1965-02-24 - By Jove!
Summary: Playing on Europa is a great deal of fun if you're not bothered by radiation, temperature or the lack of an atmosphere.
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
michael lucian 


Gravity they set aside with ease, resisting the Jovian pull. So now Michael's sliding and skating on Europan ice, able to create enough pressure for it to melt under his bootsoles and send him squeaking and wobbling along, wings spread for balance. He's g rinning in pleasure, pale eyes bright with it, occasionally leaping up with one flap of his wings - there's just enough atmosphere here to give those feathers some resistance.

Europa, the great ice ball, formed in the radiation-bombarded web of mighty Jupiter. For the Morningstar, the added particles count as a welcome breakfast that he absorbs for several very long minutes at the top of an ice cliff. The shear fall crashes into huge quartz-like ice crystals hewn off at irregular angles, chunks that clash and grind together on the back of the subsurface ocean forever on the move. His wings are spread to their fullest general extent, outlined by the numinous particles reacting visibly to the bombardment. Fatal for humans, nutritious for Lucifer.

He can almost neglect the fact his brother squeaks like an overgrown schnauser crossed with a pigeon somewhere within one hundred meters. Aurorae shatter the calm on the roaring storms at the poles, the glaring cinnabar eye of the Great Red Spot — poorly named, if apt — turned towards them in judgment.

"I still contend if you impale yourself on a shard, I'm not dragging you off."

The squeaking, like nothing so much as the sounds that echo down a basketball court during a furious game, ceases. Then, for a moment, Lucifer is under shadow, as Mike passes between him and the glowering light from Jupiter itself. He comes down for a neat landing, backwinging hard enough to send a glittering crowd of ice crystals blowing past them. Then he stretches, first one wing, then the other, and sighs contentedly, before settling in that wing-draped position. "The gamma rays prickle, but it feels good," he says, with a sigh. "Earth can be so stuffy."

Jovian wrath meets the Morningstar's calm, a loss of the eternal pressure being among so many damn living humans. Their concerns, their pressing thoughts, their needs all form an endless bombardment against immortal minds preoccupied by a volume of other cares. For the nonce, he watches Michael deal with the moon's modest gravitational pull and the absence of friction that may cause him to revolve end over end past the white Galilean satellite.

"Be glad this isn't Io," he gestures idly out to another of the twinkling points visible through the faint ice haze. No clouds here, only the passing vapour. "Perhaps we should be playing hide and seek on Titan afterwards. Those cloud-tops are rather mesmerizing, aren't they?" Nothing like a hurricane the size of the moon rolling around.

"Yeah," he says, as he shakes out his feathers, spreading each wide as he can. All but posing for those images of him on earth. "It's quieter here. Human minds are so noisy." The prospect of Titan makes him give Lucian a sidelong look, pleased. "That's a thought. I still need to look up a hurricane on Earth."

Given the equivalent solar sails deployed, Lucifer flexes his shoulders and shakes down the longest of the pinions. The swept wings fold back behind him, too dramatically arched, for once phased out of the light into their fullest opacity instead of lingering in the shadows, so to speak. "Look up? Standing beneath one is a fine way for you to be blown away." His thinned gaze follows the storm bands in soupy opposition rather than the ice. "The season ran much of its course, though you still have the opportunity for cyclones in the southern hemisphere. Gulf of Carpentaria in Australia, reliably battered."

He gazes up, obediently. His own are aglow with the ruddy light of Jupiter, that pinkish-orange dawn iridescence called into bright being - partially reflection, partially sympathy. "True. I haven't made it into that hemisphere yet. I did make it out to the Rockies already, though."

Sparkling heights of perennially frozen blocks and chunks of ice surrounding them reflect the tremendous volume that is the mightiest of the planets, named aptly for the king of the gods. Minor beings, next to the Morningstar and the Demiurgos, but still impressive nonetheless. Explosive sparks flit in bombardments from the atmospheric heights, lightning fields shimmering upon methane and hydrogen storms.

Lucifer raises his hand to brush his golden hair from his face. "Pointy parts, wet parts, and some nice flat parts in between. The planet is a woman, if you ever had any question."

Michael just gives him a look. It takes him a moment to get it. Never doubt which is the smart one in the pair. Then he looks wry, corner of his lip pulling up. Lou made a funny. "Females are amazing. Have you ever been one?"

Only Michael, of all beings, would ask that question of him. Lucifer reaches down to tear out a chunk of ice from the ground supporting them, shaping it in his hands. A few light applications of soulfire melt the edges and seal certain cracks, and he shapes a nearly perfect sphere. Whether to divine by or hurl at his brother's head, inconclusive. "You watched me set whirling the elements to make those not of the human species," he replies, dry as the seared emptiness of gigantic, bombarded, forgettable Ganymede. Proof you can be the biggest, and generally the most boring. "In appearance, as one must. Dear old bloody dad giving us the nuanced genders of that," he points at Jupiter with a sharp jerk of his hand, "it scarcely matters fully one way or the other."

"True," Michael concedes, watching Lucian's actions with interest. "Humans, though. They make such a big deal of it. And they only functionally really have the two, with a few variations. I tried to ask a mold about it, but they've got too many and they're hard to talk to." He fluffs up his feathers, pinions gone from sleek and deadly looking to something that looks like he lost a pillowfight.

"Functionally two, and variations on what they want left and right." Lucifer turns and flings the diviner's sphere straight at Michael's chest, aiming along the centerline where ribs and sternum fuse into a tidy plate. "The mold. You asked… Of course you asked a mold." These things cease to be questioned. "Inquire of a fungus and the conifers, preferably not a bristlecone pine. Try, say, a western red cedar and a sequoia."

He stoops and scoops another handful of ice up. Those particles simply end up hurled at the ball of feathers.

"It was right there on the bread," Mike explains, as if it were a matter of course. "And willing to talk a little bit." He's taken by a direct hit, the impact splattering him with ice crystals. It makes him laugh….and the second he bats playfully out of the air with the leading edge of a wing.

Fingers curl into the golden locks again, pushing them aside, moving them around his scalp in languid circles. Palm brushing his temple, he shakes out a variety of modest, minor crystals accumulating since his landing. "It was no doubt happy for the chance to speak. So few willing to maintain any sort of conversation."

Michael comes over to help. His own brutal crop is starred with stray crystals, gleaming here and there like a broken tiara. "Exactly. So many things wanting to talk," he agrees.

Fingers curl into the golden locks again, pushing them aside, moving them around his scalp in languid circles. Palm brushing his temple, he shakes out a variety of modest, minor crystals accumulating since his landing. "It was no doubt happy for the chance to speak. So few willing to maintain any sort of conversation."

Michael comes over to help. His own brutal crop is starred with stray crystals, gleaming here and there like a broken tiara. "Exactly. So many things wanting to talk," he agrees, as he picks out more of the crystals. Look, daddy, social grooming!

Never trust Michael with the grooming. What manner of hairstyles does he prefer, under the given circumstances? Probably some kind of terrible mullet or those ridiculous lengths curling 'round his shoulders, a romantic dream conjured from medieval art and imagination. Lucifer has to raise an eyebrow at the additional assistance provided to him, much as it proves somewhat unnecessary for the matter of looking good. On the other hand, he balances between unamused and bemused on the whole matter.

Yes, well, if any little girl came along to comb his hair, he'd be about the same.

He's had long hair, in the old days. Precisely the pre-Raphaelite absurdity one would expect. But….in this age, in this system, the warriors he's encountered have worn theirs clipped short, and that's what he affects.

Satisfied he's got the worst out before they can tangle, he settles for gently scratching Lucian's scalp with his fingertips. Works on him, works on mortals, might work on the Morningstar.

But no grandiose mustache, no fierce warrior's stare? The world is lacking. Another ten years, then, for him to embody something like Tom Selleck Goes To War, complete with bearskin rug.

Lucifer holds still whilst being groomed. No one else gets to do this, and truth told, those languorous stylings are almost always outstanding. He eventually gives his head a good shake, not quite knocking Michael's hand away, more reacting to the frisson that calls for a scritch behind that ear. Dammit.

Those rare moments of dared tenderness. He withdraws his hand and then fingertips return, just to the right spot behind that one ear. Gently, gently. The other stroking along one of the manifest wings. He hasn't a bill or a beak, he can't preen Lucian that way. Fingers will have to do, if they can.

Lucifer will frown. Abominably. It is the only acceptable reaction for this wherein his ear up to his scalp receive steady passes of hard nails. He prefers a harder touch than not, leaning two degrees in, getting the proper quantitative effect. More scritches, right here, right now. He shuts his eyes, scrunched up shut, and makes no noise. His feathers are flat, straight, not so much as puffing up at all. Sleek in the way of a swimming penguin, to Michael's puffball.

Goddamnit, birb, stop purring.

HE remembers, from past days, what Lucifer likes. Gauging it just as the Morningstar prefers. A little harder, a little more pointed. The brush of wing against wing, lightly, his own smoothed down as if in imitation.

Birb, birb is the word.

Lucifer cries not to quiver overly much and then he takes a bounding, running leap at the end of the cliff. High frosty walls of the chasm, and those wings aren't even released as Lucifer sails over the Europan cliff for something horrible and decidedly pointy.

He follows, his own pinions snapping out, sharp as a falcon's. Is this a game? A race? Or a flight merely for the glory of it?

Free fall is nothing quite like on earth. No wind except the accelerated rush of the cold, and that generated in a contrail behind Lucifer. Propelled forward, he crosses his arms and waits until the very last second to snap open his wings, stretching out the appendages partly to shear away from colliding with the ground in an abundantly painful, unpleasant collision with the ice. Michael might find that delightful; he doesn't.

The solar energy is a heady draft, as he labors up to the very edge of the moon's atmosphere. Then he stoops into a dive - not aimed at Lucifer, not close enough to disrupt the elder angel's flight. Mike skims past him, over the surface, slaloming side to side like a goshawk. He sings one note, sheerly for the pleasure of it, a sound like struck crystal.

Showoff. Lucifer rides the lower arc, shearing off again like a mad skua prepared to pounce into a ball of herring. The razor edge of his wings tilt and he narrows the profile, scorching a trail of rattling ice. At the speeds they move, particles ought to be rattled in a sonic boom. Beneath the ice flow supercharged oceans, heaving with possibilities, and somewhere must be a geyser spout. If you don't have to breathe…


Waterpark rides for the ancient and eternal. Mike backs and slows, falling into a wingman's position on Lucifer's flank. Racing his shadow, silent now.

Europa's high bergs and icy plains call to those who dare them. Vaulted fissures in the crust delve deep and pinch together, walls that converge or reopen for the salt-licked oceans of unfathomable depths. Lucifer swings around for one of those gaps, and drops into the nearest geyser, crashing through the narrow plumes of white water splashed out, sprayed.

Oh, that looks like fun. As ever, he follows Lucifer. Finding one for himself, to drop down and then bob up on the spray, light as a leaf. Not laughing, but coruscating, as he does in moments of rare hilarity, the wings gleaming from ultraviolet all the way down to infrared in one quick ripple of light.

Down into the icy embrace, Lucifer probably chases. He shifts himself purely into light, throwing far more radiance than the beams of a distant star throwing only a sufficient magnitude to mark itself separate from the field of distant fiery points. Jupiter gives more heat than solar sources, though the winds running riot from the Sun feel the irresistible attraction to him. Surrealities, the blue-white dust of ice proves the antidote to his golden being, as the seraph twists once and crashes straight through an aperture wide enough to bear him. Down, down further, he follows the jagged cracks into the icy crust and deeper unto oceanic depths frosted over at the formation of time. Bath is a freezing plunge, once where he chooses to reconstitute himself in more physical forms, spasming at the back-bending change of temperature. Well, take that.

Michael has to show up at some point for a proper bath, and when he does, he can admire the pristine underside of the aquamarine bergs surrounding the moon, a mile thick.

He hurls himself, shining, into that frigid brine. STill rippling through the spectrum, a sight rarely seen, until he's drifting in the cerulean glow from above. No life here. Still silent, save for his brother.

Perhaps no life, such as Earth knows it, but the microbial situation in the deepest depths where the rich presence of cryovulcanism bestirs mysterious environments holds all kinds of untold secrets. Not to their ilk, but no commentary be made here to convince the mortal reader one way or the other.

Lucifer rotates on the axis lengthwise, facedown, plying a lazy overhead stroke matched with desultory kicks of his feet. Too choking down here to speak without mouthfuls of water, but simple handsigns will do. «Showoff.»

There's the sharp flicker of silent laughter at that, a bow of acknowledgement. Subtlety has never been any art of the Taxiarch's. Leave that for brighter, more level heads.

The squadron commander, or the head honcho of the yellow cab service, of course gives that multicoloured effect strobing under the water. Of course, he's going to attract any predator or become a dizzying underwater disco ball.

Lucifer floats in space, sighing to himself.

Michael settles nto a calmer glow, like incipient terrestrial dawn. Smiling at Lucian, all affection. Poor Lucian. This is your family.

Soothing glow of a Himalayan salt lamp, is it? Michael knows all the best spectra to assault the unsuspecting with. Lucifer is left to puzzle through what on earth the various Morse code flashes could possibly entail other than the equivalent of a lazily wagging tail. Yes, this is family. This is why Dad in his infinite wisdom gave big birb the power to shape things and lesser birb the power to… be the battery.

To destroy things. Light's creation brings into existence its shadow, the song, silence, the beginning, the end. Utterly conscienceless and remorseless on that front - there's nothing wrong in fulfilling one's purpose is there? He starts swimming up, wings and arms moving, to burst out of the ice.

To destroy things. The battery can do that too. No more power, no more anything.

Lucifer shall demonstrably worry about that later, but his absent mantle proves he turned his back on the major role appointed to him, even after the Fall, and defies it still by swimming around the depths of a frozen ocean. He stares up and points at one of the breaks in the ice cover, at least where some vague ruddy light indicates the general shadowy presence of Jupiter. Or a big red Kree ship, for all they know.

Time to build speed and break free.

Mike batters his way through with all the subtlety of a panzer division, bursting up in a spray of water and ice. His initial attempt to take to the air ends with a moment of clumsiness, and he flops onto the ice like a seal breaching to escape an orca, left there for a moment, bemused.

So much if humans land here, and question where there's a man-shaped hole smashed into the ice. The careful precision with which he navigates lends to Lucifer's more careful nature. He flaps several times to keep some kind of speed up, and then soars into the open atmosphere, dripping a spray of water. Feathers throw the brine-licked chill away in a wave, rapid, violent sweeps bobbing him like a top fifty feet over Michael. Michael on his belly.

"Did you slip?" He spits out a mouthful of water just to be sure.

"I did," he confesses, rolling onto his back and spreading his wings. A few petulant flicks to free them of their burden of brine, before he gives Lucian a sheepish smile. Up on all fours to shake again, like a retriever.

"I see." Lucifer is soaked, same as Michael, his clothes already freezing in the terrifyingly low temperature. Frost forms on his skin, crackled off by flexing his fingers and brushing away the faint crackling on his face. No, none of that is necessary. "Where do you want to go now?"

"Let's head up, I want t play in the atmosphere there." He indicates the great striped bulk above them with an eager hand, grinning like a kid at COney island.

The atmosphere indeed. So be it Michael's will to throw himself into raging storms centuries old, where diamonds rain into the heavy methane clouds and surging cloudtops crush unsuspecting bodies under immense, immeasurable pressures.

Lucifer stretches out his arms over his head. Nothing like a good dance after swimming? "Do bear in mind it's chilly. Heat will be a problem as we go down if you insist on dive-bombing. No solid surface, yes?" Well, not until the core, but even so. He's already lifting, rising towards the striated sphere hanging in the dark sky.

He's following at an easy pace, savoring the great, cool distances between them. The shift of gravity. "I'll be careful," he agrees, with one of those smiles. Poor Lucy.

The escape velocity needed to fly away from Europa requires considerable effort. Snap of the wings, twist of the body, and he forces his way up out of the sumptuous gravity well tethering the unsuspecting to the frosty glaze around the cue ball. Lucifer struggles against that while building velocity, tracking after the smiling angel of destruction.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License