A/N

So, this is what happens from playing Void Launch with the Violent Night mutator, and getting not one, but two Archangels to mow down zerg. Um, yay?

Where Angels Dare

The night was neither silent nor holy. Fires burnt brightly across the snow, but no-one at Firebase Bravo was calm. The wounded screamed for their mothers, while the living made peace with the children they would never return to. The dead, lucky as they were, slept in heavenly peace. The living, if they survived, would never be able to sleep again.

All that, and Kaldir was a shithole, reflected Corporal Clarkson. A cold, barren moon well outside Dominion space, that he and the 181st Infantry Division had been shipped to because the force directing his armies against the Koprulu sector was using it as a staging ground. Zerg, specifically, which were his zerg, and not the Queen of Blades's zerg, and, right now, he was past caring. He and the division were here. The protoss that were their allies, and not the protoss glassing one world after another, were elsewhere on the battlefield, but he was a private only a few days ago, and NCO status thrown upon him in desperation didn't mean he had any proper place within the chain of command. All he knew was that they were still alive, still fighting to keep the enemy's shuttles from entering their warp network, lest bad things happen to it. He didn't know how the mouthless freaks' technology worked, nor did he care. He didn't know why the boys upstairs cared either – you could count on protoss to kill zerg, but who was going to shed a tear if the zerg killed them either? Knowing those glowy-eyed murderers, they'd probably just take to space as soon as the battle was done and incinerate the planet, with every zerg and terran on it.

Which, he reflected, as he made his way down the line, might not be too bad a way to go. Better than being torn apart by the zerg, or the…things, that herded them. Before long, he was back in what had become his squad, a mishmash of survivors from other units that had been herded together, like sheep to the slaughter. He glanced at the warp conduit that the firebase had been built around – bunkers, barbed wire, mine fields, even missile turrets. Not for the first time, he wondered what would happen if he jumped in. Probably torn apart, but if there was a chance it led to a world other than Kaldir, that didn't seem so bad.

"The devil comes."

He glanced at the source of the voice, and found Private Kelly leaning against some sandbags, rocking back and forth, his hand rested on the butt of his gauss rifle. He had his visor up, and Clarkson could see his breath fade into the early morning air.

Idiot. But he walked over to him – not even CMC armour was completely foolproof against the moon's flash freezes, but exposing your face to the cold like this could be a death sentence.

"Christmas Eve, and no presents," the marine rambled. He looked up at Clarkson, his wide, vacant eyes reflected against the gold of his visor. "No presents, no angels, only demons. Devils."

"Private, you-"

He leaned forward and grabbed Clarkson's arms. "You hear him, don't you?" he whispered. "He laughs at us, in the night. His shepherds, they direct his devils. No angels, no salvation, no men, only the god." He let go and leant back against the sandbags, and started to pound his own helmet. "Good little sheep, they wait for the shepherds. Good little sheep, wait for the shepherds…"

Clarkson looked down at him with a mixture of pity and disgust. Shepherds, devils…yes, he knew what they were, thank you very much. And Kelly was obviously traumatized, and he wasn't a resoc, so that was a point in his favour any day of the week. But the other jarheads were still here, and still sane. They were going to fight and die, no questions asked. Well, maybe some questions asked. He'd been forwarding questions to the company commander as to what had happened on Korhal, that apparently, a number of weird objects had been deployed in Augustgrad, and…that was it. It was Christmas Eve, and not only was he not with his family, he didn't even know if they were still alive. All he could do now was-

"All units, be advised, zerg sighted at three klicks, bearing south. ETA, ten minutes."

"Well," Clarkson said, as on cue, every soldier on the line got to attention. "Fekk."

He rested his gauss rifle on the sandbags, and while still muttering about gods and demons, Kelly did the same. He was a wack job, but as long as he could still shoot, he'd allow him to stay onboard. Through his HUD, he could see the wave of zerg advancing down the pass, protoss shuttles in the air above them. Zerg guarding protoss…it was a sign of just how fekked up the universe had become. There were even rumours of zerg fighting alongside the Dominion on other worlds, but that…well, that was none of his business.

"Fire on command," came the voice of Captain Torgsen over the radio.

Clarkson didn't object – when it came to fighting zerg, you had to just stand and shoot ninety percent of the time. That tactic had served them well, but ammunition was so low, that was a luxury they could no longer afford. Gauss rounds, Punisher grenades, even the siege tanks at the back of the line…in the past, they'd have sent Reapers or Hellions to harass the zerg flanks, but they were all long dead. Now, all they could do was-

"Fire!"

The terrans did so, in a hail of fire and fury. The zerg fell, but kept coming. Their blood stained the snow, and they kept coming. A squadron of Vikings flew overhead, unleashing a barrage of missiles against one of the shuttles, but it kept coming. Mines detonated, sending zerg flying into the air, but they kept coming. All Clarkson could do was fire, and fire, and-

"He's in my head," Kelly whispered. "He's in my head!"

Clarkson gave him a glance, as Kelly lost it, sinking down into the snow like a baby. Gritting his teeth, he returned to the line and-

"Jesus Christ."

They were here. The…things, that herded the zerg. He knew that the real term for them was hybrids, that they were meant to be a mix of protoss and zerg DNA bred by the force that led their enemy, but "things" was a far better term for them. He saw the black one, its shining eyes surveying the battlefield. He'd seen them before. Somehow, the division had even killed them. As powerful as an ultralisk, and even more terrifying. Because there was an intelligence behind those eyes. He'd seen it, his squad had seen it, everyone had seen it. Hybrid reavers, they were called. And if they got close enough to you, "reaving" was what they'd do.

"The devils come," Kelly wailed. "The devils come!" He began sobbing and blubbering, and-

Fekk.

The Vikings had downed one of the shuttles, but were now trying to evade a flock of mutalisks. Most of the lower zerg strains had been cleared out, but the reaver was getting close to the line. Over the radio, a symphony of orders made over the screams of the dying, he could hear the captain order focus fire from Dawn Squadron. A trio of Banshees flew through the air, unleashing a hail of missiles against the reaver. It lumbered onwards, and another flock of mutalisks swept by to engage them. Now the orders were to fall back, as the zerg reached the line. Bayonets flipped out from gauss rifles, as marines stabbed any zergling that got too close, and Marauders ripped them apart with their bare hands. But it wasn't enough, Clarkson realized. The reaver was nearing them. The devil was near. Kelly's wails said so.

"Deploying Archangel."

The hell?

Something was in the air. A ship that looked like a Viking, only twice as large, and only half as manoeuvrable. It flew across the front of the line, dropping bombs on the zerg. Craters scorched the ground, and the zerg bodies fell into them. And then it dropped, descending from the heavens, like the angel of its namesake.

I'm losing it.

Metaphors were fine and dandy, Clarkson reflected. But even if the zerg had been held back, even as one of the shuttles finally went down under a hail of Lanzer missiles, if the reaver got to the line, it would all be over. But the Archangel stood there, its gatling cannons opening fire exclusively on the reaver. It roared, it screamed, it…

Your death is Amon's will.

He could feel it, in his mind. Like someone had plunged a thousand needles into his skull. He staggered back, but not so much that he lost sight of the Archangel. The reaver was still charging it. Missiles, bullets, they did nothing. It lunged forward at the mech, and was impaled by one of the blades attached to the gatling cannons. Both of them, locked in embrace, like an angel and demon.

You will die.

He could hear it once more. But the thought was weaker. Slowly, but surely, the reaver slid off the Archangel's blades. And without pause, the pilot returned fire to the line, as zerglings, hydralisks, roaches, ravagers…they all fell under the hail of gunfire. The last shuttle fell into the snow. The line had held, this time.

"An angel," Kelly whispered, grabbing Clarkson's arm once more. He gestured at the Archangel, now lumbering to the back of the line. "An angel came."

"Yeah, sure," Clarkson murmured. "Angels, demons, whatever."

"Angels," Kelly whispered. "The devil seeks us, but angels hold the gate."

Clarkson didn't say anything. Angels, devils, demons, he didn't care. The zerg were dead, the reaver was dead, he was alive.

That was all that mattered.