Just another bruise earned,
One more lesson learned.
Just another kick from behind,
Just another punch in the eye

- Jinjer

2.

I'd been with Rumor Star since I was sixteen years old.

Before then, I was born and raised within the confines of The Company, trained to be a tool for whoever would pay for my services. This was a fate I was born into, my mother having been born into servitude, and her mother before that, and so on...

It's not like I'm unhappy. It's more like I'm numb. I left any ambition for myself behind a long time ago.

I used to have this dream, like kids do, about finding my father and escaping The Company, but that never happened.

"Mom?" I asked one day, stirring the last remaining piece of cereal around in the sea of milk left. "Who... was my father?"

From the couch came a laughing cough in response and the clank of a bottle. More bottles littered the floor around our cheap trailer, and more stuffing fell out of the old beat up couch as she shifted herself into a sitting position, taking a long gulp of whiskey. "Now, why the fuck are you asking that? I'm not good enough for ya?" she rasped, throat hoarse and eyes glazed over from all the alcohol.

"I was just asking."

She pointed at me with her bottle, her arm drooping drunkenly. "Lisssten here, Asbell. Your daddy was some sonnabitch I fucked once. He doesn't know about you and he doesn't care to know either. I can't even remember his damn name. You don't need parents anyway-- you're just a tool, 'kay? A tool...just like me." She chugged down the rest of the bottle hungrily, some spilling down her chin. Then she tossed the bottle against the wall, not even bothering to watch it shatter before plopping back down on the couch, throwing an arm over her eyes. "Now shut up and eat your breakfast."

I have few memories of my mother, but any that I do have all play out in some variant form of that interaction. She had dedicated what life she did have to Rumor, and died protecting her.

I was prepared to live my life out the same way. To go on until I expired as Rumor's Attendant. Somewhere along the way, I tricked myself into thinking that she started to feel like family to me, and I suspect that I even came to love her in that foolish way.

but I wasn't the one who got a letter.

That was Wanda Baker, some skinny-ass weakling who cost Rumor her life.

I remember that day, when I was assigned to deliver the letter and Rumor's will to her. I remember how Wanda immediately began to sob into the paper, soaking it with a stream of tears, the fresh pink scars on her wrist glistening in the sun.

Rumor died because Wanda was weak. She only knew Wanda for a little over two years, and of that, they weren't even close until the end. But I was always there for her, and no one sees me crying like that.

Rumor loved Wanda, but never me. I know that now.

So, after a year, it's time to get over my past client. However, I'm not thrilled to hear that the one meant to replace her is a Demon...

Demons only mean trouble, mean taking lives and getting your hands dirty. Anomalies only want to blend in, like Rumor did.

The dirtiest I got working for her was making meals or finding some guy to bring back home for her. Attending a Demon will be an altogether different experience, and one I'm not sure I am willing to handle.

I'm thinking over all of this while staring out of the passenger side window of Viktor's car. He's got some classical music on that's lolling me to sleep. Claire de Lune, I think. Moonlight, like the silver streams filtering into the car, casting jagged shadows over everything.

"You seem upset," Viktor says suddenly in his soft voice. It always amazes me that a voice so calm comes from such a mammoth of a man. His voice is the only thing soft about him though. The rest is concrete muscle wrapped up in a passive persona. I say persona because I'm pretty sure Vik is more sensitive than he lets on.

I slide my glance his way, looking at the angle of his strong jawline. "Only tired."

" Look alive, Sasha. Aramis won't like that you've been drinking."

I take my eyes away from him. " 'Kay."

" You know what happens to broken tools."

"Fuck, I get it, Vik. I'll let up on the drinking."

"I only say it beacuse--"

"Don't say you care."

"Fine."

The Company is mostly established in everyday law firms. There are many lawyers and hackers and legislators who work alongside The Company to make it what it is-- an organization that profits on attending to the needs of the world's best kept secrets-- Gods, Demons, and Anomalies. We are a neutral party in the war that has been slowly coming to a head for years now between the Gods and Demons, helping any and all sides indiscriminately.

It doesn't matter what side you are on, it only matters how much you're willing to pay us.

We pull up to a cozy little law firm that is nestled off the side of a busy main road, across from a strip mall where middle aged soccor moms mill about in their track suits, sipping on their vegetable smoothies.

It's almost 12 am now though, and the streets are quiet, save for the passing of a few cars here and there.

A bell rings as we enter the firm that smells of mint and lemon cleaner. There is a couple people working late, hunched over in the glow of their desk lamps, scouring various legal documents, rubbing their puffy eyes and guzzling down black coffee.

"Sasha? Viktor?" comes Aramis' muffled voice from behind his office door.

We stroll in, and no one pays us any mind. They know who we are.

Aramis is loosening his tie as we enter his office, stretching in his chair from behind his massive oak desk. What's with men and giant desks, anyway? Some show of power, maybe. Although Aramis doesn't need to flex his power all that much. It's well-known how dangerous he is.

You may not be able to tell, if you are outside of The Company. Just thirty years old, Aramis has that young fatherly look going on, with gentle blue eyes and a disarming smile. He directs one at me when finishing his stretch. "Sasha! I thought that was you."

"Well, you summoned me."

"Ah, yes. I have some good news for you," he gestures at the chair in front of his desk. The hot seat, I call it.

I sit immediately, knowing better than to hesitate at his command.

"You may go, Viktor. Thank you," he says, pouring himself a glass of scotch. He raises the bottle at me in question.

"No thanks," I say.

"Already drank enough, huh?" he grins, and my neck prickles. "Careful with that habit, hm? You don't want to end up like your mother."

Viktor is hovering, and I feel the tension coming off of him in waves. I throw him a glare over my shoulder. He's gonna get himself in trouble if Aramis realizes he's got feelings for me.

"Something wrong, Viktor?" Aramis says, voice taut.

"N-no. Sorry." He leaves, the door closing gingerly behind him.

"Funny boy, that Viktor," Aramis chuckles, taking a delicate sip of his scotch. "You like 'em, Sasha?"

"He's okay."

"Hmm, yes... well, I called you here because I believe we have found a suitable client for you."

I straighten myself in my chair. "Yes, I heard it's a Demon."

"Quite."

"I was hoping for another Anomaly."

Aramis sets his glass down on the desk with a disquieting clank. "I thought you'd be thankful that I have found someone for you?"

"I am. Thank you."

"You were fired, you know, by your last client. It has shaken your record a bit, being that she was your only experience with attending. Doesn't make you look good to other potential clients."

I try to keep my composure. "I'll do better this time."

"Surely you will," he smiles. "It has been a full year, afterall. You have turned down all other possible clients who have looked passed that little blemish on your record. I have been very sweet to you, don't you think, allowing you to have your pick?"

"Yes."

"But now we have come across a client I can't have you refuse. He's offering us a generous sum of money for our services, and you are currently the only Attendant available for hire."

"I just don't know how suited I am to a Demon."

"Oh come, they aren't so different from humans. Sure, they suck the soul out of ya, but show me one ex-wife of mine who hasn't done the same to me." I remain silent while he laughs at his own joke and rewards himself with a sip of his drink. "So, you will be taking this one on... understood?"

"Yes, Aramis."

"Good. We don't need sentimentalists in our group, alright? Emotions are never useful, Sasha. Logic is-- logic pays the bills. Logically, there are more Demons requesting our services than before, because they are taking over this world. It ain't like it used to be, but if the world's burning, our pockets might as well be burning too, you know? No matter who wins, we still benefit because we have not burnt any bridges with anyone. We let them hash it out and stay friends with everyone. It's good business, you know?"

"Yes."

" There may be no God to save us, but I reckon there never was. The only God in this world, Sasha, is money, and The Company has that in spades thanks to the way we have conducted oursleves as being neutral support in this conflict."

He needs to slow down on the scotch, but I doubt that will happen.

"So, what is this Demon's name?" I ask, looking to stop his ranting.

" Won't say. Wants to be anonymous. You can work out the details with him tomorrow, when you are scheduled to meet."

"Sure... am I free to go then?" I ask, already raising from my chair.

"Free as America, sweetheart. But one more thing..."

I pause, then lower myself back down into my seat. "What is it?"

Aramis leans forward on his elbows, his gentle blue eyes transforming into devilish slits. "Don't mess this one up. Utility is what is valued here, Sasha, and you have been collecting dust for a year now. Show me why you deserve to be kept around."

I nod, but I don't really feel all that afraid. I couldn't care less if I lived or not.

He pushes back into his chair, giving me his smile again. "Excellent. Now off you go."

"Good night," I grumble, leaving his office.

Viktor is waiting for me in the seating area, tapping his foot. When he sees me, he stands.

"Relax. I took the Demon without arguing."

"Good."

"Can we get out of here? I'm tired as hell."

He nods, opening the door for me like we're in the nineteenth century. I walk out into the night air, breathing in the polluted smell of gas and takeout. I hate this little city and everyone in it.

Why should I care if Demons take over? Why should I care that I will be helping one of them?

"Wanna come home with me, Vik?" I hear myself ask suddenly as I climb into the car.

Vik grips the steering wheel, not looking at me. "You're drunk."

I scowel at him. "I am not."

"You hide it well, but not well enough from me. Ask me some other time."

"Mr. Fucking Chivalrous over here," I scoff, crossing my arms and positioning myself away from him. "I know you like me."

"Not when you're like this."

Like your mother.

"Fuck you."

"Yeah, fuck me," he mutters, then drives me home in silence.

I storm out of the car, slamming the door behind me pointedly as I do. Of course, he just drives away calmly. Vik never reacts.

I mutter to myself all the way up to my apartment complex. It's in a nice, secure building, but I never clean my place, so it's as grungy as they come.

I kick away a few pizza boxes as I enter through the door, finally letting myself stumble in my drunk langor. Vik could tell, so could Aramis.

They don't want me to end up like my mother, but how else is a life in The Company gonna end for me? And now I have to serve a bloodly Demon because Rumor didn't want me anymore. Because I wasn't worth sticking around for, even when the only reason my mom is dead is because of her.

"Fuck her," I bite, rifling through my fridge to find the bottle of vodka I have stored there. "Fuck Aramis, Fuck Viktor, fuck those fucking rapists, that stupid-ass college kid..." my voice trails off as I make my way to my bedroom, gulping down huge burning swigs.

Why am I here? At least when I serve Anomalies, I'm not doing any harm, but a god damn Demon? I can't justify that at all.

I can solve this problem.

I stand in the middle of my room for a minute, swaying on my feet, trying to think of reasons not to do it. None come to mind.

I set my vodka down on my nightstand, pulling out the old revolver I keep there. I sit on the edge of my bed, cradling it in my hands, watching the lamplight glint off it's waxy surface.

I had a pathetic run. Might as well have a pathetic end.

I drink every last drop of my vodka, toasting everything and everybody that brought me to this point. Then I set the bottle down beside me, lift the gun to my temple, and with no sense of sadness or fear at all, pull the trigger.

Clank.

It jams. It fucking jams.

I shake it angrily, readjust the chamber, and place it back to my temple once more, pulling the trigger desparately again and again.

Clank. Clank. Clank.

Slowly, I lower the gun until it lays in my limp hand at my side.

I don't know if it's because I don't really want to die, if it's because I resigned myself to life's cruelty, or that I'm some sort of Romantic afterall, but I take this as a sign:

I'm meant to meet my new client.