build. Sam is a minimalist so he has basically nothing which Ant's closet is grateful for, but unfortunately he stores Hannah's pots and watering cans and occasionally a few plants which makes up for the void.
He realizes nothing in his room is his. He rolls over again.
Velvet Iscariot.
Some edgelord who started a rumor that he was a devil because he looked mildly menacing and probably has gone to jail for petty theft, probably.
He rolls over once more, closing his eyes and envisioning it. Naked. Silk. Hand fed grapes. Sunlight.
He falls asleep with the soft promise of at least pleasant dreams.
“Ant– ANT WAKE UP.” He's quickly shook awake by Hannah, who very noticeably has her gear on, much like the rest of them, a white jumpsuit with sewn on flowers and gold engravings.
He shoots up and she continues to sit on his legs in a panic.
“Hostage situation at a warehouse in the city, could have a bomb, we gotta go NOW.”
He has practiced and executed it a million times, even once getting suited up in a matter of 2 minutes at 7 in the morning to stop an active shooter. He loves his sleep but he wasn't made to rest.
His door bursts open and he runs across the hall, into the kitchen, into the suit station.
Everyone is already there, Tina runs up to him, also fully ready.
“Do you need any help suiting up?” She asks.
Her hair is tied back with a carrot hair clip which can most likely be used to tote a car around, she doesn't mess with the quality of hair clips.
“No, thank you.” His suit-case opens with a loud shhhhhh and he practically rips his clothes off the holder, shedding his t-shirt, which means nothing around their house, they could go ass naked everywhere and nobody would care, and slipping on everything he needed, then equipped his wings.
Tina looks down at the tablet she's strapped to her arm, a live broadcast of a street camera leading to the warehouse.
He sees a glimpse of it, not blown up yet!
Once he's finished he again sprints out toward the door where Foolish and Hannah are already waiting, Tina follows quickly behind them.
They all pile their hands onto their respective scanners and it slides open.
“Follow me, Ant. I know where it is.”
Foolish says as he's speed walking down the exit.
He often wonders why he wasn't the leader instead, he's built like a goddamn animal. His god-given power is strength, the main reason why they can't have glass tables is he'd rest his feet on it and it would snap in half.
Hannah can grow and control vines, sprouting from her back or fingertips. A criminal thinks they're catching a bullet but catches a vine wrapped around their neck instead.
Tina can manipulate sound and radio waves, which sounds insignificant until your eardrum blows up mid fight and your computers fried.
She makes a strong point to never use it at the house, just in case.
Ant has his spawnable wings that attach to his back whenever he needs them, they have their own separate shower routine, they aren't glamorous by any means but it would easily take up an elevator or at the very least make the other people vastly uncomfortable.
Together they make something that matters, separately they make themselves.
“Is Sam–”
“Yes.” Hannah answers quickly.
“Good.” Ant replies.
When they get there the police are huddled by the entrance, peering in from the shot out windows.
“One hostage, the place is loaded with gunmen, be careful.” One of them quickly recaps.
“Sorry I'm late to the party.” Says a voice behind them, Ant turns and sees Sam. His power is a protective force field which is unfortunately useful.
“Best if you get behind me.” He remarks into Ant's ear, chipping his shoulder as he walks past. Ant says nothing. He envelopes the group in a protective circle and they all charge in.
The doors fly open and the force field is strengthened. As expected gunfire immediately starts spewing and bouncing off the protection, everyone gets in their place while Ant looks around. No hostage, but it is a four story building with an endless staircase stretching up to the top, they could be anywhere.
“Force field down in three, two–”
It collapses off them and everyone quickly gets to work. It smells strongly of gasoline. The men, about 10, are masked completely with only eyes cut out and a protective guard near their mouth. Tina is already working by the fact that the ground starts to tremble slightly, one of them screams when their earpiece bursts in their ear.
Foolish and Hannah rush over, her vines constructed in a way that will block their vision, and he disarms one of them while she wraps two up tightly, vines snug on their neck, and ties them to the edge of the railway on the first floor. They struggle, then inevitably give out.
Ant can't kill anybody. He can hurt people but he isn't allowed murder and isn't allowed most revenge tactics. Once the others are dealt with in very morbid ways, Sam standing by the sidelines like he always does, Ant flies up and dives down on a defenseless gunmen, his weapon already being swiped by Hannah and destroyed by Tina.
He's knocked to the floor on his back and cowers while Ant stands above him, foot forcefully on his stomach.
“Where are they? Who do you work for?”
He shakes his head, eyes still wide.
He motions Foolish over and he practically rips his mouth guard out.
“Top level, it's only one guy, it isn't even a big deal–”
Ant extends his wings and soars, he catches sight of Foolish giving a hefty kick to his skull before he leaves.
The building is designed in a way that you can see the top floor when you enter, stair cases on either side, and it stretches more and more and more until you reach the glass roof at the top and you land on the final stairwell.
He acknowledges he has no shield and no League behind him, he's sure they'll be there in a minute but right now they're morbidly disposing of the bodies.
He breathes as he faces a double door, then kicks it in and instinctively covers himself with his wings.
When he hears nothing but a slow silence, he lets them fall, then his heart falls with it.
Velvet Iscariot, smiling while leaning on a pile of money, suit jackets and paperwork.
“Angel.” Velvet says, it echoes off the walls. He can't spot any hostage.
“Where is the hostage? This can be easy, you don't have to do anything wrong.” Ant gently soothes, slowly walking up to him, he appears unarmed.
Velvet isn't wearing what he wore in the photo, he's wearing a black and red protective suit, chestplate glistening in the light of the window behind him. He quirked an eyebrow and smiled.
“I'm not going to do anything wrong, Pathrose. in fact,” Velvet reaches down to where he can't see and Ant instinctively flinches. He pulls out a match and a matchbook.
“I'm gonna do what's right, for fucking once. Something you and your Spirit League or whatever know nothing about.”
He doesn't care if the money goes up in flames, he'd just love to know if there was a body underneath it or not.
“Where is the fucking hostage? Police are surrounding the building, you can't escape.”
The doors snap shut behind him, he whips his head around to see a woman with the same type of clothes as he has wielding an AK-47.
“You're the hostage.” He smiles.
“And this building is soaked in gasoline and explosives, you won't be concerned for much longer, you'll be up with Jesus.”
His pointer finger darts up to the sky.
Ant swallows and maps out his plan. Window right behind the man, unlit match that could end his whole life in seconds and a woman pressing a gun to his head.
“Velvet Iscariot, right?” He doesn't know what he's trying to accomplish, making friends with the enemy probably isn't that good of a plan.
He nods.
“You did your research.”
“You don't have to resort to this, Velvet. This won't soothe any emotional or physical pain you're in.” He's starting to sound like an AA meeting.
“You can put the matches down, and you– the gun– down and be better. You can be good.”
His face is blank for a half second, quickly followed by a slew of laughs.
“I work for Lucifer, smart ass. You think I wanna hear your preaching? Your preaching that you strive to protect arrogant assholes with? Save it.”
He strikes the match against it and it curls up in flames. Ant knows he has to act fast. His wings spread open so that he's blocking the woman's vision and knocks the gun out of her hand and he charges toward Velvet. They stumble together, a tight hit, and it's only now Ant recalls how close they were to the window when they burst through glass and suddenly Velvet's entire weight is dependent on him.
He's above paparazzi, police and regular citizens, mid air, holding onto a devil with all his strength.
A fall from this height would certainly kill him.
Velvet bites down hard into his neck and Ant seethes, nails digging into his back and ripping the material. They dive on top of another building across the street and Velvet ends up beneath him.
Now the dance of pain, sadism. Exchanging quick hits and slamming each other's head against the cemented rooftop. Velvet's hands manage to wrangle around his neck, rolling over, and slamming him down on his back.
“You wanna die in front of your League? in front of these brain broken reporters? In front of the pigs you love so fucking much?” Velvet lifts his neck then slams him down again, Ant's wings struggling to be unpinned beneath his body weight.
“Let me– go.”
“Oh sure, let me just.” He takes his phone out of his chest plate, opens the camera app, and leans down in front of him, hand still snug on his neck. In the feedback he can see himself, hand on his neck, nose bleeding, teeth tightly bared. Then there's Velvet, smiling a blood ridden smile, cheek to cheek.
“They'll love that one.” Velvet laughs.
Ant's vision is starting to blur, thumb still pressed against his windpipe, his nails are clawing at his hands. Velvet lets go just in time, grips his collar and throws him over the side of the building.
He's falling, he's gasping for air, the time is held still.
He can hear screaming, he sees his League looking up at him for a split second. His wings clatter out and he miraculously catches himself and lands on the city road, gripping his neck as he wheezes for air.
“Ant, are you alright?” He can hear one of them say, he thinks it's a League member but he's not sure.
He begins to frantically wave his hands in dismissal.
“Get out, everyone get out of here!” Ant warns, being lifted to his feet by Hannah's vines.
“What?” She says, it's Tina.
“The building is going to blow up, we can't save it, GET OUT.”
The screaming continues but now with frantic running and crowds dispersing. It's hurting his ears, the gash in his neck burns like fire, he runs with them.
On radios and TV's, in windows, he can hear Tina's voice, now grainy, warning everyone to evacuate the area.
It's been a very, very long time since he hasn't handled something. Everything, he's got it covered, and everything he doesn't his League does. But here he is, running away with them and a crowd. Something he was made to handle while simultaneously being too weak to do it.
Three blocks away, a building bursts into flames, one underground base away, everyone is huddled together. One bedroom away, Ant is alone.