Right in Two

Wars are never pleasant. The war between Heaven and Hell is no different. Nevertheless, angels and demons sometimes find common ground. There are neutral figures in the conflict who decided that, knowing this, they should create a haven for those individuals who were losing, if not faith...willpower. And since they were breaking the laws of the war and both realms--and both "leaders" most certainly knew about it...if you're gonna sin, you might as well go all the way.

Nevertheless, Johnny Bones thought, if someone like Beelzebub found out his demons were fraternizing with the enemy in what seemed to be the illegitimate child of a bar, a rave, and a fortress...he shuddered to think of it.

Nevertheless--again--if he wasn't already in a relationship, he would definitely have started hitting on this demoness, red skinned and hell-driven or not. Black leather hugged every curve, the pants riding low on her hips and ending at her calves. Like Johnny, she didn't wear shoes. A tight t-shirt showed that she was, in fact, packing, but she zipped up her small leather jacket soon after they had left the Dome, emerging in Los Angeles at exactly midnight.

Oh, and had he mentioned she had a monstrous Desert Eagle hanging in a holster against her thigh? That would make most of even the bravest men think twice about grabbing her ass, that was for sure. Not as practical as his pair of Berettas, but it was a damn big gun...she wore it easily, unconcernedly. That meant she knew how to use it.

...Damn.

They silently walked beside the street, ignoring any human contact. Johnny removed his cap and stuck it in a pocket, scratching his stubble absentmindedly. The Intermediary was the closest thing to God or Lucifer on Earth, wielding almost as much power as, say, the Metatron. Simple humans in Los Angeles generally didn't pay to much attention to red-skinned women (besides the obvious male attraction) only because he willed it. Demons and angels roamed the streets freely; in most respects, LA was a "Safe Zone."

Johnny glanced at the demoness; she had ignored him completely after interrupting his...time...with Cadenza. She could at least apologize! He'd bet every penny he owned, frozen by the police or not, that she'd rip out his liver or worse if he interrupted her with a male demon. Or angel. In Los Angeles, it could go either way. Safe Zone, indeed.

"How much longer to the bar, miss?" he asked, stressing the "miss" to annoy her. She ignored him again, a curtain of straight, black hair obscuring her face. All right. Be a snooty little...the Intermediary's aide or not, she could still talk to him. "Oi. How far?"

No answer.

"Hey, bitch."

He knew it was a mistake the moment the first syllable left his mouth, but it was worth it to get her to acknowledge him. She whirled, eyes flashing with hellfire, and slammed him against the wall, the Deagle almost magically appearing in her hand. Not for the first time, Johnny caught himself wondering if he could die in this form...and if he should really try to piss off every armed woman he met. His track record wasn't that great so far.

"What was that?" she demanded, holding him against the wall, a foot off the ground, with one dainty hand. Johnny instinctively reached for the holy magic burning inside him, but almost as quickly let go of it. He didn't attack women. She'd been provoked. He knew where that path led.

"Nothing. My mistake. Slip of the tongue."

Her dark red face seemed to heat with rage. Johnny hastily added a "sorry," but she simply flicked the safety off of her pistol and held it under his chin.

"I was really curious?" Johnny said, making it into a question to see if that would be an acceptable way out.

The demoness glared at him, licked her lips, and then let him slide to the ground, keeping him covered with her Deagle. "I'm a direct assistant to the Intermediary," she hissed. "The last one, after what happened to Waldo. Basically his second-in-command. Would you call the Intermediary a bastard?"

"Probably not."

The gun raised to point at his forehead. It was a big gun. The mouth seemed to grin evilly at him. He half-raised his hands on instinct. "Most people would say 'never,' Bones. I doubt anyone has even thought of giving him backtalk except you. You've got some nerve."

"So they tell me," Johnny muttered, his gleaming red eyes rolling.

"And do you know what happened to the last person that talked to me like that?"

Johnny couldn't help himself. "They contracted mono?"

BLAM. BLAM.

The zombie slammed into the wall, gritting his teeth and hissing curses in five different languages. Both slugs had gone straight through his palms and out the other side, into the wall. Blood surrounded the bullet holes in the skin and the bricks. Through the haze of pain, he saw the demoness stalk forward and undo his holsters, removing them from his belt and stashing them within her own jacket (which apparently had as many bottomless pockets as his had).

"Was that...completely necessary? I can just heal them," Johnny grunted, embracing holy energy and directing it into the wound. She grinned, showing enlarged canines. The magic reached the holes in his palms...and seemed to fizzle out. "What the hell?"

"What in Hell, more like," she said smugly. "I think you call it 'tainted bullets,' yes?"

Tainted bloody bullets? That was his power! She had it, too, except it was Hell and not Heaven that provided for her? That was fuc...he had thought he was unique!

Sirens wailed in the distance. No matter what the Intermediary did to the citizens, cops would still be cops and the demoness had fired in suburbia. The demoness hissed in vexation and grabbed the disarmed zombie (he had used up all his grenades and his sword was in his house, four states away) by the collar. "If you want to get healed, you can beg the Intermediary for it. I'll tell him what happened and we'll see what he thinks."

Johnny paled, but said nothing. The demoness reached into her jacket and pulled out a set of car keys, pushing a button. A black Lamborghini Diablo, blending in with the shadows in an alley to their right, beeped twice.

"See?" she said pleasantly, hauling him over to the car and shoving him inside. "If you'd been just patient for ten damn seconds, we would've been out of here with no violence and you wouldn't look like a wannabe Christ."

He heard her curse in Italian, German, and Swahili through the car as she walked around to the driver's side and slid in. "If you bleed on my car, holy warrior or not," she growled, baring her fangs, "I will damn well cut your balls off and feed your undead corpse to my Hellhounds."

Johnny groaned, but quickly stuffed his now-numb hands into his jacket. What the hell was he getting himself into? He didn't need the meeting this bad. He could come back in three years, when there was another opening for him to see the Intermediary and the demoness's temper had cooled.

She flicked a switch and the doors locked.

...crap...

"My name's Breña," she said, turning the key in the ignition. "Sit tight and you probably won't get shot again."

The Diablo tore out of the alley like another bullet from the Desert Eagle, the speed pushing up to 120, zipping towards downtown Los Angeles.

"Dead as dead can be," my doctor tells me..."

"Johnny Bones and Captain Breña Howerdel. He has an appointment."

The music in the Cock-Eyed Seagull was so loud that it permeated the walls and floated into the anteroom where a dull-eyed bouncer stood guard in front of a ramshackle wood door. If anyone...directly untouched by divine or hellish power, let us say...had entered, they would be forcibly removed. If a SWAT team entered, they would be removed. Bullets probably would just bounce off the bouncer's thick hide. When he moved, muscles had to jump around to make room for other muscles.

Nevertheless, he stepped back as Breña approached.

...but I just can’t believe him, never the optimistic one...

Johnny felt and looked more like a prisoner than a reveller. His hands still dripped blood and his once pristine jacket had bloodstains on it. The demoness had an iron grip on his arm--he was convinced he was losing circulation--and he was unarmed. The bouncer gave him a long stare.

"He divine?" the man grunted.

Johnny muttered, "'Course I'm divine, you..." His voice trailed off, mumbling curses. Breña flashed him a satisfied smirk before nodding.

I’m sure of your ability...

The bouncer grunted again and opened the door for them. "Intermediary's in a meeting," he rumbled. "Wait inside."

Wincing and cursing as the tainted wounds throbbed, the zombie allowed Breña to haul him into the bar.

To become my perfect enemy.

A thin fog filled the air, broken by the occasional flash of dim red lights but augmented from cigarette smoke. A blonde woman pole dancing commanded the attention of quite a few male occupants, but others chatted with each other, knocking back shots of whatever alcohol was at hand. Still others sat with women, in various stages of heterosexual conversation, from light talk and light kissing to no talk, making out and feeling up.

Unfortunately, Johnny thought, there were no lesbians at that time.

Wake up and face me, don’t play dead cause maybe
Someday I will walk away and say, “You disappoint me,”
Maybe you’re better off this way...

They sat down at a table in the back, Johnny complaining every step of the way until Breña threatened to puncture his lungs with a butter knife. That shut him up. She'd carried out a violent threat before, after all. He contented himself to the occasional hiss of pain.

The bartender, a weedy earth-bound angel with a long, thin moustache, brought Breña a glass of red wine and kindly offered Johnny a wet rag to clean the blood off of his jacket before he saw the Intermediary. In return, Johnny kindly offered to remove the man's spleen. Before violence could break out, Breña waved the bartender away, pulled out her pistol, and used a napkin to polish it idly.

Johnny eyed it warily. "Captain in what?"

She didn't glance up. "Middle Dimension Divine and Forsaken Peacekeeper Battalion."

"Eh?"

"Earth-bound Heaven and Hell police."

"Ah...I still don't get it."

Breña sighed. "You're an idiot." Johnny shrugged good naturedly, keeping his bleeding hands on the table. "Peacekeepers arrest any divine or Forsaken being on Earth that breaks the rules. Openly tries to sway humans, for instance. We demons are supposed to whisper malignantly into people's ears, not control their minds. If someone does that, we stop them. Simple as that."

Johnny nodded. "Gotcha. How many people've you killed?"

She glanced up at him through tilted blue-green eyes. "We don't kill people."

"Yeah, right. You carry a friggin' Deagle and you actually use it. Kill, assassinate, 'marginalize,' whatever you want to call it. Speaking of guns, I don't suppose you want to heal me?"

"Nuh-uh."

"Thought not."

She sighed and holstered the silver pistol. "I can't discuss it with civilians."

"I'm a detective."

"We're more like the Boston staties."

"Hardcore. Captain's the highest rank?"

"The second," she corrected. "Commander is the highest."

"The Intermediary."

Breña snorted. "Obviously."

"You must get paid well. That's a nice car." Johnny had hoped she'd warm up to him through compliments on rank and possessions--complimenting her beauty would probably not be wise--but she shrugged and didn't smile.

"Payment is...different. For everyone. And you rarely get the same payment twice."

"It's good, though?"

"Yes."

The demoness pulled out her cell phone and flipped it open, examining the screen. Johnny watched her out of the corner of his eye, considering. Policing, huh? He was used to chasing after criminals almost as much as being chased by the cops because he was a criminal. One of the best. It'd be easy money. Maybe the--

"The Intermediary will see you now," Breña said, snapping the phone shut. Johnny treated her to his trademark cocky grin.

"Can't wait."