Lucifer, in the meanwhile, has been steadily making his way through an entire bottle of vodka that's currently sitting in front of him; this is not his first one, not by a long shot, and it certainly isn't going to be his last. He drank the last bar down to dry-- and the one before that, and the one before that, ad nauseum, there's a rash of establishments that are closed tonight due to lack of inventory-- until all they had left was soda water and grenadine, and he is damn well going to do the same here.

He is stuck here, in this insignificant little island in a cesspool of a city, his powers unfairly stripped from him, forced into an inferior vessel, with the knowledge that, at some point in the future from his current perspective, Heaven will fall and all his brothers will perish. His youngest brother is, apparently, already dead. Or going to die. It's still a little quantum at this point.

And he is stuck here.

In light of literally having nothing that he can do and being unable to lay waste to anything to relieve his frustrations, the Devil has said to Hell with it. He's going to get drunk.

So he has ended up here, in this pub, pouring himself a very large glass of straight alcohol with a deceptively steady hand, when some woman with a rather lost looking man in tow decides to sit herself next to him. He looks over at her with an expression that someone would probably use if a very large amoeba decided to sit next to them.

"I doubt it," he says, then downs the glass all in one go. "Not if you like having a functional liver, anyway."