Lightbringer

Chapter 11: Antihero

I don't know why these stories stand out for me, why I chose to tell these ones and not any of the other multitudes that paraded through my room. Maybe it's because they are such perfect examples of a large percentage of the individuals that I dealt with on a routine basis; maybe it's because these two stories, occurring back-to-back, were so representative of two opposite sides of the damage left in the wake of god: the victim and the victimizer, the abused and the perpetuator of abuse, the penitent and the accuser. Whatever the reason, these memories seared into my mind and burrowed into my skin, forever emblazoned juxtaposed to each other.

As Nyx departed, a woman stormed in, pulling a man along with her. Her glower was thunderous, the slant of her eyebrows perfectly aligning with the slant of her bob, and the curl of her lip is directly proportional to the crook of her akimbo arms. Lips pursed, she huffs in an overly affected way. "FINALLY!" she barks. She points a finger at me. "Are you the manager? I demand to speak to whoever's in charge!"

Slightly out of breath, Crowley runs back in – clearly she'd barged ahead of him – to thrust two files at me and mouth sorry. As soon as his back is turned, I drop them. I already know all I need to know. I turn and pace to the very far end of the room to compose myself. After Nyx, dealing with people like this are the last thing I have energy or patience for. Keep it together, keep it together.

"ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING?" she bellows.

"What my wife means to say," the man breaks in, his tone affectedly paternal and reasoning, "is that there's been a mistake, and no one will listen to us to set it straight. Can you help us?"

"And. What. Mistake. Might. That. Be." I force my voice neutral, speaking each word with care.

"Well, it's obvious." The woman snorts. "WE are born-again Christians who led upright lives – my husband was a pastor! We are supposed to be in heaven, but the front desk lady said this was Hell. So clearly, there's been a cosmic error. So, send us off to heaven now."

I rub my temples. Yep, this is it. This is what's going to strain me to the point of implosion. "Let me get this straight." I drape my arms on the back of my chair for support. "You know I'm Lucifer, correct?"

The curve of the woman's lip sharpens. "Yes, but God is greater than you, so you are subordinate to him. You wouldn't dare wrongfully hold His chosen ones hostage."

"Have you read your Bible?!" Deep breath, don't yell. They both are starting to look a little uncertain. The husband looks downright nervous. "You think that I, your 'Satan', 'devil', lord of darkness, inventor of evil, or whatever, the one you blame for every atrocity committed on earth and responsible for even worse in the spiritual realm... You think I would just buzz you up to heaven on your say-so?"

I know I should be giving them The Talk, telling them about how wrong they've heard it, disillusioning them, and welcoming them to Hell (well, at least the rehabilitation sectors, most likely). But I'm officially at the end of my rope. I'm in agonizing pain. I've had a very long few millennia. I am fresh out of kindness and gentleness, and only have sass and bitchiness left to play. Work with what you have, I suppose.

Karen is gawping at me like a fish. She seems to be struggling for words, but no audible sound comes out. Pastor Husband has closed his eyes and his lips are moving in what I assume is a silent prayer. Finally, she settles on: "GET THEE BEHIND ME, SATAN!"

I mean, really. Honestly, who could resist doing what I did? Not even a saint. I spread my wings and swoop over her head to alight behind her. "Okay, Karen," I say. "Now what?"

She whirls to face me, staggering back, and lets out an incomprehensible series of shrieking sounds. Pastor Husband's whispers get more desperate and fervent. "You are... how dare..." she sputters, articulate at last. "My name is not Karen, it's Dawn!" She rallies herself, planting her legs, hands on her hips, even her hair practically puffing out with her posturing. "Jesus will smite you, devil!"

"Hm, doubtful. But you can ask him yourself if you stick around." I glance out the window at the clock. "He normally comes by on Tuesday afternoons for tea and gossip, so any time now he'll be popping in. You can say hi."

"BLASPHAMY!" This time it's Dawn's husband who roars. I see what they saw in each other.

"It really, really isn't." I rub my face, exhausted. Maybe if I'd just done The Talk like usual this would be over already (probably not), but I just am so over it. I want to be rid of this conversation. No matter what I could possibly say, they won't hear it from me because I'm Lucifer, and we'll just chase our tails for hours until someone gives up.

"In the name of God the Father and his son, Jesus Christ –" Pastor Husband rumbles.

"Will you just SHUT UP!" I shout. There's a moment of sweet silence. It had felt so relieving to finally let it out, but I can't help feeling guilty for yelling (and feeling good doing it). One of them takes an audible breath and for an incandescent moment I think I might actually go dark side and become the devil of their stories if they say one more goddamn word –

"Luce, you will not BELIEVE what I – oh, hello." Wow, Jesus really does save. He steps out of nothing and flashes them a dazzling smile. "I didn't realize you had guests. Hey folks, I'm Jesus. Nice to meet you." My shoulders slump in relief.

"All praise and honor and power to you, our Holy Savior!" Pastor Husband cries, throwing himself to his knees and bowing his head to the floor. Karen (sorry, Dawn) stands frozen, her jaw fallen away from the rest of her face as if all the muscles had stopped working. Jesus looks profoundly uncomfortable.

"Oh, hey, guys, there's no need for that. I'll just... excuse...me..." He sidles between them to get to me. "Come here, you look a fright." He slides an arm around me and helps me back to my chair, where I sink gratefully down. "You always look a little more stretched thin every time I see you, but today you look like you had a planet dropped on you." Mercifully, he'd lowered his voice so the now-starstruck supplicants can't hear. "What happened?"

"What do you think?" I gesture vaguely, then let my eyes drift closed and head rest back for some brief moments of reprieve.

"Um, Lord Jesus...sir?" Dawn begins nervously.

"Here we go," I mumble, not opening my eyes. Jesus stifles a sound between an exasperated laugh and a sigh.

"No, I can't get you into heaven because no one goes there. Yes, everything Lucifer and everyone else here has told you is true. No, he is not the embodiment of evil and yes, he is my friend. If you have any other questions, I'm sure the front desk can answer them. It was good to meet you, now have a nice day."

There's a moment of tense, awkward silence. Clearly, they feel a desperate need to ask more questions and even argue but dare not with someone they worshipped as God and their only hope for a ticket to heaven. Meekly, they slink out without another word.

"Dude," I say as soon as the door closes behind them, "my bitchiness is wearing off on you. You've moved passed self-deprecating into passive aggression."

"I lose patience with their type. Besides, they're only polite and reverent with me because I'm a celebrity." With a beckoning motion, he draws one of the chairs along the wall over to him and sits down, leaning forward earnestly. "But never mind all that. I came to tell you that God stirred."

"What?" I force my eyes open and struggle to a more upright posture, gritting my teeth through the sudden rush of screaming pain that accompanies it. "So it's happening? Now?"

"I don't know. I don't think so, not yet. He just descended his throne and walked before the hosts of heaven, taking a sort of silent stock. Michael asked him if it was time and if we're going to war, and he just smiled enigmatically and returned to his throne."

"So... what does that mean? For us? For Hell?"

He shrugged. "I haven't the foggiest. But I do know this is the first he's stirred in millennia. Surely that has to mean something."

I look over to my wall of charts, predictions, speculations, and contingency plans. I have a thousand theories of what god might do to us, and all of it amounts to mass inevitable destruction. I have no theories on how to prevent it. Well, one flimsy and almost certainly ineffectual one that's more hypothetical and completely untestable unless I'm... well. I look at where I hung my angelic weapon the day I built this place, the day I fell, and wonder just how soon I'll be forced to wield it in battle. I wonder which side Jesus will take, if he takes one at all.

"So," I murmur to myself, "war is coming."