[i][b]—— Earth F67X: the Asomatous Détente & Terrestrial Customs[/b][/i]

[center][img]https://www.lagedorre.net/rp/Tawhaki-focus.png[/img][/center]
Careful not to touch the document, Tāwhaki dutifully examines each field and footnote, murmuring an occasional word or phrase in his infernal purr-cum-baritone while his malefic eyes trace the laser-etched char of characters seared into the holy-white parchment: [i][color=f26522]“Selena, f67x, San Pedro de Urabá, 12 // aught-9 // 22, unbalanced scales, gibbous air trine descending into retrograde.”[/color][/i] 

A pause, then he reaches out an atramentous paw, claws extended, and bats at the ostensibly ordinary slate countertop. A resounding screech, as claws meet rock, awakening an opaque void writhing holographic within. He takes his time deciphering the contents.

[i][color=f26522]“Mrrrrrrrrrreow,”[/color][/i] he muses. The demon hunter is in no immediate peril other than, it would seem, failing her mission to slaughter one of Hell’s demonic denizens sauntered astray to egoize in his daddy’s personal demiplane. Glancing back at Ilaria, he demands, [i][color=f26522]“why are you wasting my time?”[/color][/i] 

[i]“All my paperwork is in order, I assure you,”[/i] the angel responds.

He stares at her, his red gaze unreadable, vacant, inward. Is she arrogant or imbecilic? Is Heaven really so out of touch with mortals — that bad at keeping tabs on the whereabouts of those who are, for all intents and purposes, under their so-called care? Probably. An arrogant being cannot behold the beam in its own eye, after all, and none exceed the arrogance of beings self-described as divine. Maybe there is another explanation, perhaps even a good one, but he doesn’t care. His job is to erect barriers for angels seeking entry into Earth. To obstruct. In a flat, humorless tone, he states, [i][color=f26522]“This is Terrestrial Customs for f67x, Earth.”[/color][/i]

[i]“Yes, I am aware,”[/i] the angel agrees, her feathers unruffled and her tone neutral.

[i][color=f26522]“Your demon hunting ditz is not on Earth.”[/color][/i]

[i]“Yes, I am aware,”[/i] the angel again agrees.

[i][color=f26522]“You have no business on Earth, there is no portal proximate to your human counterpart on Earth. I cannot approve this request,”[/color][/i] Tāwhaki elaborates.

[i]“I have to go through Earth to get there,”[/i] Ilaria patiently explains, not missing a beat.

He contemplates the darkness vortex betwixt his paws, hisses, and flicks it aside into a whorl of infinitely diminishing nought. Of course, it is unbecoming of an angel to transfer direct to a pseudo-Hell such as Aeternus, but he is under no obligation to offer her any such favor, at least, not without one in return. All to aid a vaguely-imperiled demon hunter, hah! Also possible is that the master of Aeternus has, as humans did on Earth, emplaced measures inhibiting the unannounced arrival of angelic tourists. Batting that thought around in his mind, he cheshire grins, as his job may be to keep angels out of Earth, but luring them into places like Hell ... well, that’s another matter entirely!

[i][color=f26522]“Earth is not a transfer terminal,”[/color][/i] he concludes, [i][color=f26522]“It delights me to announce that you’ll have to find a different means of travel to Aeternus. I recommend a portal to Hell, which delights in stray angels coming in for a visit, however temporarily. Or perhaps you’d prefer my home, Entobalti, a necrolivid hipasia of immaculate suffering contrasted with which Hell seems strikingly pleasant? That said, this is not a general service terminal. This is Earth customs, for travel to Earth. If you want me to assist you with travel elsewhere, you’ll have to wait for a break in my shift and, you know, give me a reason to aid in your journey during my personal time. Or you can try to open your own portal.”[/color][/i]

[i]“Kitty hell, you mean? Sure. Adorable. So long as I get to where I need to be on time,”[/i] Ilaria relents all too easily, her tone changeless, unperturbed.

Recalling Entobalti, [i]the Dissonance of Infinite Pains[/i], impregnates his thoughts with nostalgia. Ilaria’s reductive naïveté in casting it as an adorable kitty hell widens the grin on his face. A poor metaphor for the the place, a pseudo-reality in a superstate of positive and negative corporeality. In his mind’s eye, it is an eternal implosion, spherical, pulsing, multi-layered. Bands crisscrossed upon bands of innumerable screams stretching and snapping back against the whole, an endless intermingling reverberation of exquisite and novel torment.

[i][color=f26522]“As it happens, I have a break soon,”[/color][/i] he seductively purrs, high-stepping through the picture frame and exiting a mirror a stone’s throw down the length of the service desk. [i][color=f26522]“Naturally, I’d be doing this as  a purrrr-sonal favor. But purrrr-haps you could deliver a package. A gift for Balam, my mother. Here, in this little red box beneath my paw.”[/color][/i] 

Almost imperceptibly, he nudges it forward. It slides the slate length effortlessly, as though the distance were negligible, as though space itself were merely a plaything contracting at his behest. A small, red, leather-bound carton sealed with meandering black ichor. Both seem impossibly alive.

He lifts his head, their eyes meet, his big, red, and pleading.

[i][color=f26522]“But a trifle.”[/color][/i]

He laughs, breaking character. Just as impromptu, he pounces forward, and vanishes through another mirror, before unnoticed, or, more likely, entirely absent, yet now flat and face-up atop the desk. His tail vanishes into the impossible plane, then, from behind Ilaria, his voice, amplified by an improbably massive gilt-frame silverglass, sings, [i][color=f26522]“Pre-purrr yourself, angel. The path through Entobalti is right behind you.”[/color][/i]