now, now.
It's bright.
It's way too bright, actually. Bright enough that their head starts to pound. They shield their face with their arm and take a second to gain their bearings. Run a body check. Probably a head, four limbs, ten fingers and two hooves. They aren't breathing, but they can't remember if they're supposed to or not. They're pretty sure they're not dying, though, so they suppose that's a no and that they're fine to continue. They rise to their feet, knees shaking like a newborn fawn, and wobble through the hydraulic doors on an almost automated path. They traverse it like they've done it a million times before. It's still wholly unfamiliar to them, but they can't bring themselves to feel concerned. They're not feeling much of anything, really. Maybe a little annoyed at having to duck through all the damn doorways. This is a problem unique to them, though, so they don't think to complain about it to their superiors. They don't remember names. Only that they have them, and that they're not supposed to bother them with trivial matters like these. Besides, they've got somewhere to go. Not sure where that is, but they're already on their way.
"Rhosgobel?"
They blink. They're unsure why they raised their head at that. It's probably their name. That'd make sense. They make a mental note of that as they turn in the voice's direction. It's coming from a stocky figure, standing in the mouth of the hall opposite them. She's wearing the same jumpsuit as they are, so they assume that they're associates of some kind. Instinctively, their back straightens, hands folding over wrists in front of them. There's a deep, jagged gouge running under their fingertips, and they get the feeling that it shouldn't be there. They don't quite remember not having it, though. They push the thought back and swallow hard. It tastes like cherries.
The figure takes the acknowledgement, clearing her throat and tapping the toe of her boot impatiently against the metal flooring with a series of hollow thuds. "You're late. Like, seriously late. Lotte's supposed to be visiting today, and we can't have a damn thing out of place in front of her," she spits, jabbing a finger in Rhosgobel's direction- "and that includes you, miss model student." The nickname feels familiar, again, but in a bad way this time. They wince, unsure why.
"Right." Their voice is heavy and foreign, and their tongue feels far too big for their mouth, but they respond anyways. "Right, I'll be right there. Apologies for the slip-up. It won't happen again. Relay that to Castillo for me and give me 12." Who's Castillo? runs through their mind, but they've already said it, so they keep their mouth shut. The figure tosses her hair, clicks her tongue, and turns on her heel with one last over-the-shoulder glance in Rhosgobel's direction.
"You better not fuck this up for us."
"I won't."
They don't believe themselves.
Their mouth tastes of cherries again. A half-burnt lightbulb plastered in dead flies hums in the background. A woman stands in front of them, shoulders squared, eyes deep-set, expression severe. Even sitting down, they manage to tower over her. They find it almost humorous, but they bite their tongue and keep the laugh down.
She drums a pen against a clipboard, a cheap chain rattling with it. "Look, I'm not telling you that you're not meant for the job," she starts. Rhosgobel can feel her eyes looking them over, hesitating, gnawing her lip as they stare down at her with the same cold indifference they give everyone else. "I'm telling you that you could stand to tone it down a little out there. Fuck, we're supposed to be a team. You get on the field and the damn beast's dead in a million pieces before anyone else can so much as fuckin' touch it."
Rhosgobel scoffs. "I don't see a problem with this. It's dead. Isn't that what we're supposed to be doing?"
The woman pinches the bridge of her nose, choking out a *goddammit* under her breath. "Rhos, honey-"
"Don't call me that." Their tone is flat, but she winces anyway. It's a deafening few seconds before she starts again.
"We can hardly hold onto a hunter for more than a few months. They're all heading for other firms. Firms with better pay. Goddamn, Rhos, they're scared of you."
They smile, tight-lipped and eyes half-lidded. "And?"
"Don't give me that shit. We're losing business. Either calm the fuck down, or get the fuck out."
It smells like lysol and grease. Clutched in their hand is a mug of bitter, day-old coffee. The high collar of their coat scratches against their jaw, annoying, but not enough for them to do anything about it. There's someone behind the counter trying and failing to look them in the eye. They're smiling, weirdly tight on their round cheeks, painfully forced. Their hand shakes. Their notepad is covered in scribbles where they couldn't keep their pencil from the paper. Rhosgobel blinks. They gulp.
"Can I, uh, get you anything else? Besides the, uh- the coffee?"
"I don't know. Can you?"
The one behind the counter seems unsure on how to respond to that. Instead, they glance towards the kitchen, where the line cook gives them a weak shrug.
"Like, something to eat?"
"I don't eat."
"Pardon?"
"Did I not speak clearly enough?"
"I- Uh- No, no, you made yourself perfectly clear. I won't bother you again." And with that, they hurry off somewhere Rhosgobel can't see them, and they don't come back out. At least they were true to their word, they think, sipping absentmindedly from their now-cold mug. The rest of the patrons file out. Some newcomers step through the door, take a look around, and turn right back the way they came. Rhosgobel remains where they are, looking towards the door every so often, like they're waiting for someone. Something, maybe. The few members of the staff that do leave the kitchen make sure to give them a wide berth, like they're a wild animal that could snap at any moment.
Whoever they're looking for, they never show up. In the distance, there's a garbled roar. The sound of sirens, of pavement crumbling. Rhosgobel rises, clutching their coat around their shoulders, and everyone in the diner lets out a collective sigh. That's their cue.
It's dark out by now. It's early spring, the air's still cold, but his breath is hot on Rhosgobel's cheeks, and his rushing blood warms their frigid hands. It's funny. They forgot people did that. His hands push into their chest with all the stunning force of a wounded gazelle. They only grip his collar tighter.
"You know, when I take on a job, I usually take it expecting to be paid. But here I am!" They toss their arms into the air, sending their client flying with them. He's caught midair by one of several inquisitive little eel-heads, one with the back of his shirt clutched in its teeth while the rest prod and lick at his exposed flesh, sampling it for later. "Blood on my hands, and not a damn penny to show for it. You think you're fucking funny, huh? Some kinda jokester for this?"
He takes a break from trying and failing to swat away tentacles to stare down at them, pupils little more than pinpricks. One presses against his chest, nuzzling into it as he heaves and struggles for breath. The client opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a choking, weak cough. Rhosgobel pouts, crossing their arms. "Not gonna talk? Ah, well then. That's unfortunate." What should be a smooth tentacle tears itself apart to reveal a wet, humanoid mouth, lined by rows of perfectly straight teeth and opening into a yawning void. He thrashes, lands a kick square in its rubbery jaw, but it doesn't even flinch.
"I- cough- I *forgot!* Jesus christ, put me down! I'll get the money to you tomorrow! Swear!" The breath is knocked from his lungs as another set of tentacles starts to toss him between themselves, blood starting to seep from his torso where they bite down a little too hard. These aren't the sharp, jagged teeth of a predator. He's getting ripped apart with a fucking butter knife. Â Rhosgobel crosses their arms behind their back, cocking their head at him with an innocent smile.
"Funny! You said you'd have it to me today! Most people keep their word, y'know? Especially when they're working with people who have the full capability to cleave them in two like they're butterflying a chicken? Would you like that to be you? It could be you!"
"And-and what if I don't want that to be me?" Blood dribbles from his lips and towards the concrete. On tiptoe, eyes closed, they catch each drop on their tongue like a snowflake.
"Then you would've fuckin' paid up. Duh. Aren't you supposed to be some kind of big business smart-guy? Because you're kind of a dumbass." Whether his lack of reply is because he's unsure how to respond or because he's delirious from blood loss, they aren't sure. Good thing they don't care. "Ah well. Your loss. One less gross corporate guy for the world to deal with, am I right? I'm right. You don't have to tell me I'm right, because I'm right. Anyways!"
The body drops to the pavement, eyes still wide and jaw still slack. Where he's supposed to have a chest is nothing but a hole burrowing straight through the flesh, surgically precise. Perfectly smooth. Any trace that he'd had organs at any point is just gone. It's important for them to expand their collection (save the liver, snack for later), and leaving them in there would just be a waste. They'll put him in cold storage later. For now, they hunker down over his limp frame, every available limb rooting through every last pocket on his person.
They'll get paid one way or another.