Mathias did a double-take in spite of himself; staring back at Vivienne as she hooked an arm under the mortal's, he listened to the exclamation of excitement with the glee of a child on Christmas morning.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Yay? Oh dear Lord of darkness, Viv. What does the sight of you two remind me of? Ah yes,</span>he thought with malicious joy as the two of them walked out of the door in front of him.<span style="font-style: italic">Oliver and Vi-vi, sittin' in a tree. K, I, S, S, I, N -</span><br/><br/>The stream of thoughts he was sending her way broke off as the door that should have begun closing behind them remained firmly open; the Prince's eyes narrowed as a very wide smile followed by the rest of a being materialized in front of him. Not just any being - it seemed that he and Vivienne were being graced by a visit from a Containment Squad, of all things. As if Mathias' endless compassion and altruism could ever truly be "contained".<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">“Miss me, Laz?”</span><br/><br/>By all accounts the Reaper looked happy to see him, but the question was only asked out of jest and there was mockery in the tone. Still, Mathias waited for the roaring in his mind to calm down for a moment so he could nod in recognition.<br/><br/>"And why wouldn't I miss my favorite bundle of putrid vapors, L? To what do I owe this pleasure? Surely there is a port-o-potty somewhere that is missing your presence, wafting above it?"<br/><br/>L was one of just three entities that knew the cause of the storm raging within Mathias' head - like Vivienne, he wouldn't escape without running into trouble of his own if the secret got out, but the Prince knew there was little to be gained by antagonizing him overmuch. Even if his presence there<span style="font-style: italic">was</span>highly inconvenient.<br/><br/>"You wouldn't have come with your whole happy family," Mathias continued, glancing genially around at the tall, thin, shadowy wisps that were the remnant of the squad, "unless you were sent here with some specific purpose in mind. Which makes no sense, as I can think of no reason why you'd be instructed to interfere with my good work."<br/><br/>Mathias was nothing if not a saver of souls, and those who refused to acknowledge his benevolence were the ones who chose to walk blindly in the darkness.<br/><br/><br/><div><hr style="height:2px; width:100%; border:0; color: white;background:white;"/></div><br/><br/>The Fallen Angel watched in horror as they shot the man; there wasn't anything he could've done, aside from getting him to sign over his soul mid-stroke earlier, but that was about as plausible as Trent solidifying himself enough to take the bullet for him (not that he would've done so if he could, anyway). The woody-carrier wasn't much of a multitasker, and he seemed to take beating off very seriously - there's no way he would've listened. The man's shoddy multitasking exhibited itself once again when he attempted to flee police pursuit all while hefting his crooked meatsword. It was too much for him, sadly enough.<br/><br/>As a police officer unbuttoned the cocky corpse's coat, Trent moved closer to mourn his most recent failure. Yet another opportunity, lost as if it had never been, and with nothing to show for his tro-<br/><br/><span style="color: #800000"><span style="font-weight: bold">You’ll have to do better than this</span></span><br/><br/>Trent had no idea who was talking to him using the deceased dong-wielder as a notepad, but whoever it was was certainly powerful. He could guess that much. It seemed that someone was put in charge of his endeavor, and of course he hadn't even been informed of it.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Typical.</span><br/><br/>He was moving to turn away, dealing with his own thoughts and fears as he was (better - how<span style="font-style: italic">much</span>better? I can barely get anything done as it is) when the next slide on the penile-punisher's powerpoint presentation came up.<br/><br/><span style="color: #800000"><span style="font-weight: bold">TEN</span></span><br/><br/>The number alarmed him much more than the initial message.<br/><br/>"Level<span style="font-style: italic">ten</span>? Are you fucking kidding me? That's insane, who would even ask-"<br/><br/>He saw the cadaver's face, now mutilated as if only to make a point, and his breath caught in his throat. Now the number, the message and the grotesque display all made sense, though his understanding of the situation did little to alleviate the horror he felt. It was him. Of all people…<span style="font-style: italic">him</span>.<br/><br/>In that moment, Trent could only think of one thing to say. It was a mantra he'd adopted long before, something he said whenever things were getting to be too much. It served to help put things in perspective, all while expressing his feelings in a way no other words really could.<br/><br/>"Fucking shitfuck."