Not everyone can say they’ve been to the Big Apple, but EMMANUEL DELGADO, a 38-year-old CIS MAN has lived in LONG ISLAND CITY, QUEENS for 16 YEARS. This is the city of dreams and HE knows it, because they came to NYC to be a FORENSIC PATHOLOGIST. Living in the city means they meet all kinds of people, but everyone always seems to think they look like PETER GADIOT. They even got away with free cab fare once because of it!

( trigger warning for mentions of death and medical stuff )

     His own resent is met with an equal stare back, and not even a flicker of emotion passes Lucifer’s features. He’d had many people in his lifetime tell them they hated him and vice versa. He was no stranger to such, and maybe it was unwise to have such an unspoken feud with his supplier, but Lucifer was a primitive man with his emotions. Being disliked in any capacity resurrected feelings of inadequacy that he couldn’t stifle down, so even though he’d already felt contempt from the moment Emmanuel had first opened his mouth, the ongoing hate that caused this tension between them only added fuel to its own fire. A self-fulfilling prophecy, as eyes glanced down to the briefcase on the floor, coasting through all of the product. Everything seemed to be in place, but Lucifer was an entitled man—he wouldn’t just hand over his money without confirming this batch was just as potent and pure as the last. He lowered down to sift through the bags, counting as he went, and then popped one open, and took sample of ivory to nostril, and inhaled sharply. 

     The immediate recourse that lifted through his body and mind was confirmation enough. Bag was resealed, briefcase closed, and as he rose back to his feet, he pulled curtly on his suit jacket. Then reached inside and pulled out neatly stacked and secured rows of thousands. Unemotional as he passed it over to Emmanuel, save for a small lift of his brow. “I do not understand why you don’t take me for a man of my word,” he then began with a sigh, irritation seeping conspicuously through both breath and tone. “It’s all there.” He promised, and it was.

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It’s not quite a sneer on Emmanuel’s face, but maybe something close to it. He watches with quiet disdain as Lucifer lowers himself — physically and metaphorically — in order to test the product. Typically, Emmanuel doesn’t do business with drug users. They’re not trustworthy and they have poor judgment, but Lucifer pays top dollar, and it’s not yet become too risky for the reward. 

He takes the money silently and counts it out, unsurprised to find it all accounted for, but that’s not why he does it. He does it because he wants Lucifer Vale to know what he thinks of him.

“A man of your word you may be,” Emmanuel says, tucking the money into his jacket. “There are in this world an endless number of scummy men of their word.”

There were numerous agreeable qualities when it came to Emmanuel, some revolving around his personality, others around his physique, but what she fancied most was that he saw her as her own person. Not just one of the Knightly clan. They shared an unspoken understanding and respect for one another, and it made her dealings with the underworld that much more palatable. “Tell me.” Arms cross her chest, palms creating friction against her biceps. “Do cookies and stuff stay fresher down here?” A toothy simper is tossed his way before she slithers a figure eight before him, her eyes lifting from the ground to him. “I might have a teeny tiny favor to ask.” Giving him a signature batting of the lashes, she completes her journey a pauses before him. “You know the body they found off the pier at Coney Island? I need it to disappear.” No altering of paperwork. No twisting the truth. She needed it gone. “Pretty please.”

.

He doesn’t answer her question about the cookies, instead waiting to hear what she wants. Sometimes all Valentine wants is company; sometimes she’s looking for advice, or an opinion; rarely does she actually want something, but this is, he can tell, one of those rare times.

He isn’t expecting it to come out quite so easily, but maybe he should have; she’s not one to beat around the bush. He frowns, eyebrows drawing together, and watches her another few moments before saying, “Are you serious?” His first thought is whether her father knows about this, but it seems doubtful. Not in prison. “I don’t make bodies disappear, Valentine, as you well know. I cover tracks in autopsy reports. What the hell did you have to do with that body?”

“There’s so many traditions and supersitions that you’d practically need a bible to keep them straight. They can very by company, production, hell – even certain venues have their own weird requirements. When I was in college, everyone had to give an organge to the stage manager on opening night. I still have no idea what the hell that was about.” Nicole shakes her head emphatically at his words. “The whole thing about ‘Macbeth’ is that you don’t say ‘Macbeth’. Not on the stage, not off the stage, not anywhere in the theatre. It’s called ‘the scottish play’. And that shit is for real, I fully believe in that.”

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“An orange,” Emmanuel repeats with a short laugh. “I’m sure there’s a great origin story there.” In spite of the disbelief he feels for these sorts of things, there’s some level of intrigue when it comes to theater superstitions. And that’s just it, really: ghosts are boring, but superstitions have stories, and leave it to a bunch of actors to come up with the most outrageous ones. “Ah,” he nods, “that’s right, I remember something about that. What is it, the play is bad luck or something? What makes you think it’s real?”

“i’m curious,” elena turns to him, her attention moving from her own conversation when she hears what the other says near her, “is it the belief of ghosts you think is ridiculous or the direct claim that there have been sightings?”

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Emmanuel’s eyes narrow, brows coming together as he turns the question over. “Both,” he says finally, in a tone of voice that suggests it was a stupid question. “I think it’s silly that anyone believes it’s possible for our souls to exist outside of our bodies and even sillier that anyone really believes they’ve witnessed it. The second law of thermodynamics completely disproves the possibility — a ghost couldn’t exist without an incoming source of energy, and by its very nature a ghost wouldn’t have any energy source or it wouldn’t be a ghost.”

“But what if they really did see a ghost and weren’t on drugs? What then?”

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Staring at her a second, hoping she’ll digest her own statement and hear its redundancy, Emmanuel finally says, “Then they’re lying. There are no ghosts, Are you claiming to have had a paranormal experience or are you just playing devil’s advocate?”

“So…”, Jonas deadpanned “what you’re saying is my mom is a liar or is on drugs?” He let his question hung in the air, raising an eyebrow as if to say he was actually waiting for an answer. But it was too much and he eventually burst out laughing. “No for real, I don’t even know if I believe in that shit. I mean life after death, yeah, but if I ever see Hal’s ghost in my living room, I’ll let you book me an appointment”.

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Emmanuel breaks even before Jonas does, tipping his head back in his chair and laughing. “Believe me, I wouldn’t wait for your permission,” he grins. “Your mom say she’s seen ghosts? I mean, I’ll amend my statement — they’re a liar, they’re on drugs, or they’re way too easily spooked. There’s tons of medical examiners who’ve scared themselves out of the job. If you’re looking for it, you’re gonna see it eventually, know what I mean?”

“Or the Ghostbusters remains doing a fantastic job” joked. Klaus had always been skeptical of religious and mystical subjects. Yet, capable of comprehending society’s fascination regarding conspiracy theories "Though if you want to admit you’re terrified of being haunted by a ghost during your shift, that’s fine" mocked  “What was your weirdest experience at work?”

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There are many people who not only don’t have much interest in Emmanuel’s career, but who would not have joined him in the morgue, particularly with a sliced-up dead body, for any amount of money. Klaus is not one of those people, and Emmanuel appreciates it about him. It’s a natural reaction to be repulsed by death and gore, so he of course likes anyone who doesn’t fit into that box. “I’ve seen a lot of weird shit,” he laughs, “people do weird things to their bodies. Weirdest, though, was probably when I found about five bucks in change in this woman’s stomach. Didn’t even die from that, either. It was a heart attack.”

“No, I’m serious,” Kit insisted. “There’s this one spot in my apartment that’s always freezing cold. How do you explain that? You can’t. Science doesn’t know everything, man.”

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“Fine, so hypothetically speaking, say ghosts were real,” says Emmanuel dryly. “Do you truly believe they’d have nothing better to do than stand around in one single spot in some arbitrary person’s apartment day in and day out? If it were different spots all the time, maybe you’d have something. But the fact it’s always in the same place?” He shakes his head. “You have a draft, my friend. Check your air vents and windows.”

Had it been anyone else, Emmanuel most likely would not have come to the party. The ‘emo theme’ is hardly to his taste, from the music to the outfits to the themed drinks. But he’s very fond of Lydia, and so Emmanuel had put on what he’d have worn to any party and got a cab to the Archer Hotel, whose rooftop was already alive with loud music and dancing and drunk people groping each other.

It’s not easy finding Lydia, but he perseveres, and when he finally spots her among the crows it warms his heart to see the grin splitting her face. 

“Happy birthday, kiddo,” he says, raising his voice above the music, and hands her a drink. “Welcome to your late twenties. You really put together one hell of a party.”

👾

“Well that’s kind of harsh. I summoned a demon once and anybody that tells me differently might just be meeting said demon. Hey, dumb horror movie guy here. Totally kept the ouija board.” 

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“Correct me if I’m wrong,” says Emmanuel, eyebrow raised, “but I’m almost sure that not believing in ghosts doesn’t preclude liking horror movies.” He pauses, then adds, “The worst thing about millennials is that none of you know how to enjoy things in moderation. Make it a hobby, not a lifestyle.”

“Not at all. I have no problem being on my own — in fact, in many cases I prefer it that way. I have a small number of friends whom I enjoy spending time with and at the moment, I'm single. I'll stay single until someone catches my interest and holds it; I'm not in any hurry.”

“That's a horrible situation and I would probably just stop watching television eventually — but, if I had to pick one, maybe Law and Order? Just because it has a mind-boggling number of seasons and would therefore get old less quickly than some of the other shows I like. I suppose the smartest choice from that perspective would be the Simpsons since they’ll still be making new episodes long after I and everyone else is long dead, but I’d rather not watch TV at all than only be able to watch the Simpsons for the rest of my life.”

“Are we really having that conversation right now, Emmy?” The morgue is frigid causing the tip of her nose and cheeks to redden slightly. A metal table keeps them parted, a large black body bag adding to the ominous air that surrounds them. Regardless of the morbid environment, the pair remain at ease. “Ghost, drugs, and bodies, oh my!” A brow arches, head cocking to the side as she tosses him a lazy smirk. “We can always continue this discussion after taking care of business.”

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Anyone else, he would have kicked them out of the room for calling him Emmy. Valentine gets away with it because she’s...Valentine. And it’s not only that she’s the daughter of a man he’d worked with for many years, a man he’d respected and admired, a man who’d taught him plenty when he’d first gotten into the business of doing dirty business — it’s because she’s earned his respect in her own right.

“I’m just saying,” he defends himself, pushing a body back into its cold locker. He takes his gloves off, tosses them into the trash, and leans back against the wall of mortuary cabinets. “Alright, out with it — what is it you need, exactly?”

He looks like he’s being taken to the firing squad and has accepted his fate. Whether or not that’s a win for her, she hasn’t determined yet. At his comment she gives him an unamused look before they’re heading inside, where she pauses for just a moment to get her camera ready. “Well… Let’s see. I think we just follow the flow.” She points to the guided entrance, but takes another second to look around and see if there was anything in the lobby, quickly snapping a picture of the colored ribbons hung from the ceiling. “Okay, now we follow.” She smiles at him, stepping off into the direction the guides lead them, giggling as they immediately reached the first exhibit. “Look! They have color coordinated sweets, how cute!” She smiles, backing up a bit to take a photo before examining the sweets, and the mural that went with it, looking to him. “They had all local artists paint and craft these exhibits. It’s pretty cool.”

.

In truth, if he ever decided to have children — and he very much doubts it — he rather hopes they would be something like Lydia. It’s the fact that his reluctance doesn’t really seem to bother her, and how much enjoyment she gets out of simple things, like taking pictures of abstract, colorful exhibits at some weird pop-up museum.

“Yes, very cute,” Emmanuel says tonelessly, but if she looked, she would see the ghost of a grin. He joins her in examining the display, picking up a few, turning them over in his hands, and putting them carefully back in their place. “Do these people get paid to do this?”

“We have a thing in theatre called ‘ghost lights’ – a single bulb is kept lit in the middle of the stage all through the night. People say it’s to ward off ghosts and spirits, but really it’s to keep crews from tripping and falling into or orchestra pits. Either way, they’re eerie as hell.”

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“Theater has got all kinds of superstitions, doesn’t it?” Emmanuel grins, thinking back on a girlfriend he’d had a million years ago back in high school who’d been involved with all the musical productions. She’d not been very good, but he’d admired the hell out of her perseverance. “But there’s always an explanation. My favorite is the, uh...what is it, something about Macbeth?”