Two gentlemen sit inside a cafe, the windows giving view to a northwestern American city still glistening from the last rainfall. For this moment in time it could be any city on earth, or no place that has ever existed.
     The One. A tall man. Could be a musician. A writer. Any iconoclastic motif. His hair is white-blonde and mussed as if the wind blew it but held there, pieces of it jagged, everywhere. There is a tinge of something that used to be Perfection. He seems bored already. Or maybe it's just the way his overcoat hangs off of his shoulders. The way his hands barely surround the cup of coffee -- plain, no frills. Maybe it's just the inertia of the soul that 300 days of rain will bring.
     Or maybe it's the company...
     Across from him, just sitting, another tall, golden-haired fellow. Maybe he's late. He makes no apology as he slowly takes his seat, methodically goes about tucking gloves away, even glances over to the hanging menu, leaning back in the chair and motioning for the waitress. There is a moment of silence between them. Maybe the musician is meeting with his agent.
     Or maybe it's just the end of the world...
     The white-haired man smirks a little. "Ah, how you are a fan of minutia. I had forgotten, Michael..."
     "I am flattered you remembered... yes," he says to the waitress, her question of whether she can be of service answered, "... espresso, please. Thank you." She looks to the One.
     "Nothing for me," he says.
     Michael is already turning toward his tablemate, "I prefer to think of them as details. And you know what they say about those...don't you?"
     "Yes," the white-haired man sits back, removing the glasses to reveal the palest grey eyes this side of clear. "I do. So... you wished to speak with me. I don't normally grant interviews." That's someone else's purview. "I will assume you mean to ask me for a favor, which I find amusing. You know how I like comedy, so... proceed..." Perfect hands spin the cup slowly, hands that could easily belong to a priest.
     Michael smiles. It's a grand expression, really. Empires formed and falling in the dip and curve of it. The espresso is carried to him, dropped off without additional disturbance, and he lifts it, sipping. "You made me come to Seattle. I will consider it a draw..." The silver cup is set down upon the silver saucer, and large hands, not quite so fine, working hands fold upon themselves. "I have come to speak to you about the Glorious Revolution..."
     "That is rather like Roosevelt wishing to discuss watercolors with Hitler but... very well. The Glorious Revolution. What about it... are you interested in joining it at last? I did not bring the necessary paperwork..."
     Michael laughs a little, eyes lifting from the silver of the cup to look into the grey eyes. The mouth puckers a little. "No," he says simply, a trace of amusement over his expression. As if. "I have come to talk to you about Andre."
     A steel spoon stirs a dark drink and eyes turn a cloudy grey, much as Seattle's skies are doing again. Maybe the Pacific currents aren't to blame after all. "Go on..."
     "I remember the day as clearly as yesterday's sunrise..."
     "I really don't care to reminisce..."
     "Just... follow me for once. As I was saying, I remember it, the moment at which you stated your philosophy. That Man was being placed in a higher position than the Creator's first children, granted with..."
     "Free Will. Yes, Michael... I was there..."
     Michael's expression does not alter, there is no ripple of inordinate emotion. He just waits for the Other's voice to stop. Patience is... after all... a virtue. "Free Will," he echoes. "It is the tenet of your entire Argument, and one with which I am not here to argue. That is not my purview..."
     "Naturally..."
     The look is still as focused, still as intent. The expression still as non-plussed. "Free Will exists. You yourself exercised it, those who followed you. If it did not exist, we would not be at this cafe table having this lovely discussion..."
     "The point of which I'm still trying to ascertain..."
     "You elevated Free Will. It is the highest of the holies. In your universe, it is god. For it either exists, and you must therefore abide by it, or it does not and you are delusional. If it exists as it seems to do, elevated by your argument as it seems to be, then you yourself must abide by its existence. In short, Andrealphus has exerted his Free Will. As its Champion, I am asking that you allow him that opportunity. That you abide by your own tenet. And if your revolution was Right, it will not start a wave of revolt. If it was Wrong... well..." Michael sits back, lifting the cup of espresso. "The proof should be in the pudding, as they say..."
     "He has all the opportunity he makes," the Other says. "I can neither give him more nor take it away. It is up to him and the Free Will exercised by others either for or against him. A universal principle is eternal and endless, as are the possibilities for how it will occur. You are asking me in the name of Choice not to Choose. How does that prove anything about the Argument?"
     "What does squashing it prove? How does that make you different from Him?"
     "How is it you can drip Treachery and still sit there whole and confident. I say we should have the Right to Choose and I end up in an Abyss facing nine-headed beasts of Chaos..."
     "I don't have to be right, Lucifer. I just have to be truthful."
     Lucifer lifts the cup of coffee, tilting his face and smirking at the rim. "Duly noted..."