“What is it?” A set of men’s vocals radiating with blue-blooded aristocracy resounded lightly in Den’s ear, as though the speaker were standing right beside him. The CEO-esque office remained quite empty except for the Supervisor, however.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">”Report,”</span>he answered perfunctorily.<br/><br/>There was a pause. “I have alrea – “<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">“The <span style="font-style: italic">current</span> status.”</span><br/><br/>“The last report<span style="font-style: italic">is</span>the – “<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">“Are you with the subject, at this exact second?”</span>The question was more to make a point than anything else; Den knew quite well where the disembodied speaker was.<br/><br/>“O – Obviously not,” came the faintly offended reply, “How could I be – “<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">“Then how can you give me the information I require?”</span>The Supervisor dropped his mechanical tone to a dangerously quiet level, a shade above a whisper. The opposite voice went silent, but long centuries in this line of work gave Den a few extra senses for identifying when someone was squirming. Fortunately, this particular angel was not fool enough to argue with one such as he.<br/><br/>“I understand,” came the response after a few seconds, the defensiveness gone and replaced with its usual refined elegance.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">“This will not happen again,”</span>the gloved man intoned, the simplicity of his words colored with efficiency. The channel of communication broke via the Supervisor and he leaned forward, re-entwining his fingers on his lap. He had noticed several demon-kind within the lackluster establishment, but so far there was no one that could – hm?<br/><br/>A figure had moved into the line of sight of his invisible “camera”, and Den swiveled the thing to better see. He was nothing special to see, from a purely physical standpoint: average height and outdated clothing, with hair that needed a cut desperately. Even his horns would not have drawn the Supervisor’s gaze in ordinary circumstances; there was no “rule” that an immortal needed to be disguised on the mortal plane, and Den himself hardly cared who chose how to appear to whom. No, what drew his attention was the thick, glowing red outline around the man’s body. It pulsed like an ethereal echo of a heartbeat, and with that heavy trace of crimson the Reaper was able to identify the figure before he even noticed the rest of the features. Lazaahn.<br/><br/>The Supervisor leaned back, his crisp suit remaining pristine as he set one ankle atop the adjacent knee. His options continued to become more and more limited, it seemed. It had been obvious that souls of Level Nine-caliber would attract the focus of the loftier hierarchies, but Den had wrongly assumed that he would have more time. The gatherers would have needed to report to their masters, who would then either strategize or barrel toward the subjects, and regardless of which avenue they chose would undoubtedly end up at one another’s throat before even approaching the cause of all the chaos. After all, Prince and Seraphim did not frequent the mortal domain nearly enough to have their fingers on the pulse of human-kind. Even if they<span style="font-style: italic">did</span>, the course of action would be to task it to one of their lesser brethren and watch from afar, not sully their own hands with menial labor. They were above the system, much as he himself was. Which prompted the question: Did Mathias Lazaahn know something that he did not, or was the Prince simply testing the boundaries of his sanity yet again?<br/><br/>Unfortunately, he had little time to consider. His screen went black. Den’s cat-yellow eyes narrowed at the empty monitor, but he did not panic or throw a tantrum or scream frustrated questions into the ether of the Sanctum. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know the culprit. He could “call” the Prince, using the same method of only a few moments ago, but the chance that such a commune would bear fruit was little to none; Princes were notorious for their disrespect of his position.<br/><br/>The foreign tickle of irritation licked at his toes. The Supervisor quelled it with a single thought: he would not be the only one turning his focus to Lazaahn, and the Prince’s own kind were far less forgiving – and more competitive – than he.<br/><br/><br/>--------------------------<br/><br/><br/>The crowd was sparse and used to such entertainment. Most of them seemed to know each other, which was odd for a city so large but normal for such a specific type of bar; Oliver couldn’t make out any familiar faces past the white and red lights that gleamed down onto the stage, and after a while he merely lowered his face to his instrument and tried to enjoy himself. This type of music was not exactly his preferred style, for listening or playing, but… well, when in Rome, right? His shoulders gradually relaxed a little as some of the tension drained, his fingertips seeming to fling it from his body as they plucked and pressed along the black guitar.<br/><br/>Unfortunately, he didn’t have time to relax beyond that.<br/><br/>A discordant squeal of spastic circuitry interrupted the performance, an immediate lack of sound following the harsh pop of the large speakers. Oliver jerked his head up from his reverie, but had no time to consider as a spray of white-hot sparks flew up from the soundbox in front of him; he instinctively moved backwards.<br/><br/>He landed on the stage floor behind his chair, which had toppled loudly, his guitar pressed into his stomach as he curled his shoulders up from a supine position. It took only a half-second for him to process what had happened. Tai had told him more than once that the<span style="font-style: italic">Moon Cat</span>had aged audio equipment, but that it was “totally safe”… of course, this was the same woman that spiked his tea and left her electric skillet next to the tub because she “wanted fajitas in the bath”.<br/><br/>Exasperation colored Oliver’s normally gentle eyes and he got to his feet carefully, fingertips running over his instrument like a father checking his child for injuries after a fall from the monkey bars. Smoke from the fizzled speakers started to invade his eyes and he squinted in pain, coughing into one hand while marveling at just how opaque it had become in such a short time. Already, he could barely see anyone from beyond the platform, and even the ones he had shared the stage with were leaving quickly lest they become swallowed.<br/><br/>Solid reasoning, he figured. He started to follow them, taking shallow breaths so he didn’t start coughing again.<br/><br/><br/>--------------------------<br/><br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">“What does he expect me to <span style="font-style: italic">do</span>, exactly?”</span>the man asked no one in particular, one hand pressed against his face so that his fingers stretched into the thick bang.<br/><br/>Just waltz up to her home, knock casually on the door and announce that not only did he know her address which she had never told him, he would be staying there as well and probably be required to hold her hand if she needed to relieve herself, so if she could please eat or drink as little as possible that would be great, thanks? Levis closed his eyes behind his hand, the lashes brushing his palm like the feathered ends of his own wings in miniature. It had been easy enough to keep track of the woman until now; she wasn’t so adventurous that he didn’t have at least a solid guess as to her location at any given moment, and she wasn’t so foolhardy that he felt like he needed to act on those guesses. Of course,<span style="font-style: italic">that</span>decision had been more or less made for him now, hadn’t it.<br/><br/>Levis had lost track of how long he had actually known the woman, but it couldn’t have been more than a few years. He had done his utmost to be what a mortal would consider a “good” friend, though he was sure he had stumbled a few times along the way and had only the woman’s particularly good nature to thank for his continued employment. Still, just because he had managed to ingratiate himself this much didn’t mean he knew the ins and outs of human interaction and relationships; they weren’t like they had been when he was alive, and he had not had a reason to learn and adapt before now. He could convince a mortal to sign away a soul, of course:<span style="font-style: italic">that</span>he had a reason to know. But persuasion and seduction were quite different from lasting friendships, he had discovered. Maintenance? Continued upkeep? He had forgotten such things would be factors. A mortal signed a contract, promised the soul, and then they<span style="font-style: italic">died</span>… as in, “were not his problem anymore”.<br/><br/>If the woman hadn’t been a long-standing Level Eight, he wouldn’t have even agreed to it. Still, he had come this far, and the whole way she had been protected in ways she couldn’t even begin to fathom; by him, by Reapers, and probably by a few more immortals that he didn’t even know about, if one could believe the rumors about the Supervisor. He had put up with a lot for her supernova-soul.<br/><br/>But this? To just show up at her doorstep and just… not leave her alone? The angel finally dropped his hand from his face, then stood up from the park bench and sighed deeply. He immediately regretted that last part; this city stunk horribly of impurities and sin, and it made his nose wrinkle without his consent. He realized that if he were to be the woman’s constant companion, he would have no time to return to Heaven and be stuck in this putrid cesspit for days, maybe even weeks on end. The very smell of this city might kill him… and he was already dead.<br/><br/>There was no point in going to Columba about this. He could already hear his Seraphim’s petulant response:<span style="font-style: italic">”I will have her soul if I need to turn you into an ant and stick your corpse to the bottom of her shoe! Do your job, fool!”</span>So, stuck between a rock of a Reaper and a hard place of a boss, Levis turned his feet in the direction of Charlene’s home.<br/><br/>What he wouldn’t give for a vacation.