Adrian wasn't sure how he found himself in a club like this. Normally he stuck around The Warehouse or other such places - he preferred the colors and ambiance and people and energy there. Here, it was just dark. Dark, dark, dark. Appropriate name for such a dark place. He hungered for the seizure-causing lights and the groping hands and the familiar, sweaty pleas. Here lacked the pulse. Here he sat at the bar, facing a blonde barmaid that was just his type. Short black dress - too short, so short. Loved the legs. Her hair was straightened. It didn't look natural. Her lips were like pillows.

She leaned forward over the counter. "What'll it be, handsome?"

He wasn't dressed appropriately for a place like this, but his face and his body allowed him some leeway. Adrian looked like an Adonis. He didn't know why, didn't get it - since he had heroin and meth and E and lord knew what else pumping through his veins. In discovering he could survive anything, he had graduated to the drugs he had refused to touch before.

His hands were shaking. "Yeah." He blinked slowly, the world moved. "Yeah. Gin and tonic." And jack and coke and everything in between."

His nails were chipped and red with little sparkly flowers in the middle. His vest was green and had a faux fur lined hood. He had glow in the dark bracelets from Jenny, cowboy boots from Mike, and too many necklaces to count from too many people.

"I can't die," said Adrian to the waitress when she put the drink in front of him.

She flashed a smile. "That's nice. Just learned this?"

That wasn't supposed to be her answer. She was supposed to call him crazy, ask if he was all right. Or move on, and pretend like he didn't say anything at all.

"It's a new thing, yes," said he. Dipped into his drink.

"Run in with a god?" She asked this as if it were a normal occurrence.

Oh. She didn't think he was crazy because she was. "There's no such damn thing." There was an edge to his voice. "No such thing as gods or magicians or wizards or - or whatever. Everyone's the same. We're all cookie cut outs of each other. People are not special."

”Beg pardon?”

Suddenly, there’s a man sitting beside Adrian. He’s seated like he’s been there the whole time, one elbow tucked up on the table, his wrist dangling down possessively over a folded newspaper. He’s absolutely, utterly paper-pale, which makes the shiny gold dress shirt and black jeans he’s wearing seem stark in contrast. His ears are full of little round gold studs and a thick, simple gold bangle dangles off his left wrist – the side closer to Adrian and not up on the table.

There’s a chill in the air around him. It didn’t appear instantly but now, as the subtle vibrations from his voice die away, it’s seeping into the air.

”It’s not that I object to your glum view of humanity,” he adds, and the weird background harmonics start up again, ”But I couldn’t help hearing you from where I was sitting, and do mildly object to being viewed with such – skepticism.”

Adrian was not at all surprised when a man suddenly appeared by his side. There were logical explanations for his missing this paper-pale man (who's color reminded him so much of Gaven it made his teeth hurt). Like, the drugs. Or the alcohol. Or the memory of the woman sprawled on a bed with her legs spread and her skirt hiked - and his absolute inability to do anything about it. Impotence was natural for druggies, not so much for Adrian - but it was the image of Gaven's face that sent him running with his pants around his ankles down the motel's hall.

"Hi."

The man's voice sounded as if it were coming through a tunnel. He sparkled with gold. So much gold. It sort of blinded Adrian, but he was immediately entranced by it. He was too distracted by the glittering shirt and jewelry to really look at the man's face.

"You don't think you're a cookie cut out?" Adrian wasn't following Azrael very well, because gods didn't exist.

At least not to him.

The waitress's masceraed eyes had gotten huge. She looked afraid and awed, but Adrian completely missed this because he was staring at Azrael's left wrist.

"What makes you so special then? Can you do a neat card trick or something?" His tone was bittersweet.

Why was this guy carrying around a newspaper, anyway?

The waitress’s emotions wash over Azrael, warm and sustaining – she believes. She respects.

He slides her a blue five-dollar bill across the table and motions with a little jerk of his head that she should go elsewhere; almost immediately, his attention returns to Adrian.

”I’d say I’m pretty unique, but that’s not what I’m talking about.” For the first time, he looks up at Bastardi and makes eye contact. His are ridiculously white, the iris rimmed thinly in black, the whole thing dusted just a bit with gold shadow. It manages to look more exotic than feminine.

”I’m talking about your vehemence that We don’t exist.”

And yes, there’s definitely a capital on that ‘we’.

Adrian peered curiously into Azrael's eyes. Leaned forward to get a better look. He had no respect for personal space. Never had. Adrian was always a strange kid, but his looks and personality got him away with so much. He narrowed his own eyes - blue eyes, sparkling, glittering blue eyes that told so much, told of the track marks on his arm and the pills that slid down his throat like water.

He couldn't see the contact lines. Strange, interesting. Of course, Azrael's eyes were also reflecting the gold of his shirt.

He sat back after a moment. Finished off his drink and looked vaguely disappointed that the pretty barmaid scurried away from them, if because his drink was empty and would not be refilled.

"Huh? Oh." Adrian stirred the ice with the thin straw. "I dunno. I think it's because humans are too eager to try to explain things that just really aren't explainable. Death, for example." If only Adrian knew the irony in this situation. How he was preaching to, well, the master. "People are so afraid of death that they make up things like heaven and hell to try and live forever." Except Adrian didn't die. He did learn a rather uncomfortable way, however, that this was only applicable to drugs. His skin still cut rather well. Ouch.

"There is no acceptance that it's probably just - the end."

”Is that so.”

There are moods – there are moods where Azrael would accept this speech with good humour, and then go out of his way to prove the kid terrifically wrong. There are moods when he would laugh it off. Tonight, he’s not in one of those moods.

The room cools, the chill coming right off the pale, gold-shirted man like he’s running a freon bonanza just under his skin. There’s something in his eyes that’s hard, though his posture is as studied and casual as ever. This little human, already guarded by the hand of a God from self-inflicted death by enjoyment, is sitting here telling Azrael exactly the kind of stuff that is sterilizing death, taking away its mystery – encouraging mortals on a whole to approach him with less respect than he deserves.

He flips his right wrist over from its hanging position and nestles his chin in it, not taking his eyes off of Adrian.

”Is that why you’re not afraid of overdose? You don’t think there will be any great unknown afterwards to deal with?”

The cold made goosebumps rise on Adrian's arms, and he ran a finger over them curiously. He didn't really feel the cold. Not really. The alcohol and drugs and everything numbed his nerves. His body reacted though, which was curious.

The waitress at the other end of the bar looked terrified, pressed up against the wood paneling with an obvious desire of wanting to flee. Like a rubbernecker on a freeway, however, she was glued to the spot and watching with wide eyes.

"No," said Adrian, looking into his drink. He wasn't looking for an answer, just at the way the lights glittered off the ice. "Death - I." He paused and searched for the words, unaware of the danger, the frightened atmosphere. "I'm afraid of death. Not existing is unimaginable."

How did this guy know about his drug habit? It must show in his eyes.

Death-small-d. Not good enough. He reaches out and grabs the side of Adrian’s face, pulling him up so that he, Azrael, can peer at him critically. His thumb presses into the human’s cheek, his fingers over and behind the jaw, the ear.

”Yes... and I can see that Dionis has freed you up from having to concern yourself with killing yourself – you won’t die from too much drugs; too much alcohol.” Azrael purses his lips, thinking. His grip is solid and very cold, like metal that’s been left out in winter. He’s examining Adrian; he’s examining Dionis’ handiwork on the boy.

”But you don’t believe in Gods.”

To be grabbed like so wasn't unnatural, and Adrian wasn't uncomfortable, wasn't afraid. He'd been through it before, dealt with crazies crazier than crazy and always walked away alive. He was cocky now. Jaded, also.

The man with cool, cool fingers was examining him. Talking to himself, something about Dionis. He didn't know a Dionis.

"You're right," Adrian said, not flinching from the man's grip, looking him in the eye. "Death seems to elude me. Don't really get it. Genetic mutation?"

He raised his eyebrows.

"Why should I?"

”Because We’ve been kind to you.” He tightens his hold – just enough for his fingernails to catch on Adrian’s skin. He guides the boy’s head to the side, pointing his range of vision toward the waitress.

One of the disadvantages of this is that now Azrael’s somewhere behind Adrian’s right ear. Incongruously, he doesn’t breathe on his neck as he speaks.

”She gets it,” he says, reasonably. ”And, I know, I know – most of you are completely oblivious these days. I suppose I can’t be expected to object.”

He turns Adrian’s head back.

”But I do. By the way, you don’t seem nearly as concerned by my grip on you as most people would be.” Yeah, admittedly, here’s a bit of his catlike curiosity cutting through his irritation.

He blinked slowly at the waitress. She was horrified. He couldn't understand why - maybe she was afraid that this man might kill Adrian? The power emanating from Azrael was impossible to ignore, but Adrian chalked it up to this man being either some sort of drug overlord or business tycoon. Or both, maybe. It was the man's sense of self that was interesting - the confidence was what Adrian liked.

He went with his first assumption. "It's not unnatural for someone to fear death," Adrian said. The d-small-d. "Though I hope you don't kill me. I've got a lot of promise." His smile was ironic.

He was turned to face Azrael again. There was no fear on his face and his smile was crookeder than a crooked old man.

"It's not like something like this hasn't happened before. I survive. I always do."

”I know.”

He watches Adrian for a moment, not really seeing him; his thoughts are turned elsewhere. Then he smiles, a bit suddenly. His teeth shine behind parted lips pretty much the same shade.

”Dionis doesn’t want you dead of a drug overdose – far be it for me to interfere with his wishes.” He strokes his thumb over Adrian’s cheeks, and there’s a glint in his eye. The skin where his hand has been pressing is white.

”But to be honest, all this mucking around with blessings is a bit overkill. If he doesn’t want you to die from overdose, let’s make it easy.”

To be perfectly honest, it’s not a very pleasant smile.

”You just won’t drink or do drugs for a while. Your body won’t let you. There – how much simpler is that?”

One moment the familiar haze was comforting his vision, pillowing reality and protecting him from things he could not possibly ever begin to understand, such as gods and demons and whatever such what.

The next his vision snapped to sharp clarity and he was sliding out of his seat. Falling and falling and falling. The stool knocked over And Adrian clutched his temples. He couldn't scream. He was choking on air.

He cried acid and sweat wine.

His head was being split open. Everything was falling out. Motor control became a thing of the past. In the distance he heard the barmaid scream. Was she? He heard screams, heard conversations. The words jumbled together. His eyes were open, wide open, but saw faceless men and women and children talking and talking but making no sense, talking so fast.

His body convulsed.

Somehow he was outside. He couldn't walk, couldn't run. He stumbled, fell. Scraped his elbow. A car swerved around him. The lights sent him falling, falling.

In an alley.

He finally remembered how to scream.