A/N: I haven't written anything in a long time... Oh wow. So, anyway. I decided that since I'd done so many romantic comedies, it was time for my old style. Bring in the fatalism! I wanted a more minimalistic style for this... And this is going to take a while to develop, I sense.

Allen stood at the foot of the bed, staring blankly forward, not attempting to look at the man or at anything surrounding him. He was a sickly man, with dim blue eyes that were really quite frightening to meet the gaze of, as they never really focused, only dilated and contracted like a camera that was held in the hands of an amateur.

“You’re late.” The man’s voice held the grogginess of having just been awoken.

“I’m sorry sir.”

“Why are you late?”

“I overslept, sir.”

“Really now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well now, Allen, we can’t have that, can we?”

“Well… sir…”

“No.”

“No, sir.”

The man sat up, his back against the blood red pillows and dark mahogany headrest. “Allen…” Allen knew he was supposed to be hanging off this man’s ever word. That was how the world as he knew it worked.

“Yes, sir?”

“I’m thinking about forgiving you.”

“I would like that, sir.”

“Then I do.” The man smiled slightly, the severity of his expression vanishing.

“Thank you, sir.”

“You’re dismissed.”

“Very good, sir.”

“And Allen?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Send the Doctor up. I want to speak to him.”

“Yes, sir.”

Allen closed the door quietly behind him, exhaling loudly with relief. He had not been given a mission. He would not have to kill an innocent idiot. Today could be devoted to stupid, mindless tasks and working out. That would be much better than having to prepare and execute an assassination. The Doctor was on the stairs up, carrying a bag, as Allen was leaving.

The Doctor had a cruel voice, sharp and critical. “Did he ask for me?”

“Yes.”

“I might have figured.”

“Have a good day, Doctor.”

The doctor watched Allen go, not displaying any emotion about the event. They were simply two employees to James Pomeroy, head of Pomeroy and Ludwig Cotton and Textile; a powerful yet pathetic man if there ever lived one.

Pomeroy waited for the Doctor with pain growing in his stomach and chest, his heart beating its unsteady, quiet beat. Outside, the sun was beginning to shine brightly. It was near to ten o’clock. He felt guilty for having been cruel to Allen. Allen always over-slept.

“James.”

Pomeroy turned, startled. “Oh, Doctor. You’re here.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Sore.”

“Pain?”

“No,” Pomeroy continued to stare out the window, “Just… a dull ache. Everywhere in my body.”

The Doctor nodded. “I can give you the painkiller, if you like.”

“Please.”

“But remember,” the Doctor said as he opened his bag, placing the supplies on the bedside table. The needle tip gleamed as it was twisted into the syringe. James watched with fascination as the medication trickled out of the bottle. Everything slowed to a stop and the drops of the clear liquid were the world, crashing in on itself and dissolving into the weight of its worthlessness, while God watched from above with hollow sockets and false pity. “This will make you tried.”

“Yes. It’s only Saturday, Doctor. What do I have to do today?”

“Paperwork.”

“Later, Doctor. I can do that after lunch.”

“It’s near to ten now, James.”

“Lunch will be at three, then.”

The Doctor sighed deeply, “Are you sure?”

“I suppose. Perhaps… Just something to make the ache leave, Doctor. Not enough to put me out again.”

“Yes, sir.” The Doctor smiled and took James’ hand, turning over, exposing the pale wrist and cerulean crisscross of veins. The Doctor held one of them down, sliding the needle beneath the skin. Pomeroy flinched slightly, settling back against the headrest and closing his eyes, ringed with dark circles.

The Doctor looked at his patient for a while after he had administered the shot. Pomeroy was sick. Very sick, and it was a self-causing disease. It had a cure, but curing it would have meant loss of a job.

“You can go, Doctor,” Pomeroy muttered.

“Alright. I’ll be back this evening.”

“Yes. I know.”

The Doctor left, not bothering to close the door behind him. The sun outside only warmed him slightly, the wind bit into his face and hands as he walked back into town; a long walk by any means. The people on the street didn’t give him a second glance. One unfortunate beggar attempted to scrounge a nickel off him, and was met only by a harsh laugh. The paper still lay on the door-mat in front of The Doctor’s apartment. He frowned as he picked it up, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.

“Mila!”

A woman appeared from the bedroom door-frame. “What?” Her long, light brown hair was disheveled and she glared at him with slate grey eyes. She wore nothing but a short negligee that might have fit when she was ten pounds lighter.

The Doctor was silent for a moment as he moved to the living room area and set his bag and the news on the couch. “The paper, Mila. I would have thought you could at least get the paper.”

“Well, it ended up in your hands anyway, didn’t it?” Mila snapped, “I’m going back to bed.”

“Like hell you are.” He grabbed her wrist quickly and pressed her against him. She struggled backwards, but with his free hand he held onto her waist, kissed her lips and maneuvered her towards the bed.

She scratched at his face with her nearly non-existent nails, cursing her habit of biting them when stressed. “Get off of me!”

“Remember whose ring you’re wearing, dear heart,” he murmured in her ear, kissing her neck furiously.

Mila stood still for a moment, and when The Doctor raised his head again, she spat above his glasses, splattering his eyebrow with her spit. His expression changed from annoyance to cruelty. Letting go of her wrist, he grabbed her neck and forced her head back. “We’re going to do this right, love. It’s the least you can do as my wife.”

There was no response from Mila. She simply let herself be laid on the bed. She had run out of anger, and now there was only emptiness. Her mind drifted to her son… She would have to clean herself up before he got home.

Across town, in a much smaller flat, with light that was sketchy at best, Allen was feeding his dog, Rita. Soon, he thought, Penny would arrive. Penny would bring food from lunch at the Palace. After all, she prepared it.

And in the mansion at the top of the hill on the East side of town, James Pomeroy was in a state of drug-induced half-dream, the words of his servants going in one ear and out the other in colors so bright they were almost blinding. ‘After lunch,’ he said to himself, ‘I will settle out the financial expenses for the Emperor's latest endeavor in the South.’

The daylight dragged high across the sun, and in time, it would be evening.