mayfield_rpg | ✝ First Trick; And now you find yourself in '82. The disco hot spots hold no charm for you.

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✝ First Trick; And now you find yourself in '82. The disco hot spots hold no charm for you.

A. 306 Miller Street Street ✝ Interior

[Gabriel wakes up, which is unusual because he doesn't sleep, but that fact is less unusual than the fact that he was fairly certain he was dead. That part he remembers clearly and while, for all his knowledge both godlike and angelic, he has no idea what really happens to angels when they die, because it didn't use to happen quite this often, he's fairly certain that waking up in the vessel he just violently vacated on account of being demoted to being very dead, in a bed beside a beautiful woman was not on the list of possible angel afterlifes.

...Rewind.

Bed. Beautiful woman. He's pretty sure his brain needs to be in on this fantasy, because the last time he was in bed with anyone was, like, an hour ago when he was putting his last will and testament in a sex tape and this was not some buxom lady straight out of a porn. This was... More "take home to Mother" and less "hope Mother never finds out."

And the woman isn't even the important part, something that hits him a second later. He doesn't know who this woman was. He can't just pick her brain and find out. He can't feel anything. ...He can't feel anything- nothing at all. No tenuous thread to Heaven, no Grace boiling away underneath the flesh.

He bolts out of the bed and nearly slams into the nightstand. Great. Five seconds as a human and he's already learning he's uncoordinated. He swears under his breath and realizes he's just upset a picture- a nice picture of him (in a suit???) with the same beautiful woman he doesn't know (in a wedding gown??)] Ohhhh no. No, no, no, no. Not happening. Not to me.

[And that is how Gabriel ended up downstairs rifling through every corner of the house to confirm what he already knows.

He's dead and he's trapped in Suburbia. He's in Hell. For real.]

B. 306 Miller Street ✝ Exterior

[Later in the morning, you will find Gabriel exiting his house with a butter knife. He found the letters with his last name on them. Someone thinks they're cute. And when he finds out who, he is going to demand his Grace back (what is he supposed to do without it??), and then demand a change of last name... But not before he beats the person into letting him out. Yes, in that order.

In the meantime, he's going to set to work scraping the name off the mailbox. It's something to do. Don't judge him.]

C. Phone ✝ Late afternoon

[Well, here goes nothing.... Gabriel has finally figured out that this is how people get shit done, so this is... Happening.]

Okay, I get it. This is a joke, right? Ha ha funny? Trick the Trickster? Good on you, Whoever the Hell You Are, but, uh, I don't play these kind of reindeer games. I like being on the other side of this kinda shtick, which is probably why I'm here. "Oooh Mr. Trickster, for so callously trying to choose how mortals live and die by their sins, you must be tricked as they were tricked, blah, blah, blah." Bullshit. It's in my nature. It's what I do. And, as you may or may not know? I kinda bought it back. Someone owes me a lot more than suburbia.

I'll take an explanation, if that's order's too complicated for you.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It's not a joke. Oh, and the people who brought you here aren't going to help you. Welcome to Mayfield, the happiest town in 1950s America.

[You can practically hear the sarcasm in her voice in the last five words.]

[.....]

Nope, I'm pretty sure this is Hell. Lucifer must have had the upgrades installed while he was out.

I've been here for almost half a year to know that it's not.

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[The next door neighbours approach, hand in hand. It would look positively suburban except for the part where the neighbours are a goth and an eight foot tall skeleton.

It's not hard for Death to work out what's happening here. Especially with the butter knife.]

Hi, I take it you're new?

[Not strange at all. Have a voice in your head.]

Hello there.

[Gabriel doesn't look up, at first. He is very dedicated to his task of carving the last name off this stupid mailbox. Stupid sticky letters.]

What? A man can't knife his mailbox anymore these days without the neighbors thinking he's- [He glances up.

He pauses.

.....Okay.]

Wow. This is taking alternative lifestyles to a new level. But, y'know, it's really nice seeing that kind of openness in the community.

phone;

phone;

phone;

Outside 306 Miller

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