1945.
World War II ended, and humanity celebrated its ultimate victory over tyranny.
Something else was starting.
Supernatural currents surged like global storms, spilling into the world as mutations—new breeds of bloody monsters wearing human skin. Some blamed the war's lingering negativity. Others called it the world's anger boiling over. A few whispered about a curse born from mass death. Everyone had a theory.
Very few knew the truth.
What they did know was this: it was only the beginning.
Less than a year later, nonphysical beings began to manifest—ghosts, phantoms. It didn't take long to realize they weren't new at all—just vengeful spirits given fresh "skin." Mutations, if you wanted a cleaner word.
As top-tier metaphysical entities, they identified themselves as demons and angels.
Demons could seize unprotected bodies, hollowing them out and piloting the flesh like a vessel. To normal people, the signs were subtle—unless the demon chose otherwise: blackened eyes, or the sharp stink of sulfur leaking into the world simply because the thing existed.
They wielded contracts that warped reality, along with potent psychic abilities that bent minds and probability alike.
Their weaknesses were few and hard-earned: holy water, pure light or energy, and—eventually—chants or music tuned to certain frequencies that could force them out of a host.
On the opposite end stood the angels.
They could only enter a body if acknowledged—invited. Once inside, they retained a strong collective connection, despite wide variance in form and rank.
They commanded light and manipulated elements or abstract concepts based on strength and nature.
Their weaknesses were even stranger: specific harmonic notes and purified oil, both capable of driving them from a host.
Neither side was easy to kill. For years, no one even knew how. Encounters were rare. Survivors, rarer.
It took years of catastrophic fights and disaster-level incidents before humanity figured out reliable ways to put them down.
Despite the naming and ideological split, both sides earned the same classification: dark creatures.
They had nearly destroyed the world fighting each other.
An apocalypse—narrowly avoided.
"That's just great," Leo said, smiling thinly at Loyed. "So some creatures decided to cosplay demons and angels and almost wipe out the world."
Loyed studied him for a moment. "They're not cosplaying. They are demons and angels—at least in this world."
Leo frowned. "Care to explain?"
"I thought this was just a dimension with quirks," he added. "You're saying they're the real deal?"
"From what I gathered," Loyed said, "demons are human souls that fell into hell and got twisted by the environment—corrupted. The inverse applies too. Good souls go up. If they accumulate enough energy, they become angels. How or why? No idea. Not yet."
Leo rubbed his eyebrow. "If bad people go down and good people go up, why the hell would they go to war? And how did they even end up here?"
Questions piled up fast—why now, why last century, and why wait at all if they could cross dimensions.
"The war itself is a dimensional issue," Loyed said. "Both realms mirror the legends of the Holy War. They tried to summon their leaders into this world."
"Hold it," Leo said.
Flint spoke at the same time. "Why does this sound familiar as hell?"
"Exactly," Loyed said. He tossed several books onto the table—bold titles screaming SUPERNATURAL across the covers.
"Okay, I'm out," Flint muttered, standing. "I'm packing and heading back to AF."
Leo grabbed him by the shoulder. "You scary old man—did you forget what happened when we came here? We could slap the lights out of him."
Flint blinked. "…Oh. Right."
He sat back down like nothing had happened.
"So we're inside a story," Leo muttered. "Perfect."
He'd known from the start that this was Twilight. What he hadn't expected was a crossover with Supernatural.
The so-called Holy War lined up cleanly—the apocalypse arc, the brothers stopping it, Sam trapped in the Cage with Michael and Lucifer.
The irony wasn't lost on him.
That story was popular in AF—hunts, mystic arts, brutal escalation. Exactly their kind of entertainment.
Leo looked back at Loyed. "Please tell me this didn't spread in AF. I don't need idiots starting rumors about giants going gun-blazing in some random dimension."
Knowing their people, he could already picture it—expeditions launched just to hunt nests for sport.
"…I think that ship sailed," Loyed said, scratching his head. "How did I forget about that?"
Leo sighed. "You posted an exploration mission, didn't you?"
Loyed shrugged.
"Great," Flint grunted, grabbing a beer. "Let's just hope they don't trigger Apocalypse Two."
"So what was the war actually about?" Flint asked, returning with bottles. "And where are we in the story?"
"That's the problem," Loyed said. "The story already happened. Sort of. The Winchesters existed. They stopped the disaster the way the books say—except for one thing."
"Let me guess," Flint said. "Wrong Michael and Lucifer."
"Same names," Loyed corrected. "Different reasons. According to a branch leader who knew the brothers, those two have had beef since the dinosaur era—back when their dimensions were connected. They went to war, got separated, and now they're settling it here."
Leo stared at him, unimpressed.
His mind raced anyway—Horsemen, Lilith, possession mechanics, bloodlines, Campbells. None of it added up cleanly.
"Don't look at me like that," Loyed said, slipping back into his lazy tone. "That's all I could scrape together. This is just a heads-up—we're launching a full investigation."
"Fine," Leo said. "But assume that guy's legit. Keep eyes on the brothers. No interference—observe only."
"If disaster's coming, they'll be right in the middle of it."
Loyed nodded and started to stand—then Leo stopped him.
"Not now. Eat, rest. It's not urgent." He paused. "And what about the others I mentioned?"
Loyed smiled faintly, leaned back—and fell asleep sitting upright.
Flint snorted. "Yeah. That's Loyed."
"Update the house servers," Flint added, heading to his room.
"Aye," Leo replied, draping a cover over Loyed before carrying the laptop to his office.