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[Rhys shows up on-camera, his brows furrowed slightly at the communications device. You're probably gonna notice pretty quickly that there's a mechanical port on the side of his head, and the corresponding eye is a bright, unnatural blue. And, of course, that he's sporting a yellow mechanical arm in place of an actual biological one.

But hey, nobody's perfect. Without much further ado, he turns the phone over so the camera is facing the floor, and there's definitely the sound of some buttons being pressed, some tampering that sounds like he's attempting to remove the back panel.]

Oh, for the love of- [The phone drops to the floor, the screen going dark. Rhys picks it up a minute later, flipping it back over so the camera is facing him again.] What kind of backwards tech is this? You have the technology to teleport us to different realities and you decide to give us an outdated ECHO recorder that my grandma could have built?

Look, is anyone on this junkheap versed with the network systems you've got going here? 'cause I've got the same functions in my arm and that's way more convenient for me. I've been trying to access it directly, but it'll probably take me awhile. If anyone knows how to cut corners, you know, now's the time to be helpful.

Also, hey. I'm Rhys: hero from Hyperion, new arrival, good with technology. [A pause, and then-] ...and if any of you are from Pandora, then you should know that I'm a totally laidback and innocent guy, and I didn't do it.

[[ooc: Forgot to post this earlier, but here is Rhys' Permissions post!]]

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Well excuse me if I'm not up to date on my children's fairy tales. Still kinda creepy.

[Though he feels a little better now that they've clarified that he's the big bad wolf in the situation. He kind of likes the sound of that, actually. So much so that he temporarily forgets about the whole 'not my eyes' thing.

Wait, what were we talking about?]

It's a- you know, the company I work for makes them. It's like- uh. [He's explained this too many times by now, Rhys knows that sometimes you have to use small words that people from lesser developed worlds will understand. Bless ur heart, Lucifer. (◡‿◡✿)] -it's a computer that I have on me at all times.

[Don't forget, the wolf also dies at the end.]

I see. The things you humans put into yourselves.

[The way he says it makes it sound like he's talking about a grade schooler's science fair project rather than a sophisticated piece of technology, but hey. It's all tinker toys to him anyway.]

Does Hyperion refer to the company that you work for or a place?

I work for Hyperion. Helios was their moon base- sort of like the Tranquility, except better in every way.

[His brows furrow a little at that, suspicious. If he was talking to this guy in person, he'd scan him. As it is, Rhys rests a hand on his hip and eyes Lucifer critically.]

...us humans?

You humans.

[Because that clarifies things.]

You're never satisfied with what you've been given, are you? Not your bodies, not your planet.

Well- uh.

[Rhys scoffs at that, offended.]

If we'd have been satisfied with everything we got, then we'd still be banging rocks together in caves. Wearing like, leopard print skins and talking in short, tiny words. [A pause, and then:] So... if you're not human, what are you?

You make it sound as though that wouldn't have been better. Your kind destroys everything it touches.

[The planet, themselves, his family... Let's just say Lucifer isn't a fan of humanity as a whole.]

I am an angel of the Lord.

You're a- ha, uh, what... now...?

[Angel of the Lord sounds pretty, well. Intense. He's honestly not sure what to make of that, because what is even religion in his universe, does it exist at all? ~It's a mystery~

Rhys falters for a moment at that, before rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck.]

And I think that everything might be a little harsh. My, uh... 'kind' can make stuff too.

[Lucifer is a pretty intense kind of dude, ngl.]

I am an angel of the Lord. Specifically, I am an archangel, one of the first created by my Father.

[Because that clarification is necessary.]

I've seen what your kind can make. How many weapons does Hyperion manufacture and place in the hands of whomever has enough money to purchase them? The creation of a few pretty things doesn't erase a long history of sin and bloodshed.

[Well, that's kind of rude.]

If you're expecting me to stick up for some crazy bandits planetside then you're going to be disappointed. Hyperion makes weapons, sure, because there's a market for it, because people already want to blow each other's brains out. They'll do it with or without our- clearly superior, with built in stabilizers and sleek design- guns.

[Can't resist a sales pitch! Cough, but in the end Rhys shrugs, clearly missing the moral implications of the argument.]

It's no old news that people kind of suck. The smart guys take advantage of that and climb on top of the rat pile. That's the way it's always been.

Rats-- what an apt comparison. Filthy vermin with an explosive population that consume without forethought.

[This is not helping your argument, Rhys.]

Your kind never changes, from world to world or universe to universe. Savage, brutish, and willing to climb over the bodies of your own to achieve some petty, transient goal. You're a mob of broken abortions-- I would pity you, if you hadn't chosen this for yourselves.

You're kind of uppity for an 'angel of the lord'.

[Fingerquotes, Rhys is using them.]

Also, abortions, dude? Harsh. If you really want humanity to live on fluffy clouds where we play harps and make finger sandwiches for one another all day, then I pity your imagination.

[Sorry, you're really not going to make an up-and-coming-star for the most corrupt business ever to grace the galaxy feel guilty about being a grade-A asshole. It's a tough universe, and people who play nice tend not to live very long.]

Uppity is when a whining child tries to argue some poorly articulated pseudo-Nietzschean moral nihilism to a being who witnessed the creation of the universe and acts as though everything that's coming out of his mouth is novel.

[Sorry, your dog-eat-dog schtick bores the Devil. He's heard it before and then some, and with better arguments attached.]

Spare me the theatrics.

Poorly- wait, what?

[He folds his arms, part confused part offended.]

Why bother telling me what an idiot I am if you don't want me to say anything back? Should I grovel? [He takes on a higher pitched, boyscout-esque tone here.] 'Oh yes, mister angel sir, we're a terrible race and I feel immensely guilty that the universe is a craphole.'

Would it be so much to ask for you to use your brain to come up with something a little better than 'the universe is awful and therefore it's meaningless to try to be any more moral than anyone else'?

Or do you prefer to parrot out the party line?

You're asking the wrong guy to be moral.

[Well... he is and he isn't. Rhys might be the corporate shark to rule them all, but there's... a little softness in there, maybe. Empathy is difficult, but loyalty comes too naturally to him to be considered a strength in his dog-eat-dog world. That's something. Definitely not enough for Lucifer, and probably something that Rhys himself considers a weakness, but... something.]

Why do you care anyway? You've apparently been mad since the 'dawn of creation' or whatever. You haven't gotten over it yet? I mean, I wouldn't exactly compare it to a bad breakup or anything, but most humans can get over some soul-crushing disappointment in- a few years, tops.

What would I be disappointed about? You aren't my creation. If anything, you've lived up to all my expectations.

[Or, maybe 'lived down' would be a better term. Either way, Lucifer had always been betting against the humanity horse. Sorry, kid.]

I knew you had it in you.

Okay, so why is proud papa calling all of humanity a bunch of broken abortions?

[Pause. Rhys hasn't figured it out yet, bless his heart. Then again, religion really is not his strong suit.]

...wait, are you even allowed to say that? I thought that you guys were against, uh... the whole... concept of it. I'm pretty sure you're not allowed to say that.

[WHO MAKES THE ANGEL RULES HERE IT'S DEFINITELY RHYS.]

I'll let you in on a little secret, Rhys.

Dad left the building a long time ago. He doesn't say anything to anybody anymore, so if He cares about what you do with your spawn, it's not important enough to break radio silence for. And I can promise you that Heaven would rather just kill you all and let God sort it out. So why would they mind if you do a little of the work yourselves?

[You're welcome, Rhys, now you know that angels are giant winged dicks. The more you know.]

Gross.

[Is pretty much all he has to say about that. Rhys makes a face, folding his arms in front of him.]

You know, for an angel, you're kind of a douchebag. Whatever happened to 'Thou shalt not be a dick'? I'm pretty sure that's a thing where you're supposed to come from. No? [He tilts his head, considering.] 'Thou shalt not harsh someone else's vibe'? No, that doesn't sound right either.

Now that I'm thinking about it, 'Thou shalt not run around calling other people vermin while being all smug and superior about your angel-status' doesn't exactly roll off the tongue, but I'm pretty sure it's all in there if you wanted to pick up a book.

Have you bought into all the iconography of pretty wings and halos and pious faces? Read your Old Testament again, Rhys. Who do you think laid waste to Sodom and Gomorrah, or culled the Egyptian firstborn?

[Protip: it wasn't Daddy getting his hands dirty with smiting the humans with his divine wrath.]

We're weapons of Heaven-- clearly superior, unshakable, and with sleek design. Gentle and mild were never part of the technical specifications.

I like how 'again' implies that I've ever read it.

[He lifts an eyebrow at the specification- weapons. That's- well... he can live with that.]

Sounds pretty cool though. I really don't think that your whole- this- [he waves an arm in an aimless gesture] -is real in my galaxy. Universe. Reality? In any of it, where I come from. So you really have no room to judge, and I'm allowed to be uneducated and curious about your mythology.

Excuse me for assuming that you're familiar with the text you referenced.

[Read a book, Rhys.]

So you're from some empty universe that my Father has abandoned?

[How peculiar. Though, considering how much of a deadbeat dad that God is, it's not exactly inconceivable to Lucifer that He'd pop off a few universes and forget about them. He didn't even stick around too long in his, even though He'd bothered to make Heaven and angels who were dependent on Him. Poor design choice, dad.]

No Hell below you, and above you only sky. I wonder if you even have souls, or if you're just empty shells.

Well, I guess there's only one way to find out.

[Pause. Wait. Did he just imply that killing him would be a science experiment? Hang on a second...]

-uh, not that I'm really interested in that! I really don't mind being an empty shell, if that's what it is. Life is life, I guess, and I'm partial to keeping it that way.

[Rhys. Rhys, did you basically just say 'come at me bro' to the Devil.]

And yet your empty shell of a life has no meaning outside its limited scope. I suppose there can be comfort in knowing that you're insignificant in the face of a vast and uncaring universe. Just a briefly ordered sequence of biological events that will, in short time, decay into entropy.

I could tell by looking at you if you've a soul, anyway, if you'd care to find out. No bloodshed required, though I hear it's half the fun.

[High pitched shrieking that only dogs can hear.]

So, you're being all 'hey let's meet face to face so I can see if you have a soul, it totally won't kill you,' while two seconds ago you were like- [He makes a face, crossing his eyes and baring his teeth, hooks his fingers in his best impression of a fearsome monster,] 'raaagh you're a vapid and pointless waste of life, you heaving flesh lump'.

Right? I mean- I mean, just so I've got this straight, that's the angle you're gonna play.

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