bigapplesauce | Don't Panic [open]

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Don't Panic [open]

Iman practically drags her new friend to the East Village, wandering with intense focus until she finally comes across the bar Jodie had recommended to her, which looks just like it sounds, a proper English pub. It's been ages since she went to an English pub. She's looking forward to it. A little hysterically, actually. No wait. Scratch that. She does not get hysterical. She's a scientist.

"Here we are!" she says brightly, drawing Daniel in. Oh wow would you get a load of this place. The lady behind the bar is in costume. Adorable.

"Wow you can kinda tell it's for people from an alternate universe, can't you?" She snorts and takes stock of the people, looking for someone to talk to, or someone whose brain she (they) can pick. It's pretty early for anyone to be drinking, so there's not too many people there, except one guy who is drunk, slumped over the bar. Looking exactly like she feels, or rather how she wants to feel in an hour's time.

"That one," she says decisively, not bothering to check if Daniel's with her on the idea of approaching a drunk stranger and asking him questions about their mutual cosmic misfortune. He's probably not. She doesn't actually care.

She goes straight to the bar, assuming Daniel will follow, sits herself on the stool next to the guy, and nods to the tender. "I'll have what he's having."

[[ooc: Daniel's just gonna be here for the initial thread, but Iman will be here all day! Say hi if you wanna.]]

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She sighs heavily. "I know you do," she says. "But this time you can't. All right?"

She leans forward and grabs clumsily at his hand, giving it a firm pat. "I will be okay. You go do whatever it is you do when you're not making a huge ass of yourself."

That's right, Daniel. Lucifer is amused at the way you so masterfully take your foot and shove it right in your mouth.

The bartender is looking around, confused as to why all the whiskey is gone. There is a row of empty bottles in front of the Devil, and he's in the process of cracking open the flavored vodkas. He doesn't care that most of them taste like sugary diabetic death-- something his brother Gabriel would love, no doubt-- he cares about the alcohol content.

"Yes, Daniel," he says, and his pour is slightly less neat than it has been. "Go on. She'll be fine."

Daniel is so reassured.

"Pretty much my full-time job," he replies truthfully, shrugging, flat-out not trusting himself to even address Nick at this point. It's not like he trusts Nick to walk her home, and -

"Hang on, you don't even have a place to stay yet, do you?"

"Iiiii do not." Truth be told she hasn't really be thinking about this.

She finishes off her drink and presses her chin to her hands for a moment, pointedly ignoring Nick's creepass remark. "Any ideas, smart guy?" She looks over at Nick. "Where you stayin?" So, you know, she can expressly not stay there.

"I stay wherever I please."

He's the freaking Devil, if he wants to stay someplace, there isn't anyone who can tell him otherwise. Mostly, though, he's been holing up in an abandoned warehouse in the Meatpacking District that's warded all up; he doesn't exactly plan to entertain there. It's more a place to rest his wings and lick his wounds than much of a home. It's secure, it's quiet, and it's away from prying eyes, so that's good enough for him.

He wavers, torn. On one hand - he is not safe here. Iman is not safe here. He very much doubts anyone is safe here. And, ideally, he'd get everyone out of here as soon as possible.

On the other, well. Iman's very obviously not going to be budging anytime soon.

She's been handling herself well. Better than Daniel has, certainly. If he sticks around his inability to keep his mouth shut might just get everyone killed, a very real possibility. It's happened before.

He's going to have to trust her.

He can do that.

"All right, here." He pulls out a pen, paper, and scribbles something down before handing it to Iman. "You hold onto this, all right? It's my number, in case anything happens. Anything. If you need help, or if you don't know where to go, or, or anything, you call that number. Okay? You've got a phone, right?"

"Well, aren't you fancy," she says to Nick, rolling her eyes. She has a feeling she's gonna be doing that a lot today.

At the question of a phone, Iman hesitates. Of course, that's what Daniel - like every good overbearing worrier - needs. To be reassured every fifteen minutes. And she can do that. She doesn't have a phone, but she can definitely do that.

"Yyyyes," she decides to say. "I do have that thing." She takes the paper delicately between her fingers, memorizes the number on it in a brief moment, and slips it into the pocket of her jacket. "I will keep you updated. Consistently." She gives him a salute, feeling it just the thing.

Lucifer puts a hand beside his mouth, stage-whispering an aside.

"That's a lie."

"I know you'll be okay," he mutters to Iman, as much for her benefit as his own. "I just wanna be sure."

Then he shoots Nick a glare, pointed.

"And I don't care what you are or how old you claim to be. Anything happens to her or anyone - I've killed gods before. I don't stop until I'm dead. And sometimes, not even then."

Nick probably won't be the least bit impressed with the threat, but Daniel doesn't care. It helps him feel, barely, like he has at least some small amount of control over a situation that he objectively knows he has absolutely no control over.

He tells himself it'll be fine. Over and over and over and over and overandoverandover -

And then he leaves.

Iman shoots Nick a dirty look and swats him lightly in the shoulder (still really fuckin cold beneath his shirt, but whatever). Fortunately Daniel seems to miss the meaning of the remark and just says another really stupid and overbearing thing before finally getting the fuck out, poor kid. Iman rolls her eyes again and swivels back toward the bar.

"What a dork," she says. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I love him, but." Her left hand fidgets discreetly, or at least moderately discreetly. If Nick knew she didn't have a phone (or was he trying to imply he didn't believe she'd actually keep Daniel updated? either way), he'll probably pick up on this soon enough. Oh well. She concentrates on Daniel's number, setting it on sort of an automatic dial - she'll basically be importing the texts directly into his phone, sort of a remote hack, mildly frowned upon where she's from, but eminently useful at the moment.

"So, Nick," she says, nodding to the increasingly reluctant bartender for another. "Are you really a god, or is that all just talk."

Mostly, it's just very, very difficult to lie to the Devil.

He cocks his head, watching her and her little device; it's odd and he's never seen one like it, but it doesn't hold great interest for him. Just another little human toy.

The mention of gods makes his whole expression and bearing shift, however, rising from languid amusement into something stern and cold.

"I am not a god." This is something he is very emphatic about. "The pagans are petty, disloyal creatures with the arrogance to think they own the Earth. There is no intersection between what I am and what they are."

"Ummm, excuse you?" Iman gives him a spectacularly unimpressed look. Devastating to mere mortals. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

She's pretty sure she's offended, or something. Allah is not what anyone in their right mind would consider 'pagan', and even if he were, she's nowhere close to being religious - the headcovering and periodic bursts of 'daily' prayer are more habit and affectation than anything else - and anyway, where she comes from, religion is on about par with a favored sports team, you're raised into it, tend to stick with it, you'll report dutifully to the meetings where able, you'll even defend it aggressively when the time comes, and once in a while, if you're especially invested, you'll do something stupid and violent on its behalf. But nobody takes that seriously. Not like political parties or modes of scientific thought.

But she doesn't need to be her grandmother's sort of Muslim to get offended about that. Grandiose, obnoxiously vague generalizations put her off better than almost anything.

"So let me apply a little method, here: going by your obstreperous reaction I can only assume pagan gods are actually literally real where you're from, which, don't even get me started - but not only have you acknowledged that, in the same breath you've also swept the whooole massive diaspora right under a rug of 'oooh, they're just a bunch of shitty fakers'." This with a fairly childish but no less devastating impression of Nick and his grumpass shittiness, which is visible from metaphoric space. "I mean assuming it's anything close to where I come from, massive diaspora. Also, not that it's important or anything, but I'm a pretty good judge of character, and you, my trashdrunk friend, are both the pettiest and most arrogant prick I've ever met, and that's going some. So you're gonna have to do one better than that."

Feeling pretty pleased with herself, she drops her chin onto her hand and fixes him with an arched eyebrow of justice. And then for good measure she pops off a mental text to Daniel .

"Don't presume that you understand anything about me or my nature."

The coldness and sternness of his bearing has been turned up far enough that it's glacial and he seems practically made of stone.

He may be drunk-- and after going through that many bars, he would damn well hope he'd be drunk-- but he still has power, and his tolerance for humans and their bullshit is not particularly high. And the fact that he thinks that practically his entire family is dead does not help his mood.

"I have met many more pagan gods than you have, so I would think that I'm in a better position to judge. You do not even know what I am, nevertheless what they are, and you would still try to make a comparison? Do I have to explain what a logical fallacy is to you?" His lip curls a little, a hint of contempt. "Don't speak when you're ignorant about the subject matter."

"But then how would I learn?" she says sweetly.

Yes, he's intimidating. She's distantly aware that she could be in some trouble under different circumstances, or maybe these circumstances if she pushes. But she refuses to show any intimidation. She can avoid taking the bait without behaving like he's won. She sits back and takes a drink.

"What are you, then?" she says, cool and expectant.

"Beyond your comprehension. Were I not in this vessel, my true form would burn your eyes from your skull. My true voice would make your brain hemorrhage."

He's the divine equivalent of a brown note, wrapped up in some other guy's skin so that he could interact with the world.

"And this is not even my true vessel, just a... stop-gap. An ill-fitting suit, I suppose you could compare it to."

"Gross," she says without self-consciousness. "And very coy. Wow I'm impressed. Is this building up to something?"

You're losing her, buddy. Iman will only suffer so much suspense.

"Aren't you a woman of science? Must you be directly given the answer to every question?"

You're supposed to be a smart cookie, so figure it out.

"That's not how you learn, after all."

Fine, be that way. She sighs heavily and takes him in for a moment of consideration.

"Well it's not really my area of expertise," she says finally. "And if I offend you, it's probably on purpose." She takes a sip and tries to think of the oldest non-god entity she can. "Ra the Sun God," she says, seriously just to piss him off. "Oh wait, no gods. Right."

Oh. Aha. Foundational evil, right. What's foundational, evil, and not a god?

"If I said Get Thee Behind Me would that sound like a pickup line?" she says with a self-satisfied grin.

"To anyone but me, probably."

Thankfully for her, Satan has all the interest in things like sex as amoebas do in Russian Ballet. That is to say, absolutely none, thank you very much, and with no inclination of ever acquiring more.

But at least she hasn't disappointed him yet-- there hadn't been a whole lot of clues to go on, and she still managed to guess right in the, well, technically second go. Not that he isn't fully aware that the first guess was solely for the sake of annoying him.

"And, for the record, crosses do nothing, I can say 'Christo' just fine, and tossing holy water on me will just make me wet. I am an angel, after all."

Thankfully for everyone, that was sooooo not an actual pickup line. Iman wrinkles her nose at him and turns her attention back to her drink.

"Well, again, not really my area." She sips, swirls the liquor around a bit, thinking. "Where I come from it's all very... insular. I don't know hardly anything about... that whole... Christianity thing." She waves a hand at him. "You might as well be Santa Claus for all the difference it makes to me. Do you guys have that here? Or like, uh... the Erlking or some shit. That seems more appropriate." She's scraping the bottom of her mythology barrel here. "I can't really see you bringing anyone presents. Unless it was like, their own liver, which you just pulled out. Or something." She snickers, inappropriately, at the thought. "Man, guess Daniel was right about you, huh?"

"You're rambling," he says, because it's true. Also, he has no idea how she made the leap of logic from the Devil to Santa Claus, because he's fairly certain that they have two very, very different connotations in modern mythology. And he actually exists, as opposed to Santa Claus.

"Daniel is paranoid," he pours himself another drink, and it is... fairly sloppy, "and has poor verbal filters. Did you ever hear the story of how I fell from Grace?"

Because if there's anything that Lucifer likes, it's talking about his own self.

"Correct," says Iman just as she fires off a message of the same content to Daniel. And well duh, because in her universe the Devil is exactly as likely to be real as Santa Claus, I mean come on.

"Is this a good story?" she asks with unveiled suspicion.

"It's a true story," he replies with a shrug. "And one that you aren't likely to hear anywhere else."

Who else would be able to say that they heard about the Fall of Lucifer from Lucifer's own mouth? A first-hand account of a religious event that there's no physical evidence to prove? Dr. Daniel Paranoid would've wanted to hear it, even if he is paranoid.

"Whether it's good or not greatly depends on your opinion, I'd think."

"Fair enough," she says. She trusts Satan has figured her out well enough by now to know that her opinion is not something she ever keeps to herself. "So is it anything like stories I would have heard if I were, you know, raised in a church or whatever?"

"I doubt it."

No religion on Earth had really gotten it all right, especially not about the things that happened in the beginning.

"I fell from Grace because I loved my Father more than anything."

It's what he was made for, after all-- to love and adore the Lord Almighty. It's what all the angels were made for.

"Then, one day, He came to us and showed us you. The little hairless apes." His mouth twists briefly, just a little, like he's bitten into something sour. "And He told us that we were to love them as we did Him, to bow and serve them as we did Him. I told him that I couldn't, that I couldn't love something as flawed and vicious as humanity like I did God."

And, apparently, being God's favorite son didn't give you a free pass to backtalk in those days.

"For that, He had Michael cast me out of Heaven. He told my big brother to lock me in a cage in the deepest part of Hell, and Michael obeyed Him."

It's a betrayal that Lucifer has spent the past few millennia festering over in the darkest pit in Hell, which really isn't a healthy way for anyone to spend their time.

"And then I rose from my Cage at the start of the Apocalypse and saw what seven billion of you had done. The war, the sin, the suffering, and so much of it blamed on me. But the real truth of it is, your kind never needed the Devil to do wrong. You were all wrong from the start."

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