Lucifer hated calling Heaven. Being bound to the Treaty of Haveno for almost two hundred years was bad enough - a peace treaty according to which every important political decision in Hell that could somehow affect Heaven had to be approved by the latter. What was even worse, though, was that the idiots ruling in Heaven made an effort to re-interpret said treaty on a regular basis, in what seemed like nothing more than an attempt to spite him. Lucifer had yet to understand how the construction of a few windmills constituted an 'important political decision'.

'Hell is a place of punishment,' Raphael proclaimed monotonously. He sounded bored and like he'd memorised and uttered these words dozens of times, because he had. 'If the sinners are suffering, then I am sure it's an -'

'An appropriate punishment, I get it. You wanna suck up to the Puritans? Please don't tell me those bird brains are leading again.'

'No one can tell yet. It's another few months until the election.'

Of course not. Lucifer hung up angrily, thereby ending his conversation with the archangel. There was no point in discussing this again, and he'd had enough of his brother's way of speaking to him, his voice dripping with either contempt or suspicion. Talking to him felt more like an interrogation than an actual conversation; every one of his questions seemed to be aimed at exposing him as a warmongering tyrant. And then, when Lucifer did take the time to explain his true intentions, the eldest archangel used the same excuse every single time, rather than at least admitting that he was nothing more than a figurehead who couldn't grant a single permit without the approval of the Puritans. The frequent blackouts in some parts of Hell were an appropriate punishment. The unemployment rates were an appropriate punishment. Even the famine that racked the poorest areas of Hell was an appropriate punishment for the alleged sins the alleged sinners had committed.

With a sigh, he picked up the phone again to call his secretary and swore under his breath as he misdialed several times in a row. His fingers were numb and unwilling to obey him, his heart was hammering against his chest like a jackhammer, and his throat seemed to still be considering whether an allergic shock was, perhaps, an appropriate reaction to the phonecall. He wondered if he would ever get used to these conversations, if he would ever stop getting so upset about them that his traitorous body deemed it necessary to react in such literally breathtaking way.

'Rosita, please fetch me a coffee. A strong one.' He hesitated. Caffeine wasn't the best remedy for his out-of-control pulse. 'With an extra-large shot of whiskey.'

'You sound upset,' the woman on the other end of the call replied. 'Raphael being a pain again? It was to be expected.'

She entered the office without bothering to knock a few minutes later and placed a steaming cup on the table. Lucifer couldn't help but smile in amusement when he saw the ridiculously high heels of her knee-high boots; they almost made her look like she was of average height. The rest of her outfit consisted of far less material. Her short tops and even shorter shorts meant that Rosita was frequently met with sometimes lustful, sometimes judgemental looks that didn't seem to faze her.

'Gracias, ricura,' he chimed and took a sip. The beverage was good, it tasted strongly of coffee with a suspiciously subtle hint of whiskey. So subtle it might not have been there at all. Lucifer enjoyed it nonetheless. Rosita had taken her time to brew it herself rather than letting the machine do all the work, and he could taste the difference.

'You drink too much,' Rosita replied dryly. 'That's the third time this week you've requested booze with your coffee.'

'And yet I got so little of it. I thought you'd forgotten it entirely. Are you a homoeopath now or has someone invented flavourless whiskey?' Rosita rolled her eyes but her smirk betrayed her.

'It's not exactly a good sign that you can't taste the alcohol anymore, cariño. Well, if it's not enough ... you've got enough schnapps lying around.' She pointed at Lucifer's wall rack where there was indeed a half-empty bottle of Mag Mell Single Malt. The devil laughed and then got up to fetch it.

'You want some?' he asked and decided not to bother looking for glasses when Rosita shook her head no. Instead, he took a swig directly from the bottle and a deep breath as the tension finally began to leave his body. Suddenly very uninterested in the scotch, he put the bottle aside and thanked Rosita who gave him a short nod and left the office. She probably still had some of her home-brewed coffee left that she wanted to finish herself.

As soon as the door fell shut Lucifer left his office through his private elevator and found himself in front of Lily Square moments later. Behind him, his workplace towered over him and cast an even larger shadow on the plaza. March had brought a cold north wind that made what little warmth Rosita's coffee had provided vanish. The little hairs on his forearms stood up as a gust of wind hit them and he regretted having left Mephisto Tower wearing only jeans and a t-shirt. However, he didn't feel like going back to get a jacket. Instead, he chose to ignore the cool breeze and made his way to the memorial that had been erected in the centre. It was simple enough, nothing more than a smooth oval-shaped basalt rock. Or at least it had been smooth once; now, there were countless names carved into it. To this day, demons from every corner of Hell travelled to the capital to add their loved ones to the list. It showcased only a fraction of the victims the great war had claimed, but it served as a reminder that the fallen soldiers and murdered civilians were more than a nameless statistic.

Lucifer made a halt at an overpriced stall and purchased a candle and a red lily. He made a dismissive hand gesture when the elderly vendor tried to hand him his change and left quickly, evading the conversation she would otherwise have started. Some days he didn't mind chatting with her, but today he had no desire for company. He stepped into the sun, enjoying its heat on his exposed skin. The sunlight made the monument glisten and illuminated the sea of lilies and burnt out candles surrounding it. In only a few hours Mephisto Tower would block out the sun and swallow the rock with its shadow.

Maybe I should have chosen a lighter material, Lucifer thought. Come evening and the monument turned so black it almost looked threatening. Surely Azazel would have taken issue with how dark it was, even though he probably would have liked the memorial's concept and its simplicity. It had been designed with him in mind after all.

Lucifer brushed the thought away quickly. Azazel wasn't here; he'd vanished shortly after the war and hadn't been seen since. Lucifer knew he would probably never return, yet he refused to add Azazel's name onto the rock. He looked around surreptitiously, then produced a lighter from his pocket and lit the tiny candle. He caught himself humming the melody of A Million Lilies as he made his way back. Perhaps that was why he was left alone, or perhaps no one was interested in him in the first place. After he'd placed the burning candle and the flower on the ground, he turned away from the memorial site and the tower and went into a little side street. Roaming around the city without a hooded jacket always bore the risk of him being recognised, but few people knew exactly what he looked like and no one would expect to meet the leader of Hell himself on the streets. He was safe as long as he didn't draw attention to himself, and since there were few things he wanted less than to return to his office, he decided to take the risk and go for a walk instead. 

If anyone was wondering what the city looks like ... this is a panel from another comic that takes place in the same world: