there's a fire in your eyes

[crucifriction]

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.

Comments

eleven o'clock; city hall district

[enigmaestro]

It was a late night at the office, again. Undoubtedly, Edward thought bitterly, to Mitchell's unending glee. With his newly commissioned political power came newly commissioned longer hours -- which left less time for personal endeavors. But Norman still kept his place in Eddie's forethoughts, assisted by the three healing ribs and cast ankle he now sported. The only small release he indulge in now was experimenting with the Threshold. With Katurian (out of necessity), with Michael (out of spite). The small hours curled away under his heavy fascination with this unheard power.

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.

[crucifriction]

By the time that Edward actually looks, Michael is already dropping gracefully from the rooftop.

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.

[enigmaestro]

"Oh." It was a quiet note of unabashed, honest surprise. Since access to Desire's Threshold could be done from anywhere, to anyone, Eddie had taken for granted his anonymity. Lane would never figure it out, he had thought. The safest of bets. And yet, not even a day later, here was Azrael. Silent and godly in his pose. Moving closer. It was almost Shakespearean in performance, almost something Eddie could appreciate for the sheer, bold theatrics.

Eddie couldn't run, because of the ankle Norman had broken. He couldn't run away.

"Oh my God."

[crucifriction]

Something bristles through him. Something grand, greater. "Yes," he says, taking sure steps. "Yes."

"Again."

[enigmaestro]

"Stop." Hands went up, protectively before his chest. Uselessly. "Michael, stop." Eddie knew what Azrael was experiencing -- he had constructed it, the degree, the craving. The god complex. He had thought it was funny, the overwhelming blasphemy. How many times can Michael Lane commit sacrilege, because of people pulling his strings? How many different ways?

"Please, stop."

[crucifriction]

In spite of everything, Michael does quietly step to a stop. As a deity, he's not going to let wrath and human sensation obscure his decisions, his actions. That would not only be irrational, it would be unjust. God is not unjust. God is--

"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?"

[enigmaestro]

"You -- are you not a god?" He played the words. He knew them to play, he had coaxed them to exposure. "Do you not have infinite mercy? Even for me?"

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.

[crucifriction]

As he watches Edward's feet, he extends a palm, straight. "Stop," he warns, then bringing it down to his side. "Walk away from me anymore and I will cut you down where you stand."

"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."

[enigmaestro]

"Is it?" He hissed, but stilled his movement. There was an undeniable authority in Azrael's words, a weight that made Eddie uncomfortable. He wondered, again, if Azrael knew. If somehow, some way, he was betrayed by the Threshold in a most unsubtle manner.

"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?"

[crucifriction]

"Can God truly waste His time? Is time an ailment that He suffers from?" His voice wavers, as if the very question is an affront to forces outside of even him. "Would you be so wrong as to say that the judgment of the wicked is wasteful? You've already overstepped your bounds this far."

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."

[enigmaestro]

He was about to protest, about to question Lane's logic, about to demand that Azrael look at him, rather than encircle him. He was about to sneer back when something caught his throat.

"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?"

[crucifriction]

Michael, at that moment, meets Edward's gaze. Questioning harms your souls, not my existence sits at the tip of his tongue. Questions would only lead to answers that you wouldn't feel satisfaction towards. The compulsion to set the wrong straight is one he only barely manages to cull, favoring a more physical method. It seems only fitting, only deserving.

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.

[enigmaestro]

He couldn't move away fast enough. He watched, mute, horrified, as Azrael swung that metal boot hard onto his already snapped ankle. Eddie dropped to the concrete, hard, screaming as his knees scrapped the cement, his foot submerged in hellfire.

"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.

[crucifriction]

"God damns you," he speaks, repeating it again. What he feels here is barely describable as if this is the ideal, the model of how he should regard the wicked and how the wicked should regard him. Watching someone who deserves suffering suffer is one of the most beautiful sights in the universe. Only he could create beauty. Nobody else. It was his domain, as all else was his domain.

"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."

[enigmaestro]

"Nngh! Oh God," he groaned, his head dipping. Fear laced his blood, pushing adrenaline through his heart. Fingernails scrapped with dirt and grime of the city street, broken glass and soiled sidewalk. His lips drew to those armored feet, hate and spit hissing between his teeth. He paused, quivering, before looking up at Azrael.

"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."

uh

[crucifriction]

Michael's blood runs cold.

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.