Impartial Grounds [Closed RP]

A thick layer of dust coated the theatre seats. Once upon a time, they were a glorious red velvet, with oak carved arm rests with golden plates on each corner, the numbers "5A" or "8D" carved into the metal. The trail of lights once illuminated the paths in the dark theatre leading up to the stage, adorned with draping dark curtains to hide the crowd from the true nature of the play. The orchestra pit lay isolated now, some instruments left in the wake of the Apocalypse, fallen to the ground and eaten away by termites, rotted by the dry air, the strings of the cellos cracked and coiled. This was what The Cause had inflicted on art.

Samael sat on the catwalk, letting his legs dangle over the edge. He was high up, hidden from the audience completely, at a dizzying height for anyone who faced mortality. The iron path was cold against his bottom, and it swayed slightly as his legs waved back and forth. He rested his chin on his hands, his arms sitting on a guard rail of the catwalk. This was where the magic happened. Everything on stage was beautiful, but everything behind was glorious. The actors couldn't be seen without the lights that sat eye level with Samael's piercing blue orbs. The traditional sandbags, out dated but still used, lifted actors, props, and backdrops at various points in the play for a change of scenery. It wasn't the pretty faces that made a show great, it was the well-oiled machine hidden behind the curtains that pushed the power of the art. But Samael was more than just the pretty face of The Fallen Army.

He pulled a golden pocket watch from his vest pocket. It was a quarter past three in the morning. Any mortal would be asleep, any half bred would be awake and prowling the streets for the foolish humans. But one figure would be promenading though the theatre doors any second. Or so Samael had hoped. "He's late," he muttered, flipping the golden cover over the face of the small clock before tucking it back into his pocket, the chain coiling up against his chest. His garb tonight looked slightly out of place in the time period he inhabited. His longs legs were draped in black slacks, pointed black shoes shining with the one light that lit up the auditorium. He wore a white collared shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a black vest covered his chest. Call him old fashioned, but Samael felt a vest could spruce up any outfit. If only everything else were so easy to fix.

"I am exactly on time, Samael, as I am every week."
The soft tap, tap, tap of The Metatron's feet against the cold metal of the grated catwalk resounded throughout the theatre, aided by the excellently created acoustics the now worn out walls had created.
The Metatron was the oldest man known to creation; at a time when humanity was still learning to think, to do anything but worship the lord.
Though not one of the oldest Angels, not by far, The Metatron was one of the strongest, one of God's chosen few and the only Angel chosen to be the voice of god; his will, to pass out his message and commands to all who would hear him.
Running his hand over the guard rail, Metatron glanced down, down at the seats below that once housed the glamorous, the indulgent. He smiled inwardly at Samael's choice to remain above them, as if better than them, more worthy of god's affection, an affection which the fallen had thought they still deserved, even after spurning God's latest creation and causing a war that ravaged the very seat of the holy father himself.

He stood next to Samael, both hands resting on the guard rail as he gazed over the long, flowing curtain that hid the stage behind it, as if waiting to be drawn back and used again in a production of something, anything, even something as drab as a Shakespearian play.
"Did you ever come here? Back when this place was new? Not every one of their shows were boring, some entertained even the Lord, when he graced it with his presence." A soft chuckle escaped his lips. "A shame, Samael, that you had to test your father at every turn, you might have grown to enjoy the company of humans if you'd given them a chance."

The clicking of dress shoes against the iron resonated down to the stage, echoing back up, making it seem louder than it really was. In all honesty Metatron needn't say a word to announce his arrival, his shoes were a dead give away. Samael merely glanced up at Metatron before returning the piercing gaze to that of the empty auditorium, as if paying him no mind. "Imagine that," he murmured, stroking his chin, smooth as bare like the day he was born, if he were born, "I suppose my watch is fast. Please accept my earnest apology in assuming for once you would be imperfect." He didn't get up to acknowledge Metatron's presence. Just because you were buddies with God doesn't mean you get a standing ovation to Samael. In fact, that's proper grounds to get your shoes spat on.

He listened to the Metatron's words, babbling about plays and how they weren't terrible. Just nonsense to his ears. Samael cleared his throat, cutting of Metatron mid sentence. "I have been in here, actually," he responded, his voice haughty, "And I quite enjoyed most of the plays here. And just because Your Lord enjoyed it doesn't make it enjoyable for everyone. We had our differences in taste." He tilted his head to the side, eyes cast on the seats. He imagined them filled once again with the aristocracy of the twenty-first century. No matter how trendy or stylish you tried to be, what the current fashion was, everyone dressed lavishly when you came to the theatre. Long silky dresses and blazers with long coat tails. Tuxedos and glittering stilettos. The humans were beautiful people, but fickle and shallow. They were undeserving.

"So here we are. Again. Like every week." Samael's voice was low and faint. It was by no means a booming voice, more akin to a slightly loud murmur, but it was commanding in it's own way. "Are we going to try and sway each other to our respective sides again? Or how about convincing one of us to surrender? Perhaps a truce, splitting the winnings." Samael pulled himself to a standing position next to Metatron. He only stood a few inches taller than his counterpart, but it was enough for him to cast his gaze down upon him. "Every week, as this war goes on, these little meetings become less and less significant. When will you realize they're pointless?"

"Trying to get you to see the light is never pointless Samael, if I can avoid a long drawn out battle by convincing you to lay down arms, these boring meetings will have been worth it."
Samael's height didn't bother him in the least, he might be towering over him, but they were, whilst they were cut off from their respective leaders, equally matched.
"I may be trying to make you see the light, and the lord has always had a soft spot for you, Angel of Death; but one day, his patience will wear thin and I will have no choice... Please, brother, at least consider it, your place among the others is waiting for you, you need only to ask forgiveness."
This back and forth, temptation and redemption, was something they had been doing long before the war had reached Earth; when they met in places across the globe to sway the other to their side, when they tried to tip the balance between Heaven and Hell.
Metatron turned on his heel and slowly took a few steps away, his hand gently gliding along the guard rail. For a split second, Metatron was in two places at once, he was standing on the catwalk high above the seats of the crowd and at the same time, walking through the aisles of the seats.
Just as soon as he was there, Metatron was gone, standing below the catwalk, at the back of the theatre, looking up.
Brushing down his jacket, he took a seat in a dusty chair, the seat's red velvet coming alive as soon as his clothes touched the material.
"Coming?"

He shook his head and scoffed at Metatron's words, turning from him to face the auditorium again, sliding his hands into the black pockets of his slacks, eyes falling onto the stage, the wood beginning to rot and fall apart. He shook his head, the long hair that covered his forehead sweeping to the side temporarily as he spoke, "Metatron, you know absolutely that I won't change my mind. And I know that you won't change yours. We have our loyalties, and neither of us is eager to betray that."

He turned his head to Metatron, a scowl on his features, seeming to bring out the hollowed, prominent cheekbones, "Forgiveness? I have nothing to be forgiven for. I have done nothing wrong. You can relinquish my place, for it'll never be filled." He watched quietly as Metatron disappeared down the catwalk, only to see him pacing through the aisles of the auditorium. He stopped at the door and turned to Samael, asking if he were to accompany him. Samael considered saying no. Why he had agreed to have these non-belligerent meetings was beyond him. He knew he couldn't kill Metatron himself, not yet anyways, and Metatron wouldn't act on it without his fanciful Lord's command. Heaving a sigh, he jumped over the edge of the catwalk, weightless, as it didn't groan or creak with the sudden shift of weight. He seemed to float a bit, down past the stage, and landed on the carpet quietly.

He followed suit, in Metatron's footsteps towards the seats. Shortly he was at his side, hands still begrudgingly in his pockets. He slipped past Metatron, almost through him, and sat with one seat between them, likewise his chair dispensing of the cobwebs and dusts, the vivid red of the seat coming to life and contrasting his dark clothes. "Now what?" he muttered, heaving a small sigh.

"It hurts, Samael, that you need reason to talk to me. We were brothers once and although you follow Lucifer's dark regime, I am still filled with love for you, as is our father and when this is all over with, I will grip you tight and raise you from perdition, back into the loving arms of our lord. But know this, although I may be wishing for your survival, I will not hesitate to extinguish you from this world at the first instance that I am allowed."
He smiled, weak and apologetic, yet with a firm resolve that echoed the struggle going on inside his makeshift body. He scooted back on the chair and hooked one leg over the other, his hands resting in his lap as he got more comfortable.
"Now that the pleasantries are over with and I have said what I have been instructed to say every time we meet, we can carry on this conversation like the higher beings we actually are."
He felt the cushion of the seat give way slightly as it remembered its previous state and became soft again, letting his ass sink into it slightly, eliciting a sigh of happiness.
"Never before has human form been so delightful, if it weren't for this apocalypse, I would quite like to experience this for a good while longer. The emotions that humans feel are nearly overpowering, it is fantastic."

Samael tried very hard not to roll his eyes at Metatron's schpeel. For the past twenty years, Metatron and Samael met in various parts of the city, the Theater the favorite currently, and Metatron would regurgitate the same peace-loving speech like clockwork, like a recorded message, and God would just hit "play" on the back of his neck. It was irritating and a waste of time, but Samael had decided that entertaining the idea of a possible peaceful resolution was the least he could do. He leaned his head back against the velvet chair, letting the dark curls of his hair fall behind the seat. He finally lifted his head back up as Metatron finished, dropping the demeanor and becoming a little more casual. Samael didn't mind this part of the meetings. It was almost entertaining, chatting with someone else.

He furrowed his brow a bit at Metatron's statement about the human form the took on. He examined the palms of the human he had killed and taken the image of. The hands were prone to becoming clammy, though Samael wasn't completely disappointed in his fleshy vessel. Though, he did admit, the human emotions were fun, if not a bit of a nuisance. The emotion he became associated with most was anger. Though he had indulged in his own set of sins, anger he felt was something he could embrace and use most to his advantage. Samael only nodded in response for a moment, remaining quiet.

Finally he spoke again. "I suppose," he murmured, examining his legs that here propped up on seats in front of him. "But I feel weaker every day, sitting around like this. Why stay in this human shell all the time? Besides not making the minds of our human counterparts explode, there's really no point. Well, there's to enjoy the sweet sweet delicacies of human life." Metatron knew what Samael spoke of. Little things like indulging in food, even if it gave no satisfaction to hunger, the drink and experience of being drunk, the sensations of sex, the highs and lows of drugs. All the fun guilty pleasures of humans without the nasty after effects.

At this point Samael even pulled out a cigarette. It gave him a slight buzz, this nicotine, and yet his mortal lungs would be strong whether he smoked one a month or sixteen an hour. He ignited it, watching the fire simmer in the theatre. "Of course you wouldn't know about the dirty little fun things of human life, would you? Too afraid that your big man is watching and would sweep down and take your wings." He dragged from the cigarette, much deeper than any normal human could. As he spoke again the smoke drifted from his nose and mouth simultaneously. "Such a goody two-shoes, hell bent on pleasuring your God whether he's watching or not. He abandoned you, just like Lucifer abandoned me. We are the forgotten sons."

"Hold your tongue, Samael. I will tolerate many things, but you will not speak ill of our father."
He almost spat out the words, the anger inside him boiling up until it could only be described as rage. He took a deep breath, even though there was no heart to regulate breathing for and then smiled apologetically.
"Apologies for the outburst."
It was a problem all Angels were having, now that they'd taken human form. Human form meant human emotions and Angels weren't used to any emotion save for the love of their father, even the fallen obeyed Lucifer's word. Keeping emotions in check was a constant battle to keep logic on their side so that they didn't do something entirely stupid such as attack Samael when he had strict instructions not to get involved in the coming battle unless Samael directly interfered. These two Angels, they were the most powerful beings on the planet at the moment, their grasp on the Angelic powers and the Enochian rituals was unsurpassed by all; hence the reason they both led their respective armies.

In heaven, they were regarded as brothers, and it is perhaps that reason that on Earth, they kept a truce, talking through problems and ideas as if they were friends, when at a word from their master, one would rip the head off the other without a second thought.

"You indulge in your emotions and your sinful actions too much, Samael, it has corrupted you and I am sorry for that. Bedding the men and women of this world, drinking, smoking; it makes you look like a fool, we are better than that, even you, who chose the wrong side of this battle are better than the lowest of these humans."

He raised his eyebrows as Metatron raised his voice at him. Suddenly it seemed that Samael's formal demeanor had dropped, and he was resorting to petty degradation of his brother. "Oh, someone's got a temper!" he taunted, a finger coming out and flicking Metatron's nose, even after he apologized for the outburst. "No need to apologize! It's quite evident that being in this human shell has affected some of us some ways, and others in a different, weaker way. Don't let it over take you. Remember who you really are." He thumped his chest. The cigarette was finished, almost to the filter, and he dropped it on the carpet, his black shoe snuffing out the ember and leaving a black mark, the scent of burning fabric in the air. He inhaled it deeply.

"And don't give me that speech about bedding the women. A little birdie has told me that some of your angels have been doing the same, except you're taking volunteers." He examined his nails, lacking any grime despite his manual labor recently in fixing up the breeding labs in Perdition. It had gotten to a point to where his lowers couldn't handle it, and he literally had to get on his own hands and knees to fix the places up. Lilith was truly proving to be a disappointment, and it wouldn't be long before he searched for a new second-in-command. "And of course you'd think I chose the wrong side, simply because it's opposed to yours." He stood from the chair, the red cushion flipping back and thumping against the backrest. As if switched to monochromatic, the luscious velvet became the worn fabric once again, dead and dried, with holes from insects and time worn into the cushion.

"Isn't that something that your God preached? Equality and acceptance for all? That's quite a prejudice you hold over my head for finding me as an equal, isn't it? Being different doesn't make me wrong, Eunoch, and you of all people should know that."

Eunuch, he hated that name. He found it annoying even before Samael's betrayal and now that it was used to mock him by someone that followed Lucifer, it ebbed away at his self control every time that name was uttered. But he didn't correct his former brother; the name he used was a small reminder of the friendship they'd shared and Metatron was unwilling to let that fade away yet. They may be on opposite sides of an age old war, they may both be generals in armies that wanted nothing more than to rip each other to shreds and when the time came, Metatron would kill Samael at his father's instruction; but they were brothers and even though he'd carry out his lord's command, he didn't have to like the task.

"My god is your god, Samael, you follow a wayward brother, not a father. Equality is for men, not Angels; we are loyal and we love our father, that is how it is supposed to be. Blasphemy is a crime, my friend it is a mortal sin for our kind and it pains me every time you commit it."

Metatron rose off his seat, the seat of the chair snapping back to its old, run down form as soon as his ass had left the soft velvet. Dust plumed up around them from the collision, yet didn't touch them in the least, moving around them as if avoiding contact with such holy and unholy entities such as these.

"I enjoy our talks, my friend, you are the only person in all heaven and hell that would speak to me without fear or malice; for that I thank you."
He slowly slipped past Samael and walked down the aisle towards the stage, mounting each step slowly, his mind wandering to things long past and things yet to come. It was a gift the lord had bestowed upon him to recall events as clearly as if he were watching it on the TVs these humans loved so much.
"As I say every time we meet, I am sorry it has come to this; meeting in secret away from prying eyes."

Samael rolled his eyes at Metatron's lecture. Again. Despite how often Metatron spoke of them being brothers, it seemed that he treated Samael as the little brother, holding him to some regard. "Have you ever thought about this, Eunuch?" he began, ignoring the look of anger on his features at the mention of his human name, "That maybe your God isn't, what do the humans say, 'the shit'? Think about this. If God is a perfect entity, as you so lovingly preach, then why would he ever create something imperfect? In theory if He is a perfect being than his creations would be equally perfect. And as you can see," he outstretched his arms as he stepped into the aisle, bowing down to Metatron, "beings like yours truly and the great Lucifer have acknowledged our imperfections, pretty much raining down on your parade."

He stood back up and stuck his pinky finger in his ear and wiggled, as if cleaning it out. "You regurgitate the same shit, every time we meet. Even after your written speech. For Christ's sake you've said the same thing multiple times in this conversation!" He exhaled, blowing a loose strand of hair from his face, exasperation showing on his strong-boned features. "My patience grows thin with you, Eunuch. And believe you me, the day that Lucifer returns and tells me to take you down, you can bet I will enjoy every second of it, ripping you limb from limb, tearing the humanly flesh from your humanly bones and devouring your holy spirit. Or maybe I should reserve that punishment for your nephilim. Maybe I'll condemn your soul to a life of Hell. Making you one of us, eh? Wouldn't that be splendid? Then we'd truly be brothers, forever and ever." He smiled, sweetly and laced with venom.

He clapped his hands together. "Oh I do love these get togethers. Maybe one day we should make them public. I mean we meet in a theater. It's a shame we have no audience to fill these seats."

"The way of god is not one to be questioned or understood by the likes of you, Samael. Do you think that I follow my lord blindly without having doubts? He is my father and I love him unconditionally, I would die for him, as would the others in our ranks; tell me, how are we imperfect?"
Metatron peered down at his fallen companion, shaking his head in what he thought was disappointment; these days, with these new emotions, it got hard to tell what it was he was feeling. Sometimes rage would sneak its way in, or oddly enough, happiness at certain times when he thought he could feel the lord's presence.
"Our father created us with the ability to think for ourselves, to have our own opinions. His way is not understood by anyone but he does not do things without knowing the outcomes of them already, Samael, this, you know."
He hopped down into the aisle, walking slowly, casually over to where Samael rested, with his hands clasped together. Metatron brought his face lower, until Samael could feel his simulated breath against his skin and spoke in a low, almost rasping manner.
"And do you think, for one second that any time in hell would turn the Lord's most loyal servant? Do not question my loyalty, you may be older than I and we may be evenly matched, but I can...how is it they used to say it...give you a run for your money."

Ah yes. It would seem that Samael had finally struck a chord. A smile crept across his lips as Metatron approached him, his light up with the human anger. He cocked his head to the side. "What makes you think I'm talking about you?" Samael inquired. "I'm talking about them. Humans. Why create an imperfect entity when you're capable of sculpting perfection. It nullifies one's credibility if you make something that is not up to expectations." He swept his arms around the theater. "What a let down. Seriously."

He shoved Metatron away from him, forceful, his hands tossing him further from his body than any normal human shove could do. "You get your filthy brown nosing face out of mine," he snarled at him, pointing a finger that began to shake. "You're God has failed you already and you're too stupid to see it. The humans thought that they were doing enough to be on His side and he's discarded them. Soon you will be next. You already have been." He raised his hands to dust off part of his jacket, as if infected with Metatron's words. "And it's not a desire to burn that condemns you to hell. We drag you down here, kicking and screaming. And I. Can't. Wait."

Pulling a cigar from his pocket, he glanced down at the pocketwatch, the hands ticking slowly along, echoing in the theater. "I have another appointment," he muttered around the tobacco, dropping the gold watch back into his trousers. Lilith would be arriving at his establishment soon, seeking her punishment after the day's taxing adventures at the breeding centers. He began to walk to the exit, brushing past Metatron. "As always, a pleasure," he regarded, tilting his head in the direction of the Angel General. "I"ll see you in hell."

Without pushing the door open, Samael vanished, leaving only the faint smell of burning tobacco behind him.