Slim Odds[Yaksha/Mirja]

Things were back on track. Everything was going as he'd intended, even if the last few months had been far too busy for his liking; terrorists striking across the world, various parties coming to meet with him before schedule, and no shortage of violent outbursts. Today, the outburst of note could be seen in Yaksha's left hand, which was peeled nearly raw, and bleeding freely; his skin kept attempting to grow back, no matter how badly he attempted to dissuade the behavior, and so he had begun roughly scrubbing it against a swathe of sandpaper he'd had installed just beneath his desk. Normally, such pain would've frustrated him, left him angry for the distraction...but today, he felt he needed it. The hunger was worse than it had been in centuries.

He'd exerted himself these last few months, his already pitiful reserves nearly on empty now. He felt like a car chugging along with the gas light on, warning him that at any moment his body could stall, could lock up entirely as...things. Far older than him, far lesser than him, and far, far more patient than him, so hideously patient that it made him terrified to think about. Took over. Yaksha prided himself on his patience, and his time-management skills; at his age, even being able to think in terms of months and weeks was a difficult task, and today it was getting especially hard to notice the bleeding over of time.

He'd set up some soothing music, to blast through the room; something that he could really enjoy, something that felt like it could calm the
cacophonous din in his own head. It felt like a hurricane was swirling through it, scouring it of all logical thought, of all meaningful discourse. Phrases he'd loved to espouse in the past now seemed meaningless and brittle, stained with the passage of time. He was, in some small way, terrified of this most of all; that he'd speak an old turn of phrase erroneously, that his talent with language would fade first. He would prefer to give the body over to another, over lacking the right words.

The door to the room was opened, carefully, by a single man. He was dressed in a suit, and examined the room carefully, as if seeking traps, before entering. Yaksha turned to him, eyes narrowing, and then rose a finger. He weaved it through the air, like a conductor's baton, following an invisible orchestra, eyes closed, as the music reached a crescendo. His other hand was clenched into a fist, below the surface of the desk, the pain ebbing through his form, obliterating every treacherous, poisonous worry that this would be forever, that he would break and feast before he had a chance to finish his aspirations here, that he would lose everything before he could even toast to his future prospects.

"You're not one of the new hires. I don't know all of their names by heart, but...I should know yours. Something Indian. Rakh?"

"Very good sir. There's a...woman."

"You wouldn't lie to me, would you? It's not right, messing with an old man's memories. Rakh was...the gentleman on the cross. Yes, that's right. Are you entirely certain that's you? The man on the cross?"

"Kazakhstan, sir. You got the name correct, at least."

"...Really? Damn, this mind of mine. Take note that I will be checking my employee records. Should I find out you're lying to me, or covering for a coworker, I'll have to call you in here for a less pleasant conversation."

"Right you are sir. About the woman?"

"I don't have any appointments, so I can only assume there's a woman who absolutely -demands- to speak to the proprieter? Have her know I'll be down in a few minutes."

"Sir, you can take as long as you like. But she...appears to be cheating."

This time, Yaksha said nothing; his love of clarity and brevity was well-known by now, and a dull, empty silence was all the invitation most employees needed to get verbose, and creative, in their explanations.

"You...told us to look out for dozens of methods. We watched all the videos. She's using methods we've never seen before. We suspect she's not a normal human being."

"...And her identification checks out?"

"Yes sir. One Blodsutgytelse Bjornsson. She's a detective of sorts."

"...Bjornssson?"

"Yes sir. Very distinctive."

"I can think of precious few people that distinctive. Show her up, please. By the time she arrives, I should be ready."