The Devil's Advocate | Seulrene

I

Angels and devils are often described extravagantly in human fiction, usually depicted with luscious white wings and extensive tails with pointed, red tips but, luckily for Bae Irene, in reality this wasn't the case. Having to conceal wings double her size would considerably dampen her plan to infiltrate a conference in hell- all she has to do is remove a glowing halo, an act that feels so undoubtedly wrong, but immediately swabs her of any indicating identity. Wearing the luminescent rings definitely shoveled coal into the fire between the warring species-- devils don't have halos, hell, most of them don't even have horns, (something that had evolved out of most of their bloodlines over the millenniums) so why on earth did angels feel the need to pad their already inflated egos with neon evidence? It was an argument as long as time. Literally.

Without her radiant crown, it was surprisingly easy for Irene to get into Hell; she'd had some help of course, from angel 'defectors' who were still working for Heaven, but other than a few tight squeezes here and there, she came out of her journey relatively unscathed.

Now she's walking through a lavish party celebrating the underworld she swears to despise so much. It's all very extravagant with extra high ceilings that round to a point in the centre decorated with work likened to Michelangelo in the Sistine Chapel and large glass panes that are so clear it's like looking at water frozen in motion. Waiters dance effortlessly through crowds of devils that grow, shrink, pulse and move around the venue like hives as they serve alcohol, and other 'classy party foods' that Irene has never quite understood: like cheese and pineapple sticks and melon layered with ham. The thing that really tips the whole thing over the edge for her is Bloody Marys being served with an added flourish as if the beverage was named after Hell itself.

The atmosphere is relaxed in contrast to the constant fuel of adrenaline rushing through her in waves that take her off guard each time. There's no imminent danger; everyone's keeping to their respective social circles, occasionally mingling with one another like a bride and groom's family but inevitably separating later. There's nobody who has even given her a second glance or inspected her outfit (which she so meticulously put together) so why is it that her fingers aren't steady when she curiously plucks a stick of cheese and pineapple off of a platter?

Maybe it's the orange lighting and the warm hues everywhere that remind her that she's far from home. The yellows in the chandeliers that, whilst appearing dainty, would probably kill you if they came crashing down and the red swirls of colour in the numerous tapestries and paintings lining the brown panelled walls all were all a jarring pointer that she was amongst the enemy in a place that upheld and maybe even worshipped morals completely the opposite of her own. She had always considered devils inferior to angels. Who wouldn't? Each one was a defector, a fallen angel who had rejected their own tradition-infused society and created their own rules, each one more ruthless and savage than the last. At least that's what she had been brought up to believe: Hell was a firey pit where each being inhabiting the licking flames are scorched, objectively ugly and so tickled by the idea of murder that they built their own world around the idea. This angelic propaganda, so far, had yet to be proven. The gathering was surprisingly civilized with neatly pressed suits and dresses that never rode above the top of the knee although she did find herself wincing and jerking whenever the room exploded with raucous laughter or something else of the sort... Maybe she needs a drink to take the edge off.

Approaching the bar she's greeted with an array of spirits in varied colours, their glass catching the light and shimmering in luminescent patterns that shift whichever way she turns and moves. It's more mesmerizing to stare in awe at bottled alcohol than Irene would like to admit and anyone would think she's an underage teenager stepping into a liquor store clutching a fake ID for the first time by the expression on her face. Beneath the stools lining the counter is a flattened rectangular rug stained slightly darker in the middle from consistent foot traffic fading out towards the lighter more plumpy, cottony edges which had clearly escaped many encounters. Now that she's seemingly snapped out of her starstruck epiphany, a bar-tender crosses over to her only to be cold-shouldered when she sees the prices. Instead, she snags a Bloody Mary from a passing waiter (because they're free) and resumes her seat. She likes to fancy that she did so in stylish elegance.