What do you mean when you say I’m supposed to be the devil: Chapter 3: the forbidden technique

The awareness I had of everything around me settled deeper inside dust motes in a sunbeam – soft, familiar. It was as if I existed like thrumming chord in the symphony of Creation made by my father, woven from purest radiance. Beside me, there was a resonance almost identical, yet… different. Michael. My twin. My brother. The love for him wasn’t learned; it was etched into the foundation of my being, as fundamental as the light we were born from. Absolute. Unquestioning.

But stars above, he could be dull.

Technically, by the clockwork of celestial emergence, I was the younger. A flicker of Allen’s old smugness surfaced. Ha! Younger by minutes, maybe, but I carried years in the ghost-memory of my soul. Allen’s weariness, his losses, his cynical bargains… they made me, in a way, the ancient one here. Michael, for all his sculpted perfection, his twelve wings like captured nebulae, his halo a crown of condensed dawn… he was just… new. Untouched. Prone to standing perfectly still for ages, contemplating the divine harmonics of a dew-kissed spiderweb in the Silver Grove, or the ethical implications of rearranging stellar nurseries. Worthy pursuits, sure. For about five minutes. Then the boredom set in, thick and syrupy.

Dad… YHVH… bless his infinite, effulgent heart. He was like any first-time parent handed twins – overflowing with bewildered love and a tendency to go spectacularly overboard. Most kids? Taken to the park. Given building blocks. Maybe a paddling pool. Our Dad? He built a solar system. A whole, whirling, jewel-bright collection of planets, moons, asteroid belts, and one slightly temperamental red dwarf sun (Dad was still tinkering with its coronal stability), all nestled in a pocket dimension just outside the main Celestial City gates. Our personal cosmic playground. Because, as Dad had boomed with delighted gravitas when unveiling it, "My Seraphim require room to stretch their pinions!"

And stretch we could. Oh, how we could. Light? Light was sluggish. A lazy river compared to the torrent we could unleash. We moved. Reality itself seemed to hold its breath as we did.

The problem wasn't the space. The problem was Michael’s inherent… stillness. Left to his own devices, he’d probably just hover near the Saturn replica, admiring the intricate dance of its rings, radiating serene contentment until the heat death of the universe. Or until Dad finished whatever grand, universe-tweaking project currently held His attention – often involving complex constellations that looked suspiciously like celestial doodles.

Hence: Negotiations. Convincing. Whining (a tactic I’d perfected in two lifetimes). "Michael," I’d pleaded, wings fluttering with exaggerated restlessness, "Contemplating the philosophical implications of orbital resonance is fascinating, truly. But feel this!" I’d thumped my chest where nascent divine flesh pulsed. "This is stir crazy! We need… action! Motion! Velocity!"

Michael, his emerald eyes (brighter than any Earth gem, holding captive supernovae) wide with innocent confusion. "Action? But the harmonic convergence of the inner planets provides ample kinetic spectacle, Helel."

"Spectacle to watch," I’d countered, pacing a groove in the solidified light beneath our feet. "Not to do! We need a game, brother!"

And so, after what felt like millennia (probably fifteen minutes), Cosmic Tag was born. My rules.

"...and you," I finished, pointing a finger gleaming with condensed starlight directly at his perfectly sculpted nose, "are It first."

Michael blinked. His luminescent brow furrowed, a ripple of consternation across his divine features. "Why me first? Why am I perpetually the pursuer in your proposed diversions?"

A grin split my face. Allen’s old, mischievous spark flared. "Because, oh radiant firstborn," I declared, puffing out my chest, "between the two of us, you’re the slowpoke."

Michael’s mouth dropped open slightly. "No, I’m not!" The protest burst out, high-pitched, utterly lacking his usual serene resonance. Pure, indignant six-year-old or the celestial equivalent.

"Uh-huh!" I shot back, bobbing my head. "Total slowpoke. Snail-paced. Molasses in January. Glacially…"

"Nuh-uh!" He insisted, wings flaring, shedding prismatic sparks. "I am Michael! Standard-Bearer! I embody divine swiftness!"

"Prove it!" I taunted, already coiling the immense power in my core, feeling the fabric of space tense around me. "Catch me, Slowpoke!" And I moved.

Not flew. Unfolded. One moment hovering near the gas giant I'd nicknamed 'Big Belchy' for its frequent atmospheric burps, the next, I was a streak of iridescence skimming the frozen methane plains of its outermost moon. The chill kissed my form, exhilarating.

A bellow of pure, undignified frustration echoed across the void. "HELEL!" Then, the thunderous crack of displaced reality as Michael gave chase.

The game was on.

We became comets playing hopscotch across continents. One heartbeat tracing the colossal, steaming chasms of a volcanic world, feeling the planet’s fiery breath; the next, weaving through the glittering ice shards of a nascent asteroid belt, the cold silence shattered only by our laughter and the whoosh of passage. We skimmed oceans of liquid diamond on a pressurized super-earth, sending ripples of impossible light racing towards alien shores. We darted through the upper atmospheres of gas giants, swirling storms like painted murals blurring beneath our feet.

"Getting closer, Slowpoke!" I sang out, executing a tight corkscrew around a spiraling tower of storm clouds on Jupiter-analogue, feeling the static tingle along my wings.

"Your trajectory is predictable!" Michael retorted, his voice tight with focus, trying to cut me off by plunging through a minor moon. It shivered, unharmed, as he passed like a ghost.

"Predict this!" I laughed, pivoting sharply and plunging towards the photosphere of the red dwarf sun. The heat was a physical pressure, a welcome counterpoint to the void's chill. I skimmed so close the solar prominences reached for me like fiery fingers, their roar filling my senses before I arced away, trailing stolen fire.

Michael followed, a streak of pure white against the inferno, his expression a mix of determination and utter refusal to admit I was faster. "Merely… conserving energy!" he yelled over the stellar din.

We burst out of the sun’s corona, trailing incandescent streamers, and hurtled towards a binary planet system locked in a slow, graceful dance. We became the discordant notes in their waltz, zipping between them, using their gravitational pull as slingshots. Michael lunged, fingers outstretched, aiming for the trailing edge of my leftmost wing. I dipped, letting his hand brush empty space where I’d been a nanosecond before.

"Missed again, Slow-Mo-Mike!" I crowed, darting behind a titanic crystal geode erupting from the larger planet's surface.

A sound akin to a supernova of pure indignation erupted behind me. "I! AM! NOT! SLOW!"

We shot past nebulae, painting ephemeral streaks through their luminous gas, leaving swirls of disturbed color in our wake. We circled pulsars, their rhythmic beats echoing the frantic pace of our chase. We were power incarnate, divinity unleashed, playing the oldest, simplest game in the cosmos with the abandon of children in a sandbox – if the sandbox contained black holes and nebulae.

Finally, near the icy rings of a distant, blue-tinged world, I slowed, hovering. Not tired – Seraphim didn't tire easily – but the manic energy needed an outlet beyond just speed. Michael caught up, halting a respectful distance away. His usually serene face was flushed with exertion (a divine approximation thereof), his breath coming in rapid pulses that made his halo flicker. Frustration radiated from him in waves.

I grinned, spreading my arms wide. "See? This is exactly why you start as 'It', brother. If I were chasing you?" I shook my head, clicking my tongue. "I’d have caught you before you finished admiring the fractal patterns in that nebula back there. Total slowpoke." I stuck my tongue out. Pure, unadulterated childishness. It felt glorious.

Michael’s emerald eyes narrowed. His jaw, usually a study in divine perfection, set in a stubborn line. "It’s not fair!" he declared, the whine back in his voice. "You cheat! You use… unpredictable vectors!"

"Sucks to suck, Slow-Mo," I retorted, folding my arms, radiating smug satisfaction. Victory tasted like solar wind and stardust.

That’s when he did it. The move I should have anticipated, etched as it was in the annals of sibling rivalry across all realities. The nuclear option. The ultimate betrayal.

He turned his luminous face upwards, towards the infinite expanse beyond our pocket dimension, and called out, his voice vibrating with wounded righteousness. "FATHER!"

It seemed I was too good at rage baiting.

The shift was immediate. The ambient light deepened, thickened. The playful chaos of our game stilled, replaced by a profound, resonant silence. Space itself seemed to bow. And there He was. Not the colossal star-giant form, but a more focused manifestation – still immense, still woven from galaxies and nebulae, but condensed, present. Standing beside Michael, a hand (or the conceptual equivalent) resting gently on his shoulder. Dad’s gaze – twin quasars filled with infinite, amused understanding – settled on me.

"Michael claims inequity in your recreational pursuits, Helel?" The voice wasn't accusatory. It was… knowing. Warm. Deeply, deeply amused.

Before I could stammer a defense, explain the inherent fairness of tagging hierarchies, it happened. A sound like a thousand crystal bells chiming a single, pure note resonated through the void. A tendril of Dad’s own impossible essence, brighter than a quasar’s heart, flowed from Him and wreathed Michael’s wings.

Michael gasped. His twelve wings, already nebulae made manifest, blazed. The light wasn't just brighter; it crackled with pure, unadulterated speed. Potential kinetic energy made visible. He flexed them experimentally, and the space around him rippled, distorting like heat haze. Amazement flooded his face, replaced swiftly by a look I knew all too well. Vengeance. Sweet, childish vengeance. His eyes locked onto mine, gleaming with unholy glee.

Uh-oh.

He moved. Not unfolded. Vanished. And reappeared right in front of me. My own reflexes, honed by the chase and Allen’s ingrained wariness, kicked in. I twisted, poured power into evasion – but it was like trying to dodge sunlight. His hand, trailing comet-tails of Dad’s borrowed luminescence, brushed my shoulder.

TAG.

I froze. Hovered there in the silent void near the blue planet's rings. The smug satisfaction evaporated, replaced by a hot wave of sheer, petulant indignation. I knew it was childish. I didn’t know if having been reincarnated had changed me in more than I thought because the original me would not have reacted in such way. Still, my shoulders slumped. My lower lip, entirely without conscious permission, jutted out in a world-class pout. "That," I declared, my voice thick with wounded injustice, "is not fair!"

A moment later, I found myself sitting on the impossibly smooth, cool edge of a celestial spire back in the Silver Grove, overlooking the shimmering expanse of the City of Angels. My legs dangled over the fathomless drop, kicking idly at nothing. The pout remained firmly in place.

Michael materialized beside me, practically vibrating with triumph. His enhanced wings still pulsed with that borrowed divine speed. He leaned over, a grin splitting his face, far too wide, far too smug. "Who," he sing-songed, his voice dripping with saccharine victory, "is the slowpoke now, Helel?"

I hunched my shoulders, turning my head away sharply. "Go count dew drops," I muttered, refusing to look at him. The sheer audacity of calling Dad! The unfairness! The original me’s old grumble about cheaters surfaced with a vengeance.

Nearby, Dad’s galactic form seemed preoccupied. He was… tinkering. One massive hand (a swirling arm of the Andromeda galaxy, currently) gestured subtly. Pinpricks of light flared and died in the distant void – probably adjusting the spin on a rogue pulsar or calming an overenthusiastic nebula. Creating. Always creating.

"Michael," Dad’s voice rumbled, soft as colliding galaxies, "temper your triumph. Allow your brother his moment of chagrin." The quasars that were His eyes shifted towards me, filled with that infinite, knowing warmth. "And you, my bright spark, my unexpected wonder… Do not despair."

A flicker of divine attention, a subtle twist in the fabric of reality before me. Light coalesced, condensed, took shape. It appeared in my hands – warm, fragrant, impossibly real. A… sandwich? But not like any sandwich Allen had ever clutched in a cold cemetery. This was perfection incarnate. Bread that seemed woven from sun-kissed clouds, crust crackling with potential. Fillings that defied description – layers of luminescent greens, proteins that shimmered like captured starlight, sauces that promised ecstasy. It smelled like homecoming and comfort and pure, unadulterated joy.

"The first of its kind," Dad announced, a note of profound pride in His voice. "Fashioned from the heart of a red dwarf's warmth and solidified dawnlight. Sustenance."

I stared at it. The pout wavered. My divine stomach, a concept I was still getting used to, gave an undeniable rumble. The aroma was… heavenly. Literally. I glared up at Dad’s vast, starlit face. "You're bribing me," I accused, the petulance still clinging to my words.

Dad’s laughter was a supercluster gently shifting. "Is it working?"

I looked down at the sandwich. The injustice of Michael’s divine speed boost still stung. But… the sandwich. I sighed, a long-suffering sound that came straight from Allen’s repertoire of teenage exasperation. With a flicker of will, I manifested a tiny blade of pure light and neatly severed the sandwich in two. I thrust one half, without looking, towards Michael. He took it, momentarily stunned out of his gloating.

Then, I took a bite.

Oh.

Oh, wow.

Floods of warmth, complex and comforting, exploded across senses I didn't know I had. Crunch yielded to impossible tenderness. Flavors sang harmonies Allen could only dream of – smoky, sweet, savory, bright, deep, all at once. It tasted like safety. Like victory lap after a hard-won race. Like… Dad’s hug made edible. A groan escaped me, entirely involuntary. Pure, blissful surrender.

I took another, larger bite. Chewed. Swallowed the sublime. Still refusing to fully meet Michael’s gaze, or Dad’s amused quasars, I mumbled around a mouthful of celestial delight, crumbs of solidified dawnlight dusting my chin.

"...Yes."