A/N: Warnings for minor character deaths. Harsh bullying and assault. Harsh Language and misogyny. This one absolutely earns its "M" rating, guys.

Chapter One - Angels of Death

They were sitting on top of the bleachers, in the last row as they watched the football game. Quinn trudged her way up to Santana, who was lounging back, puffing on a cigar. The football game wasn't of much interest to them, but they had a job to do. They typically took the time to scope out their clients before the close.

It made them feel odd, calling them clients instead of victims. But they got over it after the first few.

"Where'd you get that?" Quinn drawled, reaching up to Santana's mouth and snatching the Cuban cigar from between her lips. "Is this real, or did you learn a new trick?"

Santana smirked at her, then eyed the pink tips of Quinn's long hair. "Wouldn't you like to know. Maybe you teach me how to make my hair change colors like that then I'll teach you how to conjure up cigars."

Quinn chuckled, sliding her long fingers through Santana's dark, long locks. "Hmmm, no. I love your hair this way. Its so sexy."

Santana glared at she tried to snatch back her cigar, but Quinn held it out of reach.

"Open you mouth." Quinn husked.

Santana crossed her arms. "Do you always have to be such a perv? Who knew you had a afterlife kink."

Quinn laughed, pressing even closer to Santana and hovering the cigar over her mouth as she pulled on the hair to tilt Santana's head back. "Open."

Santana rolled her eyes and opened her mouth slightly. Just enough so that Quinn could slide the cigar between her lips obscenely. She began playfully thrusting it and her grin got wider as Santana choked on it and Santana reached up to yank Quinn's arm away.

Quinn sighed, "I miss sex."

Santana nodded as they turned their attention back to the game. The head quarterback—some gigantic kid who was pretty awful at it—ran off the field unexpectedly to speak to the coach. This was all rather boring.

Quinn conjured up a book and began to read. Santana turned toward her to talk some more as a means of distraction, but gaped when she noticed Quinn reading.

"Seriously? You're reading Harry Potter in the middle of a hit?" Santana asked.

Quinn shrugged, but otherwise ignored her. She turned the page and continued reading.

"Fine bitch, I'm going to down there and see if I can get the ball rolling a little." Santana said with a wink, rising to head down the bleachers.

"Not gonna work." Quinn murmured.

Santana frowned "and why's that?" She paused with a hand on her hip.

Quinn scoffed. "Did you even read the file? We're waiting for one of those jackass football players and his buddies to go out drinking after the game. He's supposed to get behind the wheel and smash into the car of a businessman late from work. We get to orchestrate the crash this time."

Santana smiled, oddly enough, car crashes were her favorite deaths to orchestrate. "Do we know which one it is?"

Quinn raised an eyebrow and looked at her, "I do, because I read the file."

Santana rolled her eyes amd plopped back into her seat next to Quinn. Quinn smirked and returned to her book.

—LaS—

Noah Puckerman was his name. He was young, from a broken home, had a mother and younger sister he would leave behind. He was Jewish—a sidenote in his file—but wasn't very devoted to the religion, so it was up to them whether they adheared to his religious standard when they read him his death rights. According to his record he was kind of a tool. Santana and Quinn used to run with assholes like him. Now, approximately five years later, they were orchetrating the deaths of guys like him constantly. Not only do the good die young, the selfish, dumb, and reckless do too.

Santana and Quinn watched as Puckerman and his friend—another player who could potentially learn from this tragic experience—stumbled from the house party into their vehicle. Santana swiftly situated herself in the back seat, ready to enjoy the ride. Quinn smirked at her partner, she really does enjoy these too much. As soon as Puckerman cranked the engine and peeled out of the drive way, Quinn made her way to the intersection.

"Awww man. She was so hot. A prude tho. Doesn't matter, I could get couple wine coolers in her and she'd fall right into my lap. She looked like a lightweight. If I could just detach her from Hudson's man tits.. you know he's not tapping that. Hes not man enough, that's why she wont even suck his baby dick for him. He could at least get a Cheerio on the side, you know? But none of them want that. They'd be too loose to feel it." Puckerman slurred.

"I thought you and Hudson were boys?" The other boy laughed.

Puckerman chuckled darkly. "Fuck you say? That limp dick isn't my boy. His lame ass can't even throw a football. The fuck we 'sposed to make it to state with that fag behind the ball?"

Santana was listening in to their conversation, but she'd heard it all before. She filed her nails while she waited, her internal clock telling her they had about three minutes left of their conversation before the crash. She briefly wondered if her old friends spoke about girls in such a crude and insulting manner, but shrugged as she realized she was no angel herself.

Quinn was in the front passenger seat of a Mercedes Benz. She went over the file of the driver, as he nervously texted his wife his whereabouts. Only they were lies. Quinn was there when he'd left the prostitute at the motel. He paid the woman and then made his way to his car, a stain on the front of his pants as he zipped his fly. Quinn clicked her tongue and she watched him switch his attention back and fourth from the road to the phone. His name was William Scheuster. Married, but no kids. A decent guy, a couple blemishes on his record, but nothing too awful. Seems he'd been cheating on his wife for a while now because they'd been married for months and she wasn't ready for sex—him being a man whore that probably was pretty hard to endure. Quinn sighed. She could almost sympathize with him. Angels didn't participate in the more carnal pleasures of humanity. But just to punish them more, Holly left them with their urges because they weren't full angels, just death agents.

Quinn rolled her eyes, closed the file and got ready to perform.

It was simple, really. Its honestly not that hard at all to end human life. The design of a human body is so complex, so precise, that everything has to be working in conjunction for the soul to remain attached and sustain life. If one of the vital organs—the squishy, organic pieces resting basically unprotected inside the skeletal frame—is shut down then its game over.

Quinn though, appreciates a bit of flair. She didn't half ass anything when she was alive, including her own death. And she surely didn't hesitate to climb the ranks as one of the most creative death agents, either.

Santana mostly liked to ride along and let Quinn do her thing. She had no problem playing second in command... again. Okay maybe she complained about it at first but its whatever, she's used to it.

The cars were both heading towards an intersection. Puckerman's car going much faster than the speed limit, and Schuester's veering in his lane, a sure sign that he wasn't giving the road his full attention.

Quinn was now standing in the middle of the intersection, waiting for the right moment to begin. She watched as the light above Puckerman's road turned red, but he showed no signs of slowing down. To her right, Schuester's car was approaching the light at a much slower rate, but his eyes were glued to his phone. Quinn cracked her knuckles as she smiled a devious smile, the same one that made her peers nickname her Lucifer behind her back.

Puckerman ran the light as predicted, his truck going almost 40 miles over the limit. At the exact moment of impact, Schuester looked up to lock eyes directly with Quinn, and she winked at him before raising her left arm, flipping his car over twice as she caused Puckerman's truck to skid sideways to help preserve the passenger's life, as she caused the driver's side of the truck to slam into the top of Schuester's car. For extravagance, she ruptured the gas line of Schuester's car and let it spill a little before snapping her fingers and setting it aflame.

Santana's eyes widened. When did she learn that trick? Quinn cleared her throat and Santana sprung into action, unbuckling the second boy's seatbelt—which ironically in this case would have cost him his life—and shoved him through the windshield. She could've simply dragged him out via the passenger door but... whatever. He was an asshole, anyway, and she'd just saved his life cause it wasn't his time. He can bitch and moan about it later.

Santana stood by Quinn as they surveyed the damage. Quinn looked quite proud of her work and Santana couldn't deny that she was good at her job. Both cars were totally smashed, and they couldn't sense any life signals from the two clients. It was rare they received a two for one deal, but this one had gone off without a hitch.

"Alright, I'll leave you to escort these gentlemen to a holding cell until their Holy court date." Quinn smirked.

Santana groaned. "You always make me do it, lazy ass. You get to have all the fun."

Quinn hummed. She took out her cell and dialed an ambulance for the third jackass. "Whatever, just make sure you're clear when you read their death rights. No more freaking them out saying you're dragging them to hell. That's not your jurisdiction."

Santana scoffed and dragged her feet over to the corpses to retrieve their souls.

A/N: Review pls? :)