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July 7, 2520
Jul. 8th, 2007 10:26 pmSomewhere on the edges of the Georgia system, most of the former inhabitants of a smallish mining settlement have long ago given up and moved on. The ones that didn't leave the moon went underground when the explosions hit. Here, then, news travels more slowly; even the passage of the IIGA, the biggest thing to hit these forgotten waste lands in decades, has yet to make much of a stir. In these places, the crumbling leftovers of civilization don't even bother to carry the signal anymore.
On this part of the moon it's the very dead of winter. The light snow falling is mixed with ash from fires deep in the still-burning processing plants that no one bothered to put out before they took off or died. The illusion, at least, is peaceful.
The crunch of Lucifer's footsteps (bare) through the snow is relatively loud; he makes no effort to disguise his approach. It's not as though anything human would have survived the radiation for very long, so there's no need to blend in. Dark red wings trail behind him, today a mark of office and ownership much more fundamental than the polished image of Nicolas Rosse. He's paying an official visit, and subtlety is rather lost on this one.
A solitary figure is sitting on the bare branch of a tortured-looking tree, facing the opposite direction. At Lucifer's approach, the figure turns his face upward into the softly falling snow and ash.
"Wondered if you might turn up here," Raguel says, as smoothly as if they were old friends running into each other on the street. "On vacation, maybe."
"Not exactly," Lucifer responds, wry. "This isn't precisely the sort of place where I choose to spend my free time. But," he adds, glancing around at the devastation, "I can see you've been enjoying yourself."
"Ah. Business, then," he sighs, but doesn't turn around. "Always business lately. You never come around for recreation anymore."
"I never came around for recreation in the first place, Raguel."
Raguel just laughs, deep in his chest. And now he does turn to face him, swinging both legs over the branch, reckless. His eyes rake over Lucifer shamelessly; they are an intense, unnatural blue.
"This just in," he says suddenly, pressing one finger to his ear in the archaic method of newscasters everywhere, pushing the signal through the 'verse. He grins slowly, eyes unfocusing as though he's listening. "Going flying?"
"No, and neither are you. There's something I'd like to talk to you about."
"Too cold for you. Exactly why I came here." He's lying, but at least he's more practiced at it now. Charcoal-colored wings unfold behind him and he drops gracefully out of the tree. "I don't get many visitors," he says as he lands, and there's a trace of a whine creeping into his voice.
"That might change if you were easier to track down." Among other things, he adds privately, but that's painfully obvious. "I've come to tell you about an opportunity. An injustice, if you like. There's a man who's about to start a war."
"There's already a war," he says, but he looks interested. "Not very original, is he?"
"That war's been over for ten years, Raguel."
"Huh," Raguel says, and stares at the flames rising from a section of the exploded mining structure. His mind, it seems, is abruptly elsewhere.
"This man," Lucifer continues smoothly, "is providing weapons - and money - and power - to the forces out on the Rim so that they can have the means to attack whomever they like. Not quite fair, I think you'd say, to the innocent inhabitants of the Core who are funding him."
"Innocent?" Raguel repeats softly, and it's impossible to tell whether he's speaking ironically. He refocuses on Lucifer. "Going to fight the Alliance with these weapons, are they?"
"That was the last war," Lucifer says irritably. "Do try and keep up. No, they don't like the Alliance. They don't like being controlled. They don't like- " he doesn’t touch Raguel, but the cadence of his voice is all but grabbing him by the collar, "having no freedom to control their own destinies. And this man is the key."
Raguel's eyes narrow slightly. "Not hard to figure whose side you're on."
Lucifer just smiles, flat and hard and utterly false.
"Why are you telling me this?" Raguel starts to shove his hands in his pockets, but there are no pockets on his suit. He looks down, frowning.
"You know this particular man. Or knew him." Lucifer rustles his wings easily, all nonchalance. "I think you might want to catch up with Gabriel Tam. Ask how his journey of faith is coming along. You can use your own judgement, I'm sure, on anyone who might be with him."
"You know I won't touch anyone else," he says sharply, bristling. "And you must want this guy pretty badly. Out of all the ones you could send, you know I'll succeed."
"That remains to be seen. It will be entertaining, regardless."
"Entertainment," Raguel says with a mournful sigh. "That means there will be surprises."
There's a pause, and then Lucifer laughs at him. It's the same low, warm amusement that Raguel's heard for centuries: first in the Captain's presence, then in the devil's, then in the darkness of his own disoriented mind. He smiles in response, and this one doesn't even look genuine from a distance.
"That's all right," he says earnestly, tilting his head, and runs a finger from Lucifer's shoulder to his elbow. "These days I love surprises."
Lucifer looks pointedly at the hand.
"I'll have to do a little research," Raguel says, as though he hasn't noticed. "Might take a couple of weeks."
"I'm sure the right moment will make itself clear to you."
"Well. We'll see then, won't we. Good night, Lucifer." He bows grandly to take his leave, though the weak sun puts the local time at closer to midmorning. He straightens up, gives an exaggerated wink, and takes off.
"Good night, Raguel," Lucifer replies, watching his progress.
Raguel always succeeds, it's true. And Lucifer knows how he operates, how he lives to imagine there's some shred of purpose to his existence. A couple of days, a couple of weeks at most. The job will be done, and Lucifer's point will be driven home very, very firmly. He turns back the way he came, spares a glance for the flaming equipment - really, how vulgar - and erases his own footprints with every step he takes.
On this part of the moon it's the very dead of winter. The light snow falling is mixed with ash from fires deep in the still-burning processing plants that no one bothered to put out before they took off or died. The illusion, at least, is peaceful.
The crunch of Lucifer's footsteps (bare) through the snow is relatively loud; he makes no effort to disguise his approach. It's not as though anything human would have survived the radiation for very long, so there's no need to blend in. Dark red wings trail behind him, today a mark of office and ownership much more fundamental than the polished image of Nicolas Rosse. He's paying an official visit, and subtlety is rather lost on this one.
A solitary figure is sitting on the bare branch of a tortured-looking tree, facing the opposite direction. At Lucifer's approach, the figure turns his face upward into the softly falling snow and ash.
"Wondered if you might turn up here," Raguel says, as smoothly as if they were old friends running into each other on the street. "On vacation, maybe."
"Not exactly," Lucifer responds, wry. "This isn't precisely the sort of place where I choose to spend my free time. But," he adds, glancing around at the devastation, "I can see you've been enjoying yourself."
"Ah. Business, then," he sighs, but doesn't turn around. "Always business lately. You never come around for recreation anymore."
"I never came around for recreation in the first place, Raguel."
Raguel just laughs, deep in his chest. And now he does turn to face him, swinging both legs over the branch, reckless. His eyes rake over Lucifer shamelessly; they are an intense, unnatural blue.
"This just in," he says suddenly, pressing one finger to his ear in the archaic method of newscasters everywhere, pushing the signal through the 'verse. He grins slowly, eyes unfocusing as though he's listening. "Going flying?"
"No, and neither are you. There's something I'd like to talk to you about."
"Too cold for you. Exactly why I came here." He's lying, but at least he's more practiced at it now. Charcoal-colored wings unfold behind him and he drops gracefully out of the tree. "I don't get many visitors," he says as he lands, and there's a trace of a whine creeping into his voice.
"That might change if you were easier to track down." Among other things, he adds privately, but that's painfully obvious. "I've come to tell you about an opportunity. An injustice, if you like. There's a man who's about to start a war."
"There's already a war," he says, but he looks interested. "Not very original, is he?"
"That war's been over for ten years, Raguel."
"Huh," Raguel says, and stares at the flames rising from a section of the exploded mining structure. His mind, it seems, is abruptly elsewhere.
"This man," Lucifer continues smoothly, "is providing weapons - and money - and power - to the forces out on the Rim so that they can have the means to attack whomever they like. Not quite fair, I think you'd say, to the innocent inhabitants of the Core who are funding him."
"Innocent?" Raguel repeats softly, and it's impossible to tell whether he's speaking ironically. He refocuses on Lucifer. "Going to fight the Alliance with these weapons, are they?"
"That was the last war," Lucifer says irritably. "Do try and keep up. No, they don't like the Alliance. They don't like being controlled. They don't like- " he doesn’t touch Raguel, but the cadence of his voice is all but grabbing him by the collar, "having no freedom to control their own destinies. And this man is the key."
Raguel's eyes narrow slightly. "Not hard to figure whose side you're on."
Lucifer just smiles, flat and hard and utterly false.
"Why are you telling me this?" Raguel starts to shove his hands in his pockets, but there are no pockets on his suit. He looks down, frowning.
"You know this particular man. Or knew him." Lucifer rustles his wings easily, all nonchalance. "I think you might want to catch up with Gabriel Tam. Ask how his journey of faith is coming along. You can use your own judgement, I'm sure, on anyone who might be with him."
"You know I won't touch anyone else," he says sharply, bristling. "And you must want this guy pretty badly. Out of all the ones you could send, you know I'll succeed."
"That remains to be seen. It will be entertaining, regardless."
"Entertainment," Raguel says with a mournful sigh. "That means there will be surprises."
There's a pause, and then Lucifer laughs at him. It's the same low, warm amusement that Raguel's heard for centuries: first in the Captain's presence, then in the devil's, then in the darkness of his own disoriented mind. He smiles in response, and this one doesn't even look genuine from a distance.
"That's all right," he says earnestly, tilting his head, and runs a finger from Lucifer's shoulder to his elbow. "These days I love surprises."
Lucifer looks pointedly at the hand.
"I'll have to do a little research," Raguel says, as though he hasn't noticed. "Might take a couple of weeks."
"I'm sure the right moment will make itself clear to you."
"Well. We'll see then, won't we. Good night, Lucifer." He bows grandly to take his leave, though the weak sun puts the local time at closer to midmorning. He straightens up, gives an exaggerated wink, and takes off.
"Good night, Raguel," Lucifer replies, watching his progress.
Raguel always succeeds, it's true. And Lucifer knows how he operates, how he lives to imagine there's some shred of purpose to his existence. A couple of days, a couple of weeks at most. The job will be done, and Lucifer's point will be driven home very, very firmly. He turns back the way he came, spares a glance for the flaming equipment - really, how vulgar - and erases his own footprints with every step he takes.
