☣ thirteen (this is the story of the angel who played poker with the devil in the Garden of Eden)
[ooc: minilog backdated to the end of last week]
[Oh, what a week.
After Uriel was shot, Samael had been furious. He'd calmed a little, concentrating on making sure Raphael wasn't going to do anything daft. He understood that his brother was unhurt but he longed for the sort of proof that could only come if he saw Raphael face-to-face. He fretted for Uriel but he was even less likely to see him. Samael remembered well the last time they had met and that burning sensation (that might have been shame all along). He was not keen to repeat the experience. In any case, he had a mission. Self-appointed, self-annointed; Samael was a man on the warpath.
Fortunately, Samael was patient. Methodical. He was also blessed with an insatiable sort of curiosity that, combined with his years of experience as a bounty-hunter, meant that he had all the necessary skills and contacts to execute his master-plan. Eye-witness reports were easily obtained. CCTV footage presented no great obstacle. The van was found within hours, a burnt-out shell, in which there was a singed ID card. The card was fake, indubitably, and mostly warped by the heat, but the work was easily identifiable, directing Samael to the forger. From arson to forgery, Samael knew his way around misdemeanours. He worked with speed and with a certain comfort within the seedy underbelly of this great city. Oh, his brothers would likely shudder if they knew what he knew. These were the lengths to which he was willing to go for his brothers, though. He'd go further still. He'd go to the ends of the earth and the ends of all the heavens for his brothers.
Two days later, Samael identified the driver. A young Moroccan man. He claimed not to speak English when Samael cornered him in a dirty garage. Unfortunate for the boy that Samael's upbringing ensured that he could communicate in flawless Shilha. That was the end of any resistance he might have had. The boy spilled everything to this mysterious, enormous man who spoke his language and whose eyes blazed with a certain level of insanity that general meant bad things would follow if he gave any trouble. Two older men had offered him a job. They didn't care that he only had a learner's permit. He swore he didn't know what he was getting into and Samael believed him. That didn't mean that he was going to release him; Samael was not here to judge. Today, he was here to collect.
The young man led him to the other two men. Samael brought them to a warehouse. He tied them up. And he didn't touch a hair on their heads. One started yelling about police brutality and Samael said that he wasn't a cop. Samael also mentioned that cops were unlikely to take very kindly to men who shot police offers so perhaps they should be grateful that he was only a concerned citizen.
It was a long night. Afterwards, all three men would wonder if they had hallucinated it all. They all had nightmares, as any guilty man might in the presence of an Archangel, much less one who oozed such unsettling energy. Later, when the police asked what had happened, they'd refuse to give many details. They'd remember, though, how their captor had sat there quietly, reading Vanity Fair (the magazine, not the novel) and the Bible. Occasionally, he'd stand up. Stretch his legs. Look them each in the eye. It was worse when he smiled because his plan was simple: he wasn't going to punish them. He was going to hand them in to the police and he was certain that human laws would not fail to exact justice for Uriel. He was just going to inflict his company on them for a while first.
Samael kept them there for a full twenty-four hours.
When Friday morning dawned, Samael, with a week's worth of beard-growth and shadows like dark valleys under his eyes, deposited the three men at Uriel's precinct. All three were broken, to varying degrees, and hollow-eyed and quite, quite ready to admit the part they had played in the shooting of Carmine Leone Marino. Not alone that, but they were prepared to spill any number of secrets about certain recent criminal dealings, just as long as they never had to spend a night like that again. Prison would be a sanctuary.
Samael stayed just long enough to see them start talking and then he turned on his heel and departed. He had other things to deal with now; demons and fragile brothers. No rest for the wicked.]
[filter; agrat bat mahlat]
Any luck with the demon, my sweet?
[filter; ALL angels]
Let's talk about Eve, brothers. Why the rush to save her and protect her? Either she's the Original Sin and irredeemable or else she's only fucking human, in which case you're depriving her of free will, which is something our Father could never condone. You're not letting her make her own fucking choices and mistakes. If she doesn't sin, she can't repent - but that's not the same as being blameless, now, is it?
We are not fucking omniscient. We're not fucking infallible. We are as Father made us and, like it or not, brothers of mine, while we're all mortal, you can't fucking save everyone. You're fucking lucky if you can save anyone. That's not to say that you shouldn't fucking try but clustering around one woman like this? Well, playing favourites is probably not the way to go, is it?
[filter; death]
Without the constraints of honesty, though I'd expect nothing fucking less from you: a quiet drink some evening this week, please. ♥
[edited to add:] [filter; uriel]
Berith. It's confirmed. Do not implicate me or my concubine whenever you choose to share this information with others.