Hell's Gamble [Mana/Yaksha] [WW4 Interlude]

"If I don't mind? Do you typically give people that kind of out? Did the citizens of America have the right to say 'sorry, no, demon overlords are a little too inconvenient'?"

The reply, though it gave the impression that its speaker was waking up from a restful nap, and still in the process of gaining their full mental faculties, still came almost instantly after Mana's laugh resonated across the streets of the city. Before the echoes had even faded, Yaksha's reply hung heavy in the air, seeming to dampen her own mad influence. He sounded frustrated, moreso than anything else; as if he were being imposed upon by someone who he deeply enjoyed the presence of, but didn't know how to speak his mind with.

There was a sound very much like the crinkling of an enormous curtain, and Yaksha swooped down from the sky, right in front of Mana. Though his entire face was hidden behind an alabaster mask of what looked almost like human fingernails, though his expression was completely unreadable, he nevertheless had taken the liberty of strapping a sleep mask over his eyes, glued ever so slightly to the back of his head. He had even had someone scribble an eye on each one, giving the impression that someone with a pair of very wide, extremely attentive eyes, was peeking out of his skull at all times. This was, of course, not at all the case. Yaksha hardly felt a need to use his own eyes anymore.

"Ravan Vespara is dead and gone. Let's both not fool ourselves into believing that Hell has any interest in funerals, or inheritance, or anything of that sort. He agreed to leave this city in my care because it was mildly less annoying than having to care for it himself. I have no intention of changing that arrangement at this point. I will stay out of your way, and offer no insult to you or your agents, what few remain."

He tilted his head first one way and then the other, a soft cracking sound not unlike the noise that one gets when stepping on ice that otherwise seemed extremely solid. And just like when one does step on that ice, a sudden frigid air rushed off of Yaksha, filling the space between them with furious silence. He waited in place in front of her, saying nothing at all. He just waited for her to speak her piece, silence bludgeoning at her breast like a morningstar, demanding she spit out her intentions and then let him get back to an otherwise restful day.

"You know, I expected a little more from the Mad Queen. Compared to some of the people I've met, you're merely slightly vexed. I'm beginning to understand why you didn't come here sooner. But let's rip off this bandage so we can get to the important part, why don't we? You're here to...most likely convince me that there's some particular reason that you're a preferable alternative to the dozens of other people who will almost certainly be scrambling to fill this vacuum in the upcoming weeks."

"You made my point ever so well, Mana. This was never a voluntary conversation, so your plays at politeness fall flat. You and I both know it isn't your style, to say things like 'if you don't mind'. Just...do what it is you do best, Mana. I'm confident by the end of the conversation you'll walk out of here feeling better for the time you invested."

And then came the theatrics, the dreaded theatrics that he -knew- were coming the moment that the name Mana came to mind. She drew out a glass from the air, filling it with alcohol with no more thought for where it came from or where it would go after she drank it than Yaksha gave to waggling a finger. He inhaled slightly, nostrils twitching at the almost-herbal scent of juniper wafting up from the glass. Gin and tonics? Mixed drinks were one thing, but of the countless options, why pick that one? Then again, this was the self-proclaimed Danava of Madness. Trying to find logic in her actions would inevitably drive one insane.

He reached out his own hand, one finger extended, drawing a bottle of cognac from his smoking room half a mile away, and balancing it there. He didn't bother uncorking it, simply staring at the amber contents with a look of deep longing concentration, as if to say he was going to drain the entire thing as soon as he was alone and had any time to let his guard down. For now, however, he simply...waited, for the pitch that he knew would be coming. Mana's argument was about as obvious as he had expected, although the ripping off of the arm felt a little overboard, and too symbolic for his tastes. He walked over towards it, giving a small sniff, and then setting it down on a nearby bench.

He glanced towards her, fingers gently tightening around the neck of the bottle, as he spoke the first word he had in almost three minutes, while looking at her. It carried with it far more nuance than one would normally expect, a dryness that seemed to imply any sort of explanation wouldn't be forthcoming, and an almost paternal sense of disappointment. He met Mana's gaze, a woman who had almost single-handedly turned the entire human world on its head, and chastised her ever so gently, while taking a few steps forward.

"Had."

He stood over her, hands folded behind his own back. His wings expanded outwards with a whooshing sound of displaced air, giving the impression that he had just grown ten times taller. Regality and poise was etched in every joint of his stance, like he had just become a monument to himself. He was every bit as immobile as a monument while he looked down at her, mind churning through every word she had said. He knew exactly what she meant, but it kept being jumbled up by the package it was presented in, that detestable need to keep herself moving in some histrionic whirlwind of motion, bringing all avenues back to her. He finally jerked a hand over his shoulder, in the general direction of the Atlantic ocean.

"Tunguska, Russia, is that direction. I doubt you've ever been there. I find it grotesquely fascinating to me. What secrets could I have learned if I were a fly on that wall? Roswell, New Mexico is not that far from here. The stories I could tell you about the city of lights would be enough to fill a novel, even from the era before you broke into this world and began ravaging it. You came here to make a sales pitch, and you did so without knowing even a single thing about the man you came to negotiate with. Did you know you're the third person in a month to knock on my door? One came with their hands outstretched, asking for a handout. One came with an ultimatum. And now you come, with a bill of goods."

He tapped a hand against his mask, tracing a path that could roughly have matched tear trails on most human faces. He said nothing else, simply letting the meaning of his words bludgeon Mana about the brain for a few moments; in his experience, it was usually best to give people a little bit of time to prime their brains before having a real conversation, and that often meant quite a lot of waiting. But for an immortal, waiting was an artform, honed to a razor's edge by the whetstone of time. He could've gladly gone an entire day following Mana around the city, without uttering another word.

"Are you, by chance, referring to my mask when you speak of my spirit's imprisonment? My hole? Do you seriously think that consuming -your- deleterious flesh would be the solution to my imprisonment? Find freedom in madness, that sort of thing? This may be a world of clowns, for clowns, but that doesn't change a thing. Even clowns need a ringleader."