Halloween. It's the busiest night of the year in this little piece of crap ghost town and the hilariously titled 666 Diner is packed as waitress Kayla Smith navigates her way around her section of busy decorated tables and old drunks and hyperactive students. If the sheer volume of people wasn't bad enough, her boss has made all the girls on duty wear these horrific bunny ears "for a bit of fun", and they clash horribly with the horns and tail logo of the dinner (Satanic bunnies, anyone?) and ugh, she would so quit this crap job if it didn't mean she'd only have four bucks to her name. Instead she has to deal with cat calls and wolf whistles as she collects plates, delivers food, serves drinks. As if they need more alcohol.
It all comes to a head when she bends over a booth to grab some empty glasses, and some asshole is behind her, groping her butt. "You wanna take this outside baby?" some foul, alcohol-heavy voice is growling in her ear, and for a second her mind flicks to the switchblade hidden in her apron pocket, but she dismisses the thought. Too many witnesses.
No one around takes any notice of the encounter.
She sighs, sharply elbows the drunk in the abdomen and accidentally-on-purpose stumbles back to stand on his toes. Hard. His grip loosens and she wiggles free. She spins around to face him. He's dressed like Frankenstein's monster, if Frankenstein's monster is old enough to be her father. "I'm on duty dude, but you know what? I think that guy in booth two is giving you the eye. Knock yourselves out." She smiles sweetly, ignoring the jeers from the guy's table, and takes the glasses behind the diner counter where she can observe the dining area clearly. She was right, that guy had been staring at them, but now that she's moved he is definitely staring at her. Weird. At least he isn't in some kind of ridiculous costume.
Like her, she thinks, taking off her stupid bunny ears. She reflects on how unbothered she is by the pervy encounter. See, she's not like other girls, she's different, special, whatever flowery piece of crap way you want to put it.
Fucking insane was the term her parents lovingly chose. Dangerously sociopathic, the psychiatrists said. Highly disturbed, her teachers labelled. She'd have been pissed off but she just hadn't been able to find it in herself to care.
She doesn't feel you see, not in the regular people sense. She's comfortably numb in all given situations, unless you count the writhing rage coiled at the pit at her stomach that's pretty much omnipresent. She can keep it under wraps if she wants, but most of the time she doesn't want and God forbid anyone standing in her way then.
She doesn't know why she's angry, wrathful, vengeful even. It's just there, and she's never felt right about questioning it, even when countless therapists tried to on her behalf. It's simply just a part of her, and she doesn't mind. She kind of likes it, actually. It makes her strong.
She remembers one night, a few months before she turned 18, after her parents were trying to force some new fucking kind of magical medication down her throat. We're just trying to make you better, her mom had cooed. Kayla had snapped at that, punched her straight in the face and broken her nose. Maybe I don't want to be fucking better, she'd screamed, blood on her knuckles. Maybe I want to be crazy.
Her father, stern and unmoved as ever, had given her a cold ultimatum: stay and conform, or leave and cut all ties.
Her elder sister, home from college for the weekend, had crept into her room late that night. Alice had been her only friend, the only person she had a bond with, the only person she'd tolerated. Alice had been the only one who had stood by her for years, and yet here she was, whispering Kayla you can't do this anymore, they're only trying to help, can't you get better for them, can't you see what you're putting them through. Stop Kayla, just stop.
But she didn't want to, didn't care. With Alice turning on her, she had nothing to lose.
She'd left early the next morning, packed the essentials into a bag and hitchhiked her way across states, picked up whatever jobs here and there she could blag without any qualifications to her name. She'd been in this one town for eight months, the longest she'd ever stayed in one place. It wasn't that she liked it, she just didn't hate it. It was quiet. Some said it was haunted, and that meant much less people.
Except on fucking Halloween.
She blinks back to the present, in this crowded crappy diner. "You okay, hun?" one of the new girls asks, all sweetness and smiles. Kayla glares, and she shrinks back, smile disappears, goes back to serving tables. Clearly she hadn't got the memo. Kayla Smith doesn't talk to anyone. Kayla Smith does not have friends. Kayla Smith only has targets, and it's best to stay out her way or risk becoming one.
Alone again, she grins. Life's good here.
She takes one look at the crowded tables and the rowdy customers and decides she needs a break so she grabs her hoodie from the peg by the back entrance and takes out the trash, hoping for a few minutes alone in the cool night air. She breathes easier in the night, in the cold. She groans when she sees the state of the parking lot out back; one of the other girls must've thought it would be extremely fucking intelligent to leave the trash bags at the side of the dumpster where the raccoons could get at 'em. She begins to clean up the mess, thinking all the while that she definitely doesn't get paid enough for this shit.
It's pretty chilly she thinks, as she pulls her hoodie tighter around her. A noise behind her gets her attention. She pauses and listens. Heavy, staggering, drunken-sounding footsteps. Ugh, this guy again. She's not scared, she's pissed. Guy can't take a hint, fine. She'll need to make sure he gets the message. She waits until the footfalls are loud and close and then whirls up and around, kicks his shin, grabs him by the neck. She pushes him against the wall, blade of her knife already at his throat. Only then does she stop to take in his appearance.
It's not the extremely intoxicated Frankenstein's monster.
It's the staring guy from booth two. He's kinda cute, actually, now that she's up close. Y'know, with a blade at his jugular.
He doesn't appear phased in the slightest. She gets the feeling she's only holding him against the wall because he's letting her. There's a look in his eyes like he wouldn't think twice about snapping her arm like a twig. She knows because it's the same look she sees in her own eyes, every time she sees her reflection in the mirror.
She releases him, steps back, but keeps the knife. Little paranoia never hurt nobody. "Back door's staff only. The fuck are you doing following me out here?" she spits.
He raises an eyebrow. Smirks. "You fight?" he enquires, ignoring her question. Asshole. She does not have time for this, for an arrogant stranger with dark hair and a leather jacket.
"You've seen nothing yet. Why don't you run along?" She relaxes slightly, keeps her eyes focused on him. He doesn't budge. "I've got work to do."
"Work?" He chuckles, low and dark. "Oh sweetheart, work is most definitely the least of your worries." She rolls her eyes, because the last person who called her 'sweetheart' got a dislocated jaw, but she doesn't walk away. Don't turn your back and all that. What an asshole.
But as she's looking at him, the pupils of his eyes seem to seep out into his iris, and in a blink his entire eyes are black. Something in the back of her mind snaps, and almost without meaning to, she lunges forward and slips the knife between his ribs under his jacket. Kayla twists the blade as far as her wrist will allow her in one movement before letting it go.
No effect. The asshole fucking grins as he pulls the bloodied knife out his chest and lets it drop with a clang to the tarmac.
She has a split second to think oh shit before something heavy hits the side of her head and her world turns black.
She comes to in a dimly lit room. She scopes out the setting. Bare walls. Tiny basement window covered in a glimmer of frost. Ceiling fan ominously whirring above her. It's cold, so cold her breath is misting in front of her, and yet somehow that calms her. She remembers the black eyes first. She's been taken by something not entirely human; alright then.
She's had worse days.
Kayla scans over herself quickly. She's sitting upright, on a stiff wooden chair, hands bound together behind her by a shit poor excuse for a rope. There's nothing broken or seriously injured, but she feels something warm and wet drip down her temple. Blood. From the knockout hit. She sighs for what seems like the hundredth time that night. She is so done. Her fingers play along the frayed sleeve of her hoodie, finds the hidden blade stashed in there. She firmly believes you can never be too paranoid, and hey, it's paid off.
She notes the dried blood staining the ground around her feet. Not hers. This just gets better and better. There's a dripping noise, and as she turns to look she sees a trolley of sorts containing a whole arsenal of weapons. Painful looking instruments. Blood is rolling off them in fat, wet drops.
She closes her eyes, resigns herself to whatever painful hell she's gotten herself into now. Positions the freed blade in her fingers. Opens her eyes again.
She looks up and sees the silhouette of a man standing under the window. He's leaning back, arms folded, one foot against the wall. Her eyes adjust to the dimness. Blond hair. Not the same guy with the creepy ass eyes.
Man, is she popular with the dudes tonight.
"You're awake. Excellent," he notes with a smile, but his eyes are cold. Icy blue. "Nice apron," he smirks, gesturing to the 666 Diner logo scrawled across it. She feels like she's missing the punch line. "Hope you don't mind the ropes sweetheart. But just to clarify, they're for your benefit only. So you understand this is a hostage situation. Ropes or no ropes, you're not going anywhere kiddo, believe me."
She rolls her eyes at him - because ugh, sweetheart again, really? - and smirks because she's already sawed halfway through the rope. "Man, if you wanted a date, you only had to ask," she grins. "Sending your little buddy instead? Sweet I guess, if you're 12. Kinda makes your game seem a bit weak, don't it?" The rope falls apart in her hand, she holds on to it. Blondie moves off the wall to stand up straight.
"Aww c'mon, now you've hurt my feelings," he mocks, walking towards her, stopping when they are toe to toe. "No need to be snide, Kayla," he sneers as he eyes her name badge on her uniform. "Can't blame a guy for wanting to go to a bit of effort."
She drops the rope and stands in one swift movement to glare into those strange eyes. She's quite a bit shorter than him, so they're more nose to chin than nose to nose, but whatever. She assumes the effect is the same. "Yeah. Very romantic. So I was wondering if we could skip the foreplay and get straight down to business –"
Knowing her attempts are most likely futile, she stabs him in the neck with the tiny blade, aiming for the main artery. She doesn't hang around to see if it works or not, instead spinning around to run for the door at the back of the room.
She gets exactly 3 strides away before he fucking appears out of thin air right in front of her. "Ow," he remarks sarcastically as he removes the blade and pockets it, but she sees a flicker of surprise in his eyes. "And here I thought we were playing nice."
She glares, pure fire in her eyes, and that perfectly coiled spring of rage is most definitely uncoiling now. "What are you?" she hisses with pure venom in her voice.
"Well, that kinda depends on what you are, kiddo."
She doesn't even attempt to comprehend his cryptic words, choosing instead to stare him out with a defiant tilt of her chin.
"Interesting," he smirks. His breath is cool on her face. "Very interesting."
They stay like that for what seems like an age, parted by a few millimetres of air, staring, glaring, searching; just trying to get a read on each other. She's trying to work out why she's here, why she isn't dead yet, why nothing horrifically painful and bloody has happened to her so far. He's scanning her as though he's looking for something he doesn't quite believe exists. Like a kid on Christmas desperately wanting his last present to be that toy he's wanted all year, but trying not to get his hopes up to avoid crushing disappointment. She doesn't like it. She's still attempting to figure out what the fuck this guy is. 'Not human' is a bit too vague for her liking. Plus, his face is messed up. Sores have split their way across his cheeks, weeping, bloody. Skin is peeling off in thick layers around his temples and on the side of his neck. There are pitch black circles around his eyes like he hasn't slept for a year.
Now Kayla's aware that she's not going anywhere, but she's kind of starting to feel like maybe she doesn't want to, and that's a weird feeling to have. There's a sick curiosity plaguing her and she feels a sudden need to know why she's here. There's a reason she's been taken, a reason she hasn't been hurt. Yet.
She wonders exactly what kind of crap she's waded into now.
Eventually, he moves first. He leans his face in towards hers – personal space be damned, apparently - and frosty eyes pierce her soul. "You're not scared," he murmurs, equal parts wonder and disgust.
Kayla laughs, sharply and too loud in the cold stillness of the cellar. "What's there to be afraid of? I'm only in a dungeon with a strange man and some questionable looking instruments. This is just a regular Friday night for me, buddy." He's right; she's not scared. She's not been scared for a long time.
It's difficult to be scared when you have nothing to lose.
He frowns, like her answer is the exact opposite of what he expected, and then suddenly reaches out and grabs the side of her face, hard. His fingers are freezing cold as they pinch into her flesh and she bites down on the inside of her bottom lip as she boldly scowls back at him.
Her cheek tingles and all of a sudden it feels like its burning red hot under his fingertips, and he looks confused, but with the angry air of someone who is never confused and somehow that confuses him even more. She doesn't understand until she moves her gaze away from his eyes.
Before her eyes, his face is healing. Those otherworldly sores are simply sealing themselves back up with a faint glow as a strange red light burns in his pupils. The black circles around his eyes lighten. He wrenches his hand away from her, gasping. He stumbles backwards and feels his freshly healed skin; looks down at his hands like he's never really seen them before.
Kayla raises a shaking hand to her temple; her fingers come away wet and bloody. She's still bleeding. Well that doesn't seem fair, she thinks inanely, desperately pushing away all thoughts about what just happened.
He raises his eyes back to her, where she stands stock still, astonished for the first time since, well, ever. He staring at her with amazement in his eyes, but he looks lost, haunted. The room feels eerily still.
Finally he breaks the silence by stuttering out, "Oh this fucking great. Bet he's fucking pleased with himself. Hilarious, Dad. Really fucking funny." He's half muttering and now his face is distorted in disgust and she gets the impression he's talking more to himself than her. "Human. Fucking human. Should've known."
"Um," Kayla says, feeling completely unnerved for the first time. "So I usually try to at least get a guy's name before we hit second base, y'know?"
He's still breathing heavily as he looks at her. "Lucifer," he says, eyes still wide with awe regardless of the twist of repulsion on his features. "My name is Lucifer."
