Hellfire ✞ a.f.i.

9: wet pavement

    Took a stab in the dark and broke the tip
Of my knife off, but your throat is slit
'Cause I'm cutthroat to the utmost with it
The ultimate
I just let the poker chips fall where they were supposed to fit

Lock it Up; Eminem feat. Anderson .Paak

    Ashton finds himself missing the dull warmth of the fortune shop as soon as he makes his way into the vacant streets of Vegas. His annoyance with Luke is growing exponentially by the second. Hellfire should know by now to trust his methods.

"The fuck was that about, Luke?" Ashton demands over the crushing sound of thunder, catching up to his impatient partner with a few strides. He grasps Luke's left shoulder and yanks the younger demon back a good three feet so that he will look him in the eyes, which are now aglow with noticeable fiery orange fury.

The dim pink and orange light from various hotels and casinos stacked along Fremont Street scatters like shards of gems across the deep night sky as well as the puddles and droplets of rain along the sidewalk and street. The reflections of the two tall men mirror back at them, their shared fury ebbing and flowing with the ripples.

"Which part?" Luke snarls back, his own eyes igniting into blue flames response between the soaked, limp, curly strands of his hair, "The part where you got a bit too fucking domestic back there?"

"Bullshit, Hemmings, I'm doing the most fucking work here recruiting the target," Ashton scoffs, feeling the heat of his anger finally reach the roots of his hair before he can attempt to curb it. Despite the rain pouring down on top of him, he starts to get that creeping, crawling sensation of soot slinking up from the tips of his fingers.

"Really? Because that's not what I saw back there," Luke smirks at the Exemplaris, but his enflamed eyes have darkened significantly, "I didn't want to intrude on your little candlelit fuckfest, but if you remember, you were supposed to meet with me and discuss your progress before we go back to Hellfire. It seems—to me at least—that you might be getting the slightest bit seduced by the clairvoyant."

Ashton pauses, the burning embers of soot have reached his wrists, and his drenched hair is fully crimson except for the tips. Steam slowly fizzles as the rain drips onto the near molten skin. Blue meets orange as the pair stares at each other for much too long, seemingly forever standing in the middle of the empty, rain-soaked Fremont Street.

"Here's a progress report for you, Luke: the target," he emphasizes the term, "trusts me; it will not be much longer now before I can take her to the Compound," the words drip slowly and carefully from his lips and hit the wet pavement just the same as the rain.

Luke's eyebrows raise, mostly in a contempt form of disbelief. His fingers find the charm of the baby angel chain around his neck and twist it as he delves deep into his thoughts.