A.N:

So I tried. I tried really hard to stay away from fanfiction and fandom and everything. I tried writing a story. No dice. Tried writing a webcomic. Close, but no cigar. I kept CRAVING Akuroku. It was awful. I'd design characters that'd mimic Kingdom Hearts characters, just to fill my sick pleasure. I didn't know what to do. I felt like an idiot, caring so much about a fandom when people were out there creating real art.

Then I got the best advice from anyone, ever: "Look at fanart and fanfiction as practice for the big leagues. They're still art forms, just inspired by someone else's work. And isn't every piece of art inspired by someone else to some degree?"

Yep, those are my fantastic brain words. so I just crapped out and went, "screw it, I'm going back to fandomizing. EMBRACE ME, OH MENTAL HEROIN!"

Then I started listening to Jesse McCartney.

-WAIT DON'T CLOSE THE WINDOW HEAR ME OUT.

Or at least, read the first chapter. Or the summary, which I'll post in a moment. Because, while the plot idea is... pathetic, the difference between it and the other crappy stories on my page is this: It has an actual plot line. Start to finish. In theory, complete. I wish I was one of those really cool writers who go, "I can't write by a plot line. I just write as it comes, man.", but more and more it's beginning to look like I need structure to write well. ._. Oh well. This feels more stable to me.

But anyways! This is what I came up with, derp. I'm so sorry to all of you following My Guardian Angel, but I'm pretty confident that this won't disappoint you. ;D

Extended summary:

Axel Carson is, in a word, resentful. While trying to pursue a career in the arts, he decides that going to college would be a good idea. It all blows up in his face when he realizes that, funny him, none of his degrees actually work to getting him a job anywhere. When he finally gets hired at a security company, he is both relieved and disappointed. Over the course of three months, he begins to accept that he won't get a job in the arts after all, until he's forced to do security work for his most hated celebrity: Roxas McCartney. Being paid a great sum, and knowing he still has debts to pay, he takes the job with a nod and a forced smile and thinks it's the end of that road. But when Roxas personally asks Axel to hop onto his tour with him, Axel can't refuse- if for nothing else, the money. He finds there's far more to gain from that tour than it initially let on to look... and far more to lose as well.

Maturity for toilet-language everywhere, some violence, steamy make-out sessions, a bit of heavy petting, and swarms of screaming teenage girls.

You were warned.

Disclaimer: Kingdom Hearts and all its characters don't belong to me blah blah blah.

Chapter one: Told You So

There is something fantastically ironic about man's creative drive. You see, those who possess creativity have potential to do many unique, amazing things. They can create art that, with a glance, could send shivers down your spine; words that could move you in such a way that you would be inspired to make change; inventions that could save lives (and confuse others- No one likes to be shouted at through the TV by some guy promoting Sham-Wows); music that could stir you to the very core, pulling out strands of fine-tuned emotions that you never even realized existed until the melodies invaded your ears. Man finds endless outlets for the desire to create, as many opportunities to put their ideas to use as there are opportunities to breathe. Even the moments we cannot breathe only bring out the strongest of our creative drive, as there's no better motivation than living another day. There are so many endless possibilities for life to be expressed in ways that can be articulated…

And yet, there's almost no legit future in doing so. Don't get me wrong; I'm not a cynical guy. Nah, I'm a guy who's lost faith in such a phenomenal concept. Forking out your future, money you don't actually have, and the occasional arm and leg to get college degrees in Visual Art, Contemporary Writing, and Music and Lyric composing without any of it being able to land you a career- or hell, even a part time job- will do that to you. It's a nice trophy on your parents' "I told you so" shelf. A good dose of sulfuric acid to rub into your now wounded pride and self worth. Yes, that sounds about right: Unforgiving, corroding everything it touches.

Sounds a bit melodramatic, huh? Not so. It might be a stretch to compare failure to acid, even a little cliché. To a confident person, the worst it would probably be is vinegar, you'd assume. But at the same time, when one has applied to the lowest of the lowest jobs in the western world (Including such reputable companies as McDonalds, Wal-Mart and every dollar store you could think of) with one's said degrees on their resume and still can't get hired, I know first-hand that vinegar starts to feel like acid very, very quickly.

No?

Yeah, well, fuck you too.

… Haha. I guess that is partially the reason I wouldn't get hired anywhere. Then again, it might also be the reason as to why a security company for night clubs would call me for an interview today. I was, to be honest, surprised. I wasn't aware that writing "hip hop dancing and living in the slums" would qualify as experience to protect someone. Moreover, I was surprised that the presence of my degrees gave me an advantage to being hired- yet it somehow makes perfect irrational sense. You get a degree in computer programming, you become a plumber. Guess that's just the way that college education works. But, back to being hired. – I'm sorry, is that cocky? Good. Everyone can use some cockiness in their life.
So it was on this Tuesday afternoon of June the 13th that I found myself at the foot of the security office, "XIII Security and Safety Corporation." You know you can feel safe under the number thirteen, right? I would have outright laughed if I wasn't so damn nervous. The building was clean, grey and practical; the blank, crisp face of business. Dressed in nothing more modest than a short-sleeved, sky blue dress shirt and pressed charcoal dress pants, I swallowed away the tennis ball nerves in my throat and confidently reached to push open the door with a self-reassuring grin. I could do this.

A couple of confused shoves revealed that this was, in fact, a pull door. Through the glass door, I watched the receptionist guffaw obnoxiously.
There goes my confidence.

I meekly pulled open the door, avoiding eye contact with the receptionist. I took a seat in the padded waiting chairs adjacent to the desk, watching from the corner of my eye the guy at the desk attempting to recompose himself. There was a drawn silence.

After a moment, he flashed me a good-natured smile. "Player one has entered the dungeon successfully. Potential employee has leveled up!" He proceeded to toot the Final Fantasy victory theme. Still a little burnt from being laughed at, though respecting his knowledge of pop culture, my retort was snarky and playful: "Axel Carson uses 'future vengeance for being mocked'. It's super-effective." The little punk poised still, with the ghost of a grin on his lips. My 'good pals' posture drew into itself, preparing myself to spurt an apology of being unprofessional. Had I screwed over my first shot at having a job in over two months? Was I not talking to a receptionist, but the boss, who was delivering an intricate test? This guy really didn't look like a boss: sandy mohawk-and-mullet hair, casual street wear, clunky bright blue goldfish headphones slung around his neck… staring into those mellow teal eyes though, I was starting to second guess myself. "I'm sorry," I sputtered, "That was—"

And then he cocked his head behind his shoulder and hollered into the back hall, "Xig, if you don't hire him, I'm not doing any coffee runs for you anymore. This guy's awesome!"

"You're still an intern, water boy, don't test me. Send the kid in."

He returned his attention to me. "Xiggy'll see you now, good sir. Second door to yer right. Good luck!" He jutted his thumb to the direction of the hall and turned to the computer, resuming a neglected game of solitaire with half-hearted clicks and shuffles of the mouse. Overall, the initial feel of the place was surprisingly lax… It was not at all what I was expecting. I was still convinced that there was some dirty trick behind all of this, so I walked down the hall with the careful poise of "the new guy". That might not have been the best option in hindsight, considering it was a security company, but I couldn't be too careful, right?

I stepped up to the door, my left ankle collapsing my foot idly out of anxiety (it was my own personal tick; I'm sure that years of doing that will screw up my feet somehow) before firmly knocking on the door. I left all of my nervousness outside the door. It was time to make some impressions.

" Come right in," The voice that replied had a funny sort of rough undertone, with a hint of California-surfer accent lingering in there, adding a touch of flavor to what would have been heard as an average-Joe kind of voice. This must have been Xigbar, a man I was sure would have been way too easy to pick from a crowd. And, to some extent, I was right. Opening the door to the office, I was met with… the cover of Machiavelli's 'The Prince', concealing the face of my new employer. "I'll just be a sec, dude. Book's getting real." It gave me the chance to take in the room.

The first thing that hit my mind was that, even if this man were not in the room, you could probably figure him out just by what was collected in his office. A clean, glossed oak wood desk was littered with disheveled papers, crudely bent and useless staples, craft photo frames that looked like they were made by two year olds (said two year olds were in said frames, also framed by a loving father and mother), and cheap tourist souvenirs.
On the bookshelves behind Xigbar, there was a wide variety of reading material, ranging from 'Alberta Hunter's Monthly' magazine stacks (They looked wrinkled from water damage. Maybe he read in the tub, like me?), to 'I'll Love You Forever' by Robert Munsch and every Harry Potter book ever written. There was something for everyone there, it seemed. On other shelves, there were little metal models of war helicopters, tanks, jets and guns—Especially guns. They were everywhere: mounted on the walls; in little framed caricatures; in political comics tacked up to a cork board with various other sticky notes and drawings and faxes and club brochures; in beautifully framed posters depicting modern warfare between revolutionists and political tyrants; in politically incorrect motivational posters, and monogrammed onto a jersey jacket slung on the back of his swivel chair that read, 'Edmonton Sharpshooters Society'. It gave the idea that this guy was violent. But to combat the weaponry was an entire bookshelf dedicated to first aid encyclopedias, safety procedure manuals, self-defense guides, and 'safety in the workplace' promotional videos among the general pile of business-related media.

He was definitely a man that valued three things: Guns, the necessities of a properly-running business, and most importantly, family. He was still reading away at his book, and not really in a hurry to interrupt him, continued to take in the surroundings, or more importantly, the man himself. I like to think of myself as a quasi-prolific writer, despite my appearance, but there was only one phrase I could use to compare the room to the man who owned the room: fuckin' opposite.

He seemed to be a tallish, lanky man (probably stood a little taller than my six-foot-eight) and yet, though he was lean, he sure as hell wasn't a twig. He had meat on those aging bones, and a decent amount of it, too. His hands were what really showed his age though, with the veins protruding as I there was hardly a skin to cover them, finger joints jutting out blatantly. His skin held a slightly warm olive tan to it, most of which was exposed by a black tank top and slate slacks. His shirt was tucked in, which I assumed would make anyone look like the greatest dork in history, but in contrast on him made him look like he owned the place. Which, of course, he did, so there was nothing wrong with that. And if I had thought otherwise, I sure as hell wouldn't have mentioned it—he was pretty scary looking himself. Finally dog-earing a page in his book, he clapped the hardcover shut. I couldn't help jolting a little, not only from the sound, but from the book revealed as his face. It was angular and thin, a large gouging scar tearing up the right side of his jaw and cheek. His eyes were the sharpest, most vibrant shade of hazel I had ever seen—I'm sorry. It's just compulsory of me to say eyes, I didn't even realize it—he had no left eye, covered up by a simple black pirate patch. Weirdly enough, his ears tapered up to delicate, almost elfin points, though it was hardly enough to be noticed. A birth defect maybe? Did he just screw up his ears like that 'cause he thought it looked cool? I didn't bother asking. He was rifling through some stuff in his desk, muttering about how he "should keep things together better, this crap's nuts." Thin, yet well-groomed and tended salt-and pepper hair was slicked back into a long, thin ponytail. He sincerely looked like a war veteran. He looked up and flashed me a grin, and introduced himself as Mr. Mueller.

Remembering that he also had a family, I envisioned his little tykes gushing with pride whenever they introduced their dad, as if they had Optimus Prime for a father. There was no mistaking that at home, this man's cupboards were brimming with "#1 Dad" cups and mugs. I mean, I'm not usually one to say this right off the get-go, but jeez; if you saw how much stuff he had of his kids in his office, you'd say it too. He was really freaking proud of his family.

I had taken all of these details in at some point or another during our introductions. I shook his hand firmly, gave him my name, all that crap. He then instructed me to sit. Mind bubbling a little in a newly-awakened nervousness, I smiled as calmly as I could manage and slipped into the chair with the stiffest, most polite posture I'd ever needed to muster in ten years. I swear I pulled a muscle actually trying to sit that straight.

"Oh, you can get cushy, dude," he drawled, fishing a stack of papers out from the storm of clutter on his desk. "You'll be sitting here for a while." The paper package he dropped on the table had to be at least half a centimeter thick, making a floppy kind of slap against the oak table. I was slightly bemused. I was expecting this guy to drill me with questions like a sergeant. Or leap over the table and take a stapler to my face. Either seemed pretty likely.

"Uh," I glanced at the papers, already fiddling the flame-patterned pen from my pocket, "A… test?"

"You thought it was over when you left college, didn't ya? Ha!" His laugh was a fantastic, loud bark. "Think again, tiger." He was wearing a smug grin, almost waiting for me to criticize his methods. Go ahead, his eyes sneered, I dare you to. Out of anxiety, I couldn't help but laugh. His grin shifted to something far less intimidating. "Something funny, punk?"

"Nah. Well no, kind of," I shifted into a slightly more comfortable position without noticing (really isn't in my nature to sit without slouching.), foot resting on my knee to rest the stack of papers on like a makeshift desk, "I'm just weirded out, that's all. This is a security company, and you're testing me… on paper? I mean I can't complain," I added quickly when the look on his face shifted into something similar to a gym teacher anticipating to blow a whistle, "but you know I'm an art kid, unless you didn't read my resume. Most people'd think an art kid would be a weak little prick—aw hell, sorry, I have a rotten mouth sometimes—but, you know, not to say I don't have experience either. I—"… was silenced by a wave of the hand from Xigbar. His gaze was stern, but he didn't speak, as if he wanted me to explain myself. I opened and shut my mouth like a fish gasping for air before I could sort myself out and speak again. "Word… vomit." I explained, glancing to the side and running my fingers through the back of my mane of a ponytail. "I do it a lot when I'm nervous. It's a shitty habit. It's just that, I really, really need this job, and I can't afford to screw it up this time." I finished rather lamely. Ten points to fuckin' Axel Carson for being a dumbass.

Xigbar stayed quiet for a moment. Then, he appeared to huff, his body juddering softly, with a biting sort of grin twisting the corners of his mouth. Then he laughed, loud and sharp and welcoming. "Word Vomit, that's great. That's perfect. There are worse things you can do when you're nervous, like knock someone's teeth in."

Again, I didn't understand. This had to be the most backwards business I had ever been in. "Isn't that something you'd want…?" Though immediately after saying so I understood why that would be the last thing he'd want.

Xigbar seemed to recognize this look, but decided to explain anyways while continuing to wear his tiger grin, "Axel, if there is one thing I hate most about theses punks that walk in this establishment is that every single one of them is some dick who thinks he can get a job by throwing his weight around. But being in this line of business means to control violence, not fuckin' instigate it." His language was about as colorful as mine. I was impressed. "And, oddly enough, it's you 'art kids' that have a knack for handling situations peacefully and efficiently. Demyx is a great example for you, Red. "

I gave him a look, part in confusion in who this 'Demyx' was, but mostly to my new nickname. He filled me in without question, "The goof off at the desk. He's one of my on-field employees." I guess that my shock must've translated on my face, as he chuckled hard in response. "Doesn't look like it, eh? He looks like he'd piss his pants at a barking dog. But he's got a very professional attitude about his work if he's focused, and he's surprisingly strong. Something about knowing a ninja." He rolled his eyes dully. I felt his pain at the teenage meme. I'd admit this guy was fuckin' scary, but great. A dangerous combination.

"But," The pepper-haired man continued, "Self control is maybe, like, thirty percent of the credentials you need for this job. I like your style, kid, but that'll mean jack-black if you don't know anything about handling people." He gestured to the stack of papers.

"Yes sir," I saluted him with my pen, getting right down to the papers. Only then was I conscious of the easy smile at my mouth. My cockiness approved. As I brought my attention to the package, I could swear I caught an approving smile from the old guy, but I was probably getting ahead of myself. While he re-opened his book, I set my attention to the first question:

What is your experience in combat or self-defense?
'Not much professionally,' I wrote, 'I do live in the slums. I've certainly had to bite my way through a few fights. I'm an eager learner, though.' Alright, really not the greatest answer I could have given. But it was better than nothing.

Have you ever handled a crowd? If so, how did you? If not, how would you?
'Handling a crowd requires teamwork, and a sense of authority. If you hold yourself like a superior, people will listen to you. Above most things, one should never display fear or pensiveness, even if there isn't anything that requires your attention. Keeping this sense of authority universal with your colleagues turns your team into an impenetrable wall, and is key in keeping things under control. I can't say I've handled the conventional crowd, but the techniques for handling crowds are generally universal. You just learn these things here and there.' Like when you volunteer for a summer camp for your college resume, and realize that every child between six and twelve s the spawn of Satan.

What is the first step in most emergency first aid situations in which a person is incapacitated?
Damn! I thought, I actually know this one! 'ABC- open the Airway, remove Blockages, and restore Circulation and breathing if necessary.' Score.

A person in your area of work is creating a disturbance. What is the correct protocol in most of these cases?
'Escort them out of the area, quietly and efficiently, first using language and persuasion and then by force only if necessary. If the person is violent, it could be crucial to disabling them first. I don't know the actual protocol, but that's what I would follow by.'

There were twenty three questions similar too these, all written. It took me just over an hour to complete it. Peering up from the test with the tingly sense of moving from a position long-held, I pushed the stack of papers quietly over to Xigbar, who was slouched back and deeply immersed in his book. So immersed, in fact, that it took several throat clearings on my part to startle him alive.

Glancing swiftly up from his book, the rugged man brought a single finger behind the edge of the paper package and slid it into his lap. "Go and introduce yourself to your hopefully new colleagues. At worst, if you're not right for the job, my ever loyal peons will tell you how shitty of a job this is so you won't miss it." He winked. Or exaggeratedly blinked. I don't know what you'd call it. What I did know was that his realistic attitude was strangely comforting, even if I was beginning to question if I'd get hired or not. As I slid out from the pleather-covered aluminum chair, I asked, "So, just… go wherever?"

"Knocking first is a given. Basic professional etiquette. If you're too introverted to introduce yourself alone, get Water Boy to help you. But I don't think you'll have any problems with that, Red." He gave me that wild, all-canines grin again. It was almost as if he was challenging me. "I'll call you back when I'm done checking this over."

I nodded, though I kept my eyes on him. I was beginning to question his methods, so unprofessional and casual, but I really couldn't complain. If I got hired here, I'd have a time. I had to ask, though: "Mr. Mueller," I started, "Why so… Unconventional?"

Xigbar gave me a look. "Would you like me to be conventional?"

I felt the ghost of a grin skip across my lips. "No, Mr. Mueller."

"Good. Now go make yourself at home."

I wish that I could say that my outgoing nature led me to explore the building on my own. I'd really earn some man points off of that. However, I was so paranoid that Xigbar was just screwing around with me, that I went to the only safe haven I'd had so far: the reception, or, more specifically, Demyx. I really can't blame the guy for laughing at me, but it didn't stop me from tripping him up as he left his desk.

It took about an hour to get through the on-shift employees; about the same amount of time it took Xigbar to read my resume. Practically every employee was on shift, Demyx had told me, because there was a gig going on down at the nightclub 'Dusk' that night, and that they needed every hand they could get. I briefly wondered who got paid to come up with club names, but my resentment was short lived. After all, I almost had myself a job. It was extremely refreshing to acknowledge that. But I'm going off on a tangent.

Demyx introduced me to four employees personally. There was Xaldin, a man who probably had enough body hair to knit a scarf— one of those real coarse, itchy ones— but spoke as if he taught Literature at DI University. His hair was done up in dreads, and he had a startling azure stare that left me with chills to the next office. The next colleague I met was Lexeaus, a tall built man with a practical cropped ginger haircut and an equally practical outlook on life- he hardly uttered a sentence unless needed. Like Xaldin though, he talked like a king, which ruled him out as an all-brawn-no-brain kinda guy. Then there was Luxord, a well-groomed bleach blonde Brit who still had an inkling of an accent under his nearly-Canadian phonetics. He liked to talk in riddle-like sentences, and he sported a collection of various facial piercings. He was a gambler, offering me a game of strip poker right from the get go. I appreciated his brashness, but declined for another time. Possibly the most intimidating out of all of them was Larxene: bleach-blonde, slicked back hair and large, lime green eyes did nothing to reveal their owner's personality. This employee was haughty, curt and less-than-chummy, sending us an irritated glare when we entered the office. Worst of all, she was a girl.

"She can actually be a breath nicer than that," Demyx explained as we left the area where she was holing up, and he leaned in close as if to reveal a government secret to me, "She's just on her period." He hissed conspiratorially. I chuckled.

"I HEARD that!" She barked with venom icing her voice. Demyx's shoulders hunched and he did a funny sort of shuffle-hop-run. It was pretty characteristic to him.

There were also two other employees, away on a blitz ball game at Zanarkand College. In Demyx's words, they were, "Tidus and Wakka. They're like, weird best friends and stuff and… Oh! Tidus is totally cool. He's got feathery blonde hair like this, and he's tan and stuff—But he's not Guido, I swear!... Okay maybe he is. But he's nice. He helps me steal Scarface's eye patches. He's also scary built, but who isn't here!—aside from me. Hey, I could kick your ass if I wanted, don't give me that look. –Oh Wakka! He's from Jamaica, hey? COOLEST. THING. EVER. He's got this crazy bright orange hair—but don't believe him if he says it's natural. It's not."

"And you can vouch for that?"

It took him a moment to get it, "…. No."

Frankly, I was glad that most of the employees were there to be met in person. I had awful first impressions with Wakka and Tidus because of Demyx's descriptions.

"So," Demyx queried, flopping down at his desk. I took a seat, too alienated to lean against the desk yet, though it was tempting. Instead, I stretched my legs out over the floor, ankles crossed. Demyx took a moment to… I guess marvel at my legs before finishing his sentence. I smirked inwardly. I loved it when people looked at me, "Why're you taking this job? Aside from getting money, I mean?" Hr pulled out a bag of goldfish crackers from some unknown location behind the desk. Somehow it didn't surprise me. The teal-eyed guy tried to toss me a cracker. In combination of it being a lone cracker, me having awful hand-eye coordination, and the cheddar fish being lighter than it looked, it slipped through my fingers to the ground. Undaunted, he scooped up a whole handful and reeled his arm back to throw them at me. I made the smart move of jolting up and presenting my open hands below him instead, receiving the fish without any major hassle. I leaned back into my chair with the relieved ease of someone who had just caught a vase from falling.

"I'm paying off my debt to art," I explained, bitterness hanging in my voice, "took some crap courses in college that did fuck all for my credentials in the real world.

"Well," Demyx hummed lightly, "Did you take courses to pursue a degree, or did you just take courses?"

I stopped short.

"Well there's your problem, guy," The mulleted blonde smiled at me like I was in elementary school. I groaned inwardly, not wanting to hear another word about college and to my joy was saved by the most wonderful words I'd heard in over two months:

"Well, Red, congratulations! Welcome to XIII Safety and Security Corporation. Glad to have you on the team!" Xigbar exclaimed with his animal-like grin as he sauntered into the reception. He came over and slapped my package of answers on my head. "Seventy-eight percent, bud. Pretty decent, but we still need to work on you."

I looked down at myself. I was toned, but more like a dancer than a body guard. Even Demyx had more muscle to him than I did, and that was pathetic. "Hey man, I don't blame you," I agreed, raising an arm limply for emphasis as I met his eye.

"Well, I wasn't talking just about muscle, but you are a bit on the string bean side," He cooed with a cackle hiding in his voice, his hand clasping his chin slightly over his mouth. He then shrugged. "Well, it can't take that long if yer committed. You start training on Sunday, so I'd get ready if I were you."

When I left that office that day, I was elated. It was the last place I thought I'd ever be working at (Even Wal-Mart was more likely to me), but that hadn't been on my mind at the time: after all, I had a job now. The training wasn't as difficult as I'd imagined it to be—Three hours per day working out with Xigbar, being shown various techniques for holds and restraining moves and various other little necessities like how to properly conduct a search, to discern between legit and fake IDs (something I excelled at due to my teenage barhopping) and how to handle basic medical emergencies like someone choking or administering CPR. It wasn't that it was difficult, more as it was grueling. But it was paid training, and when I wasn't training, I was helping Demyx book events and answer phone calls.

I had gotten fairly close to the guy over the course of my work, so much in fact that we began to hang out with each other after hours. We talked about everything from global warming (we were both concerned, but he made a decent effort to change whereas I sat around and sympathized), to ice cream flavors (mine was tiger-tiger, his was cotton candy). I wasn't at all surprised when he told me he was gay. In fact, I was inwardly excited; I was always looking for the opportunity to screw around at that time, because it was this big game to me. My hopes were dashed, though, when he told me he was dating some guy named Yuffie. I let my interest in him romantically drop then.

I made quick acquaintances with the rest of the employees, some even pretty close to calling friends. Tidus and Wakka were always up for a laugh, and were my go-to people when Water Boy wasn't around. Xaldin was absolutely frightening. So was Lexeaus. It wasn't because they were huge packs of muscle, but because they talked so infrequently that I had no clue what to talk about with them to begin with. After a while I accepted that they liked to keep to themselves, and didn't bother talking to them much after that.

Luxord brought out a classy sort of sleaze in me that I didn't know existed until I met him. While he was a gambler and was sleazy as hell, he had an air of sophistication to him. As a stereotype, I assumed that it was because he was from England, and I was totally right. He introduced me to all sorts of cultured things, from wine tastings to cricket and country clubs. I began to develop a small complex, the one where someone tries something new and then concludes that they're an expert at it. Demyx managed to snap me out of it, but my relations with Luxord never changed. I won't leave anything out: we'd even gotten so plastered on wine once that we slept with each other. But neither of us could remember much of the events that transpired, so there wasn't even much content about it to be awkward about and life continued on as usual.

I'd even gotten to know Larxene better, and to this day I can't tell if Demyx was lying when he said that she was nicer than she let on. At first when I talked to her, all she would do was brush me off with some catty remark. When I was on a smoke break once, though, she had come out too and was as startled to see me there as I was to see her walk out. She talked awful about people most of the time, but worked hard and had a soft spot for animal rights. We got along far better when I started to bitch at her about other people, particularly about cutesy pop stars who were making it big. She hated mainstream as much as I did. It didn't take her long before she started hanging all over me, literally trying to get a hand in my pants every turn I took. Normally when people lust after me like that, I have no problem relieving their tensions. But there was something about Larxene that screamed 'CRAZY PSYCHO BITCH' in bright red letters, so I didn't bother trying.

Even Xigbar was pretty good to talk to. Everybody was there to make money for something, but he seemed to keep a caring eye over me above most. Maybe he treated everyone the same and I just didn't notice, but he always made sure I had all the training I needed, hat I always had food on lunch breaks, and that if I was cutting it close on my bills that I had work to do to get me ahead. I did know that I had never been at a job as… family feeling as XIII. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that there were so few employees. But I couldn't complain.

And it wasn't like we were a prosperous company. The owner of the building was only supposed to come once per month, but he made a point of coming once every two weeks to 'remind' Xigbar about the rent, bringing his blue haired henchman with him. The first time he came in, he hardly acknowledged my existence. He towered, not so much with his height as he did with his very presence. Tan skin, silver hair, these piercing amber eyes- I honestly couldn't tell you how old this guy was. He seemed like the personification of eternity. He ordered Demyx to lead him to Xigbar, in this deep baritone voice. Demyx, without a smile or a chipper in his voice, uttered a "right this way, Superior' and went to go find the boss. The strange man followed.

His henchman showed his true nature then. He was all soft words and calm smiles when the pair walked in, but the minute that his 'Superior' had left the room, he rushed to me and snared my throat.

"Why were you staring?" He demanded roughly, harshly. His own amber eyes bore intensely into my face, as if the very act would burn it off. If I'd thought Xigbar was going to take a stapler to my face, this guy was just going to skip the stapler and shred me bare handed instead. I had already had some training by then, and I sure as hell wasn't going to take some intimidation tactic from him. I brought my foot around to the back of his knee and attempted to do this trick that Xigbar had taught me called a clothesline. Yeah, I'd had the training, but certainly not enough. Before I even applied any pressure, he slammed my head into the back rail of the chair I was sitting in. My head burst with sudden, heavy pain and white spots flickered in my eyes sporadically. I gasped for air as his snare tightened.

"I-guhh-he's just a-d-ah, different," I choked hurriedly.

"How?" He rumbled quietly, his voice so similar to an animal's that it gave me the willies for days. I'd've pissed myself if I hadn't been brain logged from his head slam.

"Like… ack…" His hold made it a trial to breathe, but it wasn't lethal. "D-dangerous. Like… Like a beautiful white c-cobra…." I couldn't help it. My inner writer still shined through, even to what I thought was near death.

His grip loosened. I caught what I thought was an impressed look, but that could have easily been triumph. "Very well," he said with a sadistic smirk, "Keep it that way." He backed off just in time for Xigbar and the cobra to re-enter the reception. The man with silver hair then smiled an enigmatic smile, eyes gliding from my disheveled body to the beast with blue fur. "Have we introduced ourselves, Saïx?"

Saïx nodded, the motion so extensive that he bowed his upper body slightly in the process. He had possessed that quiet smile on his face again… "Yes, Superior, my beautiful white cobra." He murmured, slinking in close to the man's chest.

I gawked. He- he stole my words! Not wanting to admit what I said though, I just let myself sulk.

The cobra's eyes fell to me then, the same smooth, slow motion as before. He smirked at me broadly. I felt a chill. "Very good, Saïx. Yes." He turned to Xigbar. "An excellent choice, Xigbar. Rent is on the 30th." The cobra nodded at Saïx, and the two departed without word.

The room was tense. You could hear a pin drop. Idly, I started thinking about getting some Tylenol for my growing headache. Then Demyx and Xigbar doubled over in shrieking, loud laughter.

"B-beautiful white COBRA?" Xigbar sputtered, trying to speak between fits. "Wh-who the hell are you, Shakespeare?"

Demyx was at least… no, no he wasn't. He was a total ass about it too, "S-so what, you got—haha!—you got a thing for Mansex? You need to get laid dude!"

Superior's name was actually Xemnas Heartseek, and his blue henchman was Saïx McCrae. His assault was nothing more than a scare tactic, like I thought, a way to ensure that the new employees had respect and fear for their 'superior', as he was called. Xemnas owned many businesses, some less legal than others and as such the tactics made sense. But it didn't mean that I appreciated it any more. After that, Xemnas kept a particularly keen eye on me. I don't know why, and to be honest, I don't want to. Even after I'd left the company, Xemnas had sent me a letter saying that he was "disappointed that [I] left the company, but was glad I was on the way to Utah and making a living for myself."

I couldn't sleep for a week.

But aside from that, life was life, work was work. I just started chipping away at my debt without having to starve myself to do so. I started making friends that were quickly becoming family. My life felt like it was taking a slow incline upwards. If I had turned back to myself then and told him that after three months of working at XIII Security that all my dreams would come true, I'm sure that I'd've: one, laughed. Two, asked myself to repeat it. Three, laughed again. Four, realized I was talking to my future self, and five, got shitfaced at a pub with Demyx to forget such a horrifying thing.

Which would mean that I would still be here today. But honestly, I'm grateful for it.

Wasting my time at college for nothing ended up being the best choice I had ever made.