A/N: I got the idea for this when I was up at 3 am to take my meds (see bio).  So really it’s the product of a sleep-deprived, drug-fogged mind.  My main project will still be The Pack, but I really wanted to get this down before I forgot it.  As always, reviews are appreciated- even the unflattering ones.  I really want your honest opinion. -Aemilia

                                                                                    Are You Now Or Have You Ever Been?

                        Are you now or have you even been a vampire? (If yes, please explain)

            Beckett stopped and read over the question again.  This was the weirdest application he’d ever filled out.  He glanced at the receptionist.  She was busy filing manila folders.  The waiting office of the upscale commodities firm seemed normal enough.  Pastel wall-paper, beige carpet, the air-conditioner set about ten degrees too cold for human comfort.

            He looked at the question again.  It still read the same.  He shrugged and marked ‘no.’ He wasn’t in any position to be picky when it came to getting a job.  His rent was over due.  He’d taken to climbing out the window to avoid running into his landlady. 

            The next question read:

                        Are you currently under any geis, curse or compulsion that would prevent you from executing your duties as a security/body guard?

                        (If yes, please explain.)

            He didn’t even know what a ‘geis’ was but assumed he’d know if he was under one.  He’d just finished a twelve-week course in security- maybe this was run-of-the-mill stuff for body guards.  But he thought that one of the instructors would have at least mentioned this occult crap.  Whatever.  He was almost done with the application.

                        In the event of your death or discontinued existence, who should be contacted?

            Well, that was an easy question- no one.  His parents hadn’t talked to him since they kicked him out at seventeen, and he didn’t have any friends in Chicago.  He could drop of the face of the earth, and no one would care.  He finished filling out his employment history and references, and handed his application to the receptionist, who was now absorbed in painting her long nails a lurid pink.

            “Mr. Carver had a cancellation, if you want to do the interview now,” she said, not looking up from her nails.   

            “Umm…ok,” he said uncertainly, wishing he’d ironed his shirt.

           She punched a button on the phone and said into it, “Mr. Carver, there’s a kid here applying for the security position.  I’m sending him in.”

            He really wished she hadn’t called him ‘kid.’

            “Here,” she said, handing him his application back, “Through that door, down the hall, third door on the left.” She waved vaguely to a door behind her desk, and went back to her nails.

            “Thanks, you’ve been a lot of help,” Beck said insincerely, and walked through the door.  He made his way down the well-lit hall till he found the right door.

            ‘Duncan Carver, Head of Security’ was written on a plaque on the door.  Beck knocked.

            “Come in.”

            Beck entered a large office, decorated in dark and unwelcoming earth tones- the effect was rather den-like.  The bear of a  man sitting behind the desk just reinforced the image.

            The man stuck out his meaty left hand. Beck was unsure what he was supposed to do with it- shake it or what.

            “Application,” The man barked.

            Beck handed it over, feeling stupid.  Way to make an impression.  He stood uneasily while Mr. Carver perused his application wearing a very unimpressed look.  Beck sighed mentally, and wrote this job off- he’d never get.  He’d never even had a chance.

            Finally the man spoke, “So, Beckett Keirnan…”

            “Please, sir, just Beck,” he interrupted and regretted it. 

            “So, Beckett Keirnan,” the man continued as if Beck hadn’t spoken, “You’ve never really done security before, what makes you think you can do it now?”

            “Well, I got top marks at the security academy…” Mr. Carver snorted derisively.

            This guy was really making Beck angry.  So, ok, he’d never done this before, and maybe he wasn’t really qualified- but he didn’t deserve to be ridiculed.

            “Look, Mr. Carver, I may not be a Navy SEAL or whatever you’re looking for, but I’m smart and capable and whatever I don’t know, I can learn.  Which is more then you can say about a lot of the guys applying for this job.  But if you’re not interested, well then…go to hell.”  It was a rather weak finish.

            Mr. Carver scrutinized him a long moment with an indecipherable expression.  Beck was sure he was about to be escorted from the building.

            “Keirnan, I like you.” Beckett’s mouth dropped open. “And I think you’re right.  But there is one thing that matters above all else in this organization- loyalty.  So the question is really- how much are you prepared to give?”

            Crap, Beck thought, this firm had to be a front for a drug cartel.  Beck was sure he’d heard this speech in some mafia movie.  He’d accept the job, and then die six months later in gun battle with the police.  Why couldn’t he have taken a course in real estate? 

            But to his horror, he heard himself saying, “Whatever it takes, Mr. Carver.”

            The man smiled coldly, “Then you have your self a job, Keirnan.  Sit down, I’ll have you sign the contract,” he rummaged in his desk while Beck uneasily took a seat.  He produced a thick folder, a small razor, a shallow glass dish and a feather quill.  Beck stared at the paraphernalia in confusion, unsure what drug took a feather quill to imbibe.

            Mr. Carver pushed the folder toward him, “You’ll want to look over this, but I think you’ll find it a fairly standard contract- non-terminating, exclusive indenturement.”

            Beckett flipped through the folder tentatively; it was probably a hundred and fifty pages of miniscule font.

            “You need to sign on the bottom of the last page.” Mr. Carver looked at him expectantly.

            “What do you want me sign with…blood…?” Beck started jokingly but trailed off when he saw Mr. Carver’s expression.

            “Exactly.”

            Mr. Carver was watching him, judging him.  Well, this was one test Beckett wasn’t going to fail. He pulled the dish and knife toward him, trying to disguise the shaking of his hands.  He drew the knife against the pad of his left thumb. It cut cleanly- the blade was very sharp.  He held his dripping thumb over the dish and wondered how much blood his signature would take.  When he thought there was enough he licked the cut, dipped the pen and messily scrawled his name on the line indicated. Mr. Carver slammed the folder shut and looked satisfied.

            “Report to me on Monday.”

            Beck took a deep breath- he’d just signed his life away, in blood. 

            Oh, shit.