I. New Jobs

Ophelia entered the room with the quiet grace and stealth that were her trademark. The man sitting behind the desk wore a pinstripe buisness suit and had slicked back hair. When he looked at her, it was with ill-disguised disgust that made her want to kill him then and there. But he apparently had a business proposition for her. No one called her besides clients, for Ophelia didn't have any friends. She liked it that way.

She plopped down in the leather chair in front of his desk, putting her feet up on the expensive oaken surface just to annoy him. Ophelia wore knee high boots that laced up the side. She took pride in the fact that she could kill a man with a well placed kick in these expensive (and not very comfortable) shoes.

"So how can I help you?" she asked. Her client remained quiet for a moment, studying her, his eyes not lingering on her body as most men's did, but on her face. He seemed to be surveying whether or not she was trustworthy. This was a look she had recieved before from the people she was working for. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he leaned back in his chair with a sigh and spoke.

"I have two monkeys on my back that I'd like you to get rid of," the man informed her. Ophelia was glad to get right down to business. The darkened office had her on the edge, and she didn't want to put off her client by pulling out her knives for protection.

"Naturally. But what's the take?" she asked him.

"Two million. You get both, you get the money."

"And what if I only get one?"

"Then you get nothing."

Most of Ophelia's jobs were like that, especially when there was so much money on the line. She swung her feet off of his desk and stood, looking around his office. She was wearing a black skirt that went to mid-thigh and a tight fitting black v-neck shirt. It was an outfit designed to intimidate, something that Ophelia found was useful in her line of work.

The man's office was decorated with religious art, though not any religious art that Ophelia had seen before. Directly behind him was a picture of what seemed to be Dante's definition of the eighth layer of hell. People were being torn apart by horned demons, dunked into what appeared to be boiling blood and wallowing in excrement. Martha Stewart definitely wasn't this guys interior decorator. Feeling sick, Ophelia looked behind her at the door and realized there was an upside-down cross over it.

"Hey your cross..." she started but the man cut her off.

"Is just the way I like it. Now do you take the job or am I going to have to ask someone else?" he asked her. Apparently he had better things to do. Ophelia tried not to be offended by his abruptness.

"Yeah. Do you have everything I requested?" she asked him, holding out her hands expectantly. The man pulled a thick red folder out of his desk and handed it to her.

"I've got everything you need in here, including contact numbers to reach me if you have problems, and for when you get the job done."

Ophelia carelessly opened the file, not looking at the pictures of her next job in the front. It contained pictures, profiles, sleeping patterns... everything that she'd need to know about these people. Most of the time she would have to do the research herself, but her client wanted the job hurried along, so got everything she needed beforehand.

"This shouldn't take long," Ophelia informed him. She hadn't read anything about, or looked at her new job, but she knew she wouldn't have anything to worry about. She was a professional after all.

"I'm sure it'll be done by the end of the week," he replied, dismissal in his voice. Ophelia straightened, giving him a nod, and left his office without another word. His secretary waved goodbye to her, but Ophelia didn't answer. The woman seemed a little high on something. Probably methamphetamines. God knew she needed it to work for a freak like her newest client.

Ophelia decided to flip open the folder while she was in the empty elevator. A man with dark hair and eyes and very pale skin stared back at her from the picture on the right side. On the left was a kid with a decently innocent face and a black and white driving hat. She didn't like killing kids. Then again this one looked like he was about nineteen or so. He had to have done at least one bad thing in his life that Ophelia could justify his death with.

She was after all, an assassin. It was her job to kill without mercy. Ophelia had a feeling she was going to have a major bout of depression after this job. Maybe she could go on vacation for a while afterwards. To the Bahamas or something. Maybe Hawaii. With these thoughts in her mind, Ophelia left BZR Finance and Brokerage.

John Constantine pounded up the stairs of the apartment building that he had been called to. The elevators were broken and Constantine was seriously regretting the fact that he smoked since he was fifteen years old. He heaved like a out of shape asthmatic kid on the track team and tried to pick up the pace. It figured that these people lived on the top floor of the apartment complex.

"Rapidamente, por favor!" called someone looking down the stairwell. The woman's face was panicked and thin. It looked as if she had seen the devil himself, which was probably very close to the truth. Constantine picked up the pace as she had requested and finally reached the top floor, trying not to fall over and attempt to breathe.

"Alli, alli!" called a little girl down the hallway, pointing to an apartment with its door torn right off of its hinges. The mangled chunk of wood lay farther down the hallway, pieces carved out of it as if whatever was inside of the room had huge claws. Constantine wished he had a cigarette, but restrained himself. The stair episode had taught him even more bad things about smoking, though the lung cancer had ended it altogether.

Constantine stepped inside of the apartment, waiting for something to jump out at him. He didn't see it at first, but when he did he was taken aback. A long-horned demon with claws the length of swords and twice as sharp was halfway trapped in a mirror. As to how the demon got into, or out of the mirror, Constantine wasn't exactly sure, but judging by it's rather unhappy sounding roars, it hurt like hell.

Constantine immediately began chanting in Latin, basically telling the demon that any hopes it had of being free could be stuck where the sun didn't shine. The creature roared in anger and lashed out, catching Constantine across his lower right arm and making him hiss in pain. He didn't stop however, except to get as close to the hulking, angry beast as possible before he whispered to it:

"This is Constantine. John Constantine, asshole. And you're going right back to hell."

He finished his chant, and the demon gave a scream of anguish. The mirror it was trapped in cracked, and Constantine couldn't help but wonder if it would break free. Suddenly, it burst into a thousand black locusts, all humming angrily before they disappeared through the window. The woman that had called to him in the stairwell entered the room, looking thankful.

"Ay, gracias! Muchas gracias, Senor!"

John shook off her thanks and took the bundle of cash she handed him without counting it. He shoved it into the inner pocket of his trench coat before preparing himself to go down the many flights of stairs he had climbed.

"I need a drink," he muttered to himself.