The golden dome of the Massachusetts State House glistened in the midday sun. With a charismatic gaunt rhythm, Vincent strolled along the red bricked sidewalk and passed secured iron gates. He continued to line the fence, guarding neatly trimmed green hedges and blooming spring flowers, and eventually found an opening on the side. The path lead him under bustling trees and up wide concrete stairs to a large door. Vincent had been to State Houses all over America, including the one in Washington DC and the White House. The Massachusetts State House was in Boston which was close to Revere, so the pit-stop was not out of the way.

Vincent exited the warmth of the sun and entered the State House’s cooler interior. The plain entry room was compact, fitting a computer with its monitor hidden from sight, a conveyor belt, and some overhead scanning device.

“I picked her up yesterday,” the officer behind the computer said, his eyes never leaving the monitor. “Checked her out all night.”

“I saw her in the lot. You said there was a lot wrong with her,” the other officer said, his thick arms crossed. He walked towards Vincent and continued looking at his colleague. “I’m surprised you were able to drive her home.”

“She wasn’t that bad out of the gate. She’ll definitely need new tires, though. The rear wheels felt off since I first looked at her.”

“What about the exhaust?”

“Yup, it’s from the factory.”

“If you’re going for speed, that’s an easy mod.”

“I know.”

“Speed at our age,” the standing officer grinned, shaking his head. “Gotta give credit where credit is due.”

They’re discussing a car, Vincent thought. Not a real woman. Maybe they could each use a new car, something expensive, like a sports car. Or maybe they liked modifying pre-owned rides, so then giving them a flat sum of money would work for them. That should be a manageable soul-binding contract for his fairy assistant, Iris.

“I’ll need your ID, sir,” the officer said, unfolding his arms and holding out his hand. “Take your belt off and step under the scanner when you’re ready.”

Vincent retrieved the ID from his wallet and handed it over. He removed his belt, put it on the conveyor, and diligently followed the officer’s beckoning under the scanner. Before the standing officer resumed his conversation, Vincent met his eyes for a second – that was enough time to gauge the worth of his soul.

Radial pressure circled throughout Vincent’s body from his head to base. His upper extremities felt nonexistent and some of his lower extremities tensed. This officer’s soul was generic: he intended good, but still liked his grown-up toys enough to prioritize too much time to them. Earning a soul like this wouldn’t fill much of the Soul Quota because of it’s simplistic nature, which is why Vincent had no interest in them. It’d tarnish his reputation as a fairy among the demons. But in Iris’ case, beggars couldn’t be choosers.

“Sir,” the man from the computer stroked his stubbly chin and looked up at Vincent; just enough time for Vincent to determine its worth. The twists circulated all over his body as the officer spoke. “Can you tell me your social security number?”

“Of course,” Vincent smiled, dictating the number one of his previous clients arranged for him. Vincent learned early on that these identification numbers were vital in his line of work, especially if he wanted to harvest high quality souls.

The officer behind the computer was also well-meaning but not as refined as his colleague. His soul would be of equal or lesser value. Perhaps he had less dependents to worry about or he was not in tune with any spirituality. Less responsibilities meant more carelessness. Earning his soul would be a much easier feat for Iris.

“What about the engine?” the standing officer said, resuming his crossed-arm position. “Mind as well go the full mile.”

“I’m thinking of keeping it,” the sitting officer said. “Maybe just changing the pistons and rods.”

Now was his chance. “Excuse me, are you a racer?” Vincent asked, retrieving his belt. Truthfully, he knew nothing about racing. He took a shot in the dark only using what he’d learned from their conversation.

“Eh, I take a ride to Palmer Motorsports Park a couple times a month,” the officer said, looking up.

“What car did you get?”

“A Honda Civic Si.”

“What a gem. It must’ve cost you a hefty penny.”

“Yeah, it did. The car’s fine out from it’s previous owner, but I’m looking to do modifications for the fun of it.”

“As you should. You deserve to have some playtime, especially being in law enforcement. It’s a respectable position.”

“Thanks,” the seated officer said, handing Vincent his ID.

“I mean it. I know someone who can help you with your Honda Civic’s modifications. You might end up with a whole new car, under its shell, of course.”

The sitting officer tightened his eyes. “I’m not permitted to make any personal arrangements with civilians while on the job…”

“But I’m simply a civilian wanting to share part of myself with another human,” Vincent said, his head tilting to the side, a stray curl of his black hair resting on his eyelashes. “This is not a personal arrangement between us, but rather, a connection that is done by your own will.”

“I understand where you’re coming from, but it’s not the right thing to do.”

“So you’re saying you know every mechanic and parts dealer in the state?”

The officer took a deep inhale, acting as if he were sick of Vincent’s antics. “Sir, I’m saying you’ve been cleared to enter the building…”

“I know what you’re saying,” Vincent said, tucking his wallet into his pocket, “and I’m telling you that there is no one holding you back from meeting a new person to light up your world of racing but yourself. I would bet that the sheriff would, not only be OK with that, but encourage it!”

“He’s got a point,” the standing officer said, his arms dropping from his chest. “I hear the Sheriff’s into automotives himself, but he rides a motorcycle.”

“My friend would be able to save you quite a bit of money,” Vincent said.

The standing officer whistled. “Hey, if he doesn’t want it, I’ll take it.”

“Any honored person would,” Vincent smiled. “What’s there to lose, aside from your soul? I can give my secretary your number and she can connect you.”

“Fine, fine,” the officer said, opening a drawer under the desk. “I’ll give you my cell.” He scribbled his name on a notepad, tore the page, and handed it to Vincent.

“Thank you, Chester,” Vincent nodded, neatly folding the paper and tucking it into his pocket. “She will call you within the next 24 hours.”

Vincent bobbed off into the hall and up a couple staircases. Although the officer tried to maintain his scruples in front of his colleague, Vincent doubted that he’d do the same in a casual setting in front of Iris. It happened all too often, even for high-profile cases, such as the woman Vincent was currently after, Mrs. Lauren Smith-Locke, a local politician in Massachusetts. The worth of her soul ought to be moderate, which would fill Vincent’s Soul Quota decently. Her contract ought to be a nice win before the true reason he was in the state – Jovi Russo.

Despite the pride he had in his reputation, Vincent wanted to pursue a soul that was different. Not pitifully low quality, such as a person with a mind-shattering tragic history who had fallen into the pits of self-loathing, but someone… innocent. Someone pure, someone who would squeeze Vincent’s insides when he peered into their soul. He met a few people with such a quality, but there was no need to put in the extra effort when cases like that usually tended to work themselves out at one point or another.

Vincent wanted to put in the effort. He wanted to rot an innocent soul that posed some resistance. He had sent Iris to scout out such an innocent soul, and she found Jovi Russo, a girl in her early twenties who worked at a restaurant in Revere.

Natural light poured through the arched windows and brightened the white walls so much so that Vincent restrained to squint. His leather dress shoes echoed up the tall walls, his only onlookers being painted men on the walls or sculptures of supposedly important events, until he reached his first sign of life at a few front tables that assembled into a circle. One of the two young men lifted his eyes away from his colleague and nodded his head up at Vincent. Vincent greeted them and continued through the halls. He passed by statues and portraits of some historic people as he climbed the spiral staircase.

The third floor was darker in nature. A few office spaces were for certain committees. Vincent opened the door to one of the offices and stepped inside. A few people were inside, answering phone calls or organizing papers.

A woman looked up from the table. “Hi, can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Lauren Smith-Locke’s office,” Vincent said.

“Oh, her office is in the back… Hold on, let me get her assistant.” The woman navigated the maze of desks. A young woman emerged, dressed in a business suit and skirt.

The woman introduced herself and asked, “You’re here for Mrs. Smith-Locke?” She extended her hand and Vincent shook it.

“Yes,” Vincent said. “She should be expecting me.”

“Then you must be Vincent. She usually handles her constituents on the phone or local office since she’s busy here.”

“I suppose I’m a special case,” Vincent smiled.

The woman chuckled and beckoned Vincent to follow her. “She’s in a meeting right now. You can wait in her office.”