WHO: Azrael and you.
WHERE: City streets.
WHEN: The night of December 9th.
WARNINGS: Violence; others will be added as they occur.
SUMMARY: His desire has filled and burst. And all Michael wants now is to be the City’s God.
FORMAT: You choose.
(
fire is come to burn the truth, burns all, while we wait around to die )
He was waiting to hail a cab. Driving, in his current state, was out of the question.
He made the mistake of looking upwards, at the marble building's roof behind him. A curious habit, worn from older days.
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In the haze of his crowded mind, he ponders both wrath and mercy, punishment or hope. Of course, Edward Nygma only truly deserves the former. As the only entity who can rightfully call himself a judge, he knows this in his mortal veins and existential spirit; but the heady power to absolve pricks at his temples, his fingertips. He might even exercise it for him.
When he lands before him, he stands straight and silent with the intention of letting the wretched speak for himself.
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Eddie couldn't run, because of the ankle Norman had broken. He couldn't run away.
"Oh my God."
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"Again."
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"Please, stop."
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"You ask me to spare you now? Why? Your whole life was filled, moment to moment, for chances to atone, before it escalated to here." Each word feels like scripture and his voice only becomes bolder. "You've wallowed in sin for so long now and you still expect mercy?"
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The night sky above them darkened. Clouds shifter over the crisp moon. Eddie took a step back, and then another. There was a lack of people on the streets, a lack of throngs due to the chaos earlier in the day. This was quiet, this was dark and lonely.
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"I do not give mercy freely." Here, he bows his head. "I only give it to those who prove themselves worthy. And you, your pride is growing by the day."
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"Pride has always been innate to me, hasn't it?" Eddie was stalling, swallowing and staring. "I know that. And so do you, I'm aware. But let me ask you this -- why confront me, here? Isn't it a waste of your time?"
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Slow steps, but around. He revolves around Edward, not looking at him directly, not allowing his awful visage to offend his grace. "This time is as good of a time as any to me, Ananias."
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"Ananias," he said. "He who was struck dead for 'lying to God', or the disciple?" It was a point to prove his smirk. "That's the thing with ambiguity, Azrael. It leads the way to questions." Eddie wrinkled his nose, looking at his own shoes. And then sought to stare into Azrael's eyes. "And you don't want to be questioned, do you?"
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He stays silent, for a moment. Then, taking a few quick steps towards the damned, he throws the full weight of his metal boot toward his cast.
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"God why oh fucking --" Eddie gasped, eyes flooding. "God damn it!"
He couldn't see, his palms clawed blindly at the ground. Whimpering, moaning. A figure cut down by pain.
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"Acknowledge me. Kiss my feet in devotion. If you lie," he warns, capitalizing on what he's called Edward before. "I will know of it."
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"I did this to you," he whispered. "I confess. I made you feel like this. I did it with Desire. You're not a god. You're just Michael Lane, a man beneath his own blood."
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He stands here, motionless, looking down upon him. Beneath the suit, he begins to tremble, mind suddenly blank. Action should be taken--he should crush his heretical head underneath his leg, bring Sin upon his neck. But he can't. His righteousness has faded into something feeble, something too human, incongruent with what he finds himself.
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