Virtue - SCP Foundation

When asking for a favor, it's often useful to show that you are trustworthy. So, as Michael kneels down to pray and plead with God, he thinks of all of the good he has done.

Charity

γɈiɿɒʜɔ

"Give us your fuckin' money!"

Blood ran down Michael's nose as he pressed his back into the grimy alley wall. The green-horned devil thrust a revolver in his face, while the red one licked a scimitar behind him.

"W-why?" Michael muttered, just louder than a whisper.

"Because we said so, dumbass. Now your backpack. Get everything out. Pronto!"

"But I don't owe anyone anything."

The green-horned devil furrowed his eyebrows. Somehow, this man wasn't afraid of the two demons accosting him. It was clear that his stammer and timid demeanor were just… his personality.

"Well, you're wasting our time and you know, time is money. So hand it over," the red one shot back.

"Hey! What you two got over there?"

The two devils turned to the source of the bellowing voice. They'd recognize that New York accent and seven foot tall silhouette anywhere.

"Ay! Big G! Nice to see you in this neck of the woods!"

"We just got ourselves a nice little cash cow right here," the green-horned devil cackled. Big G took a moment to squint his serpentine eyes. He traced Michael up and down once, his eyes adjusting to the lightless alley, before jumping between him and his assailants.

"Put your gun away!"

"What?"

"Don't point your damn pea shooter at Mikey."

"You know this guy?"

"You pricks don't? Mikey fuckin' great. He's a goddamn angel."

"But we hate angels."

"You know what I mean! He's a real one."

Michael looked down at the ground and gave a shy smile. Big G clapped him on the back, almost toppling him to the ground. The two devils exchanged a look, calculating how much effort it would be to bust past Big G. And factoring in the loss of street cred for robbing Michael. Oh and then there's the case to consider where Big G beats them both to a pulp, and they become the laughing stock of this block of the Sin Circuit.

The green-horned devil lowered his pistol and turned to his partner.

"Eh, there's other alleys we can stalk. We'll catch another one."

"Fair enough."

"You have a nice night Big G," the red devil called out, as he waved good-bye.

Big G dusted Michael off. The human was a little dazed, but not too shaken.

"What did I tell you about goin' places by yourself, huh?" Big G asked, guiding Michael back to the streets.

"Sorry… I was just sort of lost in my own thoughts."

"Just because you're a local doesn't mean everyone just gives you that respect. You gotta puff your chest out more. Walk like you have a purpose, ya know?"

"Right, right." Michael's eyes instinctively wandered to the ground. Big G turned away from Michael, the shining brilliance of the strip reflecting off his scales.

"What do you say we hit up Huntridge? Drinks are on me."

"You know I don't really drink…"

"Yeah, yeah. I'll buy you a soda or something."

"I really appreciate the offer, but I have to get going. I was uh, planning to meet up with someone later."

"Oh! Well you shoulda just said something Mikey. Totally get it. But I'll still see you for poker on Friday, right?"

"Yeah, yeah. I should be there."

"Atta boy," Big G roared. He clapped Michael on the back one last time before joining the pedestrian traffic. Michael watched Big G leave, considering if he should leave the alley as well. But honestly taking a long walk to circle back would look more suspicious than waiting around. Luckily, Big G never even thought to glance behind him, so Michael could just wait.

Michael checked his backpack one more time. He wouldn't have been surprised if the devils tried to pick his pockets. Luckily, the water bottle was still there. Safe and sound.

A new silhouette emerged from the dark back-alley. This one more humanoid than the previous ones.

"Hey, rabbit, shouldn't you be hiding? It's winter."

"Umm… uh," Michael always fumbled the passphrase, "I like to play in the snow?"

The figure sighed, "close enough."

Stepping further into the light was a man in a bright purple blazer and pearly white pants. The kind of eccentricity that Michael came to expect from the Auctioneers.

"You have the item?"

Michael reached into his backpack and pulled out the water bottle.

"Toss it here."

Michael chucked the water bottle over to the man. They both made sure to stay at least ten feet apart. Their insistence, not Michael's.

The Auctioneer opened the top and took a whiff. He nodded to himself like a somelier appraising a vintage wine. Pleased with his assessment, the Auctioneer tossed over a stack of bills, which Michael almost dropped on the ground.

"Hey uh, this is only a thousand. I uh, I thought you were paying fifteen hundred?"

"We still are. We just… want one more set. Demand for Holy Water from Sin City's going up."

"But this was supposed to be the last one. I think the church is starting to recognize me…"

"Don't worry. We have a new location for you. And we're paying four thousand for the last sample."

Michael swallowed. There was much shadier work in Las Vegas that pays considerably less. Retrieving holy water to be auctioned off ranked pretty low overall. Besides, it'd mean he wouldn't have to save another five months worth of wages…

"Okay… um, where is it?"

"We'll get you the information another time. For now it's just nice to have verbal confirmation."

Michael packed the money into his backpack, "I see… well, uh, it's nice doing business with you, uh, Mr…"

And by the time he looked up again, the man had disappeared.

Patience

ɘɔnɘiɈɒq

Ever since he was born, Michael has been waiting for something.

When he was a kid, Michael waited for his new parents to take him from the orphanage. But they never came. In fact, the couple who ran the orphanage skipped town when the devils showed up, leaving the children to fend for themselves.

When he was a teenager, Michael waited to graduate from high school so he could go to college and get his life together from there. He worked two jobs outside of classes, and often found himself sleeping on park benches, since all he could afford was food and school supplies. But then somehow, Michael couldn't win any scholarships, and couldn't scrape together enough money to attend any of the universities he got accepted to.

When he turned eighteen, Michael waited to save enough money to move out of Vegas. He learned how to make small talk with high rollers and shuffle a deck of cards, which let him pick up shifts dealing black jack on the outskirt of the strip. He got work, but only from dingy casinos, with dirty slot machines and blood-stained poker chips.

On one particularly empty night, Michael found himself dealing to an old man. He must've been seventy, at least. He kept busting, and then cursing to himself that the cards didn't turn up just right.

"Damn demons. I wouldn't have to be playing at this dump if they didn't run all the good casinos…"

Michael just nodded and dealt another hand. But before he could ask if the old man wanted to hit, the front door burst open. A troupe of oddly-proportioned devils rushed into the casino. The patrons tried to escape, but unfortunately the men were knocked to the ground, and the women were surrounded by catcalls and gropers.

"Back you fiends!" the old man shouted, "You don't belong here you pieces of—"

He stopped himself short when a large, golden-scaled demon emerged from the crowd. He looked like a large Komodo dragon standing up on its hind legs, with large burly arms, tipped with talon claws. He wore a blazer, and smoked the largest cuban that Michael had ever seen. The lizard-man looked the old man over before blowing a large puff of smoke in his face.

"You want to finish that sentence?" he asked.

The old man summoned up enough courage to spit on the devil. Unfortunately, that was the last courage he'd ever muster, since his action was met with a single claw swipe through the jugular. Michael tried to shrink under the table. Maybe if he hid for long enough he could sneak out when the intruders were too drunk to notice.

"Deal me in," Lizard man demanded, slamming a gold coin on the table. So much for that plan.

Michael quickly gathered up the cards from the old man's spot (he had finally hit black jack), and then tried to shuffle the deck. His hands shook, and he kept fumbling the bridge, sending the cards everywhere.

"I'll trade you names, dealer boy" the lizard man said, "I'm Big G."

"Umm, Michael?" He could barely the words get to leave his mouth.

"Michael… No family name?"

In the moment, Michael's practice making small talk took over. He was so afraid he didn't even realize what he was saying.

"No family at all really… I was in an orphanage for a while but the owners left when um," Michael motioned to Big G's posse, who were downing drinks at the bar, "your… type showed up."

"I get it, I get it. You must fuckin' hate my guts then, eh?" Big G let out a big cackle. Michael felt himself ease up a little, and finally began to deal to the lizard man.

"Uh, no. I mean, not really," Michael kept his gaze firmly on the cards, "it's not like you knew I was there or anything."

"Well, there's a first."

Michael looked back up at Big G. He was no longer showing off that massive toothy grin, or roaring at his own joke. Now the lizard man was studying him. Sizing Michael up, taking in his wrinkles and crevasses.

"Hit me," Big G said. Michael dealt him another card. The lizard man flipped over his hand. He'd bust.

"I'm… sorry." Michael offered. Big G went back to cackling again.

"You're a fascinating dealer, you know that?"

"I'm not really all that special…"

"You want a new gig? I got friends over at the Venetian who have been looking for a new Texas Hold 'em guy. Besides, it probably pays much better than this peanut gallery."

Michael nodded, more out of reflex than anything. But from that day on, Michael ran one of the tables at the Venetian. And on Friday nights, he dealt the private high stakes matches they ran in the back. He met the satanic high rollers of Vegas: Bobby The Firespitter, Elsabeth DuDrogney, Nythelo (whose full name cannot be pronounced by the human tongue), and of course Big G. Big G was there every Friday, and would take Michael out for dinner after the table closed.

To Michael, it all just became another cycle. A much more comfortable cycle than he'd been a part of, but still a cycle. Michael found comfort in cycles. Safety in routine. So then, as a twenty five year old man, he waited for the next stage of his life to present itself to him. Good things come to those who wait.

And when the Auctioneers came knocking on his door with side job worth a couple of grand, Michael felt his waiting had paid off, yet again.

Chastity

γɈiɈƨɒʜɔ

"C'mon, you're starving me," Lyla purred as she stroked Michael's arm. They both looked out over the Bellagio fountains as the water danced to "Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds." Michael shivered at Lyla's touch, like a cat shaking off water.

"They must put a lot of time into the choreography," Michael replied. It was a vain attempt to change the topic, since he lacked both the confidence and bravado to make it work.

"I swear, you do this just because you want to torture me."

"I don't though!"

The music stopped playing and the fountains returned to rest. Across the pond Michael could see people dining in the Picasso and the Lago. Couples blowing hundreds of dollars on a single meal to set the mood for when they return to their thousand-dollar penthouse suite and fuck the night away. Lyla licked her lips at the thought.

"Fuck me once?"

"No!"

"Oh come on," Lyla pleaded, "You're dating a goddamn succubus. Like, this is my whole shtick."

"Don't you have enough sex at your job?"

Coming from anyone else, this would've been slathered in sarcasm. Another lashing of slut shaming for the succubus whore. But from Michael, it was an honest question. Like asking if she was remembering to eat regularly, or if she got enough sleep.

"Yeah, business is going well. But I want to fuck the guy I've been seeing for the past three years."

"I told you! I just…" Michael fumbled with his words. He'd said this to Lyla about a dozen times by now but that's never made the topic any easier, "Like if I'm going to have sex with someone, I want it to be with someone who I'm going to spend a long time with."

"Right, right. We have abstinence boy over here." Lyla shot him a sly smile, and then leaned over and pecked him on the cheek, "You're lucky turning me down also turns me on."

Michael's face flushed bright red, "… I do want to do something for you though."

"Oh?" Lyla slinked around to his shoulder.

"Eh, err… never mind."

"You want to hide something from me?"

"It's um, a surprise."

He didn't want to get her hopes up. Or get any sort of premature reaction. But they already share rent on the same place, eat the same meals, and everything else. He might as well make it official that he wants to share everything with her. His everything.

Michael asked around if there's any sort of satanic bonding ritual that could work in substitute of a proper marriage. Preferably one where he doesn't have to literally hand over his soul, and can just stick to doing so metaphorically. While even Big G was dry on ideas, Michael at least wanted to get her a ring. And a honeymoon. And a nicer place to live. And all of this he would pay for with the money from the Auctioneers. He'd graduate from a bachelor dealing blackjack to a husband supporting a family.

"Ah shit, I got clients showing up soon. I gotta run. I'll see you at home Mikey."

"Y-yeah. See you around."

Michael stood at the fountains star struck, under no succubus spell, but rather one of hormones and butterflies.

Diligence

ɘɔnɘϱilib

The only light across the cathedral came the stray rays it caught from the Vegas strip. Not even a candle flickered inside. But then again, no church was still operating at 10PM. Which was a relief to Michael, since he already felt tired from biking out here. He didn't want to explain himself to anyone, or try to sneakily siphon holy water.

Michael double checked the address he had been given. It was written on a napkin that had been left behind at his blackjack table the other night. It also noted that the doors should be unlocked, and that a "handler" would be overseeing the "operation." Michael swallowed. He didn't like the idea of being watched.

The doors to the cathedral opened with an ear-drum-scratching creak. Michael wouldn't have been surprised if the whole block heard it. But no lights flickered on, so he continued inside.

The inside of the church was beautiful. Even with just his phone light, Michael could make out the massive stained-glass mural on the far side of the building. It depicted Jesus Christ, hanging from the cross, as the sun set on the horizon. In front of the mural was a statue of an angel, pouring water from a brass vase. The basin of holy water.

Each step Michael took felt heavy as he neared the chancel. He constantly looked over his shoulder to make sure no one followed him in. But he was alone. And so he placed his water bottle under the statue fountain. He couldn't let it hit the basin, since the stone bowl was likely dirty, and (according to the Auctioneers) would defile the holy water.

It was a slow process, since the fountain ran at a trickle. Michael counted the seconds as they passed, each moment stretching longer than the next one, as if the fountain wanted to tie him to this very spot for the rest of the night.

"Hello? Is somebody there?"

Michael froze. He glanced quickly over his shoulder to see an old man holding a book. He had entered through one of doors off of the aisles. Michael quickly readjusted himself, so he stood between the priest and the basin.

"H-hello," Michael let out. He had been seen anyways.

"Ah, I see. I was worried all of that noise was from mice again!" the old man explained, "It's difficult to sleep when someone is trampling around above your room."

"Y-you sleep here?"

"As the priest, it does make my commute easier," the old man said, laughing at his own joke. Michael chuckled nervously as well.

"Would you like to have a chat, my child?" the priest offered. His footsteps echoed throughout the cathedral as he approached Michael.

"No, you don't have to talk to me. I was just, uh, praying by myself. Just wanted to be with my thoughts and the Lord… I guess."

"It is awfully late to do that here. Are you sure something else isn't bothering you?"

"I'm fine."

"You don't have to hide from me, child. I am here for you to admit your sins. Not many people in this city have the courage to do that."

"I appreciate the offer but I don't have anything to confess."

The old man's footsteps stopped, "Really? You must excuse me, but I find that difficult to believe coming from a denizen of this city."

Michael swallowed, "No, I really mean it. I don't gamble or drink, and I have a loving partner who I'm going to marry soon."

"That is wonderful to hear, but there's more to sin than just avoidance of vice. There is sin of emotion, sin of thought. It is the faults that have been passed down to all men since Adam and Eve. Surely you possess those temptations, do you not?"

"I do. But I've remained uh, steadfast. I'm doing very well. Please, believe me."

"Your words sound convinced… but your voice does not agree," the priest began moving again. Michael did not turn around, and continued filling the water bottle.

"I just sound timid. All my friends tell me that."

"Then you wouldn't mind turning around. I prefer to look people in the eyes when speaking to them. It helps me understand their emotions." He drew even closer.

"I've never been great with eye contact. Please, I'm fine."

"Let me see your face," the priest said, placing his hand softly on Michael's shoulder.

"I really should be go—"

The only sound louder than the glass shattering was the gunshot. Michael peeked over his shoulder just long enough to see the old priest on the ground, before capping the water bottle and running.

Kindness

ƨƨɘnbniʞ

The next morning Michael stood in the shower, and tried to wash away the memory of last night. He didn't know someone was going to kill that man. He didn't know anyone was in danger. Michael told the priest to stay away but he didn't listen and now he's dead but Michael didn't know that would happen, it wasn't his fault. It wasn't his fault.

And as the water trickled down his face, the image slowly washed away. Not completely of course. A sight like that leaves an outline in your mind that will never truly fade. But his heart rate slowed down. He felt convinced that it wasn't his fault. At least for now.

But he still needed more distractions. He called in sick for his afternoon shift, and instead went out to the florist. He bought a bouquet of tulips and daffodils, Lyla's favorites, and then stopped by Shake Shack to pick up lunch for both of them. He made it to the brothel just in time to catch her entering the lobby after she had showered off the scent of her previous night's partner. It washed away better than Michael's last night.

"Hey Lyla!" Michael shouted from the entrance. Her face lit up and her wings even fluttered a moment before retracting into her back.

"Mikey!" She ran over and oogled at the flowers, "Are these for me?"

Michael nodded. Lyla giggled.

"I uh, brought lunch if you want to eat before your next client shows up."

"I would love that."

The two left the brothel hand-in-hand. They didn't go too far, finding a nice bench just off the strip where they could both watch the midday Vegas traffic. The people flowing from one pleasure to the next, in broad daylight. Michael munched on a cheese burger while Lyla sipped a chocolate milkshake.

"You look uh, really nice," Michael said. Lyla blushed. Normally when people complimented her, they would be much more… primal.

"Mikey, you're so sweet." Lyla pecked him on the cheek. "If any other guy did all this out of the blue for me I'd be worried he cheated on me!"

"Heh, nah. It's just, I got a bonus recently. Thought I'd splurge a bit."

"You know, it's always nice to receive surprise flowers and a milkshake from someone who I don't have magically charmed," Lyla said, "What'd you get the bonus for?"

"Oh um, I guess it was more of a tip at work than a bonus…"

"Mikey."

"Yeah?"

"You've been bouncing your leg the whole time we've sat here. You seem really stressed out. Are you sure you're not cheating on me?"

"No! No I'm not."

"Hmm… I believe that. Although that would be a little sexy…"

"It's just, well, I have another surprise for you," Michael pictured himself getting down on one knee, in front of the Bellagio fountain. It wasn't the true cause of his current anxiety, but he wanted a distraction from the dead priest. Not to relive it.

"… and I'm just bad at keeping surprises hidden."

Lyla smiled again. Even though they both paid rent for their apartment, Lyla rarely was there since she spent most of her nights at the brothel. Even though she could bewitch any guy she wanted, she let Michael court her without a single ounce of magic or devilcraft. Even though she was a succubus, to Michael, she was just another girl. And that smile, was the most human, happy smile she could muster, just to remind Michael that her desire to stay by his side wasn't borne from lust.

"I gotta get back to work, but this was lovely Mikey," Lyla said, as she packed away the last of her French Fries. "I'll see you this weekend, ok?"

"Okay!" But after a moment, Michael realized how strange that last thought was. Normally Lyla had work on the weekend. But the weekend was also when he was meeting with the Auctioneers one last time. The people who killed the priest.

Great, now he needed another distraction.

Michael called up Big G. Who of course was free, and ready to spend time with Michael. Anything the little man wanted. And when Michael asked for a "something to take his mind off work", Big G knew just the place. It was a club downtown, with disco balls and heavy pounding bass. The two had to yell to hear each other.

"Hey, Mikey, you know I've been planning my birthday coming up this Saturday. It's the big Five-Zero-Zero so I wanted to throw a real banger. I convinced Elsabeth to close down the Venetian for the night so you and the other dealers won't have to run tables. It's at the Bellagio, you in? Of course, I already invited Lyla and she's able to take off work for it, soo…."

"Umm…" Michael stammered, "it's in the evening, right?"

"From sundown to sun up."

"I might be a little late then…" The exchange was scheduled for Saturday night.

"Oh?" Big G lowered his head closer to Michael's, "You got better plans?"

"No, no. I just um, have this side gig thing…"

"Wait a second, Little Mikey's got a side hustle going?"

Michael swallowed. He felt his hair stand on end and wished he just kept his mouth shut. But now all he could do was nod.

"My boy!" Big G clapped Michael on the back, "Look at you getting yourself some extra work. You know, I remember when I pulled you out of that dump of a casino. And look at you now! You'll be running the underground in no-time."

"Heh, yeah…"

"Is it a drug deal? Sport picks? What's your racket?"

"I'm not sure I can say…"

"Oh ho ho! Mikey even thinks he has to hold his cards to his chest around Big G! You humans grow up so damn fast."

Michael let out a small sigh. He never kept anything from Big G, but secrets are to be expected among the devils and demons of the world. He'd been open and honest for so long anyways… one small secret, just for himself, must be fine every once in a while. Privacy wasn't a sin.

"Hey, speaking of making plans, I got this trip out to London coming up in a few weeks, could you look after Dante again? You seem to be the only guy that cat will tolerate. Hell, last week he tried to rearrange one my maid's faces."

"Y-yeah. I can do that. He likes the chicken flavored kibble, right?"

"That he does! That he does. You know Mikey, sometimes I wonder what I would do without you."

"I still never really understood why you guys keep me around."

Michael froze after he spoke. He hadn't even realized what he said until he'd finished, and even then he didn't know what brought him to say it. Maybe it was the stress from the previous night forcing honesty out of Michael's system he usually kept suppressed under his shy and quiet demeanor. Big G let out another long exhale of smoke through his nostrils. When the cloud cleared, Michael could see his yellow eyes waiting for more.

"I mean, we don't enjoy any of the same stuff. I've told you in the past but your, uh, day job… makes me uncomfortable. And I imagine talking to a prude like me must be— you know, frustrating."

"Oh, Mikey Mikey Mikey," Big G clasped Michael around the shoulder and slid him close, "You misunderstand my boy. I don't hate goody-two-shoes. They're not usually my favorite but like uh… it's a different flavor of person, you know? Everyone's got their flavor. Gamblers are all sweet and fruity. I'm definitely more of a tough, gamey taste… your girlfriend is all spice and smoke. And people like you— You're bitter."

"Bitter?"

"Yeah, bitter. But you know, you need a little bitter to make the sweet and the savory stand out. Ice cream's fuckin' delicious, but it's even better in between glasses of cold water to rinse out your palette. You, my friend, are a moral palette cleanser. And a damn good friend at that."

"Th-thanks Big G."

"But you know Mikey, sometimes I do worry about you. Like, you're a nice guy, but that ain't always great."

"I mean… that makes sense coming from a demon."

"Oh I don't mean it like that! I mean it like a human would. You just gotta remember, you don't hav'ta be nice to everybody. Or else then you'll be a pushover."

"I see…"

"But don't worry about that. You're alright Mikey. You're alllrrrright."

Temperance

ɘɔnɒɿɘqmɘT

Michael was never very religious. But the orphanage he grew up in brought him to church on Sundays, and they always said grace before dinner. So, while he never believed in the Bible, a lot of Catholic values and morals seeped into his system. He learned to forgive others for their faults. He learned to refrain from vices. He learned to be kind to those around him.

And somewhere, in the back of his head, Michael believed that these were not just the right thing to do, but that they would lead to good things for himself. Being kind to people meant that people would be kind to you, if you do someone a favor they'll do nice things in return, etc. etc.

In some ways, Michael viewed vices as favors that he would never see returned. Addiction was an onus, a duty, a vow to be maintained without any benefit besides appeasing the chemicals in his brain. This has been a pretty effective way to remind Michael to stay away from vice, but a question always plugged at the back of his head:

"How will the world reward me for this?"

This voice would be quashed and quelled, as Michael reminded himself that avoiding vice was a reward unto itself. Michael discarded it as an intrusive thought. Besides, a man isn't just what he thinks, but what he does. He cannot control all of the thoughts that pop into his head.

Because then, he would have to explain why he felt excited when Big G killed the old man at that black jack game years ago. Or why some nights he could not help but imagine sex with his succubus girlfriend. Or why he pined after a sip of wine, a hand at the poker table, or a seat at the buffet.

But those reactions are only human, no? And even if they aren't, Michael would hold his head high that he did not act on his impulses. He rejected the evil around him. He disavowed the weakness of being human, and embraced the strengths of being alive. And it must mean something. The Auctioneers said they couldn't get the holy water themselves because they were too impure. And demons can't even step foot inside a cathedral. Michael must be doing something right. Like a virtuous pupil of the Lord.

Every day, Michael told himself that he was a good boy.

Humility

γɈilimυH

Change of plans: New Exchange Location

Michael blinked twice at the text message. He didn't recognize the number, but since the Auctioneer was late, it was the best shot Michael had at getting his four thousand dollars.

The new spot was even pretty far off of the main roads around the strip. There was a small group of cars gathered around some small utilities building, which looked to be about right. Michael bit his lip. Maybe this spot had been compromised too? But he checked his phone and saw no new messages. So maybe the Auctioneers just brought more people than usual.

Michael biked up to the building and knocked on the door.

It was answered by a tall, middle-aged man, wearing a bullet proof best, a red tie, and aviators.

"Rabbit?"

"I, uh, um… like to—"

"Oh just stop it. You have the goods?"

"Yeah…" Michael reached into his backpack and pulled out the water bottle.

"Hey House! Is that the pizza guy?" someone from inside shouted.

"You bastards better not have ordered pizza," House shouted back, as he dug into his pockets for clips of cash, "We're only out here because one of you bastards forgot that sometimes people drink tap."

House handed over four stacks of hundred dollar bills. Michael handed over the water bottle. His hands were shaking from the stress. His eyes darted everywhere: from the four other "Auctioneers", casually handling automatic rifles, to the collection of pipes he could see through a window in the back.

"This um— is this part of your auction?" Michael asked, his practiced small talk taking over.

"Sure," House replied. He was clearly getting impatient. But Michael knew to count his money before just strolling away. Unfortunately he could barely compose himself enough to thumb through it properly.

"Heh, yeah…" Michael checked the the sign next to the door, "a water treatment plant is a, uh, strange auction house."

Michael heard the words as the left his mouth as if they came from someone else. His reflexes and instincts and everything colliding with his executive function to form a single coherent thought. A question that formed a pit in Michael's stomach. That sent a chill down his spine. That made him drop his four thousand dollars.

"W-what are you d-doing with holy water at a… water treatment plant?"

Everyone except House pulled a gun on Michael, whose hands shot up on reflex.

"Oh god please don't kill me I just—"

"Woah woah, slow down there kiddo," House said. He slowly walked back toward Michael, "We aren't in the business of killing humans."

"Just like— people who can't drink that, they drink the water but— but—"

"Yeah, we know," House said, "There's a big party going on in the Bellagio. Lotta devils and demons there."

"Then why are you—" Michael could barely get his words out through gasps for air and sobs.

"You know, you should probably stop asking questions. Because if you stick around here too long, we might have to shoot you. And, I'll let you in on a secret," House leaned in close to a sniffling Michael, "We already spiked their booze. This is just a safety measure. So, most of the damage is already done, and probably ain't worth risking your life over."

"I just— I just— don't think hurting people— is— is— is ok."

House scoffed, "They're not people. They're devils. They're demons. They're the embodiment of evil."

"… but you're still hurting them."

House couldn't hold back a full-bellied laugh. It echoed around the treatment center, booming louder than even Big G's roars.

"Boy, if you think hurting others is wrong, then you need to get out of Vegas."

House slammed the door shut.

And so, Michael waits for a sign

And waits...

Michael does not run, or hide, or even gather the hundred dollar bills fluttering in the night time breeze. His thoughts are entirely elsewhere, flying away from his body toward the Bellagio. Where devil waiters serve spiked spirits at a demonic birthday bash, while Michael stands helpless at the doorstep of a water treatment plant.

Michael considers opening the door again. Barging back inside. It would be a vain attempt to stop the poisoning of the Bellagio plumbing, but it would be an attempt nonetheless. But Michael discards the thought.

Instead, Michael drops to his knees.

He recounts his virtuous deeds.

And then he prays.

This is what prayers are for, right? Miracles? Even for someone who never went to church, and never read the Bible, he can ask for one favor, right?

Finally, Michael feels something. Not an intense sensation, but something light. Something on the tip of his tongue.

It's a bitter taste.

The bitter taste of knowing that he is a small man in a big world. That there is no force to reward him for his virtues. That no one is listening to his prayers.

Because there is no God in Las Vegas. There are no devils or demons. This is just a city full of people, each of them with their flaws and weaknesses like everybody else. They give into their temptations, and do terrible things to each other, but it's just being human. Even if they have wings, or horns, or scales, they're all just human.

And then there's Michael. The Saint of Las Vegas. Right? He never harbors ill will against anyone, right? Tries to help out where he can, avoids vices and temptations. He's a virtuous man, right? He will be rewarded for fighting his urges, right? Right?

"You're lying to yourself. You're as sinful as the rest of them. You're just ignorant on top of it."

The voice sounds like it comes from somewhere far away. Above and beyond Michael. An answer to the least important question on his mind.

A tear wells in his eye. A sob chokes in his throat. Because really, Michael knows where that answer comes from. That voice is his own.

He is now a pariah. No one in the city will recognize him. Not the humans, not the devils. His demonic co-workers at the Venetian, the whisky demons who served him root beer, the high rollers from Friday night poker, even his beautiful Lyla, and Big G, are all swallowing holy water.

Las Vegas has become his hell. And he has damned himself to it.

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