Wolves come out of the woodwork,
Leeches crawl from out of the dirt,
Rats crawl out of the holes they call home,
I fall apart...
And the snakes start to sing.

- Bring Me the Horizon

The day is moody, the Sun hiding away behind puffs of grayish-white clouds, sending warm rays down intermittently that brush at the skin of my cheek like someone giving a gentle reminder.

This is the beauty of being alive, feeling the sun graze your skin.

You wouldn't be feeling this if you had killed yourself

"Where are you?" Viktor asks me from the driver's seat, giving me a quick glance before changing lanes.

" Having a revelation, that's all. It won't last, they never do."

" Are you worried?"

" About my demonic client? Not so much worried, more like dreadful."

" Whatever he asks you to do, just know that it's not you who's causing it."

" But it will be me doing it. I'll be the tool that destroys for him. I'll be the gun that shot at Lincoln or the bombs that dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki..."

" I don't think, when I kill for my client. I just do. A tool doesn't think, it's blameless."

I roll my eyes. " Really, Vik? Not the whole 'guns killing people, people killing people debate'?

" It's valid."

" It's arbitrary. The result is the same, whether it's our fault or not, and the fact remains that we do think."

"You think too much," he quips gruffly.

"How do you just kill someone?" I ask him, and I wince, because my tone betrays my anxiety towards the act. "How do you stand it?"

His dark eyes flick my way. " I don't."

That shuts me up.

I scold myself inwardly. If Viktor needs to think of himself as being a tool-- with no choice or identity-- for someone else's intentions in order to deal with his job, then who am I to strip that away from him? Just because I'll be drowning in guilt doesn't mean I have to pull Viktor under with me. No, it'll just be me and a sea of alcohol to sink into.

We all have our ways to cope, I guess.

We pull up to a small, old-timey diner called Marcie's. It's a real fucking dive, but the restaurant is not what's so important about this building anyway. The back operates as the unofficial official meeting place for The Company. Clients are interviewed there for what kind of Attendant they are seeking and what kind of being they are. After they have selected an Attendant, the client and the Attendant meet and discuss pay and the job description outlined by the client. Apparently, I will be paid handsomely, but my income is seized by The Company, and I am only allotted a monthly allowance to live by, so I will never see that money.

Rumor had always slipped me some money off the books to do my nails or get my hair done... or at least that's what she'd suggest while clucking her tongue at my mess of dark hair and bitten-down nails.

Fuck! Stop thinking about Rumor!

I'm mentally bitch-slapping myself as we walk into the diner. This is not the time to be all feely. I have to fortify myself. I have to look unbreakable to my client.

"Table for two?" A pudgy woman asks smilingly, some of her gaudy pink lipstick smeared onto her front tooth.

"We will be seated out back," I say casually, but she still tremors up, nodding sharply and moving us hastily to the back of the diner, where a lone oak table sits under a dazzlingly lit fixture that throws off light fragments about the enclosed room.

Such a posh little room. No one would ever suspect that murder, human trafficking, kidnapping, and rape were all negotiated and institutionalized here. I wonder what my Demon will request I service him with.

Definitely murder, probably kidnapping, but no rape, thank God. Demons made their disdain and hatred for humans well-known. Copulating with humans would be like a human copulating with a barn animal to them. Totally disgusting and wrong.

Viktor pulls out my seat for me, but I shoo him away. I wish he wouldn't treat me that way. It makes me feel like an invalid.

He sits next to me, leaving the chairs across the table free for my client and the mediator that will meet us here.

I tap my non-existent fingernails against the table to the tune of "We Will Rock You". I need to fidget, but I don't want Vik to see me being nervous. I hope I just look bored.

A waitress appears, entering the room with her shoulders concaved and eyes turnt down. "W-would anyone like a drink?" She asks, trying to sound cheery, but the high-pitched tone that was supposed to be pleasant comes out sqealingly.

"No thank you," Vik says.

"Wine. Leave the bottle please," I say, and try not to listen to Viktor's disapproving sigh.

"Certainly," she chirps, and bolts away back around the black curtain that conceals us from the other guests.

She comes back with two glasses, leaving the bottle of Gray Goose behind. I all but lunge for it, filling my glass up to the rim.

The waiting is fucking killing me. Where the hell is this guy? I want to get the initial meeting out of the way so that I can just come to terms with what I'll be doing now for the rest of my life -- murdering.

"Sasha," Vik says after a few silent minutes of waiting. "I have to go now, my client will be needing me back."

Involuntarily, my hand shoots out to grasp his arm, and I blurt, "Please stay with me!" He looks suprised by my uncharaxteristic reaction, and frankly, so am I. I whip my hand back, rigidly placing it on my lap. "No, sorry. I understand," I recover, trying to sound sane.

"Sasha," he says gently, " you can do this. You'll be okay."

I nod firmly. "Of course. Definitely."

He gets up, but before going, he squeezes my arm comfortingly and places a light kiss on top of my head. With a sweep of the curtain, he's gone, and I am left to sit and wait.

Left to my own devices, I finish off the bottle in minutes, and when the woman returns to ask how it is tasting, she looks shocked to see that I have drank every last drop. I hand it to her, asking for another. "Yes, Miss... of course," she murmers, skittering away.

I feel the heat in my cheeks beginning to burn, and my head is much lighter. Thank God. Maybe I can get through this.

The curtain quivers and I look up, expecting more refreshment, but in enters a sturdy looking man with a full black beard and glinting glasses, his upright posture giving him an austere air about him.

I stand, doing my best not to sway. " Hello," I greet in a measured voice, "my name is Sasha. You must be my new client? Please, take a seat."

Throwing me off, the man shakes his head and says, " I'm the Mediator, Miss. I just have to make some adjustments so that your client may enter the room." Immediately, he begins moving both chairs aside.

... What? What the fuck is this guy, some towering, giant monster? Some Demons are quite beastly looking, so this makes me instantly horrified.

After pushing the chairs aside and moving the table back a bit, the Mediator nods to me and disappears behind the curtain again.

"What the fuck?" I mutter, standing there.

The curtain is pulled aside by the waitress again, whose ghostly face signals to me that something is really wrong.

I brace myself against the table and hold my breath, preparing to keep my composure no matter what enters the room.

There are scuffling sounds, and a slight squeal I don't understand until a wheelchair is moved around the corner.

In it, there is a young man. A young man who is as disturbingly beautiful as he is frail-looking. His entire appearance is an enigmatic assault on my vision, hard to make sense of. Flinty, light gray eyes burn into me, the brusies under them making the color look almost luminous in contrast, and the head of wavy, flaxon hair catches all the light in the room to beam a halo over his head. His lips are a sickly white, drawn into a hard line. His body is stiff in the chair, still and as contoured as a statue, but undoubtedly weak given its tense delicacy, like moving will chip the granite figure to pieces.

This man is rotting, but he should be strong. I don't know why this is the sense I get, but it is my first evaluation of him.

But then the picture shifts.

The cold hard line of his lips draw up, the luminous eyes ignite devilishly, and the arms that were placed on either arm of the chair move together, his fingers interlacing mischeviously. He leans forward, no longer wooden, but fluid. " Now that's a curious expression," he laughs, and his voice seeps into my eardrums, playing a barrotone tune that has me feeling almost dizzy. Or is it the wine?

"You must be... my new client?" I breathe out finally.

"Indeed."

I swallow, structuring my face into a picture of professionalism. "Hello, my name is Sasha. I hope to be of assistance to you."

This sends a fresh wave of amusement into my client's haunting features, the light sparking in his eyes. " That makes two of us."

"May I ask what your name is?" I say cautiously.

He grins. "Oberon."