matri | (no subject)

"Now there's a face I never saw at the family barbecue." Lucifer stalks closer, a little bit aggressive, a little bit curious.

"Who could enjoy a family get-together with you and your siblings screaming and throwing fits every five minutes?" She'll take that aggressive curiosity, little Archangel, and hoist you a DGAF.

"What dinner were you at? Most of them were quiet. Quieter than your howler monkeys."

Lucifer was the rabble rouser, and he knows it.

There's a barely there eye-roll. He has a point though.

"Perhaps. But at least my own only needed to be told once to do as they were told." Doesn't mean she ever made them be quiet, of course.

"Your good little slaves. Or maybe, your kids had reason to listen to you." He smiles blandly. "Would you have listened to my Father?"

"I listened to your father for aeons." One brow goes up as she walks closer, hands lifting to straighten his shirt out, dust a bit of dirt off his shoulder. She did always like Lucifer. Well, she says like.

"Look where that got us."

"I think we're better off than he is."

Yeah he's not used to being touched, Mother. But he smiles and seems to welcome it. Attention starved little angel here. "We're both out of prison."

Yeah, but do you think she cares? Just be lucky she's never wanted it enough to try and convert an angel into one of her own children. One of those 'off-limits' types. Aren't you speshul.

"Perhaps. He could be off on vacation right now. More relaxing, but definitely not the better option." Always such angry, yet muted conviction in her tone when she speaks of Him. But hey, she'll slide a hand down to take Lucifer's in her own, to tug him along with her on a stroll. To where? No where particular. Just walking. Be good, she's behaving, too.

She's not God. Not even close, of course. But she's the nearest thing to a Creator that he's been around since his Fall, which makes him feel like he's re-stoking his personal vendetta. As if it needed that.

He laces his fingers with hers, as if he isn't mildly annoyed at how presumptuous she had been in touching him.

"I never did see what happened to you."

No, she most certainly is not God. But she is a creator; one made specifically to create, just what God couldn't. Or ... well, probably tried and way overdid. You can thank him for the Leviathans.

But she is a creator in her own right, nigh on match with God and Death in their ranking, if not a step or two below. Even Lucifer would have little to no power over her. Sorry, babe. But finger lacing is more than fine, as shoulder brushing follows suit, her grip guiding him along on their aimless walk.

"Your Father decided to scrap the old regime after you were so rudely locked away." Of course, she kind of liked Lucifer's ideas of chaos. Of war. Maybe not enough to bother fighting in it, but enough to watch.

"So he shooed Death off, and threw me to the pits of Purgatory and melted down the key." Livid as she is about God and his .. antics, she merely sounds a little miffed. Then again, she always was good at playing the calm-card. All Mighty Fury was more God's thing.

"He had a thing for trying to lock up his problems, didn't he?" He didn't respect her, despite the fact she could have knocked him down a few pegs. But Lucifer didn't respect anyone; appreciating her creations was as close he got to it. There's a reason Lucifer never warped her monsters--there's a reason he only changed the things that God had made.

"How did you get out, again? All these rumors..."

"Mm." It's a thoughtful hum of acknowledgement. She had no reason to take up beef with the little Morning Star, nor did she really care to. Violence was fun, sure, but not unless it had merit. Pointless? Well, that's just a waste. At least if it comes from her.

"Much more simple than your release, I can promise you that." She even had a vessel ready and waiting. "An orchestrated dance above ground, and a few weeks later, here I am, breathing Earth's soiled air." Her thumb brushes against the back of his hand in a mockery of affection.

He doesn't mind the mockery; it's how he does things, too. In so many ways (ways he doesn't want to acknowledge) she is like him. Or he is like her--he was created after she was around, after all.

"It's terrible, isn't it?"

"Mm, I do love truth in literature. There's so much of it in the world."

Oh hey, is that a random woman hanging out in your bat-cave, eyeing a random sticky-poster on your wall? I think so. And don't think about Jumping, little girl. It won't work.

She had been curled up in her bed, reading a Chuck Palahniuk book that was gathering dust on her stand. Gerry is very vulnerable at the second. She is only wearing a pair of shorts and a ratty t-shirt. At the voice, she springs up from the bed. The intention is to Jump to her big wall of weapons, but something blocks her. After getting a look at the girl, who couldn't be any older than herself, Gerry decides to risk her chances with the knife she keeps under her pillow. She lashes out, the blade glinting in the light.

Such hostility! All the time. But hey, go ahead, it's just a little knife. Gerry can sink it in wherever she likes, and Eve? Not even a flinch. She just carries on, looking at the posters, pictures, drawings and sketches, mutely fascinated.

"Not very inviting, are you?"

She sinks the knife right in the center of the girl's chest. The stranger doesn't so much as blink. Gerry's eyes widen as far as they possibly can, giving her a look even crazier than usual. She pulls it out again and walks backward until she hits one of her computer desks. Is she dreaming? Did she finally snap? "What the fuck." It's not even a question, but a statement on absurdity of the situation. "Is there... a reason I should be inviting?"

There isn't even a blood stain. Just a sliced night gown and a puckered bit of healing skin. Gerry won't see it, but the little threads of black 'sewing' the flesh back together... well. She isn't seeing it.

"I'm here to visit. Why shouldn't you be?" Now she turns to the blonde girl, expression vaguely curious. "You're not like the rest of God's little infants, are you? Well-" She muses, stepping closer. "You are, just ... tweaked."

"Because people don't visit me." In another time, Gerry might have realized how that verged on being pathetic. She doesn't notice at the moment, not with the freak in her Lair. On instinct, she draws into herself when the girl mentions God. That never bodes well for her. Then, Gerry raises her chin defiantly. "I'm not God's little anything."

Again she strikes, attempting to rip the girl's flesh from shoulder to shoulder. Gerry wants a peek inside. This thing, whatever it is, is blocking her Jumps. It could be some kind of new Paladin technology.

That just happens to like it wandered out of a really skeevy porno.

You know, Gerry. When you rip a knife across someone's shoulders, when all she's wearing is a strappy nightgown, that nightgown is going to fall right off. At least you'll get to see the slice of skin, black where red should be, almost hissing... and not a single drop of blood. Like drained, post-mortem. She thinks it's pretty, if not annoying. Now she simply sighs. Sighs like she's dealing with a particularly petulant child.

"Oh you're one of His things alright. I certainly didn't make you. You're human as they come." Does she sound bored and just a little bit motherish? Sure. "And to ease your questioning mind; your Paladins have nothing to do with me, nor I them. You're all just God's mis-lead children, running in circles with your heads cut off. It's no bother of mine."

She does however, step closer to the blonde, regardless of where they'd both been at this point. "But you are precious. Forcing your own path in life, regardless of His lack of path. And chaotic all the way."

Raphael is utterly unimpressed with his life at the moment. Which, to be fair, is typical when he has to walk on Earth. The suffering bothers him - and since there is little he can do to fix it, it bothers him more.

Still he can poke around a little, from time to time.

And who should be roaming the Earth, but Mommy dearest. She's not up to anything, at least, not at this very moment. She's just .. wandering. Occasionally dropping in on a den or clan, pack or pride. Never usually interacting... but watching, letting her presence wash over any supernatural being in the vicinity.

And so sorry Raphael, but you're Grace is gonna be feeling pretty limp right about now.

All he had been doing was wandering near the sea shore, looking out over some hatching site.

But when he'd attempted to reach out and check on the new fry...nothing. His Grace was clipped. He can, as it turns out, be less impressed than he was.

And there were only a few who could have done this. So he glances around, looking for the responsible party.

There is really nothing more unfathomably stupid than continuing to pretend like nothing is wrong when everything is wrong. He's been found out. The gods won't take him, he'd rather avoid the angels, and everything's falling to pieces, but he still plays his own little games, in his own little world and tries to pretend he isn't reeling from what happened to Lucifer and Michael and what's currently happening in Heaven.

Which is why there's a tiny little town in the Midwest dealing with a few unusual incidents with a couple of reported deaths. Weird coincidences, mostly. Certainly has nothing to do with that Pepsi stockboy over there.

Plans take time, if done right. And this world doesn't need every second of her attention, nor do her children. The eldest can take watch for a few nights as she makes her rounds, exploring, getting a feel for this newer Earth. It's still the same really. Just messier, more full of Daddy's little cockroaches. They were stubborn, she'd give them that. But all it ever was, was an ever revolving story. The same thing, over and over again.

So when something new happens? A few murders out of no where, comical almost... Oh, she has to go see what they're getting up to. She knows it isn't a human. But it certainly isn't one of her own. So just who is having so much fun down here? Uncaring for their Father's absence or Michael's right hook?

Crowley didn't so much as blink.

Instead, he continued reading his book, resting it on one knee as he ignored the passing crowd, completely absorbed in whatever he was doing.

He knew the Mother was there. He didn't particularly give a damn.

Oh, but she always gives a damn about her heathen little nieces, nephews, and the like.

No she doesn't. But it's always a joy watching them squirm in disgust at her presence.

"I like this vessel of yours. So much more well put than the last one." Which was ... forever ago. But you know. It's been a while. And yes, she is sitting down on that seat right next to you, be it on the second couch seat, or just on the arm of a smaller chair.

"I thought it suited me."

Crowley closed his book before he glanced over at her -- it, really -- his eyes narrowed slightly.

"What do you want?"

Her, thank you. She'll always choose a female over a male vessel. Always.

"I can't come say hello to an old friend?" Does she sound sincere in the slightest? Nope. "You wound me, Crowley."

"Friend is an extraordinarily strong word considering our allegiances and goals."

Crowley was still, watching her, ready to leave but ready to relax at the same time. He held no fear in his stature or eyes, but instead of reproachful wariness, as he did with most everyone he spoke to. Paranoia was what kept you alive in their universe. Reckless stabbing about was not.

"Don't you have kittens to herd?"

"That's not very nice. And here I was, all ready to lend you a hand." She takes a drink from the nearest table, untouched and curiously unowned, sipping it lightly. Hm. Christmas in a cup.

"Our goals might not be that far apart."