He's not on the outside of things? How curious. The light dancing in his eyes makes Apollonia smile in a way that would be very familiar only to people who knew who she used to be. (This "Anna" seems to have been well-liked around here. Quaint.)

"I think it would be best to leave that as an exercise for the reader," she says, at least on the subject of informing her God that she will not be alone. "I would like to see the man sweat before we go forward with anything. But... one problem," she says, and holds up a finger.

With her other hand, she drinks her entire glass without showing herself to feel anything. She glugs it inelegantly—another unintentional echo, perhaps. And she rests her glass on the table again, and her hair covers her forehead in wisps. And there's a god-given smirk on her face now, like she's comfortable enough to loosen up. Like she's ready to leave the pretenses where they are.

"I will need to be very drunk to make that invitation. We have work to do."

"I remember the game well," she says, and it isn't entirely a lie. It's been some time since she found reason to play it, but there were nights with the other Saints—with Kriemhild, before she had left, and there's a pang where her heart should be—where they had played it. Making accusations, always pointed, always direct, always ways to get one specific Saint to drink more than the others, until they all decided they had had enough and shook it off.

She smiles like she believes herself to be the clever one now, and she draws her refilled glass closer to her with two fingers. "I do hope it's not too difficult for two people like us, Paul. With all the years we have behind us, it may be hard to find something we've never done." She leans forward, and the entire posture of this aberration against life and death at once shaves a myriad off her appearance. Her elbow rests on the table, and she tilts her head curiously, like she thinks she has something fun and breezy to start this game off with.

"Never have I ever mourned a planet."

He seems to understand much about her to begin with. That shouldn't be a surprise, and yet he speaks the word "sister" and she feels her shoulders tighten. It's a simple word that should matter as much as any other six-letter word shared between them, but it flavors the drink acidic as she pours the glass down her throat. The sneaking humor is gone from her face, her tone when she next speaks.

"Communion is a word with such a liberal concept behind it," she says. "But any way you use it is likely true. My ancestors are all the memory I would receive of the way the world used to be." The taste of the alcohol lingers on her lips under the tip of her tongue. Her green eyes nearly flicker as she takes her turn. "With that cheerful note in mind, never have I ever belonged among my peers."

"I prefer me, as well," she says, noticing what Paul does not do. The idea that someone like him could never truly fit in is bizarre to her; he seems so complete, so whole. So together and sure of himself in a way that Apollonia could never truly be. She is a monster, and she is a Lyctor, and she still feels too human to be either. So she will seek refuge in unearned ego.

"I have no patience for the way they choose to conduct business, with their obsequious little lies pulling paper-thin covers over all manner of schemes to overthrow our Emperor, or whatever," she says, dismissing any true purpose with a wave of her hand. "I've only ever appreciated one of His remaining Saints for how unerringly direct she is. It is so refreshing not to have to wonder where I stand with someone for once."

She continues, her free hand making idle gestures in the air with her elbow resting on the table. With luck, it will distract from how un-drunk her latest glass is. (With a moment's thought to the words pouring from her own lips, she may realize it's not necessary.)

"And here I sit now, feeling much the same with you. I don't have to wonder if, in the end of this all, you're going to 'betray me', in whatever sense that matters. I don't have to wonder about whether you look at me like a true person or just a curiosity that should barely exist. I don't worry about much of anything, looking at you." There's a softness creeping in at the end of that sentence, like words that belong to a different part of Apollonia entirely.

"Never have I ever," she says slowly, smiling without teeth, "Looked forward to an evening this much before."

Apollonia sees that the game has reached an end and downs her drink as well, once the rules have evaporated. Once there's nothing else going on here. She knows it will take more for her to become properly wasted, but she has no intention of wasting Paul's time any further—and she must admit to herself, their entire reason for being here is growing more interesting the longer they delay.

So she answers his question in as sly a manner as she can. Her hair still mats slightly to her forehead, the alcohol filling her with a barely noticeable heat. She wipes her brow clean and reaches for her, or for someone's, omni with her other hand, then lays it flat on the table. "I know the perfect game, but we will need a third. Let's not take any longer, hm?"

Using the hard light projection of the keyboard, she types out a message to her God that retains its gravitas largely by the grace of autocorrect. My name is Apollonia, as it has ever been. Come to the bar, my Lord. I want to talk. And she gives Paul a chance to read it over; if he approves, she'll send it out immediately.

Well, that's all the confirmation she needs; Apollonia sends the message, and John will receive it from the username grollschwert, and it will all go perfectly fine. She nods, then, feeling quite casual as she slides her glass over Paul's way.

And it doesn't take more than a couple seconds afterward to mirror the vibe of her companion's pose, if not the pose itself directly. It's relaxed in a way she doesn't allow herself; it's exposed. Her arms aren't crossing over her chest like this. Her brain has calmed as much as she ever allows it, the alcohol as Lethe to the constant chaos of memory. It's dangerous to be like this for too long, she knows, lest someone get the better of her. Lest she lose herself. But in the moment, she truly is not worried about Paul. She is not worried about her God. This will be... cathartic.

"We," she says with a wry look, "Are fucking under attack." There's the echo of something familiar inside Apollonia at that, but this time it's not a mindless reference but one of the many, many phrases considered sacred within the Nine Houses. (She was not there when they were codified, and yet she has lived with them for so long that it would be forgiven to think she had been.)

"I doubt He'll keep us waiting long," she says after another moment. "Now is the time for cold feet."

"Not on anyone's life," she says, taking her glass and drinking more casually from it. "I've come this far. Backing down now, when all I've ever wanted is finally close enough to grasp... it would be nothing but sheer cowardice."

She will not stop. She knows, she's convinced herself, what it is that will make her happy. What will bring peace to her heart. It's the only thing she needs right now—and yet. And yet. There's more to it, isn't there? Because this blessed communion with her Lord is not the only thing that brings her peace. And pretending otherwise would be a big enough lie on its own to serve as the foundation of a brand new lyctor.

This conversation with this man before her, the one who behaves so naturally, who takes it all so seriously and still allows himself the chance to have fun with it, this eases her burden. She still churns and writhes inside of her own chest to think about everything too long, but she speaks with... she speaks with a human. Someone who knows what she is but is not what she is, someone who knows her Lord but is not bound by fealty to Him, someone who is unerringly direct with his goals whether or not he makes them clear. It is someone who exists outside of the Nine Houses who is willing to set down the Blood of Eden's weapons of eternal war and raise a glass in camaraderie instead. He has the freedom to be his own person, and he chooses to be this. To say that she is not worried is an understatement; to say that she is envious is only somewhat closer.

"Tell me about Tupile, then," she says after that prolonged introspection with her eyes in blurry focus around Paul. "Or wherever among your world is most interesting. If the man of the hour does elect to take his time, we can use it as we wish."