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Aziraphale beams his brightest smile into the camera.
“And I do hope that you’ll get a chance to get outside tomorrow!” He says. “With all the dreariness lately, heaven knows that we’re due for some sunshine! I think I may soak up some rays myself.”
The blinking, red light just above the camera signals Aziraphale’s attention: Final moments. Make your closing statement. He clears his throat.
“Well, dear ones; it’s been a delight to spend time with you this evening.” He smiles his most heartfelt smile--as if he could see the people to whom he is speaking, and impress upon them how very much each of them matters.
“As always: stay safe, stay healthy, and stay sane out there! You are loved. I’ll see you all tomorrow morning, bright and early.”
The spotlights go dim, and the woman behind the teleprompter and camera gives Aziraphale a thumbs-up.
He sighs, relaxing back into his swivel chair.
The streamlined chaos of the station buzzes around him: tablet-wielding workers, dancing and weaving around one another; cosmeticians, daubing on thick layers of facial makeup under bright lights; technicians, pinning near-invisible microphones behind ears and on lapels.
Aziraphale quite enjoys his job at the local weather station. Not only does he get to spend time with some very intelligent people and their tools of research, but he also gets to observe, to analyze, and to interpret this research for everyday people. As a broadcast meteorologist, Aziraphale is a sort of translator: a bridge between scientists and society, communicating between different worlds. Every day, Aziraphale delights in the opportunity to succinctly, politely, and kindly convey the upcoming weather to their loyal listeners. And, every day, he does this with utmost poise and compassion--hoping that his every gesture might, somehow, make their days brighter and hearts warmer, regardless of the upcoming radar.
He is pulled from his thoughts as a young tech assistant walks up to the desk and hands him a tablet. “The station manager would like you to report to his office,” they say, almost sounding not-nervous.
“Thank you, Michael.” Aziraphale replies warmly, giving the new intern a smile. Despite their obvious anxiety, Michael is professional, and exceptionally smart. He knows that, given the right opportunity, they will rise quickly in station management.
“Did Mr. L’Arche happen to say when I was expected?”
“Right away.”
Aziraphale sighs. It looks like there will not be time for coffee and doughnuts.
“Very well. Lead on!”
He rises and follows intern Michael into the hallway.
It has been many years since Aziraphale first stepped into Celestial Station. Graduating at the top of his class, he had been a promising candidate for any meteorological career. But rather than going into the data analysis field, as many of his professors and colleagues had anticipated, Aziraphale went on to study human relations. After adding degrees in psychology and communications, Aziraphale had gone about searching for a work environment that would allow him to interact with people at a high level. He was not inherently an extrovert, but he delighted in the company of other persons: figuring out what made them tick, and providing them with the support they needed, brought him great joy. To Aziraphale, all people are seedlings just waiting to bloom; they just need some tender, loving care and some sunshine.
The pair of them come to a standstill in front of the manager’s door. It is a tall, imperious thing, made all of wood and embossed with the letters of Mr. Gabriel L’Arche; Station Manager. Michael is shifting their tablet nervously now, and Aziraphale lays a hand on their shoulder.
“Thank you, my dear. I’ll take it from here, thanks.”
As Michael hurries away, Aziraphale knocks three times on the hardwood door.
“Enter.”
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“As always: stay safe, stay healthy, stay sane out there! You are loved.”
Anthony J. Crowley clutches the waterproof radio to his ear, feeling the wind and the rain lashing against his face. This is the fourth day he’s been out in the storm, and it’s beginning to feel a whole lot like Noah’s Ark. As he crouches against the batter of wind, he cradles the radio to his chest like a lifeline.
As a storm-chaser, Crowley is typically undaunted by long-term, lonely jobs such as this one. However. The disaster of this particular hurricane is really getting to him: so much destruction, despair, and dreariness. Plus, he really could use a pair of dry socks right now.
“I’ll see you tomorrow morning, bright and early.”
“Shit.” Crowley mutters.
He taps his radio sharply against his hand, as if trying to squeeze out a few more words, in what knows that it is a lost cause. The sign-off is always the same, and it marks the last of Mr. Fell’s words for the time-being.
Crowley regrets this.
Some days, the only thing seeming to keep him going is the voice of local weatherman Aziraphale Fell. He can almost picture his kindly, familiar face, floating before him: big, blue eyes; soft, round cheeks; bright, ice-blonde curls. Despite the cold and the rain, Crowley smiles to himself. Mr. Fell is a fixture of comfort to Crowley: always polite, always cheerful, ever wearing new patterns of dapper tartan. When he is home and not chasing cyclones, Crowley dutifully watches Mr. Fell on his television or computer. He knows that it’s soppy: but he likes to imagine that these messages are made for him specifically by the weatherman. He likes to imagine that each word--warm, tender, affectionate--is being spoken with him in mind. It makes him feel a little less lonely, if only for a moment.
“Thank you, Mr. Fell.” Cuts in a clipped and professional voice. “Stay tuned for the latest updates on Hurricane Adam after these messages.”
He growls and tosses the radio aside.
“Mmm, yeah, I’ll get right on that. Gabe. ”
He shrugs his way deeper into his raincoat, and then, after savoring one last moment of shelter, Crowley heaves himself up and out of the alcove and into the storm.
It’s not just the weather that’s getting him down; Crowley isn’t a fan of Station Manager Gabriel. And hearing his voice, after the soothing presence of Mr. Fell, adds nothing good to his day. Unlike Aziraphale, Gabriel is a transparent phony. His smiles are plastic and expendable, and they often come with unpleasant orders. In fact, if it wasn’t for Crowley’s hope that he might someday run into Mr. Fell at the station, he would have quit his job at Celestial long ago.
Crowley turns himself sideways against the battery of rain.
It’s not like he couldn’t find good work elsewhere. Crowley knows that he is an outstanding member in his field of meteorology. Not only has he received countless distinguished awards for his work with documenting dangerous weather events and storms; he’s also the most requested and rented-out agent from his station (at, what he is sure, is an exorbitant fee). It’s how he arrived here on this terrible day, documenting Adam in coastal Carolina, for both Gabe at Celestial and Bees from Brimstone.
Sighing, Crowley picks his way carefully down the coastline.
It’s scattered with uprooted trees and debris. Here and there, he can see the remains of houses, storefronts and furniture. A sodden child’s doll lays mixed in with the garbage, one button eye hanging out wearily.
When it comes down to it, Crowley does not believe he is anything special. No matter what payroll says, he knows that he is not made of something unique or special, which other storm-chasers do not or cannot have. He is just someone unafraid to face his death. To put it rather bluntly, Crowley doesn’t mind taking mortal risks when he doesn’t have any surviving family worth the anxiety. He doesn’t feel strange putting his life on the line when he knows that there are few colleagues who would miss him. Anthony J. Crowley has always been a survivor. He pulls himself out of tight spaces, escapes to safe places, if only for a moment. What’s another life-threatening situation like filming a hurricane from Kill Devil Hills to someone like him?
In his pocket, Crowley’s cell phone vibrates.
Cursing, he searches around for another shelter. His earpiece and microphone will not work well exclusively, given the intensity of the wind. Crowley identifies a half-exposed tree from the side of a crumbling dune. He backs himself up against the curve of the crumbling sand for shelter.
“Crowley here.”
“Tony!”
It’s Station Manager Gabriel. His voice is layered with that false cheerfulness, and it sends a ripple of dread through Crowley’s stomach. It’s bad enough that he has to brush shoulders with Brimstone, too; now, he has two assholes breathing down his neck.
“I’ve told you before.” Crowley replies, pressing his hand to his ear to muffle the storm. “It’s Anthony J .”
“Tony.” Gabriel repeats. “ Where are my reports?”
His tone is pleasant enough, but Crowley knows that something must be going on down at the station for the manager himself to call. Briefly, Crowley wonders what might warrant such an occasion.
“Coming.” he replies shortly.
Crowley’s been working night and day on this project: measuring the destruction of windstorms and waves, recording statements and soundbites from its displaced victims. So he hasn’t had much ‘free time’ to update his regular report. Because he knows that the data he provides will be submitted to headquarters--where it is analyzed and formatted for presentation--it will eventually end up in Mr. Fell’s hands. So it’s not a part of his job that he takes lightly.
“Well, quit wasting my time on sob-stories and interviews.” Gabriel orders. “And get me those clips pronto. We need something to present for the nine-o-clock news.”
Crowley winces as he imagines Gabriel L’Arche flexing a fist against his immaculate, steel-gray suit. It’s an intimidating thought.
“Right, boss.” Crowley agrees. “I’ll get right on it.”
Without waiting for a reply, he casts his phone down and closes the call.
It’s not ‘wasting time’ to attend to the victims and hear their stories! Crowley thinks furiously. Plus, its specifically the ‘crisis’ of Adam that Mx. Beelzebub had asked me to cover!
He can’t help it if the station managers have a difference of opinion for what kind of media they want to cover. There’s only one of him, and one series of shots. That kind of bureaucracy is above his pay-grade.
Pulling the collar of his raincoat higher around his neck, Crowley steps away from the dune.
He flicks on his round, polarized glasses that he always wears, storm or no, to shield his eyes from lashing rain and potential flying debris. Shrugging his camera-pack over his shoulder, the storm chaser walks, once again, into a hurricane.
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