OK, so imagine Angel!Xibalba, clad in armor and all, priding himself in his strength and in not having gotten even one wound in battle.
And imagine La Muerte is about to get punished for whatever crime she commited.
So she’s, like…chained in a platform or something, ready to be burned.
But right before anything happens, Xibalba throws himself onto the platform and tries to cover her with his wings. She’s telling him not to do this and that he’ll only get both of them killed and he realizes she’s right, so
HE FUCKING TAKES OFF THE MEDAL OF EVERLASTING LIFE HE’S BEEN HIDING UNDER HIS ARMOR ALL THIS TIME
I’VE BEEN LOCKED IN AN ASSNUMBINGLY SILENT ROOM FOR ALMOST A WEEK NOW, BARELY ALLOWED OUT TO EAT OR PISS, PRACTICALLY CHAINED TO THE SLUMBER PLATFORM AND BEGGING THE GODS TO GRANT ME THE SWEET RELEASE OF DEATH WHILE ALL MY SKIN PEELS OFF, THAT’S WHAT’S ‘SUP’.
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He comes back six months later with a knife that’s not his,
in a car that’s not his, with a veritable armament in his backseat. The Citadel
is not as he remembers it—greener, already, grass spilling down over the
mountain’s sides, a soft moss creeping along the edges of the earth—but the
shouts and whistles as he approaches are the same even if the paint is
different. No white ghosts for them now, not anymore; blood instead, and red
paint, vivid violent slashes across every nose he sees.
He cocks the shotgun in his lap. Fair enough.
They’re not maddened, though, even as they pound fists on his
hood and bellow meaningless phrases as he draws closer to the Citadel’s heart.
The chained platform hangs at half-mast now, spikes relocated to the outer
walls, and he can’t help rolling his head on his shoulders as he throws the
beaten DeVille into park and cuts the engine. The tattoos pull a bit, as
always, and the newer cut on his shoulder blade twinges as he straightens, but
that’s an easy thing to ignore when the crowd is parting around his car like
sand opening at the edge of a pit.
He stretches again, steps out of the car, slams the door
closed behind him. The shotgun’s in easy view, as is the semi-auto pistol at
his hip and his hair too white to be anyone else. The half-lives
haven’t lived long enough to go grey in decades.
Faye bit her lip as she was pulled up onto the auction platform and chained there. She closed her eyes as she saw the crowed that was waiting to bid on her and the others. She felt a rough hand grab her hair and forcing her around as her body was shown from every angle and the auctioner listed off things about her. She bit back a whimper as she heard the bidding start.