As they walked back to where he had parked, the adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a cold, lingering fear that crept along Cain's spine. The normal sounds of the city, the passing cars and distant chatter, felt thin and insubstantial after the silent horror of the alley. A question burned in his mind, one he had to ask.
"What is the Creation?" he asked suddenly, his voice quiet. "And why are these… Malignants, from outside it, here now? On Earth?" He glanced at her, adding quickly, "You don't have to answer if you don't want to."
Lucifer looked surprised. She stared at his face, at the open curiosity in his eyes. She realized, with a jolt of understanding, that this must be exactly how she appeared to him whenever she pointed at some mundane human object and demanded to know its purpose. The symmetry of it was strangely pleasing.
She took her time, considering how to condense an epoch of cosmic truth into something he could grasp. "The Creation is the totality of all that exists," she began, her voice measured. "Every universe, every star, every atom within the multiverse resides within it. The emptiness outside, the absolute nothing from which it was born, is called The Beyond." She searched for a metaphor. "Think of it as a living body. The Creation is the body. The angels are its natural defenses, its immune system, meant to repel external threats."
Cain nodded slowly, following along. "Okay. So these Malignants are like… a Parasite? Bacteria? Virus?"
"Yes," Lucifer said. "But sometimes, there are afflictions that the body's defenses struggle to detect. Sicknesses that grow quietly from within, unnoticed, until they become a dire threat to the whole."
A chill that had nothing to do with the evening air went through Cain. He knew exactly what she was describing. "Cancer," he said, the word falling heavily between them. "You're talking about cancer. It starts from your own cells. Your body doesn't see it as a threat until it's too late."
"And that," Lucifer finished, "is what the Aspects are." She tilted her head, a flicker of genuine curiosity crossing her features. "Though I confess, I do not fully comprehend the mechanics of this 'cancer' within a mortal form."
As they continued walking, Cain tried to explain the basics of cellular mutation, his words a soft counterpoint to the city's noise. All the while, they drew stares. As always, Lucifer's impossible height and preternatural beauty turned heads. People whispered, their eyes flicking from her towering, graceful form to Cain, who at five foot eleven was still noticeably shorter beside her. He tried to ignore it, but his head kept turning subtly toward the sources of the murmurs, his shoulders tightening with each glance.
Lucifer watched him. She saw how the whispers snagged his attention, how they seemed to bother him, prickling at his sense of peace. She did not understand social anxiety, but she understood that he was distressed.
So she made a decision.
Her hand reached out and took his. Cain flinched in surprise, looking down at their joined hands, then up at her face. She was beaming at him. "Are you prepared?" she asked.
"Prepared for what?" he laughed, the sound nervous. A sudden, terrible thought struck him. She read my mind. She's going to kill every single person who looked at us funny.
What happened next defied every assumption Cain had about her.
The restaurant parking lot vanished. There was no sensation of movement, no blur. One moment they were surrounded by whispering crowds and traffic. The next, they were standing on the quiet, dimly lit street directly beside his parked car. The transition was faster than a single beat of his startled heart.
He stared, disoriented. "How… we're not—"
Lucifer reached out and tapped his forehead gently with her index finger. The touch still held enough of her innate strength to make him take an involuntary step back. He looked at her, shocked.
She furrowed her brow, a faint hint of irritation in her expression. "Just because I am capable of terminating life does not mean I will resolve every minor discomfort with violence. You assume the worst of me too readily."
The statement was rich with irony, given her history, but her point was clear.
Cain let out a real laugh this time, a release of tension. He had forgotten she could perceive his core intentions, his fears, and his soul. "Okay, fair. I'm sorry. We're even now, right?"
He walked to the passenger side and opened the car door for her with an exaggerated flourish. Lucifer nodded, a formal little dip of her head. "Thank you." She slid gracefully into the seat.
Cain closed her door, walked around the car, and got into the driver's seat. He placed the takeout bag carefully in the back. As he started the engine, he let out a long, weary sigh.
What a really, really long day.
He pulled out into the nighttime traffic, heading for home.
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Far from Earth, the focus shifted.
On the cold, red sands of Mars, a figure stood alone. It was Raphael, the Archangel. He still wore the dark suit of Gabriel's bodyguard, but it was now incongruous against the desolate, alien landscape. Four magnificent wings of shimmering, coruscating light were manifest from his back, their faint illumination casting long, eerie shadows across the rust-colored dunes.
He was wandering, a celestial sentry on a dead world. His thoughts were grim. The frequency of Malignant manifestations in this sector has increased exponentially. The statistical probability suggests an Aspect has anchored itself closer than our projections anticipated.
In his hand, a sword composed of pure, solidified divine light flickered into existence. He held it ready, his senses expanded to encompass the vast, silent emptiness around him, prepared for an attack from any direction as he continued his solitary patrol.
Minutes passed in the profound quiet. Then, his gaze caught on a shape several hundred meters away, darker than the surrounding soil. He hovered just above the ground, covering the distance in an instant.
It was the body of a Watcher, a lower-tier angelic scout. Its form was broken. Both its upper limbs were torn away, and deep, savage claw marks raked across its chest plate. The divine light in its eyes had been extinguished.
Raphael's sword dissolved into motes of light. He knelt in the red dust, a gesture of profound grief. He reached out and gently closed the Watcher's sightless eyes, honoring its sacrifice.
As he did, a new sound began. It started as a faint scratching, then grew into a chorus of screeches and the skittering scrape of countless limbs on stone. It came from all around him, echoing in the thin atmosphere.
He knew that sound.
Malignants.
His eyes began to glow with a fierce, holy light. Twin swords of condensed power flashed back into his hands. He rose to his feet and turned slowly.
He was surrounded.
Not by dozens, but by thousands. They had not yet taken forms, existing here in their raw, parasitic state. They were masses of shifting, incomprehensible geometry, a nightmare of angles and pulsating flesh that defied mortal description. The only consistent, recognizable features were their gaping, multi-jawed maws, lined with needle-like teeth, all pointed toward him. They chittered and hissed, a sea of hunger waiting to consume the light he represented.
They began to circle, to tighten the ring, preparing to swarm.