“Good morning, Marisia,” Azrael sings as he skips up the last of the stone steps.

The woman at the desk grunts. “Morning is a concept relative to location and individual perception,” she replies flipping the page in the book she’s reading. “It’s entirely subjective, and therefore, irrelevant.”

“I’m having a marvelous day,” Azrael chirps back. “Thank you so much for asking.”

The melody of his voice drags her attention away from the page.

“What’s wrong with your face?” she asks under a furrowed brow.

“It’s called a smile, my sweet Mari.”

“Weird,” her eyes remain glued for another moment before flitting back to the book. “Anyway, what do you want?”

“Oh, just checking in with our fearless and charismatic leader. Has he been in a productive mood lately?”

“That depends,” Marisia replies.

“On?”

“Do S&M orgies count as productivity?”

“Orgies?” He cocks an eyebrow.

“Yep.”

“As in plural?”

“Mhmm,” she hums, turning another page.

“Well,” Azrael shakes the image from his mind. “Have you at least been able to keep him off the sauce?”

“Oh,” she tilts her eyes back up. “I didn’t know you were serious about that.”

“And why wouldn’t I be serious?” Azrael pinches the bridge of his nose with two bony fingers.

“You’re a sarcastic prick,” she says matter-of-factly. “And babysitting a highly aggressive archangel going through withdrawal sounds like a horrible way to spend my existence.”

“Yes, god forbid you do something useful with it. Besides scheduling gangbangs, of course. We all know how valuable you are in that regard. I’m sure your knowledge of whips and lubricants is without rival.”

“See?” She points a finger at him. “Sarcastic prick.”

“Well, I may as well see if I can’t get him to support the cause for a couple of hours; but in the future, please do try to keep him away from the needles?”

Marisia grunts her assent. Or maybe it’s indifference. It’s always difficult to say for sure.

“Splendid,” Azrael skates by her desk and leans his shoulder against the heavy door to the adjoining room, but stops before entering. “Actually, on second thought, the next time he’s shooting up, go ahead and dose yourself as well. That way you’ll appear as incompetent as you are, and save me the trouble of a conversation.”

Marisia throws a middle finger over her shoulder as he passes into the dark stone room behind her.

Azrael strides across the floor, throwing open a black curtain, and revealing a landscape of liquid fire extending to the edges of the horizon. The heat pouring from its surface washes over him, and fills the room with a dull orange light.

“Go away,” a gruff voice spits from a large black lump, curled on top of a rotten four post bed; the top part of a face is all that’s visible in the tangle of blankets.

“Good morning, General,” Azrael stands tall, facing the bright glow of the Santa Lucia Sea. “And what a magnificent sunrise to mark the occasion.”

“Don’t be a dick, Azrael,” the figure flips over, blocking the light with his body. “It’s not a sunrise. It’s an ocean of face-melting lava.”

“So is a sunrise,” the gaunt man turns toward the lump on the bed. “How you regard it depends entirely on perspective.”

“Cute,” the lump replies. “Who put the rainbow up your butt?”

 

The figure sits up in bed, fixing Azrael with two bright golden eyes, shining with irritation. “Then why are you here?”

“I need your help, Sir.”

“Of course you do,” the man slumps back to the mattress. “And will you please stop calling me Sir?”

“Fine,” Azrael rolls his eyes. “Will you help me oh great and powerful Lucifer, Lord of the Underworld, and Commander of the Legions of the Fallen?”

“Better,” he replies. “But you’re being a dick again. The wars over. We lost. Cut the shit.”

“Oh come on, Luci,” Azrael reaches down and throws the blankets off of him. “I need you up to the old pride and glory today. Fire and blood, death and destruction, eternal suffering and all that.”

“Why?” Lucifer covers his face with his arm. “We’re stuck in this dry scab of a dimension, and we’re not getting out.”

“Which is all the more reason for us to maintain some order. Just last week there was a massive riot in the Southwest Quadrant.”

“The whole quadrant?”

“Yep. Dissent spread like wildfire. Half the mines had to be shut down.”

“Is it under control?”

“Yes. I saw to that personally.”

“Then I ask again, why are you here?”

“Fear,” Azrael replies.

“Fear?”

“Yes sir. There’s not a soul, alive or dead, with your talent for inspiring the great ranks of unwashed; whether it be debilitating fear or a blistering sense of rebellion, your expertise is unparalleled.”

Lucifer studies the gaunt man’s face, searching his features for any trace of duplicity. “Hngh,” he grunts after a pause, and pushes himself into a sitting position. “Fine.”

“Splendid,” Azrael claps his hands together and spins on his heels, pacing toward a thick iron wardrobe pushed against the opposite wall. He throws the wardrobe open, revealing two suits of plated armor hanging on the inside of either door: one a pale grey, and the other a deep, smeared crimson. “Which would you prefer today, General?”

Lucifer swings his feet over the side of the bed, and squints his eyes against the sheen of the metal.

“You cleaned them,” he remarks.

“Technically, Marisia cleaned them,” Azrael says.

“Really?” he stands and stretches. “How’d you get her to do that? She never listens to me.”

“I asked nicely.”

“Huh,” Lucifer shrugs. “I’ll have to try that some time.”

The buzz of the intercom cracks on over their heads. “I don’t do the things you ask me,” Marisia’s voice rings through the room. “Because it usually involves inserting something I don’t want to touch, into a place that I don’t want to see.” The intercom goes silent, and the two men exchange a look.

“Anyway,” Azrael continues. “The red is always good for a strong sense of foreboding, but if we went with the grey we could splatter some blood on you, make it look like you’re on the warpath, make them feel the threat of imminent violence.”

“Can’t we splatter blood on the red one?”

“Of course, but if we want it to stand out, we would have to drench you in it; and that just feels…forced.”

“Hmm,” Lucifer considers this. “It does seem like a cartoonish amount of blood, but that’s what I’ve always liked about the crimson armor, it looks like it’s been stained with the lives of my enemies.”

“As you wish,” Azrael unhooks the red suit, carrying it with ease. He lays it out across the bed, and then walks over to a control panel on the wall behind the door. As Lucifer assembles the armor piece by piece, Azrael taps the keys on the panel with a deft dexterity, causing a camera to rise from the center of the floor. “I was thinking of positioning the lens at an upward angle. Your suit will catch the glow from the Santa Lucia without the distracting glare of a direct shot. Plus, it will give the effect that they’re looking up at you.”

“Making me the towering center of attention,” Lucifer fixes a gauntlet to his wrist while eyeing the wall that’s to be his backdrop. “I like it; but do you think we could get a couple of bodies in the shot, dangling by their intestines, if possible.”

“Hmm,” Azrael makes a frame with his slender fingers, and peers through it with one eye closed. “I don’t see that being a problem.” He presses the red call button on the control panel. “Marisia, will you find a couple of humans and send them up to Goran in the nest?”

“By any means necessary?” Her voice spikes with excitement.

“Volunteers, preferably,” he replies with a shake of the head. “Tell them they will be compensated for their time, and put up in hospice for the duration of their recovery.”

“Fine.” Marisia cuts out. Azrael sighs and punches a three digit code into the intercom.

“This is the nest,” a bored voice answers after one ring.

“Goran, it’s Azrael. I’m sending a couple of bodies up to you. Would you be so kind as to rough them up a bit and hang them by their intestines just outside of the General’s window?”

“Sure thing. Do you want them conscious?”

Azrael looks to Lucifer, who holds up an index finger as he adjusts the twisted black horns that curl from his helm.

“Just one of them,” he replies. “But not screaming-in-pain type of conscious. We need some agonized moaning, but make sure there’s a pervading sense of hopelessness to it.”

“You got it,” Goran affirms and hangs up.

“Azrael?” Lucifer says, placing the helmet atop his head. “You said the riot was in the Southwest Quadrant?”

“That’s correct, sir.”

“Isn’t that Rael’s jurisdiction?”

“Yes sir.”

“Then why are you handling it?”

“Rael has,” Azrael clears his throat, “abandoned his post.”

“What do you mean he abandoned?” He laughs. “There’s nowhere to go.”

“He jumped the border, but don’t worry sir,” the gaunt man hurries to explain. “I plan on reprimanding him properly when he returns.”

“Reprimand?” A grin spread across Lucifer’s face. “Nonsense. Nobody’s made a successful jump in a century. I’m going to buy that man a drink and a—” He freezes in sudden realization. “Wait. Did you say when he returns?”

“Yes sir,” Azrael’s shoulders slump.

“He’s still on Earth?”

“Yes sir. He seems to be quite adept at evading capture.”

“Ohohoho, forget the drink. I’m throwing that man a party. It’s gonna be one of the biggest orgies this place has ever seen.”

“But General,” Azrael protests. “Rael incited the riot himself, causing a tidal wave of damages and civil unrest, violating three Satanic mandates in the process, and all just so he could have a holiday.”

“Oh lighten up, Z,” Lucifer waves him off. “You’re just jealous you didn’t think of it first.”

“Jealous?” Azrael flushes with anger. “Any moron with a pack of matches can start a riot. I’d like to see him try to talk his way past the guardians. That takes real skill.”

“Hey,” Lucifer puts up his hands in surrender. “Cast doubt all you want. All I know is that anyone who can avoid Gabriel for this long, has talent.”

Azrael stews in his frustration, struggling to fight the sudden swell of pride with his rational mind. “Unfortunately,” he starts. “I have to agree with you on that one.”

“I don’t know how he’s managing it,” Lucifer laughs. “But if he beats my record, I may have to come out of retirement. Did I ever tell you about the time I jumped into that snake?”

“On a number of occasions,” Azrael turns away and arcs his eyes.

“Hah! It took Gabriel three days to figure it out, but by then it was too late. I still remember the fury in his eyes when he finally found me. Almost made it worth the beating.”

“And a riveting tale, Sir,” Azrael cuts him off, seeing that Goran has lowered the bodies into the background. “But the faster we get down to business, the faster you can get back to your more…” he eyes the needles scattered across the bedside table, “…pressing matters.”

Lucifer turns around to see Goran’s handiwork. One of the bodies is half-charred and hanging lifeless, a heavy chain wrapped around its neck, with guts spilling out the left side of the torso. The second, suspended with its head back and face toward the sky, emitting a low guttural moan as it sways from its own intestines, which protrude from the eviscerated stomach.

“Beautiful,” he whispers. “Kind of makes me wish I could keep them there.”

“Well, I’ve only promised to compensate them for the hour, so if we could get on with it.”

“Right,” Lucifer spins back around, shaking out his body, and staring into the camera, his bright golden eyes shining through the deep red visor of his helmet. “Death and destruction. Fire and blood. Death and destruction. Fire and blood.”

Azrael punches a few more keys on the control panel. “I’m uploading your speech now. It should be on the teleprompter in a matter of minutes.”

“No need. Just roll.”

“No, but I’ve highlighted all of the key points you need to touch on, and have been working all week to—

“Azrael,” Lucifer cuts him off. “Please, I’m a professional. Just roll.”

“As you wish,” the gaunt man lets out a heavy sigh, and hits record.