Chasing Hellfire: chapter 1

I hit the computer on the side with the palm of my hand as if the mere physical act would somehow fix it.

When the screen stays frozen I push my chair back and throw my hands up in frustration. "Ugh!" I curse under my breath.

I narrow my eyes over the cubicle until I see the source of my irritation along with the rest of my silently fuming co-workers, who unsurprisingly enough are still trying to de-spell the locked pop-up screen that’s preventing anyone from getting any work done. Each time they try mustering up a new spell the intended magic that is sent to the computer frizzes out and static bounces back to the spell caster, shocking the person with a loud and resigned ‘pop’ that makes the small hairs on my forearms stand up on end.

Of average height and short brown hair that’s currently slicked back with enough gel it should be considered a fashion don't and a highly annoying melodic laugh that resembles wind chimes, Davey Jensen is better known as a trickster outcast by choice who enjoys creating havoc everywhere he goes. It's safe to say that nobody is at the mercy of the troubled leprechaun without feeding his insatiable apatite for chaos and destruction.  
 
As if working at the Supernatural Agency department for the criminally wicked and sometimes socially unstable isn’t bad enough.

Sensing my hatred from afar Jensen lifts his head up and over the cubicle, allowing me to see a hint of amusement glinting in his strikingly vivid blue eyes. He lifts a perfectly arched blonde eyebrow as if innocently asking 'what did I do'. I guess he could be considered good looking but it's his shitty attitude that keeps people away.

I roll my eyes and thrust a well-manicured fore-finger at him. "Jensen, if you don’t stop elector-circuiting the damn computers I'm going to show you the true meaning of hump day!" I warn menacingly, my voice filled with as much venom as I can muster. Which isn't a difficult task considering the shitty day I've had.

Normally the mortal catch phrase would be comically appreciated but the a/c is currently busted and unfortunately not even the small amount of plug-in fans are providing cool air in the boiling cubicle area that's full of creatures with hypersensitive nostrils who can pick up even the faintest whiff of scents basking in the heat.

For a split second Jensen looks astonished like he truly can't believe someone would accuse him. Much less put him on the spot. Puh-leaze. Everyone knows the leprechaun gets a sick thrill out of tricking other people. That's what he does. He feeds off of the chaos and the anxiety that, at this very moment, is radiating in waves much like the spicy scent of Aqva Pour Homme by BVLGARI the person sitting next to me has on.
I wouldn’t doubt the accusations about Jensen being a masochist either. Not that I would try it out for myself, of course.

Personally, I’m not into BDSM. I cursed the last guy a good dose of lice for even suggesting such a thing. Let's just say he wasn't able to have a 'good time' for a while. I learned my lesson though. That's the last time I go on a blind date. He was a preschool teacher and looked harmless enough, until the sick bastard tried to put a collar around my neck.

Who said I was the bitch in the relationship anyway?

If anything I would be the dom because there's no way in hell would I let someone whip me bloody and raw.

I'll just stick to watching a rippling Vin Diesel on my flat screen with a tub of Ben & Jerry's thank you very much.

It’s bad enough Jensen flirts with me every chance that he can get. Either he's really stupid or just plain oblivious to my silent 'fuck off' gestures, which i've been painstankinkgly polite about by the way. Now that I think about it, I might be the only desk agent inside of the building on the second floor, besides our scaley boss Mr. Striker as well as HR, who hasn’t given in by the attention.

Jensen casually leans over the cubicle wall the separates us. His blue eyes go slightly wide in fake astonishment. "Do you kiss your mother with that mouth? I would gladly punish you for it." He states, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to say. As if the office to HR weren’t right across from us with its door wide open. Unfortunately, the only noise coming from the empty office is a soft whir from the laptop that's placed on top of the desk.

Honestly.

Where was Vince when you needed him?

I glance at the white clock behind the source of my headache.

I sigh in contempt.

Just ten more minutes and we can clock out.

That is, if we ever finish our last reports for the day. If not, we'll surely get an ear full about it tomorrow. And considering the fact that Mr. Striker is reduced to sleeping on the couch, yet again, no one will be safe from his scorching tongue.

I give the annoying leech that's right across from me a dull stare and stand up with my hands resting on my hips. Considering the look he's giving me right now that was a bad move on my part. I pretend not to notice the way he's eyeing the tight-fitting blouse and pencil skirt that I decided to wear that would be deemed socially acceptable for a date after work. Now I just feel self-conscious and am seriously regretting ever buying this outfit if it means getting looked at inappropriately like that from jackass Jensen.

I snap my fingers impatiently to gain his attention. His eyes finally trail up from my none too impressive b cup chest and back to meet my heated brown eyes. "Just fix it already. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to work overtime if I'm not getting paid for it.", I finally manage to say, exasperated by his childish and completely inappropriate behavior. Mr. Striker is a stickler about company policy and never pays us for overtime. It just isn't done. Ever. Even if it isn't our fault.

Unfortunately enough, Jensen is related to Mr. Striker by marriage. Of course, Mr. Striker is too scared of his father-in-law, who is the esteemed Chief of Police to get rid of Jensen. It must be awkward when they have family reunions.
It definitely makes my small family seem less dysfunctional that's for sure.

I glare at Jensen as he puffs a breath of air and rolls his eyes in his dramatic fashion. He says a couple of words in some ancient Celtic language that makes tongue-twisters sound easy. He stands up and grabs his grey wool coat that costs more than my outfit put together, and leans over the cubicle wall that we share.

"Tsk. You are no fun. Besides, it was just a harmless prank." he insists with a devilish grin. "You need to loosen up Dawson. You know where to find me if you change your mind." He winks and teleports out of the building, leaving green smoke trailing behind.

I suppress a disgusting shiver that travels down my spine at the mere suggestion of doing anything outside of work with the likes of him.

A few seconds later the computer screen turns blue and the incident is long forgotten as people start babbling on about verification codes, while others call dispatch to check in on their status.

Pleased by the turn of events, I sit back down at my desk and type out the rest of the paperwork according to what the field agent stated in his case report.

Apparently there was an attempt at petty theft at a coroner general store that is best known for selling potent liquor that could easily decapitate even the most strongest of werewolves. The perp, a young male named Alexandrus Dixel Jr., intended to burglarize a mom and pop store with a total of over forty dollars worth of liquor in merchandise plus the fifteen dollars in change taken from the cash register. After the store owner invested in a ATM cash register he's been getting more customers using their credit cards to pay for goods. Which sure explains why the perp only managed to attain such a small amount in cash.

According to the statement made by the cashier who was on duty standing behind the counter, the low-level demon shape shifter walked in with skittish demeanor that didn't seem suspicious at the time.

However, as the young male walked up to check-out he brandished an unauthorized blue ray pistol and demanded the cashier to dump everything from the register into his black gym bag. Tony, the night manager, was on a cigarette break and wanted a soda. As he walked back inside he noticed the cashier being held at gunpoint and managed to reach for his licensed automatic steel ray gun, effectively shooting the burglar in the left leg before calling the authorities.

Fortunately, no civilians were harmed during the attempted robbery.

The officer that responded to the call read the perp his meranda rights and arrested him before checking in with dispatch.

The cashier was startled and most likely is suffering from a slight case of ptsd.

Apparently the store owner gave us permission to view the security tapes which are currently being held as evidence in the storage unit downtown.

I glance down at the pristine file in my hand and roll my eyes at the elaborate signature located at the bottom.

It reads special agent Trevor Ackles in bold black ink.

He's a field agent officer with a bigger ego than Jensen.

What is he doing working low-level cases anyway?

He has more solved cases since Richard Dick Carlson.

He's good at his job i'll give him that.

And unfortunately for him, he knows it.

The only reason Mr. Striker puts up with the young field agent is because of the amount of perps he racks in.

At the annual hall of conferences last year, the C.O.P recognized the S A agency by brandishing agent Carlson with yet another gold star, making it a total of three stars that he has received to date.

Hmmm....This is interesting.

It doesn't show his partners signature.

I guess what they say is true. He is a lone agent.

Ever since the death of his long time partner he refuses to work with anyone because they will just 'get in his way'. Last I heard Bordero, a transfer agent, was assigned to work with him. I wonder what happened to the poor guy.

If it were anyone else Mr. Striker would have demoted the officer to the mass weaponry unit; which is just a dusty place where they do remedial work, mostly auditing old evidence and unclaimed items that are sent from the storage unit downtown in order to make room for the more fresh cases.

While I was in the academy I wanted nothing more than to work in the field and make a name for myself like my mother before me. Even though I studied hard and mastered every potions test I found out the hard way that real life was much different than just studying the necessary courses in my line of work.

I have requested a countless number of times to be assigned an out-of-desk job. But each time I get rejected. I'm not sure why. I show up to work early and concentrate on my work as opposed to my co-workers who goof off every chance they get and yet I still receive a black stamp.

I'll admit I stopped asking Mr. Striker why he won’t accept any of my transfers. The last time I did he burned down the door to his office. If I didn’t duck my head in time my hair would have been singed in the process. My hairdresser D’Angelo would have charged a fortune just to tame it back down. And as much as I adore the freakishly tall pixie with magical fingers, he pays 350 an hour. I would go broke before the end of the month.

After reviewing the notes on the screen in front of me one last time, I click send and log out of the computer, officially clocking out for the day. I grab my small black purse and hike it up my shoulder, pushing the chair in and turning off the lamp that sits in the corner of my desk.

I place the file in the bin that sits on the wall along with the others that have collected throughout my shift so that it can be collected first thing tomorrow morning.

Looking around I notice a small handful of co-workers either finishing up or clearing their cubicle of paperwork and pens.

I grab my purple blazer from the coat hanger and fold it over my forearm as I walk past the rows of organized cubicles that are for the most part dark and empty, save the few who are staying late catch up. I glance to the right and notice the blinds are closed to the HR office which only means one thing, sometime during the past few minutes while I was finishing up my quota Vince must have turned in for the night and headed home.

Damn. I missed the look on Daniels face when he was turned down by the tightly wound-up Vince.

Oh well. I'll get the full report tomorrow when I collect my winnings.

I grin. Leather boots here I come.

I push the chrome button and wait, humming a soft tune under my breath, while the door to the elevator opens swiftly with a loud 'ding'.

I walk inside the elevator and gravioucsly hold the door open as a few stragglers walk in, effectively pushing me towards the back where the glass shows my reflection in the mirror.

I push a stray lock of brown hair behind my ear that managed to escape the bun on top of my head.

With a grimace I look at my tired reflection staring back at me.

I look like crap.

Maybe I should cancel that date. I could say that my cat got sick, but then I would need to get a cat. No. That lie wouldn't work. I could say I was sick. But then Thalia would stop by my apartment and then she would know I was lying. The way I see it either way I'm screwed. Oh well. If nothing else I might as well get a free meal out of it.

I glance at the silver watch on my wrist. If I walk at a fast pace I might get to my destination in less than twenty minutes. That should give Thalia enough time to pick up her friend and meet me at our rendezvous point by 6:30.

Once we stop at the garage level the elevator dings and the doors open, letting the cool October air breeze inside allowing us fresh air for the first time all day. At once everyone piles out in a hurry to get home, leaving me the last one to step out of the now empty elevator.

With a heavy sigh that escapes past my chapped lips I start walking towards the Green Tavern, a place where all the locals go to unwind after a tedious day at work.