Little Saint Bride [Death and the Maiden, #1]

Chapter Twenty One: Unorthodox Job Interviews

A/N: On a scale of 1-10, how cute is the media? Also, you can now follow me on Twitter, username is lararimmer!

The stars have faded into the distance by the time we reach our destination at the bottom of the pit.

Elysium winds around like a clockwork mechanism, the outer levels sinking lower and lower and further from that beautiful white temple in the centre. Like a beacon of hope and frustration, it remains unchanging whilst the workers around it grow exhausted. The further we descend, the worse the air becomes, until there's a faint smell of sulphur and metal.

There's no gardens, no majestic shrubbery this time. The path leads straight into a muddy lane that's cramped by tall buildings, which we would later learn was the business "district" of the outer zone. The large building in front of us appears blackened by soot, slightly tilted, and propped together by chipped bricks and broken windows. A rusting sign labels it; "JOB ELECTION OFFICE."

Job election? What?

Thankfully, Hadrian looks as puzzled as I do as we glance at each other once, and he gives me a small shrug in return. I step ahead, taking the lead on the last few steps into the dismal square.

The place is fairly quiet, with only the odd worker dashing here or there, and as such, there's no queue greeting us at the bottom of the steps. A bored looking woman slouches against the post awaiting arrivals, and she turns to us as she hears our feet slapping the ground in anger. Her eyes briefly skim me, dressed in a shabby camisole and slick shorts, and slide up to my sweat-coated forehead, uncombed hair and scratches from where I'd fallen. I see her about to raise her eyebrows, but she glances uncomfortably down at a familiar plaque around her chest, and visibly looks away from me.

Her eyes land on Hadrian slinking behind me, and widen. He looks like a guard, but that's not what the impression her look is giving. She's fluttering, staggering from her slouched position so that she can straighten her tall back and flick her muddy blonde hair. A diamond-shaped face, pale and gaunt, tries to smile at the oncoming man, but it strikes me as though she's baring her teeth at him.

But muscles are twitching in her face, and she glances at that plaque again, until I'm sure that it's watching her and her behaviour, for her to act so edgy. If it's the same as mine, then it's just a plaque with a few numbers on it.

...right?

Hadrian doesn't notice, and stays quiet as I face the woman. She's shorter than me, so I look down on her. The woman looks like she's about to nut me from below.

I take a step back.

'You're new,' the woman states, and cuts me off before I can answer. 'No, I don't want to know. Don't need to know, for that matter. You're just another one of us. But you, sir...'

She addresses Hadrian, the "guard", as sir. And in his white uniform, ironed into crisp lines of solid masculinity, it's not hard to see why. He glows, straightening his already immaculate image. I want to punch him, and then her, for good measure, but I don't. Instead, I say something much more damaging.

'He's not a guard. He's borrowed a uniform. May we come in?'

The woman looks across to me in shock, but her face quickly hides it. Thankfully, Hadrian's buttoned uniform has prevented anyone seeing that he doesn't own a metal tag; something, I assumed, would make him stand out very much. Bored again, the woman gestures towards a long list of names and occupations, and then gesturing to the empty lines below the last few entries.

'Write your name, let me check your identity tags, I'll assign you a job, you get on with your lives and I'll never see you again,' the woman drills in a monotone, no doubt from the thousands of times she's said this earlier. 'Well...I'll never see some people again.'