Stuff.
Prologue
The snifter of Brandy was delicately swirled about between thick fingertips as the dark man at the bar had a moment in thought. His eyes roamed the room, a strange, almost iridescent glow to his pupil. Black? No wait, it was orange, like a lone ember in a cold fireplace - and then back to black again. Others around him droned along, talking amongst themselves and walking by, not even so much as a glance upwards at him. They would have, if he so wished, but at the moment he was content to be alone.
He was well dressed, and sat lazily back in the tall chair at the bar as though he were just from a hard day at the office. In a way, he was, but it was no business that any mortal would care to be involved in. Some tried, but most just fluttered away, like dry leaves in a breeze. Those supernatural eyes crept around the room again as the hand that did not contain the snifter moved upward, to push through choppy hair. It was brown, but looked lightened somehow, and thin strands of it hung back in his dark eyes, giving him the annoying appearance of a trendy young entrepenuer. He wore a black jacket and pair of slacks, with black shoes that rested on a rung of the chair lazily. Beneath the jacket was a crimson shirt - it seemed perhaps inappropriate for an office building, but in the city one was never too certain about anything.
"Is there a particular reason you're mingling among the mortals?" a snide voice said, coming from his right. Lazily, his eyes flicked wayward, although he knew the voice well. He shifted his position, turning the chair to face the man who had spoken, brows lofting.
"The same could be asked of you," he said, lifting the glass. He took a sip of it, despite how tasteless it was when it touched his tongue, and set it on the counter. He propped his right elbow on the wooden bartop and spoke again, index finger resting at his brow languidly. His expression was amusement. "Michael, I know what the books say, but we know the truth. You love them even less than I. The difference is.. I admitted it."
"And look where it got you," the man said, tone even. The conversation was already dangerously close to errupting into violence, though both were careful not to let their worlds spill into the realm of the humans. As powerful as Azazel and Michael were, they still had to answer to someone, somewhere.
Azazel smirked now, a quiet chuckle at his throat. "I would rather be an open ruler than a silent slave, Michael. You chose your path, I chose mine. It was lifetimes ago, must you always bring it up? You're like a divorcee, really. It's been great, but there's a time where you have to cut the umbillical cord and fly away." The smirk was now a smug grin. "Get it? Fly? Ahaha."
"You're kidding me," the man said flatly. Michael - as it must've been, since he answered to it, was perhaps the same height as Azazel, although quite different in appearance. While Azazel seemed a mid-twenties fashion savvy man, Michael looked more into his thirties, with short, black hair, and a simple wardrobe of a singular colour. He too, was garbed in black, although the work shirt had been traded in for a turtle neck, and the short jacket replaced by a long, fleece dress coat. His own eyes, like Azazel's, seem to have some sort of questionability as to their looks, although instead of a strange orange flicker, his pupils sometimes seemed, but for a second, green.
"Why are you here?" Michael asked, his tone short, unamused. His eyes nearly rolled as he sighed with exasperation and looked around the room quickly. He seemed almost like a parent short on his fuse.
Azazel's brow lofted and he made a loud scoffing sound. "Me? You're the one that approached me - I should ask you the same thing." His expression remained wide-eyed, and it became obvious after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence between the two that no information was going to pass between them without some sort of neutral ground they could both claim.
"Fine. As long as you're here, I'm here. I know you're up to something." Michael's dark eyes narrowed, and he reached up, tugging off one black leather glove. The other followed shortly thereafter, and both disappeared into a deep fold of his long coat. He sat down in the chair and stared intently at Azazel. It was apparent that he really was intending to follow him around until he left the plane or gave him answers, both of which seemed to, at the moment, hold slim odds of occuring.
"That's fine. Suit yourself," Azazel replied, a large, cheshire grin on his face. He simply stared back, the grin beginning to cause unease in his opposing party. After a few more moments of total silence between the two, Azazel's demonic glow rekindled in his eyes for a brief instant. His grin only spread more, causing Michael to lean back in his chair.
"What is it now, you vile being?" he demanded. Michael didn't seem to share the same sense of humour the demon had, and rightly so. He wasn't too pleased finding one such as Azazel lounging in a bar on the mortal plane - it bespoke only of trouble, and Michael was left cleaning trouble up often.
"Since it looks like you're going to be here for a while... Care to make a little wager?" the demon taunted.
The Plan
Michael's bare fingers traced the edges of the old-fashioned glass that sat before him on the bar top. The ice cubes in the bottom of the glass were half-melted, kissed with old scotch, the burnished liquor quite diluted at this point by the rapidly warming blocks. There was but a fraction at the bottom, lining the glass, as Michael always felt as though he needed a drink when in the presence of Azazel. It was quite the 'human' thing to do.
"So let me get this straight. You want me to find someone with a neutral alliance and try to sway them?" Michael asked, a thick dark brow raising slightly as he listened to Azazel's "proposal". This whole thing seemed way too easy - to simple for one of Azazel's old tricks. He was up to something.
Azazel rocked back in his chair, fussing in the pocket of his coat for a pack of cigarettes, which he finally produced and set on the bar. He pulled one out of the pack and scewed it between his thin lips. The end of the cigarette sizzled and began to burn, as though an imaginary flame had been of assistance. As he drew it from his mouth, a rather large and official-looking man approached him, standing just to his side.
"Sir, there is no smoking allowed in this establishment," the man said sternly. His hands were held firmly behind his back, and he looked as though he were prepared to remove the cigarette from Azazel himself.
Azazel appeared to consider this for a moment, and then reached out and flicked ashes on the man's shoes. "Go away, you humourless man." A hand lifted, fingers flicking outward. "Go on, shoo!"
The large man's face turned a particular shade of crimson at that moment, and he opened his mouth to speak, shaking furiously as though he would strike Azazel where he sat. However, he found himself locked into a staring match - and of all the demons, Azazel was perhaps one of the most dangerous to engage in such a game with. The man backed away slowly, and then turn around and broke into a full sprint for the door, slamming it open and disappearing into the evening streets.
Azazel turned back to Michael, head canted to the side slightly, a lopsided grin on his face. "They're just so easy to toy with," he said, laughter edging into his speech. He sank down in his chair, his expression bleeding from humourous to fierce. "Are we on?"
Michael had sat in quiet observation up until this point, and nothing changed when he spoke now. "I don't know, Azazel. Why is this so important to you? I feel like there's something else, something more you're after."
"Always a skeptic. You wouldn't believe in your God if you were a mortal, you know that? You'd be one of those 'science' fellows. Darwinism and all that nonsense." Azazel smiled glibly, knowing he'd struck a chord with the Archangel.
"Fine," Michael said, voice short, displaying irritation. He sat up and looked around, rolling his eyes. "Fine, I'm in. Who?"
Azazel's grin only widened. The demon knew of Michael's contempt for humans, and knew it was only a matter of time before he could get the Archangel to play along with his 'silly little game', which of course wasn't a game at all, but rather, one of the biggest tricks he was about to pull off. He was sure of himself, bathing in glory and confidence now, that he could bring the angel down into Hell with him after this... And what an army they would raise. Then, and only then!
"Ah, yes, who shall it be.. " Azazel said, leaning back in his chair. The cigarette was left smoldering in the empty snifter as he pressed his hands together in a steeple position and let his unnatural orange and black eyes roam around the room.
"What about him?" Michael directed, gesturing to a young man seated at a table by himself. He seemed nervous, almost flighty, eyes darting back and forth as he sipped on a cheap beer. He wore a button down shirt and jeans, and looked like he was more a high school student than one of the attendees to the college nearby.
"You mean the underaged alcoholic?" Azazel asked with a laugh, glancing over in the direction of the boy. "I don't think so." He swivelled around in his chair and seemed to pause as a woman passed by the large windows of the bar that shown on the darkened streets outside. His mouth was poised slightly open as he had just begun to speak again, and suddenly forgot what he was going to say.
She was so dark. Nothing special about who she was, but more how she was. She shrugged at her black jacket, stopping a moment under a street light to look at her watch. She turned and looked at the neon sign atop the front of the bar, and he could see her squinting, not because it hurt her eyes, but because she was perplexed. She had dark hair, and dark eyes, and pale skin - like the keys of a piano, she seemed crafted of ebony and ivory. He could see that she wore a white shirt, much like his own, and a pair of black pants.
"Her," he said. "That one. I'm sure of it. That's the one." Azazel stood up and brushed off his jacket, looking from the woman to Michael.
Michael's brow rose again, as Azazel so often prompted him to do, and he, too, rose. "Are you certain?" he asked, his voice betraying his doubt more than the question itself had. He looked over his shoulder at the woman - there was definitely something about her, but he didn't find himself falling all over the stool after her. She was mortal - none of them were very special or outstanding to him. Perhaps the demon had lost sight of that. He stared at Azazel evenly, his thoughts apparent in his facial expression.
Azazel brushed past him, bumping his shoulder. "Never been so certain about anything before in my life, my friend." The words he spoke were venomous, as though he only dared Michael to voice his thoughts at the moment. The tinkle of the bell above the door was heard on his departure, leaving Michael alone at the counter.
Michael glanced back, and saw that both the woman and Azazel had vanished. He shook his head and began towards the door, and then paused, turned, and walked to the table of the shifty man with the beer.
"Can I help you, sir?" the boy said. He looked as though he were about to get up and head for the door at full steam ahead. Who was this man approaching him, and why?
"Kid..." Michael leaned over the table, bringing himself inches from the boy's face. The boy, Jason, was only seventeen, and had been let into the bar with a false I.D. At the moment he was feeling guilty and petrified of being caught. "Go home."
The Archangel had a mighty sway with words, and he played on the young man's fears. Jason lept from the table as though he'd been struck on the rear by a whip, and darted out the door as fast as his designer tennis shoes could carry him. Michael leaned back against the table for a minute and sighed.
"I hate this place."
The Victim
Ava paused in front of the bar suddenly, unsure of what her hazel eyes were showing her. Bright red and blue neon lights blended in some sort of ocular explosion, blurred temporarily by her sudden paralysis. She shook it off, blinking her dark fringe of lashes rapidly. She loosened her arms from around herself, and glanced back, and forward, and then hurried on down the sidewalk away from the glowing sign.
She'd left her apartment with some purpose, but somehow she felt as though she'd gone the wrong way. She'd lived in this city all of her life, so she couldn't understand how she'd basically, well, gotten lost just then. She heard a bell tinkle in the background and glanced over her shoulder as she wove through the semi-crowded street. She saw nothing significant, and yet, she felt the urge to move just a little faster. She was forced to stop in her flight, however, when she arrived at a crosswalk that was unlit still. Traffic wasn't in her favour, it seemed, and so she sought to bury herself within this crowd of faceless people.
She brushed back a strand of her long, dark hair - the fine sheen of a raven's wing, it was, black with natural red undertones, giving it a sort of rich espresso colour. Casually, she glanced over her shoulder, looking through the crowd of people. Nobody specific, or important. Nobody that stuck out. She faced forward again, running over and over in her mind, trying to remember what it was she'd set out to do this eve. It was only half past nine on a Friday night - all of the bar hoppers were already out and about, but she didn't drink often, if ever. Was she running to the store? She reached in her pocket and felt a crisp bill. Five dollars, she knew. But she'd had that earlier, leftover from lunch at work.
The crowd she stood in was suddenly bathed in a green glow as the little man on the crosswalk was shown happily walking across the black background. She moved in step with people beside her, hoping that if a car should run the light, it would strike them and not her. Once on the other side, she paused on the sidewalk. Most of the people had gone right, up the strip to visit other bars and clubs. One or two had gone left. And one seemed to slowly stroll across the street, hands in the pockets of his long black jacket, gaze fixated straight ahead.
The light turned green, and a car honked at him. The man paused, then, in front of the car, much to Ava's disbelief. He said something to the driver - what, she could not hear - but it must've been convincing because the beeping stopped and the man was able to step onto the sidewalk in peace. Ava took a small step back, putting some distance between them, and felt the cool brick of the old building behind her brush against her own jacket.
"Lovely evening for a stroll, isn't it?" Azazel said to the woman, the corner of his lip turning up into a smile of sorts. As sincere as he tried to make it, the man could not muster an innocent smile to save his life - the gesture came off as some sort of wicked smirk. He was testing the waters with this one, first. She felt.. different. Human, but special somehow. Perhaps she had been with one of his kind, had a child? He looked her over quickly. No, no possible way she could've had a child - her hips were too narrow.
"I s-suppose?" she said, dark brow raised. She played with the sleeve of her jacket for a moment, and then looked around. They were alone. "I'm sorry, I have to go. Good night," she offered. She turned and began down the street, hooking an immediate right as soon as she could.
"Any faster and she would've been at a full sprint, Azazel," Michael's deep voice taunted in his ear. The Archangel was smug - for once, now the demon knew how it felt to be constantly hounded by that niggling little voice.
The demon's head turned ever so slightly, and his lips curled into a sneer. A growl - and something definitely NOT made by human vocal cords - was emitted from deep within his throat. "Fuck off," he said firmly. He whipped himself away from Michael with such force his coat hit Michael's shin as he walked away, presumably to chase after the woman.
Michael was.. disturbed by this blatant display of anger. Demons were known for being cruel and they definitely did have their strange quirks, if not full-on fetishes, but this wasn't something a being of Azazel's stature should even begin to be frustrated about. He looked at it logically: Azazel was powerful, established, an Ancient, and very confident. He also had a very good chance of beating Michael, he wasn't afraid to admit that. But what disturbed him was how suddenly rabid Azazel had become over this mortal.
Perhaps she was something more? Michael doubted it - BOTH of them were old enough to sense something of power. Michael couldn't feel anything but the stench of her skin dying around her, something he'd come to grow used to from those who inherited the earth. But Azazel seemed almost.. ravenous. Lust, no. Yes, but no, there was more. What could it be?
Brotherhood
Realizing he couldn't follow Azazel and the woman forever, he turned around after Azazel had stormed off, and began to walk back down the way he'd come. He wandered in the middle of the weekend crowd of people, side-stepping the cockroach-like mortals as they gathered and scuttled about him, like a total infestation upon the earth. He passed by a young couple caught in the throes of a deep, passionate kiss, and felt his lip curl as he sneered to himself. Disgusting. The thought of touching one of them.. it made his stomach turn. He felt the urge to reach out and smack the man on the back of the head and cause them both to tumble over eachother onto the concrete they stood upon, but he supposed it would only bring them closer together. That simply wouldn't do, so he continued past, thoroughly sickened.
He wondered suddenly when he became so bitter. He thought back, and could never remember a time when he felt love in his heart like the humans described the angels to be. He could only guess that was what set the Archangels apart from the regular angels and agents of God. He and the other Archangels, and a few select ancients who resided in Heaven had the ability to both hate, and love. They could feel joy, sorrow, or even confusion, and they all could regret, though none of them did. He oft wondered what a devout Catholic would think if they met him head-on, or saw him smashing out the eyes of a demon who'd tried to run from him. He couldn't even guess their reaction, but he knew it was better that things were kept seperate. The mortals could have their silly books and stories and assumptions, and he would walk amidst them, a wolf in the endless flock of sheep.
"Deep in thought, brother?" a man spoke, pulling Michael out of his dark thoughts. He glanced to his left, and met eyes with Raphael. Michael wasn't sure whether to greet him or grill him, so he tread the line in the middle and did both.
"Surprised to see you down here," he said as nonchalantly as possible. He trusted Raphael, yes, but too many strange occurances had been happening, and he didn't feel that he was ready to chalk it all up to bad timing just yet. As far as he was concerned, there was no such thing as coincidence, and considering he had the 'inside view' of how things were run here on earth from above... he felt it was within his right to be suspicious and stay on his toes.
Raphael, a taller, attractive blonde man, rubbed the back of his neck and laughed softly. "Just came down to see how things were going. You seem to be here a lot, nowadays, and I know you dislike this place so much." It worried him, Michael's behaviour sometimes. He was good to have in a fight, that was certain, but he was perhaps too much of a rogue sometimes for Raphael's taste. It wasn't that he suspected Michael may turn on him for no reason... it was just that if Raphael, or anyone else, gave him a reason, it was a sure thing that they would not come out of it alive, or at the very least, without debilitating injuries. As far as he was concerned, a lot of things that happened were reason enough already. It was only a matter of time...
"Things are going... Well, to tell you the truth, they aren't. Although, and this I must say I find quite odd, Azazel has found himself a little mortal to chase after. Initially it started out as a bet to see who could convince her whether good or evil was a more fit lifestyle, or whatever that fool had in mind, and now he's suddenly obsessing over her. It's quite hysterical to see, but it's such madness that it almost disturbs me to watch it."
Raphael walked alongside Michael in silence, as he often found himself doing. Oddly enough, Michael was, for once, talking - usually they both fell into long periods of quiet. Neither was on the talkative side, and why should they be? They'd seen it all, done it all, and lived long enough to become bored with it all. Anything that could have been discussed had probably already been discussed. But this - Michael's mention of Azazel's chasing after a human - it struck a nerve somehow with Raphael, and his brows raised.
"He's a demon, Michael. He lusts for power, violence, and sex. He can't really get power from a mortal, but he can feel powerful. He can also slap them around and sleep with them... I can't see how it strikes you as odd. Azazel is one of the oldest demons there is... You think he doesn't come up here every once and a while to see if any of the mortal women have evolved somehow in the last hundred or so years? Come on."
"Normally, I'd agree with you. The fact that I even find it worth mentioning should be enough for you to know something's up. I haven't been away for that long, Rafe - have you forgotten me so soon?" Michael wasn't insulted, though he spoke as though he had been. No, quite the contrary, he was still slightly tickled by the way Raphael had gone about explaining Azazel's actions. Perhaps it'd have been true if Michael hadn't sensed something strange about her. Perhaps.
"You see... she's different somehow. I don't quite know how to explain it, because I've never seen or felt anything like it. You look at her, and it's like looking into a still pool. You know the image is there, and when you reach to touch it, you find it is but a reflection and vanishes with even the slightest brush of your fingertips against the surface. She is human, and yet, something about her - her energy, perhaps - it ripples like a stoich pond with a leaf on it. I can't explain it, but she's different somehow."
Raphael managed not to stumble as Michael spoke, though his words did shock him quite a bit. There was absolutely no way that this could happen. A cruel twist of fate, perhaps... Hadn't Michael suffered enough? Raphael's concern was obvious in his knit brow, and he pushed at the sleeves of his fitted long-sleeve shirt. "So you say she's attracted the attentions of Azazel?" he questioned, feeling his stomach sinking into what felt like a bottomless pit.
Michael laughed. "You've no idea. He's rabid. He's following her around right now... I imagine she's going to spray him in the eyes with mace, but she didn't quite seem like the type. She's a little thing. Timid. Seems familiar, but I can't place it. They all look the same, anyways." He chuckled again. "So long as I don't have to do damage control when he rips her into seperate portions like he's done in the past, I've got nothing to do with it."
Raphael felt torn. On one hand, he wanted to urge Michael to remove the girl from his sites, but on the other, he felt as though he needed to leave well enough alone. He frowned, and then sighed. "I hate to say it, but you probably should try to focus his attentions on something else. If the woman really does have a strange way about her, then she's probably best left on her own. She may prove useful to us later, who knows?"
"So what you're saying is, back to babysitting?" he asked, his voice dry. He gave Raphael the sort of look that would wilt flowers.
Raphael, undaffected by the angry gaze, shook his head. "I'm sorry, Michael. I hate to be the one to do it, but you need to get him back into Hell. He's been up here long enough, and you've been down here way longer than necessary. I see you starting to look at them like they're ants again. This cannot be healthy," he added, trying to joke around a little.
"Not ants, my brother. Cockroaches. Infestation. It just sounds worse." With that, Michael gave his leave and the two men parted ways.
Raphael walked alone then, feeling sick to his stomach, but for a different reason than Michael's. He'd basically just put a loaded gun into a suicidal man's hands. There were only a select few mortals he'd had the pleasure or displeasure of knowing that made an Angelic or Demonic being feel as though they'd been spun through a washing machine, and in every instance they'd been killed as soon as the reasons were found. They all held a sort of power within them. Untapped, they were utterly harmless... but if one of them could ever learn to use and control the gift, or curse, they had, it spelled nothing but disaster for everyone else, himself included.
The snifter of Brandy was delicately swirled about between thick fingertips as the dark man at the bar had a moment in thought. His eyes roamed the room, a strange, almost iridescent glow to his pupil. Black? No wait, it was orange, like a lone ember in a cold fireplace - and then back to black again. Others around him droned along, talking amongst themselves and walking by, not even so much as a glance upwards at him. They would have, if he so wished, but at the moment he was content to be alone.
He was well dressed, and sat lazily back in the tall chair at the bar as though he were just from a hard day at the office. In a way, he was, but it was no business that any mortal would care to be involved in. Some tried, but most just fluttered away, like dry leaves in a breeze. Those supernatural eyes crept around the room again as the hand that did not contain the snifter moved upward, to push through choppy hair. It was brown, but looked lightened somehow, and thin strands of it hung back in his dark eyes, giving him the annoying appearance of a trendy young entrepenuer. He wore a black jacket and pair of slacks, with black shoes that rested on a rung of the chair lazily. Beneath the jacket was a crimson shirt - it seemed perhaps inappropriate for an office building, but in the city one was never too certain about anything.
"Is there a particular reason you're mingling among the mortals?" a snide voice said, coming from his right. Lazily, his eyes flicked wayward, although he knew the voice well. He shifted his position, turning the chair to face the man who had spoken, brows lofting.
"The same could be asked of you," he said, lifting the glass. He took a sip of it, despite how tasteless it was when it touched his tongue, and set it on the counter. He propped his right elbow on the wooden bartop and spoke again, index finger resting at his brow languidly. His expression was amusement. "Michael, I know what the books say, but we know the truth. You love them even less than I. The difference is.. I admitted it."
"And look where it got you," the man said, tone even. The conversation was already dangerously close to errupting into violence, though both were careful not to let their worlds spill into the realm of the humans. As powerful as Azazel and Michael were, they still had to answer to someone, somewhere.
Azazel smirked now, a quiet chuckle at his throat. "I would rather be an open ruler than a silent slave, Michael. You chose your path, I chose mine. It was lifetimes ago, must you always bring it up? You're like a divorcee, really. It's been great, but there's a time where you have to cut the umbillical cord and fly away." The smirk was now a smug grin. "Get it? Fly? Ahaha."
"You're kidding me," the man said flatly. Michael - as it must've been, since he answered to it, was perhaps the same height as Azazel, although quite different in appearance. While Azazel seemed a mid-twenties fashion savvy man, Michael looked more into his thirties, with short, black hair, and a simple wardrobe of a singular colour. He too, was garbed in black, although the work shirt had been traded in for a turtle neck, and the short jacket replaced by a long, fleece dress coat. His own eyes, like Azazel's, seem to have some sort of questionability as to their looks, although instead of a strange orange flicker, his pupils sometimes seemed, but for a second, green.
"Why are you here?" Michael asked, his tone short, unamused. His eyes nearly rolled as he sighed with exasperation and looked around the room quickly. He seemed almost like a parent short on his fuse.
Azazel's brow lofted and he made a loud scoffing sound. "Me? You're the one that approached me - I should ask you the same thing." His expression remained wide-eyed, and it became obvious after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence between the two that no information was going to pass between them without some sort of neutral ground they could both claim.
"Fine. As long as you're here, I'm here. I know you're up to something." Michael's dark eyes narrowed, and he reached up, tugging off one black leather glove. The other followed shortly thereafter, and both disappeared into a deep fold of his long coat. He sat down in the chair and stared intently at Azazel. It was apparent that he really was intending to follow him around until he left the plane or gave him answers, both of which seemed to, at the moment, hold slim odds of occuring.
"That's fine. Suit yourself," Azazel replied, a large, cheshire grin on his face. He simply stared back, the grin beginning to cause unease in his opposing party. After a few more moments of total silence between the two, Azazel's demonic glow rekindled in his eyes for a brief instant. His grin only spread more, causing Michael to lean back in his chair.
"What is it now, you vile being?" he demanded. Michael didn't seem to share the same sense of humour the demon had, and rightly so. He wasn't too pleased finding one such as Azazel lounging in a bar on the mortal plane - it bespoke only of trouble, and Michael was left cleaning trouble up often.
"Since it looks like you're going to be here for a while... Care to make a little wager?" the demon taunted.
The Plan
Michael's bare fingers traced the edges of the old-fashioned glass that sat before him on the bar top. The ice cubes in the bottom of the glass were half-melted, kissed with old scotch, the burnished liquor quite diluted at this point by the rapidly warming blocks. There was but a fraction at the bottom, lining the glass, as Michael always felt as though he needed a drink when in the presence of Azazel. It was quite the 'human' thing to do.
"So let me get this straight. You want me to find someone with a neutral alliance and try to sway them?" Michael asked, a thick dark brow raising slightly as he listened to Azazel's "proposal". This whole thing seemed way too easy - to simple for one of Azazel's old tricks. He was up to something.
Azazel rocked back in his chair, fussing in the pocket of his coat for a pack of cigarettes, which he finally produced and set on the bar. He pulled one out of the pack and scewed it between his thin lips. The end of the cigarette sizzled and began to burn, as though an imaginary flame had been of assistance. As he drew it from his mouth, a rather large and official-looking man approached him, standing just to his side.
"Sir, there is no smoking allowed in this establishment," the man said sternly. His hands were held firmly behind his back, and he looked as though he were prepared to remove the cigarette from Azazel himself.
Azazel appeared to consider this for a moment, and then reached out and flicked ashes on the man's shoes. "Go away, you humourless man." A hand lifted, fingers flicking outward. "Go on, shoo!"
The large man's face turned a particular shade of crimson at that moment, and he opened his mouth to speak, shaking furiously as though he would strike Azazel where he sat. However, he found himself locked into a staring match - and of all the demons, Azazel was perhaps one of the most dangerous to engage in such a game with. The man backed away slowly, and then turn around and broke into a full sprint for the door, slamming it open and disappearing into the evening streets.
Azazel turned back to Michael, head canted to the side slightly, a lopsided grin on his face. "They're just so easy to toy with," he said, laughter edging into his speech. He sank down in his chair, his expression bleeding from humourous to fierce. "Are we on?"
Michael had sat in quiet observation up until this point, and nothing changed when he spoke now. "I don't know, Azazel. Why is this so important to you? I feel like there's something else, something more you're after."
"Always a skeptic. You wouldn't believe in your God if you were a mortal, you know that? You'd be one of those 'science' fellows. Darwinism and all that nonsense." Azazel smiled glibly, knowing he'd struck a chord with the Archangel.
"Fine," Michael said, voice short, displaying irritation. He sat up and looked around, rolling his eyes. "Fine, I'm in. Who?"
Azazel's grin only widened. The demon knew of Michael's contempt for humans, and knew it was only a matter of time before he could get the Archangel to play along with his 'silly little game', which of course wasn't a game at all, but rather, one of the biggest tricks he was about to pull off. He was sure of himself, bathing in glory and confidence now, that he could bring the angel down into Hell with him after this... And what an army they would raise. Then, and only then!
"Ah, yes, who shall it be.. " Azazel said, leaning back in his chair. The cigarette was left smoldering in the empty snifter as he pressed his hands together in a steeple position and let his unnatural orange and black eyes roam around the room.
"What about him?" Michael directed, gesturing to a young man seated at a table by himself. He seemed nervous, almost flighty, eyes darting back and forth as he sipped on a cheap beer. He wore a button down shirt and jeans, and looked like he was more a high school student than one of the attendees to the college nearby.
"You mean the underaged alcoholic?" Azazel asked with a laugh, glancing over in the direction of the boy. "I don't think so." He swivelled around in his chair and seemed to pause as a woman passed by the large windows of the bar that shown on the darkened streets outside. His mouth was poised slightly open as he had just begun to speak again, and suddenly forgot what he was going to say.
She was so dark. Nothing special about who she was, but more how she was. She shrugged at her black jacket, stopping a moment under a street light to look at her watch. She turned and looked at the neon sign atop the front of the bar, and he could see her squinting, not because it hurt her eyes, but because she was perplexed. She had dark hair, and dark eyes, and pale skin - like the keys of a piano, she seemed crafted of ebony and ivory. He could see that she wore a white shirt, much like his own, and a pair of black pants.
"Her," he said. "That one. I'm sure of it. That's the one." Azazel stood up and brushed off his jacket, looking from the woman to Michael.
Michael's brow rose again, as Azazel so often prompted him to do, and he, too, rose. "Are you certain?" he asked, his voice betraying his doubt more than the question itself had. He looked over his shoulder at the woman - there was definitely something about her, but he didn't find himself falling all over the stool after her. She was mortal - none of them were very special or outstanding to him. Perhaps the demon had lost sight of that. He stared at Azazel evenly, his thoughts apparent in his facial expression.
Azazel brushed past him, bumping his shoulder. "Never been so certain about anything before in my life, my friend." The words he spoke were venomous, as though he only dared Michael to voice his thoughts at the moment. The tinkle of the bell above the door was heard on his departure, leaving Michael alone at the counter.
Michael glanced back, and saw that both the woman and Azazel had vanished. He shook his head and began towards the door, and then paused, turned, and walked to the table of the shifty man with the beer.
"Can I help you, sir?" the boy said. He looked as though he were about to get up and head for the door at full steam ahead. Who was this man approaching him, and why?
"Kid..." Michael leaned over the table, bringing himself inches from the boy's face. The boy, Jason, was only seventeen, and had been let into the bar with a false I.D. At the moment he was feeling guilty and petrified of being caught. "Go home."
The Archangel had a mighty sway with words, and he played on the young man's fears. Jason lept from the table as though he'd been struck on the rear by a whip, and darted out the door as fast as his designer tennis shoes could carry him. Michael leaned back against the table for a minute and sighed.
"I hate this place."
The Victim
Ava paused in front of the bar suddenly, unsure of what her hazel eyes were showing her. Bright red and blue neon lights blended in some sort of ocular explosion, blurred temporarily by her sudden paralysis. She shook it off, blinking her dark fringe of lashes rapidly. She loosened her arms from around herself, and glanced back, and forward, and then hurried on down the sidewalk away from the glowing sign.
She'd left her apartment with some purpose, but somehow she felt as though she'd gone the wrong way. She'd lived in this city all of her life, so she couldn't understand how she'd basically, well, gotten lost just then. She heard a bell tinkle in the background and glanced over her shoulder as she wove through the semi-crowded street. She saw nothing significant, and yet, she felt the urge to move just a little faster. She was forced to stop in her flight, however, when she arrived at a crosswalk that was unlit still. Traffic wasn't in her favour, it seemed, and so she sought to bury herself within this crowd of faceless people.
She brushed back a strand of her long, dark hair - the fine sheen of a raven's wing, it was, black with natural red undertones, giving it a sort of rich espresso colour. Casually, she glanced over her shoulder, looking through the crowd of people. Nobody specific, or important. Nobody that stuck out. She faced forward again, running over and over in her mind, trying to remember what it was she'd set out to do this eve. It was only half past nine on a Friday night - all of the bar hoppers were already out and about, but she didn't drink often, if ever. Was she running to the store? She reached in her pocket and felt a crisp bill. Five dollars, she knew. But she'd had that earlier, leftover from lunch at work.
The crowd she stood in was suddenly bathed in a green glow as the little man on the crosswalk was shown happily walking across the black background. She moved in step with people beside her, hoping that if a car should run the light, it would strike them and not her. Once on the other side, she paused on the sidewalk. Most of the people had gone right, up the strip to visit other bars and clubs. One or two had gone left. And one seemed to slowly stroll across the street, hands in the pockets of his long black jacket, gaze fixated straight ahead.
The light turned green, and a car honked at him. The man paused, then, in front of the car, much to Ava's disbelief. He said something to the driver - what, she could not hear - but it must've been convincing because the beeping stopped and the man was able to step onto the sidewalk in peace. Ava took a small step back, putting some distance between them, and felt the cool brick of the old building behind her brush against her own jacket.
"Lovely evening for a stroll, isn't it?" Azazel said to the woman, the corner of his lip turning up into a smile of sorts. As sincere as he tried to make it, the man could not muster an innocent smile to save his life - the gesture came off as some sort of wicked smirk. He was testing the waters with this one, first. She felt.. different. Human, but special somehow. Perhaps she had been with one of his kind, had a child? He looked her over quickly. No, no possible way she could've had a child - her hips were too narrow.
"I s-suppose?" she said, dark brow raised. She played with the sleeve of her jacket for a moment, and then looked around. They were alone. "I'm sorry, I have to go. Good night," she offered. She turned and began down the street, hooking an immediate right as soon as she could.
"Any faster and she would've been at a full sprint, Azazel," Michael's deep voice taunted in his ear. The Archangel was smug - for once, now the demon knew how it felt to be constantly hounded by that niggling little voice.
The demon's head turned ever so slightly, and his lips curled into a sneer. A growl - and something definitely NOT made by human vocal cords - was emitted from deep within his throat. "Fuck off," he said firmly. He whipped himself away from Michael with such force his coat hit Michael's shin as he walked away, presumably to chase after the woman.
Michael was.. disturbed by this blatant display of anger. Demons were known for being cruel and they definitely did have their strange quirks, if not full-on fetishes, but this wasn't something a being of Azazel's stature should even begin to be frustrated about. He looked at it logically: Azazel was powerful, established, an Ancient, and very confident. He also had a very good chance of beating Michael, he wasn't afraid to admit that. But what disturbed him was how suddenly rabid Azazel had become over this mortal.
Perhaps she was something more? Michael doubted it - BOTH of them were old enough to sense something of power. Michael couldn't feel anything but the stench of her skin dying around her, something he'd come to grow used to from those who inherited the earth. But Azazel seemed almost.. ravenous. Lust, no. Yes, but no, there was more. What could it be?
Brotherhood
Realizing he couldn't follow Azazel and the woman forever, he turned around after Azazel had stormed off, and began to walk back down the way he'd come. He wandered in the middle of the weekend crowd of people, side-stepping the cockroach-like mortals as they gathered and scuttled about him, like a total infestation upon the earth. He passed by a young couple caught in the throes of a deep, passionate kiss, and felt his lip curl as he sneered to himself. Disgusting. The thought of touching one of them.. it made his stomach turn. He felt the urge to reach out and smack the man on the back of the head and cause them both to tumble over eachother onto the concrete they stood upon, but he supposed it would only bring them closer together. That simply wouldn't do, so he continued past, thoroughly sickened.
He wondered suddenly when he became so bitter. He thought back, and could never remember a time when he felt love in his heart like the humans described the angels to be. He could only guess that was what set the Archangels apart from the regular angels and agents of God. He and the other Archangels, and a few select ancients who resided in Heaven had the ability to both hate, and love. They could feel joy, sorrow, or even confusion, and they all could regret, though none of them did. He oft wondered what a devout Catholic would think if they met him head-on, or saw him smashing out the eyes of a demon who'd tried to run from him. He couldn't even guess their reaction, but he knew it was better that things were kept seperate. The mortals could have their silly books and stories and assumptions, and he would walk amidst them, a wolf in the endless flock of sheep.
"Deep in thought, brother?" a man spoke, pulling Michael out of his dark thoughts. He glanced to his left, and met eyes with Raphael. Michael wasn't sure whether to greet him or grill him, so he tread the line in the middle and did both.
"Surprised to see you down here," he said as nonchalantly as possible. He trusted Raphael, yes, but too many strange occurances had been happening, and he didn't feel that he was ready to chalk it all up to bad timing just yet. As far as he was concerned, there was no such thing as coincidence, and considering he had the 'inside view' of how things were run here on earth from above... he felt it was within his right to be suspicious and stay on his toes.
Raphael, a taller, attractive blonde man, rubbed the back of his neck and laughed softly. "Just came down to see how things were going. You seem to be here a lot, nowadays, and I know you dislike this place so much." It worried him, Michael's behaviour sometimes. He was good to have in a fight, that was certain, but he was perhaps too much of a rogue sometimes for Raphael's taste. It wasn't that he suspected Michael may turn on him for no reason... it was just that if Raphael, or anyone else, gave him a reason, it was a sure thing that they would not come out of it alive, or at the very least, without debilitating injuries. As far as he was concerned, a lot of things that happened were reason enough already. It was only a matter of time...
"Things are going... Well, to tell you the truth, they aren't. Although, and this I must say I find quite odd, Azazel has found himself a little mortal to chase after. Initially it started out as a bet to see who could convince her whether good or evil was a more fit lifestyle, or whatever that fool had in mind, and now he's suddenly obsessing over her. It's quite hysterical to see, but it's such madness that it almost disturbs me to watch it."
Raphael walked alongside Michael in silence, as he often found himself doing. Oddly enough, Michael was, for once, talking - usually they both fell into long periods of quiet. Neither was on the talkative side, and why should they be? They'd seen it all, done it all, and lived long enough to become bored with it all. Anything that could have been discussed had probably already been discussed. But this - Michael's mention of Azazel's chasing after a human - it struck a nerve somehow with Raphael, and his brows raised.
"He's a demon, Michael. He lusts for power, violence, and sex. He can't really get power from a mortal, but he can feel powerful. He can also slap them around and sleep with them... I can't see how it strikes you as odd. Azazel is one of the oldest demons there is... You think he doesn't come up here every once and a while to see if any of the mortal women have evolved somehow in the last hundred or so years? Come on."
"Normally, I'd agree with you. The fact that I even find it worth mentioning should be enough for you to know something's up. I haven't been away for that long, Rafe - have you forgotten me so soon?" Michael wasn't insulted, though he spoke as though he had been. No, quite the contrary, he was still slightly tickled by the way Raphael had gone about explaining Azazel's actions. Perhaps it'd have been true if Michael hadn't sensed something strange about her. Perhaps.
"You see... she's different somehow. I don't quite know how to explain it, because I've never seen or felt anything like it. You look at her, and it's like looking into a still pool. You know the image is there, and when you reach to touch it, you find it is but a reflection and vanishes with even the slightest brush of your fingertips against the surface. She is human, and yet, something about her - her energy, perhaps - it ripples like a stoich pond with a leaf on it. I can't explain it, but she's different somehow."
Raphael managed not to stumble as Michael spoke, though his words did shock him quite a bit. There was absolutely no way that this could happen. A cruel twist of fate, perhaps... Hadn't Michael suffered enough? Raphael's concern was obvious in his knit brow, and he pushed at the sleeves of his fitted long-sleeve shirt. "So you say she's attracted the attentions of Azazel?" he questioned, feeling his stomach sinking into what felt like a bottomless pit.
Michael laughed. "You've no idea. He's rabid. He's following her around right now... I imagine she's going to spray him in the eyes with mace, but she didn't quite seem like the type. She's a little thing. Timid. Seems familiar, but I can't place it. They all look the same, anyways." He chuckled again. "So long as I don't have to do damage control when he rips her into seperate portions like he's done in the past, I've got nothing to do with it."
Raphael felt torn. On one hand, he wanted to urge Michael to remove the girl from his sites, but on the other, he felt as though he needed to leave well enough alone. He frowned, and then sighed. "I hate to say it, but you probably should try to focus his attentions on something else. If the woman really does have a strange way about her, then she's probably best left on her own. She may prove useful to us later, who knows?"
"So what you're saying is, back to babysitting?" he asked, his voice dry. He gave Raphael the sort of look that would wilt flowers.
Raphael, undaffected by the angry gaze, shook his head. "I'm sorry, Michael. I hate to be the one to do it, but you need to get him back into Hell. He's been up here long enough, and you've been down here way longer than necessary. I see you starting to look at them like they're ants again. This cannot be healthy," he added, trying to joke around a little.
"Not ants, my brother. Cockroaches. Infestation. It just sounds worse." With that, Michael gave his leave and the two men parted ways.
Raphael walked alone then, feeling sick to his stomach, but for a different reason than Michael's. He'd basically just put a loaded gun into a suicidal man's hands. There were only a select few mortals he'd had the pleasure or displeasure of knowing that made an Angelic or Demonic being feel as though they'd been spun through a washing machine, and in every instance they'd been killed as soon as the reasons were found. They all held a sort of power within them. Untapped, they were utterly harmless... but if one of them could ever learn to use and control the gift, or curse, they had, it spelled nothing but disaster for everyone else, himself included.