He isn't really inclined toward being fearful, even when things get weird as fuck. At least not when his own ass is the only one on the line, and/or there's a course of action (or several) available to him.
"So it's a Tuesday, then?" That's drawled.
That remark about pawns fits what he just walked out of, too. Beyond a headtilt and blatantly skeptical look though? No resistance or hesitation, he just takes the hand. Firmly.
No idea where they're going, but he doesn't know where they are now so. Pardon the pun, but what the hell.
"Ah. You're that sort of adventurer." His hand tightens and the world around them shifts. Most people, devils or not, can't simply phase between the layers of Hell; you go the long way or not at all.
The first Champion of Asmodeus has certain privileges. If you really want to call them that.
So, between one breath and the next, they're no longer in the choked and arid outskirts of Dis. The room is still uncomfortably warm and the air tastes of blood and ash, but hey - there are elegant armchairs and a table covered in plates and goblets.
"Welcome to Malsheem. Hopefully you won't be staying." Wry, weary, and not actually that hopeful.
He doesn't sound overly thrown, but he's not being insincere, either. That? Was neat. It's also not a major priority.
He is only just starting to have heat register in a meaningful way. He is going to have to lose a layer, and that starts with him getting his shield off his arm and onto his back and getting the gloves off.
The scent-slash-taste in the air will take longer, just because it's comparatively better here and he had his own blood in his mouth for a bit there, too. It won't take much longer, though.
"You want to start giving me some kind of explanation that I have a shot of understanding. Right now I've got portals, hell, and somebody somewhere probably did it." A pause. "Oh and that this is Malsheem." Which means exactly nothing. "Could maybe throw in why you're being helpful while you're at it."
Edited (JUST FIXING MY DUMB SHIT) 2024-10-13 02:05 (UTC)
Whether it's a conscious reflection or not, Zerxus starts carefully twisting his gauntlets off.
"You were in the second layer of Hell. This is the ninth, and the last; Malsheem is the fortress city that Asmodeus calls home. No one else can teleport into this place."
That cuts off a lot of avenues of potential trouble.
"I'm being helpful because I need to find out what happened and why before someone takes advantage."
Steve is in the actual ninth level of hell, and his response is... to toss his gloves lightly onto one of those arm chairs. It's a really casual move, but with an edge of exasperation underlying it.
From there it's getting the Shield and harness off, set on the same arm chair, in front of the gloves.
"I can't decide if I'm surprised the second levels hotter than the ninth, or if I think it would just make sense of heat to rise. No idea who Asmodeus is." Just pointing that out. Might be useful. At least in the sense that this is absolutely not his hell. Not even his personal idea of it; that one would be a lot colder.
"Lay out what kind of potential advantage could be taken. Might help me figure out who's decided I'm that big enough of a problem to send to hell, and whether I'm taking it personally or not." Meanwhile? Uniform jacket is being taken off to join the shield and gloves.
Not much visibly stuns him, at this point. He lived in an era of impossible arcane heights, fought in a war that tore reality apart, lived in the aftermath.
The utter lack of reaction to the Lord of Hell's name, and the confirmation that follows...that does it. His gauntlet falls to the carpet with a dull thump and he doesn't bother to pick it up.
It's all startlingly genuine, and he knows that if this man did lie so expertly Asmodeus would whisper a warning into his head; he plays his own games, but he wants this solved.
"Asmodeus is one of the gods who shaped the world, and then almost destroyed it. ...Twice." That right there is a tone of bleak exasperation.
Absently, he tugs off his second gauntlet and lets that fall, too. "You came further than I thought. That leaves me on far less steady ground."
Steve is wholly disapproving. Of the situation that he is in, yeah. That he can't stop tasting blood and ashes, that he's overheated - hell, he disapproves that he's in hell. And nearly destroying the world at all, much less twice.
The disapproving look is about those gauntlets being dropped on the ground.
Mostly because it's the easier thing, but also because he'd managed to work out that this was not his reality a little sooner than Zerxus -- and had a pretty good indication by falling into hell.
"Then we're at least on the same page. I have exactly three theories and they're all shaky. Meanwhile, if we're not going to have someone breaking the door down, could I get a name?" A pause, just in case he's found A Tony. "Your name."
He can look hatefully at Asmodeus, but this guy's been nothing but helpful so far. Including the most recent bit. That, by some miracle of sense, he opted to listen to instead of push back against.
So, no hate from him.
"You giving me yours says nothing great about your position here." Just pointing that out. "Is it actual name that's the problem, or do I need to get used to answering to 'hey you'?" There's some wry, tired humor in there.
"Maybe I'm just arrogant." Which, in fairness, isn't not true. It's just kind of besides the point.
"Aliases are safer." Not completely fine, because those can still be a piece of you, but frankly the man is in Hell. Any potential complications there don't even rate as a problem.
Instead of continuing with the armour, he unclips the mace and, in contrast to the treatment of his gauntlets, gently rests it on a side table.
"Maybe, but ego isn't motivation for leading with telling me not to give you my name." Alias might work. It might not. His default, easy to answer to stuff is currently pretty loaded, but-it also might work for him and might not.
As problems go, what he gets called is pretty low on the list.
He rolls his sleeves up to below the elbow and stops there.
The mace being set down? Better and gets a twitch of a smile. also, though: "Do your gauntlets bite? Magic abilities? Turn people who aren't of hell into ash?" Is he being serious? ...Uh, kind of, actually. Because if Zerxus doesn't pick those up, he's going to.
"After we get through that one, I've got a whole set of other questions to get answered, so I can have an idea of how to prioritize." Then he'll think about freaking out a little, maybe. Or enjoying the break. Kind of depends.
He's slit enough throats with those claws that they're probably as much copper as iron.
"I'll answer as much as I can." It's not always clear what he can and can't say; it depends on who he's talking to and what Asmodeus plans for them. He doesn't bother testing those boundaries much, any more.
"Great," he says, walks closer to Zerxus, leans down and carefully picks them up and deposits them on the table, near the mace. "So, you said mortals have wound up here before. Are you using mortal to mean 'can die', has physical form, or human?"
Zerxus is so nonplussed that he almost forgets who and what he is - he opens his mouth, stops, and then starts again.
"Question for a question." That's how it works, you don't give something for nothing, not down here. "Yes, it only means 'capable of dying'. Do you pick up after monsters often?"
"Only the ones that aren't housebroken." He'll do what he wants, thanks, at least until he's given a damn good reason otherwise - and damn good reason means he not only knows what the 'rules' are, but knows the way of them.
He'll keep answering anything asked of him, though. "Call my Cap or Captain." Not real relevant, but he'll answer to it and it's not a name. "What happens when those mortals who end up here do die?"
"If you've brought me to the actual devil's literal privacy house, I have even more questions than I thought." Most of them variations of why. "Meanwhile, those are sharp and don't belong on the floor." He might step on one.
Is it even consideration at that point? Probably. Not like they'd do much to him. Or that he'd admit it when he's got a practical, simple reason to explain his action away with.
"Why did you bring me here?" He points down. He is well aware the guy doesn't know why he's in hell.
"They're not exactly hard to miss." He's - having fun, in this conversation, and that's incredibly dangerous so he's just going to distract himself with his armour. There are a lot of straps to undo.
"And I wasn't exaggerating, this is - we're in a palace. This is a suite of rooms that belongs to me, but ultimately - " He pauses in his work long enough to shrug. "In a way, that makes it the safest place in Hell. What were you doing right before you fell?"
"Gee, thanks." Because brought straight to the actual devil's palace sounded like more of a problem than a solution. On the other hand, he wasn't on the street, it was less hot, and mr 'wings made of fire' lived here, so he wasn't actually being entirely sarcastic about the thanks, at least.
Probably.
Yet.
"I don't know that I can explain what I was doing in a way that will make sense to you." He'll give it a shot? "I had a group who'd infiltrated an organization I worked with hunting me down. They thought I was cornered. I didn't share their assessment, and jumped through a," glass, "wall. Then fell. Do you bring home a lot of mortals?"
"...The broad strokes are very familiar." It's a worn, frayed bitterness - it's been centuries since Avalir was betrayed from within, after all - but he's seen it play out over and over since. People turn on each other so easily.
"I don't make a habit of it, no. Have you always been able to survive jumping out of buildings?"
People turn on each other all the time. The scale of that betrayal is variable.
He's noticing that this is definitely a back and forth, question for question thing. "Not always. I signed up to be a test subject in a military project a long time ago. I'm still mortal, but a lot more durable than most." Mortal meaning to die. "Why me, then?"
Of course. Of course he signed up to be a guinea pig for a grander cause.
Quietly, still focused on his armour and not the man across from him, "You don't belong here."
No one belongs here, not really, but he hasn't been able to do much about that. It would be - nice, if he could just -
"Physical danger isn't what you need to worry about the most. Devils want your soul, above anything else. Don't talk to any of them if you can avoid it."
Belatedly, halfway through tugging his chest piece over his head, "Does your world have mages?"
He waits for Zerxus to finish removing the chest-plate, then looks him very pointedly over and lifts both his eyebrows. 'Are you shitting me right now' could not be more clear if the words had been spoken - or written across his forehead in a bold font.
Then he keeps talking to a devil, because what else is he going to do?
"You know, I tend to operate on the principal that I should be worrying about my soul more than my physical state, anyway/ Some funny habit I picked up, somewhere. Might be the being able to fall twenty stories and walk away. Might have to add the ability to throw a car in to get the full reasoning." It's a drawl, but it is a really weary and wry one. It is also absolutely not a thing that happened with the serum. It's just Steve.
He looks back at the shield he left on an armchair briefly, then back. "I don't know if we have mages. Probably, by at least if the definition stretches as far as the god one does." Meaning... kind of? Close? Close enough? "So, do you have a plan or are you leaving me to find one?" He is... intentionally sticking to one question at a time and avoiding rhetorical ones since he found the rhythm of this thing. Even deliberately altering how he'd ask that last one to do it.
Edited (fixing my icon, ignore) 2024-10-19 04:22 (UTC)
Zerxus very pointedly pretends that he does not notice. He is dealing with this armour, you know, it's very complicated and heavy.
"If more people had that priority, we'd be less crowded." It's wry, but there's...a much deeper, darker well of weariness in there. A devil probably shouldn't sound that damned sad about how many souls were snared by hell's flames. "Right now, I'm trying to learn enough to make a decent report and buy us some time. We won't solve this in a day."
He almost doesn't want to, but he isn't thinking about that.
"Whoever did this was very skilled in some kind of magic - but a lot of that's going to depend on if it came from my side or yours. Or both, working together, after some earlier contact. Do you know if that's happened, communication between your plane - or realm, or world, I don't know - and another place?"
"I'd like to be surprised that hell comes with paperwork, but I'm pretty convinced it wouldn't really be hell if it didn't."
Look.
Just... look.
Keep dealing with your armor. And keep keeping it off the floor. The more serious question isn't one he even has a hard time answering. Because those theories he had? There's one at the top. "Yeah. There is. Chaos trickster 'God'." The lack of being impressed or considering Loki a god is audible. "Showed up, tried to take over the world with an army no one knows the origin of. We got his portal closed, dealt with them and sent him home to jail in a muzzle. And kept his shit."
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"So it's a Tuesday, then?" That's drawled.
That remark about pawns fits what he just walked out of, too. Beyond a headtilt and blatantly skeptical look though? No resistance or hesitation, he just takes the hand. Firmly.
No idea where they're going, but he doesn't know where they are now so. Pardon the pun, but what the hell.
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The first Champion of Asmodeus has certain privileges. If you really want to call them that.
So, between one breath and the next, they're no longer in the choked and arid outskirts of Dis. The room is still uncomfortably warm and the air tastes of blood and ash, but hey - there are elegant armchairs and a table covered in plates and goblets.
"Welcome to Malsheem. Hopefully you won't be staying." Wry, weary, and not actually that hopeful.
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He doesn't sound overly thrown, but he's not being insincere, either. That? Was neat. It's also not a major priority.
He is only just starting to have heat register in a meaningful way. He is going to have to lose a layer, and that starts with him getting his shield off his arm and onto his back and getting the gloves off.
The scent-slash-taste in the air will take longer, just because it's comparatively better here and he had his own blood in his mouth for a bit there, too. It won't take much longer, though.
"You want to start giving me some kind of explanation that I have a shot of understanding. Right now I've got portals, hell, and somebody somewhere probably did it." A pause. "Oh and that this is Malsheem." Which means exactly nothing. "Could maybe throw in why you're being helpful while you're at it."
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Whether it's a conscious reflection or not, Zerxus starts carefully twisting his gauntlets off.
"You were in the second layer of Hell. This is the ninth, and the last; Malsheem is the fortress city that Asmodeus calls home. No one else can teleport into this place."
That cuts off a lot of avenues of potential trouble.
"I'm being helpful because I need to find out what happened and why before someone takes advantage."
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From there it's getting the Shield and harness off, set on the same arm chair, in front of the gloves.
"I can't decide if I'm surprised the second levels hotter than the ninth, or if I think it would just make sense of heat to rise. No idea who Asmodeus is." Just pointing that out. Might be useful. At least in the sense that this is absolutely not his hell. Not even his personal idea of it; that one would be a lot colder.
"Lay out what kind of potential advantage could be taken. Might help me figure out who's decided I'm that big enough of a problem to send to hell, and whether I'm taking it personally or not." Meanwhile? Uniform jacket is being taken off to join the shield and gloves.
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The utter lack of reaction to the Lord of Hell's name, and the confirmation that follows...that does it. His gauntlet falls to the carpet with a dull thump and he doesn't bother to pick it up.
It's all startlingly genuine, and he knows that if this man did lie so expertly Asmodeus would whisper a warning into his head; he plays his own games, but he wants this solved.
"Asmodeus is one of the gods who shaped the world, and then almost destroyed it. ...Twice." That right there is a tone of bleak exasperation.
Absently, he tugs off his second gauntlet and lets that fall, too. "You came further than I thought. That leaves me on far less steady ground."
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The disapproving look is about those gauntlets being dropped on the ground.
Mostly because it's the easier thing, but also because he'd managed to work out that this was not his reality a little sooner than Zerxus -- and had a pretty good indication by falling into hell.
"Then we're at least on the same page. I have exactly three theories and they're all shaky. Meanwhile, if we're not going to have someone breaking the door down, could I get a name?" A pause, just in case he's found A Tony. "Your name."
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Well, Asmodeus does, but there's nothing hateful in this man's gaze. This is more like -
Gods, he can barely remember his brother's eyes.
"...Names have a lot of power here. Don't tell me yours and definitely don't tell him. I'm Zerxus."
He hasn't tried to run interference like this in a long time. It always ends the same way.
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So, no hate from him.
"You giving me yours says nothing great about your position here." Just pointing that out. "Is it actual name that's the problem, or do I need to get used to answering to 'hey you'?" There's some wry, tired humor in there.
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"Aliases are safer." Not completely fine, because those can still be a piece of you, but frankly the man is in Hell. Any potential complications there don't even rate as a problem.
Instead of continuing with the armour, he unclips the mace and, in contrast to the treatment of his gauntlets, gently rests it on a side table.
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As problems go, what he gets called is pretty low on the list.
He rolls his sleeves up to below the elbow and stops there.
The mace being set down? Better and gets a twitch of a smile. also, though: "Do your gauntlets bite? Magic abilities? Turn people who aren't of hell into ash?" Is he being serious? ...Uh, kind of, actually. Because if Zerxus doesn't pick those up, he's going to.
"After we get through that one, I've got a whole set of other questions to get answered, so I can have an idea of how to prioritize." Then he'll think about freaking out a little, maybe. Or enjoying the break. Kind of depends.
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He's slit enough throats with those claws that they're probably as much copper as iron.
"I'll answer as much as I can." It's not always clear what he can and can't say; it depends on who he's talking to and what Asmodeus plans for them. He doesn't bother testing those boundaries much, any more.
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"Question for a question." That's how it works, you don't give something for nothing, not down here. "Yes, it only means 'capable of dying'. Do you pick up after monsters often?"
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He'll keep answering anything asked of him, though. "Call my Cap or Captain." Not real relevant, but he'll answer to it and it's not a name. "What happens when those mortals who end up here do die?"
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That said, when he pulls of a skull pauldron he sets it alongside the other pieces.
"If they were just visiting, their soul will ascend to whichever plane it would have been drawn to before - unless they sold their soul first."
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Is it even consideration at that point? Probably. Not like they'd do much to him. Or that he'd admit it when he's got a practical, simple reason to explain his action away with.
"Why did you bring me here?" He points down. He is well aware the guy doesn't know why he's in hell.
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"And I wasn't exaggerating, this is - we're in a palace. This is a suite of rooms that belongs to me, but ultimately - " He pauses in his work long enough to shrug. "In a way, that makes it the safest place in Hell. What were you doing right before you fell?"
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Probably.
Yet.
"I don't know that I can explain what I was doing in a way that will make sense to you." He'll give it a shot? "I had a group who'd infiltrated an organization I worked with hunting me down. They thought I was cornered. I didn't share their assessment, and jumped through a," glass, "wall. Then fell. Do you bring home a lot of mortals?"
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"I don't make a habit of it, no. Have you always been able to survive jumping out of buildings?"
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He's noticing that this is definitely a back and forth, question for question thing. "Not always. I signed up to be a test subject in a military project a long time ago. I'm still mortal, but a lot more durable than most." Mortal meaning to die. "Why me, then?"
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Quietly, still focused on his armour and not the man across from him, "You don't belong here."
No one belongs here, not really, but he hasn't been able to do much about that. It would be - nice, if he could just -
"Physical danger isn't what you need to worry about the most. Devils want your soul, above anything else. Don't talk to any of them if you can avoid it."
Belatedly, halfway through tugging his chest piece over his head, "Does your world have mages?"
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Then he keeps talking to a devil, because what else is he going to do?
"You know, I tend to operate on the principal that I should be worrying about my soul more than my physical state, anyway/ Some funny habit I picked up, somewhere. Might be the being able to fall twenty stories and walk away. Might have to add the ability to throw a car in to get the full reasoning." It's a drawl, but it is a really weary and wry one. It is also absolutely not a thing that happened with the serum. It's just Steve.
He looks back at the shield he left on an armchair briefly, then back. "I don't know if we have mages. Probably, by at least if the definition stretches as far as the god one does." Meaning... kind of? Close? Close enough? "So, do you have a plan or are you leaving me to find one?" He is... intentionally sticking to one question at a time and avoiding rhetorical ones since he found the rhythm of this thing. Even deliberately altering how he'd ask that last one to do it.
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"If more people had that priority, we'd be less crowded." It's wry, but there's...a much deeper, darker well of weariness in there. A devil probably shouldn't sound that damned sad about how many souls were snared by hell's flames. "Right now, I'm trying to learn enough to make a decent report and buy us some time. We won't solve this in a day."
He almost doesn't want to, but he isn't thinking about that.
"Whoever did this was very skilled in some kind of magic - but a lot of that's going to depend on if it came from my side or yours. Or both, working together, after some earlier contact. Do you know if that's happened, communication between your plane - or realm, or world, I don't know - and another place?"
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Look.
Just... look.
Keep dealing with your armor. And keep keeping it off the floor. The more serious question isn't one he even has a hard time answering. Because those theories he had? There's one at the top. "Yeah. There is. Chaos trickster 'God'." The lack of being impressed or considering Loki a god is audible. "Showed up, tried to take over the world with an army no one knows the origin of. We got his portal closed, dealt with them and sent him home to jail in a muzzle. And kept his shit."
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