Chapter Text
After the impenetrable darkness of Michael's shadows shrouding them in liquid fear, the low-hanging orange sun on the day of the vote feels like receiving a magnesium flare to the face.
Lucifer's eyes water as he looks up at Michael who smiles down upon him victoriously, adorned in black armour, flaming sword clutched in his trembling fist. He's jabbering about mercy and how he ‘magnanimously’ changed his mind about the conditions to their duel, turning a death sentence to eternal imprisonment, forever keeping Lucifer from his loved ones, ‘alas’.
Chloe screams obscenities, her clothing clean instead of bloodied, and Michael tuts in that insufferable way of his, warbling something about Lucifer having chosen his own punishment and how he washes his hands of this.
And then he's falling.
Lucifer hits white marble with a sickening crack. There's no pain, no fire, just light and joy. Home. He pushes himself to his hands and knees, and then to his feet, cursing Hell and the loop that must be malfunctioning somehow because he finds himself in what looks like the Primum Mobile. All white. All uncomfortable angles and unforgiving hard surfaces.
Sprawled on Dad's throne there's a black winged shape. It's his bloody twin with his legs spread as if trying to physically fill the too large seat. His wings show bald patches, his face a sickly grey, and underneath the off-white tweed jacket and startlingly white turtleneck, his chest is expanding and collapsing rapidly as if he's in a perpetual state of panic. Frankly, Michael looks like crap and he very well deserved it for that stunt he just pulled.
Lucifer growls and shakes off the thought. This is Hell’s doing. After all, none of this really happened.
Lucifer scowls and grumbles his twin's name, but Michael doesn't seem to hear him. Instead he reaches for his wing to pull out a single feather, the small hiss of pain not nearly enough for Lucifer after watching his own defeat. Again. Again at his brother's hand.
A faceless angel enters the room without knocking, without bowing, without grovelling in fear of his new God. “Lord, another batch of redeemed souls arrived from Hell,” it tells Michael who waves them off listlessly.
“Good, that's very good.”
“There’s an angel among them.”
Now that seems to light a fire in Michael's ass because he pushes himself to his feet.
“Is it Michael?” he asks excitedly and Lucifer frowns at the increasingly wonky logic.
The edges start dancing again as the faceless angel frowns, however that's possible. “Who?”
“What do you mean, who?” Michael bursts out, gesturing at his own face. “You know, black wings, Angel of Fear and Darkness, twin to fucking Lucifer Morningstar. Michael!” Michael's voice wavers on his own name and a crazed light re-enters his darkeyes.
“I don't know any Michael,” they say, gesturing helplessly and that only feeds Michael's disbelief.
“Impossible!”
Michael heads for the gilded door, attempting to pull it open and of course failing. His next try is a punch powerful enough to rattle the entire doorframe. The next one causes marble to fall from the ceiling.
“You can't have forgotten!” Michael bellows, heaving another punch that splinters the door and Lucifer is starting to get worried.
“Brother!” he calls out, warily eyeing the cracks running along the ceiling, but Michael doesn't react.
“We have the exact same face!”
Thump
“The exact same hands.”
Thump
“The exact same– shoulders! Aaarrrgh!” Michael screams and slams his injured shoulder against the stubborn door.
BAM!
“We're exactly the same and nobody–”
Thump
“–seems–”
THUMP
“–to remember it!
CRASH!
They spill out into the hallway while the loop behind them collapses with a deafening bang. Michael is rocking on his knees and elbows, his forehead pressed against the filthy floor.
“It doesn't matter what I do or how well I do it, nobody remembers I exist,” he sobs brokenly. “What's the meaning of me?”
Lucifer doesn't answer, shocked into silence by the destruction. He doesn't really know anyway.