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

[homomachinis]

It wasn't technically night when Mitchell left the office. Actually, it was closer to early morning, the midnight oil had long been burned, and he was finally leaving only after everything that could possibly been completed had been done. He'd always been married only to the job, but this was probably a bit on the obsessive scale. After Edward's promotion, and his spat with James, Mitch was much more apt to stay as late as possible, if only to avoid his bodyguard entirely. Tonight he was trying to leave incognito, get out without alerting the other man. He needed time to think, get away.

Ever since he'd fallen off the deep end recently, he'd been feeling the press again. That compulsion he couldn't control, the urge to hurry up toward what he didn't want to hurry towards. Work was essentially the only cure, but even workaholics had to sleep, even though he didn't try to take the car. Shit, he didn't even have a drivers license. Only an ID, then again, when one didn't really need one in New York, they certainly didn't need one in The City.

So he walked, and walked, and he didn't look up. Only tourists looked up.

[crucifriction]

Naturally, looming overhead and watching the lone figure walk briskly down the street is Michael, Sword of Sin casting a warm red glow around him. The decision to meet the man head-on, to sweep down and cull him if he's tainted, to sweep down and save him if he's able to be saved, is a tempting one--he waits standing motionless in this thought. He can't see who it is, despite the bright streetlights. It's tricky.

"Sinner!" he booms from the rooftop, echoing throughout the empty road. "Bow towards me!"

[homomachinis]

He'd had the hood of his coat up, but at the loud, booming voice, the scrambling of his arms, up to his head is enough to push it away. Fuck this sounded bad for certain. He looked up, and turned toward the direction of the voice, and goddamn if he wanted to piss his pants just slightly.

He didn't, but he wanted to. Instead, after peering up, squinting into the night, before finally catching on the red figure, he finally shoved a hand into his pocket. Small favors.

"Uh, hi?" he shouts it, even as he takes a step back.

[crucifriction]

Narrowing his eyes under the mask, Michael realizes that this idea wasn't necessarily feasible from this height. His mortal form, after all, would only suffer from having a hoarse voice. A shouting contest hardly seems appealing at this moment.

So, he drops. The cloaks billows around him as he falls, coming around to shield his visage as he hits the ground a few yards away from Mitchell, safe and sound and standing upright.

"Tell me your name," he hisses, taking a few steps forward.

[homomachinis]

Well shit. Down on level, the guy was still pretty imposing, and he took a step back. He needed an opportunity to get the fuck out of dodge, and he may not be as spry as he used to be, but there were options. There were always options.

The real question was should he actually give his name? Could the guy tell if he was lying? Would he care? Would his name even make any fucking difference? Probably not. The guy was already convinced he was a sinner, which, okay to be fair, he was, but he had a feeling if the guy was after sinners, there were probably better options than him. At least here in the city.

"I'm Mitchell Hundred, maybe you've heard of me? I'm the fucking Mayor around here?" His hand never left his pocket.