A/N Well, this is the last chapter that I've written so far, and I'm glad to say that I have, in fact, been receiving the positive feedback that I hoped for! That in mind, I will most definitely continue to write the next two thirds of this story; I plan to do a chapter a week, as usual, so there shouldn't be any changes in the updates. Even though there's nothing hinging on it, though, I'd still love feedback. It inspires me a lot to know that you guys are enjoying the story!

Also, in answer to a couple of reviewers: yes, I do watch Supernatural! However, I don't plan to incorporate elements of that show into this story. I consider it a different universe entirely, with no relation to the Michael, Gabriel, Lucifer, and others that we know and love from Supernatural. (Though I really never can get enough of SPN!Gabriel. Damn, he's fabulous.)

V

The Devil had a wicked appreciation for the grandiose. He may often be called sloppy, dirty, even careless, but those who referred to him in such a way had never seen Hell. Hell was his masterpiece, the absolute pinnacle of his achievement—the flames raged, but they raged in synchronicity, waves of gold and red and deep inky black twisting to the skies and burrowing into the cracked earth, entwining themselves with the sobs and screams of those imprisoned within them, caressing those cursed souls with the vivacious, playful sting of their ferocity, carrying the protesting bawls and moans up to the boiling charcoal sky in an endless spiral. The iron, where it was laid, strapped its withered captives together in an impenetrable way, strong and unrelenting, searing agony into whatever skin was forced to singe against its fiery metallic bite. Chains, blades, spikes, whips; none were foreign to the demons who swarmed about the fevered land, but chaos is one thing that Hell did not contain. Its near-disaster was the result of an absolute arrangement, careful planning and layout that rendered it genuinely mighty, nothing short of epic. The wasteland was orchestrated, and a single being was behind the repulsive craft.

He dwelled above the rest of them, naturally. The foot of his palace radiated crumbling burn marks, struck into the damaged earth like the furthest-reaching beams of a dark sun. And perhaps a sun was a proper comparison, for the sprawling quarters in which he dwelled were beautiful, forged of silver stone and inlaid with black diamonds that glittered for miles. Rich scarlet and gold fabrics poured down the walls within, and the Devil himself needed to do nothing more within it than merely lounge, perch in the highest tower and watch with a gleaming grin as the souls in the land below him were flayed apart.

Hell was exquisite, and Lucifer detested it.

For it had no grace. Intimidation, easily—vehemence, without question. Yet it was a blunt power. It entrapped none of the fragile brilliance with which Heaven was so struck, and that the whining human populations strived so ceaselessly to emulate. Darkness in the place of pearlescent glows, flame replacing fountains—remarkable to regard in the briefest sense, but as a prison, Hell was despicable.

There was, for instance, no music in Hell.

Whereas here—here on Earth, his second domain, and only barely less low of one than Hell—it poured from the population without cease. Some was grating, some weak, some warbling, and often enough barely worthy of the title bestowed upon it. But there were also the orchestras, the truly beautiful ones, and it was those that Lucifer so admired. The rush and sigh of strings were his favorite, and it was in those that he immersed himself now, allowing indulgence—as was his way—before the inevitable storm commenced.

He was in Germany. A respectable land, as humanity's went, with its share of elegant leaders in the past, and a certain fine appreciation for the arts. Also, incidentally, the home of one of the finest orchestras on the planet, hence his reason for being here now. It was famed, and, he thought with a smirk down at the concert hall below him, not without reason.

The building was large, white-painted and high-ceilinged, and the crowd seated within it was decked in subtle suits and shimmering dresses that portrayed lovely formality. Jewels studded the ears and throats of the women, while the men remained confined to neatly combed hair and clean-shaven jaws; both sexes gazed towards the stage before them in rapt, high-chinned attention, immersed in the flow of sound that was pressing in on the marble floor and walls around them.

Lucifer was situated on a balcony above the rest, his fingers curled around the pale, wide railing. He had neither reason nor desire to watch the performers as they delivered their art; it could reach his ears just as easily from up here, and he preferred not to situate himself in any such area where he would be required to keep his movements and expressions to a minimum. Enjoying the delicacy from above was like surveying it from his own private quarters, and it was only, he thought, what one as powerful as him deserved. His attire, besides, was slightly more flamboyant than that which the masses seemed to don—only slightly, of course; he could appreciate formality in its loosest sense. But the black suit currently shrouding his slender frame was accentuated by a thin tie of deepest emerald green; likewise, his shoulder-length black hair was tamed only into loose curling waves that framed his wretched grin like the crests of a storm-wrought ocean. He was chilling to behold, even when he did bother to tame the golden flame of his irises—and he couldn't care less to do so right now; instead, they blazed with all the fervor locked away within him.

The music hummed through his veins, empowering his already unmarred resolution, and his fingers tightened yet further on the marbled banister, until his pale knuckles strained snow-white. The delicate heart of his vessel was raring within him, seeming to jerk up and down rather than back and forth as it struggled to contain the omnipotent excitement surging within him. The blood that coursed through his veins was valuable, not to be wasted—as was that of his servant Uriel's borrowed body, and that value was what set him here now, a summoning beyond even the power of the music that had so drawn him.

He opted to commune with Uriel just then, letting his pale eyelids slip shut without loosening the cold smile from his features. The buzzing thoughts at the back of his mind dimmed briefly, parting way for the clear canal of silent communication, and he sought out the ebony glow of his imprisoned angel amidst the thousands of minds gleaming before him, latching onto him and projecting a series of commands into his thoughts.

Your job is to stay near me. Obtain the organ once I have secured it, and take it far away from here. You are not the priority of the angels; if they seek me out—and I do hope they will, for I desire little more than a reach at that green beast of theirs—then you are not to hesitate, but rather depart with our treasure. I will then rejoin you when the time presents itself.

He felt the briefest inkling of protest dancing around the edges of Uriel's consciousness, presumably stirred by thought of the other angels, those which he'd previously been so devoted to. They quelled themselves soon enough, however, without Lucifer's prodding, and the sensation that traveled back through their invisible threads of communication was seasoned by no hint of doubt.

Of course, Master.

Lucifer sighed pleasurably, his molten gold eyes drifting open once more to take in the crowd of humans before him. His angel was hidden in the side halls rather than situating himself in the open space, and so those which he regarded now were wholly unimpressive, all fragile mortals that he would have no error in crushing with a single quick heave.

Yet his mission was more specific. He needed only one of them; or, rather, the Tesseract did. For so magnitudinous of a portal as it must construct for his demons, it would require a prompt, something beyond its typical powers. Not much—a single human heart should have contained the raw force enough to boost the crystal into proper functionality. It could be easily procured from anywhere, of course—Lucifer felt no sort of remorse when slaughtering humans, for they really were little beyond the insects that they themselves crushed without hesitation—but he couldn't deny that he was fond of a little festivity, and there was, of course, the music.

Besides, this was the best way to attract attention. Through this, he would show them all. The humans, the angels... the entire planet would soon bend before his will, and however much he may have to fight to reach that point was irrelevant. He would most likely be captured by the angels by the time the night was through, but only for the better; that would near him to Ezekiel, and Ezekiel, he imagined, was all he needed to get rid of his brothers and sisters, along with that pesky church of mindless imbeciles, once and for all.

No further delay, then. Movements swift, he widened the expanse of gleaming cool marble between his hands, then cinched his shoulders, heaving one foot carefully onto the banister before him. It settled, black polish gleaming under the light of the tiered chandelier that trembled above the ballroom before him, and he didn't hesitate before following it with the other. Resultantly, he was perched upon the railing like a vulture, and soon straightened into a sleek raven, his coattails widening behind him as he regarded the still-oblivious crowd below him. His eyes traced the wide arches of the ceiling and fell soon upon the massive chandelier. It was unlit, but brilliant nonetheless, aglow with row upon row of shivering glass teardrops, each of which was swathed in a shell of pure crystalline glitter.

The music climbed to a magnificent crescendo.

Still in no great hurry, Lucifer raised his hand. His thin fingers extended, tips seeming to grasp at midair, when, in reality, they were fixated on a very specific point indeed. It took no more than a lazy cock of his wrist, and the fragile beauty was shattered.

Screams rent the air as the chandelier descended, and a few poor souls managed to throw themselves out of the way, grasping at all those around them as the previously settled rows merged into a thrashing current, a primitive sea of howling bodies. The orchestral strings broke off on so severe a note that they seemed to scream along with their players, and Lucifer allowed himself to savor the insanity briefly—though the chaotic movement was as grating here as it always was in Hell, he nonetheless felt a purring appreciation for the pain of Earth's scum, and those which the glass did reach were a particular pleasure to observe—their very chests were torn open by the deadly glittering daggers, and they fell to the ground without pause. One was pierced through the eye; another cascaded in a sea of invisible fragments, so that blood seemed to emerge unbidden from her skin, rolling off in thin sheets. The black and cream cloth of the suits and dresses interwove with the scarlet liquid and transparent missiles, stirring into a magnificent mess of the refined and the ghastly.

It was glorious, and yet it was too tempestuous, too unrefined. The knot of roiling bodies needed a leader, and that was precisely what he was here to provide.

"Silence," he breathed to himself, as if testing the word on his lips. It tasted beautiful, and he pushed his fragile human lungs to their maximum extent, bellowing, screaming, hushing their rampant wildness in the pure dominance of his abrasive tones. "Silence!"

In rhythm with the jarring word, he stretched and flexed the extra muscles worked into his back, those which were not contained in the previous anatomy of the man that he now inhabited. There was an itch and a satisfying surge of an ache, then his wings were unleashed.

They were perhaps not so expansive as those of his still-heavenly brothers and sisters, yet vast nonetheless, huge shuddering curtains of crow-like bleakness that brushed the walls and ceiling with little density beyond shadow. A flame of power reared in his stomach, fueled by the faces below them, which ranged from stunned to terrified, all fashioned with wide eyes and gaping mouths and pale cheeks; they bore, in fact, a striking resemblance to those lost souls who frequented his homeland. Perhaps that was all they were, really—humans, stripped to their core, resembled nothing beyond the barest scraps of their poor, quavering spirits, their first instinct to beg, and their second—upon which he now drew—to adhere.

"You will kneel before me," he declared, his voice still amplified, though the tones it took were now more graceful, velvety. "Immediately! Kneel!"

As if in a daze, the humans fell before him, some grasping the sleeves and shoulders of those nearest them and forcing them down in like turn. They collapsed like the wave of a squalling ocean, some sobbing, all shaking, and he felt his smile grow into place again, replacing that where it had been briefly overshadowed by a menacing scowl. Tame as they now were, he surveyed them almost lazily, as a scientist would admire specimens, letting himself take time with what had to be a careful selection. Of course, the weakest of hearts would surely satisfy the Tesseract's hunger, but he was keen to provide it with the best he could, hopefully resulting in the optimum performance that would be desirable for his release of his demons on this poor ruined world.

It didn't take long, even with the meticulous methods he chose to execute. His blazing eyes soon fell upon one of the youngest of the men—a healthy being, his shivering but still respectably built form quite visible under the clasp of a tight suit. Running his tongue along his lower lip, Lucifer slipped from the banister, his wings snapping wide behind him to allow him a slightly softer descent. He hit the ground with his knees bent and his fingertips gracing the cool floor, inches away from his target, and it took nothing more than the extension of one arm to reach him.

The Devil gripped the man's clean, shaking chin and lifted it slowly, the flaming gold of his own eyes peering into the desperate, limpid blue below him.

"Handsome," Lucifer mused, and the man paled even beyond his previous waxy shade, until he appeared on the verge of lightening until he was little beyond a wisp. His lips shuddered, and perhaps he would have voiced a plea, but Lucifer gave him no time—his free hand dashed forwards, and his long nails, backed by the supernatural strength that his vessel was so resonantly imbued with, tore through the suit top and carved into the skin of the human, who released a piercing shriek, as high as the cry of a baby girl, drawn from the very depths of his soul to be projected into the air in the most absolute form of pure desperation. Lucifer was undeterred—in fact, the pained howl encouraged him, and he proceeded to crush tendon and rib under his grip, plowing through the tender flesh as it heated and spurted around him. He continued to clench the man's straining jaw in one hand even as the other was drenched with hot crimson liquid. Within seconds, he managed to locate the wet, swiftly pulsating organ within the padded cavity of the man's chest, and clenched tight, tearing it free of its looping nerve bonds in another explosion of red, this which projected far enough to touch his suit front.

His victim slackened immediately, and Lucifer tossed him aside without the slightest bit of care, straightening up with his wings fully extended and his prize clutched in hand. It was a fine heart, indeed, hot and drenched, and he imagined that the Tesseract would be quite satisfied by it, indeed, most likely to end up keenly releasing the whole of his army without so much as a glimmer of protest. His job here was complete.

"Remember, humans," he resumed as though he had never been interrupted, and began to carefully pace before them, his eyes lazily cast towards their kneeling ranks to ensure that none of them dared meet his eyes. The heart remained clutched in his hand, red droplets falling from it like lazy breaths of rain, rolling across what little of the floor remained untarnished by chandelier's fragments. "You are weak. Endlessly weak. You have feared me for centuries, and you will continue to do so, for you are meant to be ruled by those like me. You are taught to fear me, and so appropriately, for there is no one on this planet capable of causing near as much—"

Uriel's words suddenly ripped through his mind in a jagged snarl, alight with rapt intensity that hit him hard enough for his words to lapse into silence.

They're here—

The brief words were all the warning he got, and he had only the time to snap his wings out wide, spanning them to their maximum length, before the intricately carved double doors at the other end of the ballroom flew open in a heavy blast. The glaring colors of the busy nighttime street flared across the long hallway, previously colored in such minimalistic elegance, staining it with green and neon red and dirtied yellow. So intense was the flare that it took Lucifer a moment to make out the figure standing in the doorway, but once his eyes focused, his opponent was undeniable.

Golden hair topped a proud figure, hewn with heavy muscles and graced with a handsome face, currently twisted into a spiteful scowl. Blue eyes glinted even from innumerable yards away, and billowing wings of pure ivory white, spans longer than Lucifer's own, extended from each broad shoulder. His only weapon was in the form of a wide silver shield, clasped to his front with one powerful arm, and half-raised in defiance of any attack that Lucifer may immediately launch. He was in all ways a portrait of pure good, blunt heroism, and Lucifer utterly despised it, just as surely as he despised the brother who stood before him now.

"Michael," Lucifer snarled under his breath. "Oh, how I've missed you."

Michael did not waste any time in pretense; he did not so much as greet his fallen brother, and his sapphire eyes were likewise sealed off from any sort of sentiment that may cloud them and therefore obscure his own intentions. His wings flapped once, a mighty movement that sent a gust of wind over the heads of all the oblivious, cowering humans, and then he was in the air, shield lifted, lips drawn back from his teeth as he glared down towards Lucifer.

"Surrender now," he demanded, "and perhaps the punishment which our father chooses to inflict will not be quite so horrific. You have no place in this world."

"It pains me that you would expect me to behave in a manner so weak, brother," Lucifer returned, mocking. He heard a stir behind him, and, momentarily thrusting all of his confidence into his recently procured but certainly trustworthy servant, he tossed the cooling heart over his shoulder, still not taking his eyes off of Michael. He was rewarded a half-instant later by the undeniable wet thud of Uriel catching it, and saw Michael's stare follow what must be the arc of the organ—he could practically see the wheels turning in the mind of his elder brother, and knew that, while not being fully aware of Lucifer's own intentions, he must have come to the conclusion that the heart was vital to the core of his plans.

Immediately in response to this knowledge, Michael curled his wings, clearly prepared to launch himself through the air and retrieve the prize from Uriel. Lucifer knew that this was his cue—he had to let the essential sacrifice get away; it really would just be a hassle to kill another human at this point. So he beat his own wings in a series of brief but heavy swoops and lifted himself into the air of the high ballroom, now gusting with currents from Michael's own feather shafts as well as the wind that was pouring in from outside.

Lucifer streaked through, fingers wrapping around a golden staff as it obediently materialized between them, and raised it, bringing it down powerfully against Michael's shield. His sneer was met with a glower, and the shield twisted, unseating his own weapon in a shower of gold and silver sparks. The tussle would have been an even match any other time, perhaps even weighed in Michael's favor, but Lucifer was still ablaze with the power of a fresh kill, while Michael was injured by the death of one of those he was meant to be defending. Confidence was one of the most powerful allies that any warrior could have, and such ruled that Lucifer found himself with the upper hand. It took only a few strokes of his staff—one to knock the shield aside, the second to direct Michael to the glassy, bloodstained ground, and the third to prick his chest; not a true wound, just enough to hold him in place, suspend him from any further offensive actions.

"There, my brother," he sighed, tilting his head in careful appraisal. Michael did not meet his stare, but rather gazed hard at the ground, his shoulders steady in contrast to the trembling masses around him. "On the ground below me… where you belong, would you not agree?"

"Not in a thousand decades," Michael gasped, and any protest on Lucifer's part was cut off by a sudden flare of light from the still-parted doors. Both glanced up in astonishment, and Lucifer was so put off by the interruption that he let loose the pressure of his staff, allowing Michael to rise to his feet.

A second angel stood poised in the doorway. Dark-haired, short but strongly muscled, with fierce wide eyes and a rakish grin even in this most serious moment. Yet it was none of his mundane characteristics which struck Lucifer so unsettlingly and profoundly—rather, it was the wings.

Mighty wings, nearly the size of Michael's, though it wasn't their length that made them so utterly remarkable. When Lucifer had last set eyes on Gabriel, it was before his famed run-in with a horde of demons, before his Grace had been shredded, before he was reduced to little more than human.

Of course, Gabriel was far from human. He was an archangel, and a remarkable one, at that. The type to be entirely undeterred by such mundane losses as that of his most treasured appendages. Rather than allowing defeat to consume him, he had, it appeared, done the opposite—taken advantage of the absence, and filled the space with a craft so remarkable that it now rendered Lucifer breathless.

They were metal. Unmistakably metal, though the forge more resembled clockwork, laden with all matter of intricate gears and screws and plates, ranging from burnished gold to gleaming garnet, each feather its own engraved slip of dagger-sharp stained steel, crowded and yet somehow arching into a single beautiful craft—a machine, one which now worked seamlessly to beat Gabriel just a few sparse inches above the ground.

"Game over," the archangel spat.