[Lucifer] Ch: 50 [A Deal with the Angel] (Patreon)

Welcome to the Golden Trough.

Malcolm did not even bother sitting up this time. He just laid his head on the table and began to cry. He had gone through countless deaths and starvation for so long that he had lost count. Yet, here he was again at the beginning...

"To Detective Graham!" the waiter shouted.

"Yeah, yeah, I am the smartest man," Malcolm sobbed into the mahogany wood. "Just bring out the poison pie or the acid soup and get it over with."

The waiter placed a single bowl of plain, unflavored oatmeal in front of him.

Malcolm peeked at it through his fingers. It looked harmless and boring. But as he watched, the oatmeal began to bubble. The beige lumps shifted and formed a sinister, lumpy smiley face. The oatmeal face opened its mouth and let out a tiny, high-pitched laugh.

Malcolm closed his eyes and waited for the oatmeal to leap out and choke him.

But nothing happened.

The cheering of the crowd suddenly stopped. The terrible violin music cut off mid-note.

Malcolm opened one eye.

The entire restaurant was frozen. The mayor was suspended in the air mid-clap. Dan was frozen while pouring a drink; the liquid stopped perfectly in midair. The oatmeal face was stuck in an ugly sneer.

The temperature in the room plummeted.

The heavy oak doors at the front of the restaurant slowly pushed open.

Amenadiel walked into the Golden Trough. His dark coat swept behind him as he stepped over the threshold, his face contorted in utter disgust. He looked at the frozen demons, the opulent decorations, and the ridiculous displays of gluttony.

"Is this it?" Amenadiel muttered, his deep voice echoing strangely in the frozen room. "This is the grand punishment of a corrupt soul? A parlor trick with tainted food? The standards of this realm have truly fallen."

Malcolm stared at the massive, imposing figure. He did not know who this man was, but he knew he did not belong here. The man radiated a terrifying, overwhelming authority that made the demon waiters look like cheap plastic toys.

Amenadiel stopped in front of Malcolm's table. He looked down at the sobbing detective, then at the frozen, sinister bowl of oatmeal.

"Pathetic," Amenadiel said.

"Who are you?" Malcolm choked out, his voice trembling. "Are you the manager?"

Amenadiel did not answer. He reached out with one massive hand and grabbed Malcolm by the front of his shirt. He lifted the detective effortlessly into the air, hauling him over the table and away from the velvet throne.

"Your punishment is being temporarily relocated, mortal," Amenadiel stated coldly. "Do not think for a second this is a rescue. You are simply required elsewhere."

"Wait, where are we going?" Malcolm panicked, his legs kicking uselessly in the air. "Is there food there? Because if there is food, I am not eating it! You hear me? I refuse!"

Amenadiel sighed, a sound filled with immense, cosmic exhaustion. He tightened his grip on Malcolm's shirt and spread his great, dark wings, shattering the frozen illusions of the restaurant into a million pieces of black glass.

With a single, powerful thrust, Amenadiel launched them upward, leaving the culinary nightmares of Hell far behind and dragging the screaming detective back toward the world of the living.

...

The transition from the depths of the underworld to the mortal plane was not gentle. It felt like being fired out of a cannon through a wall of freezing water.

Malcolm slammed onto a hard floor, gasping for a breath he did not actually need. He squeezed his eyes shut, fully expecting the neon lights of the Golden Trough to hum above him. He waited for the smell of garlic butter or the horrifying sound of the mayor cheering.

Instead, he heard pin-drop silence.

Malcolm slowly opened his eyes. The sterile white glow of fluorescent hospital lights greeted him. He looked down at his hands, preparing to find them withered from starvation, but what he saw made his phantom heart stop completely.

His hands were transparent. They flickered at the edges like a television struggling for a signal, glowing with a faint, ghostly blue light. He tried to press his palm against the floor, but his fingers slipped right through the solid material as if it were made of thin mist.

"What in the world?" Malcolm whispered. His voice lacked any echo. It sounded hollow and distant.

He scrambled backward and looked up. A hospital bed sat in the center of the room, surrounded by machines.

Lying on the mattress, perfectly still and deathly pale, was his own body.

Malcolm stared at his physical face. He looked terrible like a corpse. He looked around the room and realized several people were standing near the bed. He recognized a few officers from the precinct. Then he saw Chloe Decker standing near the back, her hands shoved deep into her coat pockets.

"They cannot sense your existence," a deep voice resonated through the room. 

Malcolm spun around. Amenadiel stood by the hospital room window, his dark coat perfectly unwrinkled. His majestic wings had vanished, leaving him looking like an ordinary, albeit extremely intimidating, human man.

"What the fuck is going on?" 

"You just died, Malcolm, and I helped you escape hell," Amenadiel replied.

Malcolm stared at the towering man, then looked down at his own glowing, transparent hands. He looked back at his lifeless body on the bed. The mechanical hiss of the ventilator was gone, the tube already removed, and the heart monitor emitted a continuous, high-pitched wail. A flat red line stretched across the screen.

A bark of laughter echoed in the quiet, ethereal space.

"Hell?" Malcolm chuckled, shaking his head. He tried to run a hand through his hair, but his fingers passed straight through his own ghostly skull. "Oh, this is good. This is really good. What is this, some kind of magic trick? Copperfield-level stuff? Or is this that CIA hypnosis crap I read about?"

Amenadiel did not smile. He simply folded his hands behind his back.

"You possess a truly remarkable capacity for delusion, Detective," Amenadiel said, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. "Look around you. Does this appear to be a parlor trick?"

"I don't know what it is!" Malcolm shouted, pacing around the hospital room. He waved his hand through the screeching heart monitor, watching the blue mist of his arm disrupt the plastic casing without making a sound. "Maybe I'm in a coma dream. Maybe my brain is firing off its last few neurons. But I know one thing for sure. Hell isn't a neon steakhouse, and angels don't wear designer coats."

"Your ignorance does not change your reality," Amenadiel replied coldly. "You are dead, Malcolm. The doctor pulled the plug on your life support. Your mortal life ended, and your soul descended into the abyss. I pulled you out of your punishment."

Malcolm looked at the bed. The doctor stood beside the bed with his pen suspended above the chart. Chloe remained motionless several feet away. A nurse had one hand resting against the monitor controls.

"If I'm dead," Malcolm whispered, his ghostly eyes widening, "why is the room empty? Where are my wife and kid?"

"Dan Espinoza confessed," Amenadiel stated. "He surrendered the evidence. The entire precinct knows you are a corrupt cop. The entire city knows... You died a disgraced, filthy criminal. Your legacy is ruined, and your family has abandoned you to the void."

Malcolm felt a cold dread sink into whatever was left of his soul. His fortune, his perfect plan, his reputation. All of it was gone. He pointed at Amenadiel. "I saw your wings... Angel!"

Amenadiel said, "Yes."

"So what now?" Malcolm asked bitterly. "You just came to gloat? Show me my ruined life before you send me back to that glowing green oyster nightmare?"

"I came to offer you a choice," Amenadiel said, taking a slow step toward the ghostly detective. "I can release you right now. Your soul will snap straight back to hell, where you will starve and choke for the rest of eternity. Or you can work for me."

Malcolm narrowed his eyes. "Work for you? What could an angel possibly need from a dead dirty cop?"

"A trigger man," Amenadiel said flatly. "The Devil is currently taking a vacation in Los Angeles. He walks among humanity, wearing a mortal suit, playing with human lives as if they were his personal toys. He is reckless, dangerous, and a threat to the divine order. I need him eradicated. Sent back to where he belongs."

Malcolm stared at him. "You want me to kill the Devil? Are you out of your mind? I'm a cop, not an exorcist! How do you even kill the Devil? He'll incinerate me instantly."

"He can't kill a human. God's rule. But he can be killed. He has become vulnerable," Amenadiel explained, a hint of disdain creeping into his voice. "His time on Earth has changed him. A bullet will pierce his flesh just as easily as it would yours. I simply need someone willing to pull the trigger. Someone who understands the criminal underbelly of this city... Someone with absolutely nothing left to lose."

Malcolm looked back at his dead body. "And what do I get out of this suicide mission? My reputation is already shot. I can't exactly walk back into the precinct."

"You get a second chance at life," Amenadiel said. "But more importantly, you get a chance at redemption. If you rid the Earth of Lucifer Morningstar, you will earn divine karma. You will wipe the slate of your sins completely clean. Do this for me, Malcolm, and when your mortal clock finally runs out again, you will not wake up in hell again."

Amenadiel leaned in, his eyes glowing with a terrifying, holy light.

"You will wake up in the Silver City... Heaven, Detective. Eternal peace and pleasure awaits there... Kill the Devil, Malcolm."

Malcolm looked at the angel. He thought about the terrible, agonizing hunger of his Hell loop. He thought about the humiliating maid outfit Dan had been wearing. Then he thought about Heaven. A clean slate. A VIP pass to the ultimate gated community.

He looked at his dead body.

"Get me out of here," Malcolm nodded. "And point me at him."

Amenadiel smiled. It was a cold, ruthless expression.

"Excellent choice," the angel said.