Along the brink

*he's leaned against a wall, as per usual, and -- it's his birthday, though he's told nearly no one, and today he's forty-three years old (as much as that even matters anymore, thanks to Raphael) and in a positively foul mood*

*contemplates the glass of wine he's twirling in his fingers, absently studying the play of light on the liquid, and then takes a drink far longer and less dignified than befits the drink, unable to stop the corners of his mouth from turning down*

Happy fucking birthday to me. *drains the glass*

*please, feel very free to bother him*

What a waste of my valuable time.

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*for one Phlegethon Hades, destroyer of worlds, sanity comes and goes, and he just happens to be having something of a down period*

*the cure for this, obviously, is to lean against a conveniently-placed wall, rummage in the pockets of his nearly-knee-length leather jacket for a well-worn lighter and a half-full pack of cigarettes and occupy himself with lighting a cigarette with every intent to work his way through the rest of the pack*

*...is dead, for the seventh time (and counting!)*

( Cut for gory details. )

*did we mention that he's dead?*

*is, did we mention, alive? the typist hastens to blame certain other people cough Maja cough Chewie cough Angie cough for this*

*is not, however, very happy about this* *so -- sits crosslegged in the farthest corner of some room or other, jacket folded neatly next to him, systematically working his way through a pack of cigarettes* *health risk? what health risk? he's Phlegethon Hades, destroyer of worlds and he don't care about no stinkin' health risk*

*...*

*--right, Mama Hades? have at.*

*--oh.

if anyone cares? (which the typist rather doubts, given the reputation he's been managing to create for himself)

dead. dead, dead, dead. shot through the head -- hey, that rhymes!

but, yes. dead. bloodily and rather messily. there is, however, no actual weapon in evidence.*

*guess who's back, back again? Phlegethon's back, tell a friend!*

*oh, and he's pissed -- this makes itself obvious in the steely glint of his eyes, the rigid way with which he holds himself, and the slightly less-than-sane expression on his face*

*nearly snarled* I do not intend to allow myself into a position in which an angel can kill me again. Gabriel, do not think I have finished with you. I have barely begun.

...

*hello, this is what Phlegethon is currently dressed like*

...Someone will pay for this.