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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"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."

Iman eyes him thoughtfully throughout his ~~lecture~~ story, nodding once or twice. Sounds about as overwrought as everything about Christianity always did, to her.

"Well," she hedges after a moment. "Yeah, I can see why that'd make a guy pretty angry."

She sips her whiskey.

"But on the other hand." She really can't resist saying this. "I mean, look. Your whole purpose or whatever was to love God, right? So God asks you to do something, and you didn't. So... how was he supposed to react? You were his favorite kid, right, and then you just fuckin... tossed off his creation like it was nothing. Right? I mean if we're goin with that origin story."

This whole thing feels like a theoretical debate to her, having to accept that some pushy dad figure invented humanity, instead of the fascinating biological twists and turns that were actually the cause. But she suspects she won't get anywhere with that line of conversation.

"Sounds pretty shitty, to me," she says. "Selfish. Love has to be selfless, to some degree, but you prioritized your wants over your father, who you claim to love better than anyone. Your whole argument just falls apart right there, if you ask me."

Which she knows he didn't. She raises a hand. "But I know, what do I know? I'm just a flawed, vicious, hairless ape." There's just no convincing some people, but that doesn't mean she can't make a go at it.

Edited 2014-10-10 02:21 (UTC)

"But is it fair that the one time I think for myself instead of blindly following my Father's orders, he has me thrown into Hell for millennia by the brother that raised me?"

God was really into the wrath thing back in the day.

"And considering that He is omnipotent and omniscient, He created Hell knowing what its ultimate purpose would be, and He created me knowing that I would rebel. Taking that into account, what other conclusion can you come to but that God wanted the Devil?"

If an omniscient, omnipotent God hadn't wanted for Lucifer to fall, than He would have simply made him so that he wouldn't fall. If God hadn't wanted Hell to be full of fallen angels and damned souls, it wouldn't exist.

"And it was God who demanded there be no resolution except for the Apocalypse. He wanted it, all of it, and then He left us."

Oh boy. Iman is beginning to regret asking. She sighs heavily.

"No, man, it's not even a little fair," she says. "That fucking sucks. But like, you're playing right into his hand. I guess that's the whole point, if he set up everything just to knock it all down, which is... uh, some fucking bullshit, if you ask me. But if he left - I mean, like, what, actually left? Where did he even go? Don't answer that. Point is, if he left, what do you even care anymore? You can do whatever you want, man. You don't gotta destroy everything. It's not gonna change his mind. Especially not if he's gone."

She frowns, thinking it over carefully, a rather involved process, as drunk as she is. "Well, and furthermore, now you're here. And... God's not here. At least not your God. So... more than ever now, you can do whatever the hell you want. Pardon the expression."

Edited 2014-10-10 05:44 (UTC)

He snorts, like something she's said is horribly funny in that unfunny ironic way.

"Would you believe me if I said I tried that already?"

Sort of. He'd tried broaching the subject, anyway-- taking the third option.

"But Michael is the good son. Too obedient and true to go against our Father's orders and walk off the chessboard with me."

No matter how much he had wanted Michael to say yes, to say to Hell with all of it and screw whatever their Father's plans were, his brother would never agree to it. Lucifer tilts his head and rests a stubbly cheek on his fist.

"Maybe he thought that following His orders would bring Him back."

Like it was a test, and God would come back if they answered the question right.

"Welp." Iman raises her hands in an exaggerated shrug. It's not that she doesn't sympathize, it's just that Satan is not very sympathetic. "Guess who is not in this universe. Michael. So hey. You win. I mean, sort of through a weird interdimensional loophole, but..." She takes a break for another swig. "Think of this like a vacation. Try investigating the shit about humans your weird dysfunctional family actually likes. Sounds like you've been isolated a long time anyway, you might learn more by watching instead of just trying to break everything."

By now she's starting to guess what all the police tape in the park was about. She wonders what exactly did happen, but she sure as hell ain't gonna ask.

Things about humans that angels like? Lucifer actually does laugh at that, short and sharp.

"Angels don't like humans, Iman."

Castiel was a fluke, not the norm, and Gabriel had gone native. They aren't exactly representative of the whole of Heaven.

"Angels look at humans like collateral damage. That's all you are to them-- souls in Heaven or demons in Hell, and they'll kill you all just the same and, as they say, let God sort it out."

He doesn't even want to break everything. The Earth itself is so beautiful, the last true handiwork of their Father, and he just wants to purify it. Purge it of the human corruption that threatens to destroy it.

Iman startles slightly at the laugh, oh jeez, what can she do to make that never happen again; and rolls her eyes at his response.

"Ooh, what, is that supposed to make me sad or something?" She shakes her head. Angels. Who cares about angels? She's never had to deal with them her whole life, she's not gonna change her massively indifferent mood about it now. "Then be a big damn misanthrope, see if I care. I'm just saying you don't have to do whatever it is you had to do back home. Because this is a different place, see. Old results aren't gonna come of following old rules here. We gotta make up new ones."

This is probably about as wise as she's going to get, the way she's putting her drinks away. She hopes they can change the subject soon. This is getting ridiculous.

Sorry that the issues that tore Lucifer's family apart aren't interesting enough for you.

"Am I supposed to be pleased that I've been dragged from home and shoved into a cage with clipped wings? I have done terrible things to be free, Iman. I will do many more if it means I might be able to be free again."

He has fought wars against his brothers, he has killed and tortured and schemed, he has made evil his good because the Lord declared that he could not be both good and free. He said his farewells to hope and fear and remorse a long time ago.

"Or as free as I can ever be."

This line of conversation is driving the Devil to drink-- or, at least, it's driving him to drink right now, because he's going to fill that glass right up again and drain it down. He could almost envy humans for their ability to get plastered without having to devote so much time and effort to it.

"Well, hold your damn horses," she says. "There might be a better way out than the 'terrible things' route."

She polishes off her latest drink and takes a moment to take stock. She's already lost count.

"I'm gonna change to wine," she says abruptly. To the bartender, "Hey, gimme the cheapest red you got. Whole bottle please. You," to Lucifer, "drink more. You need it."

Lucifer watches her order a terrible life decision in a bottle with an expression of mild disgust.

"I've drank more than one bar from top shelf to bottom, and cheap red wine has to be the worst thing I've put in my mouth all night."

Which is seriously saying something. The Devil has been fairly indiscriminate about what kind of alcoholic beverage he puts down his throat, and it's quite possible that he's drank things that really aren't fit for human consumption. Like rubbing alcohol, or kerosene.

"You should really see someone about your latent masochism."

"Oh, I'm sorry, did you think I was offering this to you?" Iman gives him a seriously unimpressed look. "This is for me. Get your own. I'm not magic so I gotta budget my shit. Trust me if I could afford it I'd drink fancy fuckin sangiovese every goddamn day."

She's offered a glass, but she swigs from the bottle. Fuck it.

"You should really see someone about your everything," she counters, "though there isn't enough money in the world for that potential therapist."

"I've got plenty of my own. I just want to know why you insist on alcoholic self-flagellation right in front of me."

Because willingly putting cheap red wine in your mouth is approximately the same as beating yourself, except for your liver.

Lucifer quite pointedly pours his actually kind of disgustingly flavored vodka into a glass before drinking it, because he's still got his dignity. Or, he does for now, anyway.

"I don't think health insurance covers acts of God."

Which, y'know, is the cause of his problems. And also possibly what would happen to the therapist after they annoyed Lucifer sufficiently.

"Because I'm on a budget, as I just explained." Iman takes another swig. The wine is thin and vinegary as hell, but whatfuckingever, in a few more sips she'll be way too drunk to know the difference anyway. "If it bothers you that much you can always extend some generosity and upgrade me."

She's not really fishing. Mostly because she doesn't think he'll do it, and mildly because she doesn't think she wants favors from Satan.

She eyes his vodka suspiciously. "Are you trying to tell me that's any better?"

"No, but I have a good reason for my alcoholic self-flagellation."

He's fairly certain that being informed of a terrible personal tragedy gave you the inalienable right to attempt to destroy your liver with an organic poison for a while. It's like an unwritten rule of the universe or something-- you are exempt from making good decisions for one night while you postpone getting your shit together.

Lucifer looks at her bottle of wine, then across the bar at the better vintages of wine, and thinks about it for a second. He seems to be having a sort of inner debate for a few moments, which apparently ends with both sides of the argument saying 'eh, fuck it'. He snaps his fingers.

The wine in her bottle is suddenly not the wine that she had been drinking, but is, in fact, wine from a better bottle. Some time, some day, someone is going to order a bottle of what they think is good wine and will end up with a mouthful of crap, but that day is not today.

Oh, like her reasons aren't legit. Whatever. She rolls her eyes and takes another swig from her bottle, then almost chokes on it when the flavor changes mid-drink.

"Holy-" She pulls it away, staring at it, then looks back at him. "Holy shit."

Well. That was... nice of him. A material alchemist probably could have pulled it off just as easily, but that's not her line of work, and of course he did it without contact, which is pretty impressive. Or would be if he weren't literally Satan.

"Uh, thanks." She takes another drink. "Much improved."

"Even if you're acting like a homeless lush, you shouldn't drink like one."

Satan has standards, he's just not living up to his own right now.

He starts to pour himself another glass, but stops short and considers the glass and the bottle and the whole process of using a middleman between himself and liquid liver destruction. Sure, there's more dignity to using the glass, but he a.) is an archangel, therefore by default more dignified than humans, b.) doesn't care about the opinions of others, and mostly importantly, c.) is drunk.

He shrugs and throws back a good third of the bottle in one long pull.

And makes a face.

"That really is hideous."

And that is still not going to stop him from drinking it. It's almost fascinating in its horribleness-- like a twenty-car pile-up in his mouth.

Wow, fuck you, you classist dick. Iman is debating going off on him for that, but is conveniently distracted by the sight of him going down on the goddamn vodka bottle.

"I'm fucking shocked," she says at his assessment, arching an eyebrow as she enjoys more of her nice wine. "That's disgusting. But hey, whatever, don't let me judge you or anything. You do you, trashking." She lifts her bottle, a bit unsteadily, but manages not to spill any on the way back down to her mouth. Wine is good. Wine is so good.

"If you use the word trash in relation to me again," he says conversationally, "you're going to find out what it's like to have all the blood in your veins switched out for the cheap wine you aren't drinking right now."

Protip: it wouldn't be pleasant.

Not pleasant, just like the vodka that he's going to pour down his gullet right about now, not really doing anything to disprove that whole trashking thing, but because fuck you, that's why. Once it's empty, he sets the bottle down on the bar top and just sort of sits there for a moment. It looks like he's either concentrating very hard on something, or possibly is just drunk.

"I think I'm starting to feel something."

So... just drunk.

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