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Beer, rum, wine, whiskey, vodka - truth serums both fun to drink, and highly effective. Azazel, part time citizen of Mutant Paradise for some reason, part time inmate of Hell for a good reason, and full time (self declared) Best Boy, has a bee in his bonnet. Well, actually he has an entire hive in there, but most of them involve petty shit he's already achieved, but petty shit which his undiagnosed OCD says he can achieve better. Achieve better or his tail will fall off.
There's a couple of others in possession of demented brains walking around Kaktoa (or whatever it's called) who Azazel would like to ply with truth serum disguised as mulled wine.
One of these is Mystique, of course, who cannot be asked to a bar like a normal person, but who Azazel must corral via the time honoured mediums of war and con artistry. For this he needs to perform a quick bit of chicanery, placing a ‘Be Right Back’ sign on his Kracktoa mansion's door while he goes to do something stupid somewhere.
A week later Mystique opens her own door to find a smirking Red Lord on her doorstep, his right hand resting on the blue flank of an extremely weird looking dragon, his (trembling) left hand clutching a perspiring Monster Assault can.
“...Ah, what have you got there, Az?” asks Mystique, closing her door halfway.
The man, yes, man, lifts his energy drink, and shakes it, smirk intensifying, then pats the dragon. “Limited edition monster. I'll give you one if you drink with me for a couple hours, dear Raven.”
Unable to resist such an offer, but making sure to tell Azazel how much she despises him in the process, Mystique accompanied her former lover to the edgiest bar in town, where Christmas is taken extremely seriously. So seriously that bad guys keep dropping dead every time an angel sings, so seriously that Azazel gets a woman drunk for an extremely wholesome reason.
The blue psycho squints at a glass of pinky red liquid. “Are these full of cocaine? They're delicious.”
“It's called cranberry, my dear.”
The demonic pair bond over watching Sabertooth fall down a flight of stairs, then drink some more. When Azazel has judged that his novel truth serum has entered his companion’s blood in sufficient quantities, he broaches the topic currently obsessing him.
“What do you think of me, sweetheart? Truly. Honestly.”
“You’re a dipshit, dumbass, dingbat.”
“Have another cocktail.”
Sabertooth falls up the stairs and attempts to muscle in between the primary colours of red and blue, but surprisingly, to Azazel at least, it is Mystique who chops his head off this time, leaving his body to be consumed by the Bamf dragon.
“What do you think of me now?” asks Azazel, his tail snaking around the legs of Mystique’s chair.
“I like your cosplay outfits. You ought to have an Instagoon profile.”
“Have another drink.”
Azazel’s ultimate truth telling weapon -tequila shots- arrive.
“Raven, be honest. What do you think of me, really? Remember, we have a child together, a child everyone loves, even Magneto. You know that means my DNA is adorable. And my DNA is me.”
Unable to focus both her eyes simultaneously on quote unquote Satan, Mystique gives it a good go, only to have multiple Azazel's dance before her on the bar top like the multiverse is having a party. “You're alright. Hot as hell. Amusing. Well dressed. I wouldn't kill you. Not unless I really had to. Or if it would be super frikking funny. Or profitable.”
After a minute spent decoding her slurring, Azazel decides that’s good enough. Trying to wrench anything more from the woman will no doubt lead to her death by alcohol poisoning.
“I wouldn't kill you too, my sweet. Now, here, my monster.” Azazel slaps an energy drink on the bar, grabs hold of one of the dragon’s horns, and teleports over to his second target, interrupting a properly humanoid Kurt in a spot of badly timed romance.