I
Angels and devils are often described extravagantly in human fiction, usually depicted with luscious white wings and extensive tails with pointed, red tips but, luckily for Bae Irene, in reality this wasn't the case. Having to conceal wings double her size would considerably dampen her plan to infiltrate a conference in hell- all she has to do is remove a glowing halo, an act that feels so undoubtedly wrong, but immediately swabs her of any indicating identity. Wearing the luminescent rings definitely shoveled coal into the fire between the warring species-- devils don't have halos, hell, most of them don't even have horns, (something that had evolved out of most of their bloodlines over the millenniums) so why on earth did angels feel the need to pad their already inflated egos with neon evidence? It was an argument as long as time. Literally.
Without her radiant crown, it was surprisingly easy for Irene to get into Hell; she'd had some help of course, from angel 'defectors' who were still working for Heaven, but other than a few tight squeezes here and there, she came out of her journey relatively unscathed.
Now she's walking through a lavish party celebrating the underworld she swears to despise so much. It's all very extravagant with extra high ceilings that round to a point in the centre decorated with work likened to Michelangelo in the Sistine Chapel and large glass panes that are so clear it's like looking at water frozen in motion. Waiters dance effortlessly through crowds of devils that grow, shrink, pulse and move around the venue like hives as they serve alcohol, and other 'classy party foods' that Irene has never quite understood: like cheese and pineapple sticks and melon layered with ham. The thing that really tips the whole thing over the edge for her is Bloody Marys being served with an added flourish as if the beverage was named after Hell itself.
The atmosphere is relaxed in contrast to the constant fuel of adrenaline rushing through her in waves that take her off guard each time. There's no imminent danger; everyone's keeping to their respective social circles, occasionally mingling with one another like a bride and groom's family but inevitably separating later. There's nobody who has even given her a second glance or inspected her outfit (which she so meticulously put together) so why is it that her fingers aren't steady when she curiously plucks a stick of cheese and pineapple off of a platter?
Maybe it's the orange lighting and the warm hues everywhere that remind her that she's far from home. The yellows in the chandeliers that, whilst appearing dainty, would probably kill you if they came crashing down and the red swirls of colour in the numerous tapestries and paintings lining the brown panelled walls all were all a jarring pointer that she was amongst the enemy in a place that upheld and maybe even worshipped morals completely the opposite of her own. She had always considered devils inferior to angels. Who wouldn't? Each one was a defector, a fallen angel who had rejected their own tradition-infused society and created their own rules, each one more ruthless and savage than the last. At least that's what she had been brought up to believe: Hell was a firey pit where each being inhabiting the licking flames are scorched, objectively ugly and so tickled by the idea of murder that they built their own world around the idea. This angelic propaganda, so far, had yet to be proven. The gathering was surprisingly civilized with neatly pressed suits and dresses that never rode above the top of the knee although she did find herself wincing and jerking whenever the room exploded with raucous laughter or something else of the sort... Maybe she needs a drink to take the edge off.
Approaching the bar she's greeted with an array of spirits in varied colours, their glass catching the light and shimmering in luminescent patterns that shift whichever way she turns and moves. It's more mesmerizing to stare in awe at bottled alcohol than Irene would like to admit and anyone would think she's an underage teenager stepping into a liquor store clutching a fake ID for the first time by the expression on her face. Beneath the stools lining the counter is a flattened rectangular rug stained slightly darker in the middle from consistent foot traffic fading out towards the lighter more plumpy, cottony edges which had clearly escaped many encounters. Now that she's seemingly snapped out of her starstruck epiphany, a bar-tender crosses over to her only to be cold-shouldered when she sees the prices. Instead, she snags a Bloody Mary from a passing waiter (because they're free) and resumes her seat. She likes to fancy that she did so in stylish elegance.
After picking off the skewered olives and stalks garnishing the top she takes a sip of the cocktail and she only thinks two things: 'too much celery salt' and 'why didn't I just buy some ready-made drink?'.
By the time she's looking at the drained bottom of the glass the alcohol has seeped through her system, neutralising those surges of adrenaline which had been making her back stiffen involuntarily and it's enough to create a small buzz in her head. In fact, it was perfect. Now she can relax and observe the party like she's intended to be doing the entirety of her visit without fearing that some freakishly horned demon is going to approach her and ... she doesn't know. Slit her throat or something? Irene doesn't want to admit that she's tipsy but her reaction when she turns her head to see a woman sitting beside her is probably enough to give her away, especially judging by the amused tugging at the corner of the stranger's lips who sends her a small glance over the top of her glass. At least she's not drunk enough to have lost her reflexes.
Dropping her jolted shoulders Irene lets out a small breathy laugh, and before she can stop herself she's apologising to the devilish woman before her, indicated by two small horns poking out on her scalp between her voluminous, black hair. "Sorry... You gave me a fright." She explains in good-nature, regarding the devil's side profile, a softly rounded nose and high cheekbones. She has a stoic manner about her with broad shoulders poised backwards and a lightly arched back in a posture that Irene can't really flaw.
"That's okay. Enjoying the party?" She turns her head to face Irene and one of her shoulders follows suit when she gestures to the bustle of exchanges behind them. The woman talks like she's familiar with the setting, a small and somewhat prideful smile gracing her lips which the lightly intoxicated angel can't quite pinpoint the meaning of. In all honesty, Irene had almost forgotten about the hundred or so guests hovering around the building being so distracted in her imploding mind from both a mixture of dulled nerves and alcohol. Adding to that, a devil had just asked her opinion on the party that she, one: was an infiltrator of, and two: not actually paying any attention to.
"I am. Although I had to get away from the crowds for a bit." Irene responds, keeping her responses curt and short. Not even all the alcohol in the world bubbling through her bloodstream would stop her from over-socialising with a devil. She thinks. Her excuse can't really be faulted- the boisterous nature of the attendants has clearly repelled not just herself. She also takes this chance to gain a proper look at the face of the woman in question. Her mono-lidded eyes are lined with a thin streak of pointed eyeliner, elongating their feline shape paired with delicate, plump lips and neatly shaped eyebrows that are slightly lighter than the hair on her head. The devil is undeniably attractive and she's looking at Irene with an unreadable expression that only fuels both her curiosity and caution.
"I understand. Those men grind on my nerves." The woman raises her eyebrows briefly, her eyes widening in what looks like an act of irritation as she sips her blood-coloured wine. When she lowers the glass, she flicks her tongue over her now slightly reddened lips before speaking again. "Ah, but did you see the champagne tower at least?"
There's a sudden innocent air of excitement radiating from her, a small glint her eyes as she quirks an eyebrow in anticipation of the increasingly nervous angel. Trying to match her enthusiasm, Irene nods: "Of course! It was stunning." Her finger slowly rounds the rim of her empty glass as she shifts her attention to the room which has a stark lack of majestic champagne towers in any shape or form. Her breath hitches. Has she been tricked? Is she being had on?
"It's a real shame they took it down, no? I would've liked to marvel at it longer."
"Sure." Relief.
The stranger gives another cryptic smile, taking Irene's compulsive glass rubbing as a sign to beckon over the bartender. It's clear the woman isn't bent on the idea of getting her wasted as she gets a fresh glass of wine and watches the devil's refill but one glass turns into two and Irene is in over her head before she can stop herself. She knows the alcohol has robbed her inhibitions when she's not giving a second thought to the brutal repercussions of a wine-induced hangover. She learnt the science about why they were so bad before. It's to do with enzymes. Or something like that she thinks.
Her distinct distaste for wine is merely an aching thought in the back of her mind now but the pretty-looking woman who's name (now that she reflects on it) she doesn't even know besides her is drinking it and so she wants to as well. "What's your name?" Irene verbalises her thoughts, her head tipping slightly in curiosity which makes her hyper-aware of the weight of it on her neck like she's holding a bowling pin raised above her with one hand.
"That's a secret." The stranger mysteriously taps the side of her nose with suggestion, a light shrug making her shoulders rise. Why is it that the devil appears so much more sober than her? Briefly, she wonders whether devils have a higher alcohol tolerance.
Irene lets out a laugh, her pearly white teeth revealed as she smiles, her body swaying with her apparent amusement at the mystifying answer that was making a strange situation even stranger. Suddenly, she leans forwards in a sombre manner, making the woman physically recoil in surprise before she regains her composure and matches the angel's pose. "Do you want to know a secret about me?" She drunkenly jabs a finger in their respective directions.
"If it's your name, I can just find it on the guest's list. Easy."
"No, no!" The woman veering dangerously on her stool makes a perplexed expression before waving her hand dismissively. She's growing to become like the rowdy crowd she had grown to have such distaste for earlier, but that's not what's on her mind anymore as she once again leans forwards with such force that the wine in her cup threatens to slosh over the glass thresh hold onto either the devil's knees or the mat beneath them. Hopefully the latter. "I'm actually an angel... I'm undercover. Isn't that cool?" She says with enthusiasm, an anticipating smile spreading across her features as she studies the woman's face opposite her.
Once again, the native of Hell's expression is unreadable. She nods as if she's understanding something, the cogs visibly twisting in her head as she takes a sip of wine like she's chasing the thought. The stand of her glass hits the wooden counter for the first time since their exchange began and with a start that sends that familiar feeling of adrenaline coursing through Irene, but slower as if it's fighting through congealed alcohol, she realises that the reason the devil seems 'sober' is that she's actually barely touched her second round and, even worse, she's just revealed the identity that could cost her her life.
The angel, with a panic that flashes across her face in a way that resembles cornered prey, goes to abruptly stand and to add insult to injury she swings forwards and her drink unceremoniously spills and lands on the black lacy top clothing the devil's chest. The blood-red substance seeps through the lace, the red stain pooling and dripping down her skin to her stomach which is shrouded by an also reddened cloth, now soddenly clinging to her skin.
"There was no champagne tower." Without another word, the woman stands and leaves maintaining an air of grace that would appear that if there wasn't a glaringly obvious stain that made her look like she had been stabbed in the stomach, no one would suspect a thing. Pairing the belittlement with the disastrous finale, it's clear that both her blossoming 'friendship' (if you could call it that) and her night is over.
* * *
The night prior felt like a distant memory when Irene had awoken. The effects of her hangover were in full force and she couldn't list the reasons on one hand as to why she shouldn't have been drinking as if she was the daughter of a Moldovan and a Russian. It's difficult to word how she felt. Part of her is filled with an existential dread that her death is near and the mysterious yet magnetising stranger is going to take some sadistic pleasure in seeing the woman who ruined her top tortured and the other... is oddly relaxed. The devil wouldn't have actually believed a random, drunken guest's tales and the worst that could happen if they were to even meet again would be that she was filed with a harsh bill and a story.
Pulling herself out of the warmth of her covers is arguably the hardest part of her day and the throbbing in her head is screaming at her to retreat but it's her second and last day in Hell. One meeting with some pretentious higher-ups and she can return to the blue-skied home she calls Heaven where her memories will be both distant and some recycled gibberish transformed each time like Chinese whispers that she could tell to charm strangers. On second thought, maybe not; she'd had enough of them recently.
Now she poses at an elongated table, letting aspirin do its work. It's brimmed and varnished neatly with legs that curve somewhat maliciously and indents upon it's top to hold stationary; other than the questionably designed limbs, the decorations are undeniably high-quality for Hell. This centre-piece of the room swarms with a multitude of devils all completely different from the next: whilst some are horned and some are not, their differences seemingly make little impact on their conversations. It's unusual seeing the relaxed standards in the ominous hall which feels both huge and too small for the angel. Heaven was so much more uptight, it's rigid rules and expectations that warrant harsh punishments with a sick sense of irony that Irene never missed. The humanoid figures before her were enshrouded with a red taint, the fiery colour of the morning sky trickles through the clear, glass windows that stretch up from the floor to the shapely ceiling far above. She's noted that Hell has a thing for this type of elongated architecture. Nonetheless, it's brightly lit inside with white, decorative lanterns that occasionally sway on their chains with a barely audible squeak. In fact, as much as she hates to admit it, it feels a little cosy (disregarding the pompously dressed attendees) with the orange sky resembling a sunset and the quiet stillness of the room shielding them from the outside.
They're sitting in a suffocating silence for what seems like forever. She feels like she's been doing a lot of sitting and waiting recently. There's only one seat left to be filled and it's at the head of the table; even without its occupant, it demands all the attention in the room. Irene feels a building apprehension at what fearsome beast might arrive and usurp it. All she does know is that Satan's representative is running late and every second- no- every millisecond that passes by is making her increasingly nervous. It feels as though her laces are too loose, or her sleeves are riding up beneath her jacket, or her belt is one hole too tight, and yet she sits. And she waits.
Involuntarily, Irene's eyes flit to the grand, double door. There's a sound like the clicking of locks, a muffled voice with a distinctively annoyed tone and then the thud as the wood is released and the doors swing open. Holding it with one arm extended is a smartly dressed young devil, his head is hung somewhat shamefully which is preventing a clear view from his face, however, Irene looks away: she is not here to see a servant. Instead, the most important person in the meeting has since entered and the silence hanging in the air only thickens. She's tall, or at least taller than Irene but smaller than the other attendees, and slim. Black tresses cascade down her back, each strand vitalised and healthy, a few hanging carelessly over her shoulders, framing her face whilst they sway in time with her slow and casual steps. A manner that exudes both coolness and temper and not once does she turn her head in their direction to spare a glance to any other person present.
All eyes are on this striking presence and, with a start, Irene realises that whilst she had been staring everybody has risen from their seats and prostrated with a stiffness that gives away just how nervous they really are. The thud of her heel hitting the chair's foot as she scrapes it jarringly across the floor in a hurried attempt to join the others is far louder than she would have anticipated and apparently it is for Satan's second in command too made clear by her once indifferent posture becoming alert. The horned woman's familiar, cat-like eyes are narrowed and staring daggers that pierce through her skin like acupuncture and with a sickening sense of dread, Irene is hit with a realisation that feels like her blood has frozen (even in the pits of hell) and her stomach drops.
Bae Joohyun is holding eye contact with the woman on whom she spilt her red wine.