@cagcdbird
Lucifer did not do home calls. He did not get his hands dirty -- he didn’t bother getting himself involved in the affairs of humans. He left that work to his council. Powerful creatures that do his bidding, each one bearing a mark of the Morningstar -- because that’s who he was. Venus. The God of sin. God of nothing. The Earth and the Underworld are his domain, yet in the mirror of his former self... they were nothing. They meant nothing to him.
Lucifer did not do home calls. Yet as the whispering rose, a murmur of a powerful weapon, a conduit of the universe -- he realized that this required a certain... finesse. Yes. That’s the way to put it. His demons are often clumsy. Unrefined. After all, they are creatures of instinct, bound to their own wills and desires. Irritating, that is.
Finding the lab is relatively easy. He just followed the stench. God, he hates doing his own work. Does that say something bad about him? He surpasses security with ease. Alarms blare, the pristine white of the keep turning crimson and bloody with alarms and bodies. His eyes are narrowed into thin, lethal slits -- like the opening of an abyss, his eyes sanguine.
Silence follows the collapse of their bodies. One by one they fall, steady as he makes his way through the lab. The stench runs deep in this place. A rift has been opened, tapped like a tree full of sap -- it’s ichor heady and causing an itch to run under his skin, gnawing and irritating. He rolls out his shoulders, staving off the urge to dominate.
The deeper he gets, the more violent they are, humans with clouded minds, affected by the dense and thick mist that seems to coalesce at the pit of the place. He doesn’t fight. No, that’s far too barbaric for him. He’s able to raise two fingers and see them drop -- like flies being zapped by a lamp.
Simple destruction. Clean, neat. Lucifer’s eyes raise, two great doors -- and in front, a feeble looking man holding a chambered gun. Lucifer can see him. All of him. The sap-like ichor radiating from the soles of his feet to his brain. Mm. This one has been in the thick of it, Lucifer assesses, eyes narrowing. He’s steeped in the chaos like a tea-bag. Reveled in it. “Where is it?” Lucifer queries. “I assume it’s behind this door, but I’d rather know now.” The man says nothing, quivering from head to toe in his boots.
Lucifer tilts his head. “Chop chop,” he makes a come hither motion, palms dyed brown with blood. He’s trying to fight it. He has a resistance to it -- the mist surrounds him in a flurry.
“Inside,” he sputters out. Lucifer heaves a sigh and flicks his wrist. His neck crunches like leaves.
“Well,” he sighs, dusting off his hands. He approaches the metal doors, examines them, paces up and down a few times. Sealed with technology. Iron and steel and locks that would take years to peel apart -- encryption by encryption. He hums to himself, and places both his hands on the crack, his fingertips finding purchase in the small slit that splits the center.
It’s easy to slide them apart after that, pushing them open with inhuman strength --
He’s greeted with another white room. “They really need a better interior designer,” he rubs the metal shavings off his fingers, grimacing at the feel, and his eyes rake over the walls.
There’s a girl there. Lucifer tilts his head, looks around again. His frown clings to his brow as he approaches, slow and smooth, with the grace of a cat. “You... wouldn’t happen to know where a world-destroying weapon would be, no?” He gestures this way and that, listening to her breath.
If he thought the previous man was steeped in it... she’s bathed in it. Like holy light. It reminds him of a time he’d rather forget. He purrs. “Ahhh,” he grows closer. She’s blind. He makes his footfalls loud. “You’re it.” Lucifer crouches down low, examining her every which way. “Fascinating. You poor thing.”
