Pics on my profile.

Enjoy.

I hate pixies. Kind of in the same way I hate butterflies; they land on your arm and crawl around with those nasty little legs. Except, pixies can eat the flesh right off an arm. Some bedtime tales get made harsher, to instill morals in small children; others are already too harsh on their own, and end up as myths of wonder and beauty. Pixies are the latter: they aren't cute or sparkly, fluttering around on those stupid, gossamer wings all the stories like to say. They're ugly, evil little shits. And they look more like toothy aliens than fair-skinned women.

A lot of stuff about paranormal activity and mythic beings doesn't make sense. Like, the Loch Ness Monster: totally real; Bigfoot and the Yeti: false as all hell. Really, the more otherworldly something is, the more likely it is to have a grain of truth. Harpies yes; sphinxes no. And it's always the ugly ones that turn out to be real. Like pixies. Pixies are tomato-headed, spindly legged, ashen gray cousins of the faery, and have seen to their utter destruction. That's the typical, heartbreaking way of things in this field: everything can and will try to destroy the beauty in the world. It's the job of those that know better to protect what can be protected...

Gods I hate pixies.

"We know you hate pixies," someone is currently saying to me. The 'but' is sure to follow close behind, "But... we'll need your special skills on this mission."

"Telling me that I won't like the mission before I even sign up? Not the best sales tactic."

"Well-"

"Did you know a pixie can chew through your flesh, right down to the bone in ten seconds?" I plow on ahead, showing all signs of starting to preach my pixie-hating word, "I mean, that's like saying 'Hey, these guys need you to chop off your hand; you won't enjoy it at all and it's sure to hurt like fucking hell, but you've got the thinnest wrists, which makes you perfect!' It's like saying that."

There's a long moment of static over the intercom, "That went somewhere inappropriate, didn't it?"

"Like it or not," the person on the other end of the line continues uncomfortably, "You don't actually have a choice. Transfer's already been put through." I snort in as unladylike a fashion as possible. Typical for me. But then, this situation is typical for the Bureau.

"I'm not happy; rather, I'm even unhappier now than when we started this conversation." I say with a smooth, liquid kind of anger: like cashmere made of hate, "But I'm not going to give you a hard time, as you've obviously lost some terrible high-stakes game of draw-straws to be the one to deliver this news. So thank your maker that-"

"Transpo to the Newark branch arrives at sixteen-hundred hours. Be sure to pack everything. The Central Park infestation might take a while to clear out." The guy cut me off. The following silence signals the apparent end of our conversation.

"Nobody ever appreciates my humor." I say with a huff. Then, "Wait, infestation?"

I can't say I didn't go kicking and screaming, I'm not the dignified type; but I at least remembered my swear jar and kept that screaming G-rated. Whatever, I don't have so much pride that I won't call my handlers a bunch of buttheads.

And Tom Manning, the one personally facilitating my faster-than-light transfer to Newark, was the biggest butthead of them all. He had us travelling there in a limo as much for his perverted need to fell important as for the distance it allotted between us for the duration. I let slip a fair few jabs about a man's favorite measurement and just how well a vehicle like this compensates for it.

My primary handler, Maury, was quick to remind me of the dollar I'd lost off my paycheck for each act of insubordination. He's good like that. Always keeps track of my funds. I wasn't at all deterred; I was making Manning worry about the size of his dick all while being a dollar-less-than handsomely paid. If it weren't for the fact that I was speeding away from almost everyone I know and straight into a hungry hive of swarming pixie bastards, I'd be inclined to say it was an evening well spent.

As we entered the city, lit up only by the moonlight and buzzing neon signs, I lost my good humor. Even Maury's off-beat mindless humming couldn't cheer me up. By the time we rolled into Central Park my mood was about as dark as the shadowed canopies surrounding the three of us. A trail of glowing marker sticks led deep into the thick of the trees, and probably the thick of the nest.

"Come on, Maury." I said over my shoulder, completely ignoring the shivering Manning, "Let's go meet the new freak family."