Fandom: Yu-Gi-Oh/Good Omens crossover
Disclaimer: All belongs to Terry Pratchett, Neilan Gaiman, or Kazuki Takahashi. Close as I have come to worshipping Pterry, I still own nothing
Author's Note: All the dates in the following chapter (The coup in Bolivia, the founding of Greenpeace) are accurate. See? I do research…occasionally…when I can be bothered…
The little clock at the bottom corner of the computer screen read 5:26am.
Technically demons didn't need to sleep, but Crowley had gotten into the habit, and it was a hard habit to break. Aziraphale had gone home hours ago, and light was beginning to seep through the gap in the curtains. It was almost twenty-four hours since they had met in the park, and they had spent most of that time searching for anything that would indicate what had happened in the incident with Zorc the year before. That was most likely to be on the internet somewhere, and Crowley – who was more at home with technology – was handling that end of things while Aziraphale was checking history books for any references to the original return and subsequent banishment. Crowley had been rather embarrassed to discover that he had actually been in Egypt at the time, but that was hardly unusual for him. He'd been in Spain during the Spanish Inquisition and had no idea what was going on.
"Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition," he murmured, clicking on a promising-looking link about Shadow Games. The site turned out to be in Japanese, but that wasn't much of a challenge to someone who'd been around when cavemen were still trying to convey in a couple of grunts and gestures the entire depth of the human thought process. All languages were the same if you went back far enough.
He skimmed over the text, scanning for anything that might be useful. His eyes stopped on a picture, narrowing at a figure in the background.
"I know you…" Crowley told the person in the picture thoughtfully. If you'd seen that hairstyle once, there was no way you would ever forget it. The picture was a little blurry, but still unmistakable. He laughed as everything suddenly made sense – apparently they'd been looking for the wrong thing…
There are bookshops like it all over the world. Despite their smallness, they somehow manage to contain rows upon rows of narrow, twisting shelves, and the very second-hand books are very carefully looked after. They are, in fact, looked after to the point that the owner – invariably a small man in carpet slippers – seems to regard any actual transaction as something coarse and vulgar, and uses every method possible to prevent customers from actually buying anything. The shop itself is a nightmare of topography, a bizarre combination of tiny, winding staircases and more floors than the height could possibly allow that would give MC Escher a headache.
This is the archetypal second-hand bookshop. And the owner – deeply absorbed in a book of Egyptian mythology – is Aziraphale.
The bookshop was as silent as a temple, save for the occasional turning of a page. Then the bell at the door tinkled merrily, signaling the entrance of a potential customer. This was something to be avoided at all costs, and Aziraphale glanced up from his book in mild annoyance.
sorry, but the sign clearly says that we're close-"
"It's only me, angel."
"Oh…come through to the office, then."
Crowley did so, wondering idly what anyone listening might have thought of that exchange. 'Angel' was really just a description in Aziraphale's case, but using the term had earned Crowley some very odd looks, often from complete strangers. Like that Anathema girl…some people had truly filthy minds…
progress?" Aziraphale asked without much hope. To say he was
surprised by the response would be rather an understatement.
"We need to go to Japan."
"Come on, angel. I'll explain on the way…"
An hour later they were aboard a plane at Heathrow Airport, and Aziraphale was no less confused. Crowley patiently explained it to him for the fourth time.
this person knows something."
"And he was involved last time."
"And the time before that."
"For the last time, yes, angel."
There was a moment of silence in which the pilot informed them for the seventh time that they really should have fastened their seatbelts by now. Some forty years ago, Crowley had been instrumental in developing a great many of the petty safety rules all large companies enforced. He considered it one of his greater achievements in modern times; along with airline food, cellphone ringtones, and lawyers. It was all down to the Agreement – hammered out more than four thousand years ago over a rather inferior wine somewhere in Persia. The Agreement had been a very sensible arrangement that their respective superiors would have disapproved of greatly had they ever known about it.
It meant, in essence, that the two would leave each other to carry out their various angelic or demonic works in peace, so each could report a great many successes and no actual failures to the Management, while neither side actually made any overall progress. It meant that while Crowley had been arranging a military coup in Bolivia in 1971, Aziraphale had been free to help found Greenpeace. It meant, in the end, that they helped each other out more often than they clashed. That if one was tempting someone to sin, they might as well give the priest on the other side of town that moment of divine ecstasy he'd been in line to get for quite some time now, and vice-versa. It wasn't a great leap from co-operation to friendship.
For some reason, that had really annoyed the Divine and Infernal Powers. Perhaps it scared them somewhat to discover just how well an angel and a demon could work together…
Aziraphale woke with a start; "I was just resting my eyes."
"Of course," Crowley replied with a certain amused skepticism; "Which is why you were snoring."
They disembarked with the rest of the crowd, but the security guards mysteriously failed to see them as they skirted around the luggage check. It was late at night, but the airport was still packed with people, pushing past each other and fighting for position in the lines. As they left the concourse, a large sign over the main doors declared, in several languages:
'Welcome to Domino, Japan'
TO BE CONTINUED