ATGX (boyxboy)

C.01

O's POV

My right thumb brushed against the denim of my jeans as I stared at the wall. It was a grotesque wall, the stone overlaid with gold and ivory, too delicate to stand and to grossly representative to fall - it screamed the security of the establishment.

And establishment that would own me in a few minutes.

I swallowed, fear running through me in a gradual current - here and there, little bursts of excitement bubbled up. Now, though, those bursts had run. My eyes were on a decorated wall, and my heart was beating painfully in my chest. This was my break.

If it didn't break me.

I'd all but gotten the deal. Through hundreds of eager applicants, they'd narrowed it down to about twenty-five. Yesterday, they announced the five finalists; my father said I got lucky. My mother probably would've said that God had blessed me with a talent and I should glorify Him with it, if she were still talking to me. She stopped around 10th grade when I started showing signs of not being the perfect Christian boy she'd always dreamed of.

Today, the regimen was pretty straight-forward. We all congregated, butted heads, flashed our claws, and then each of us had a session with the band. It was basically in ATGX's hands to decide which cut of meat they preferred.

That suited me fine. The sooner I could return home to my father and get back into the swing of school, the better. I'd entered with head-strong hope, but the more I saw through the golden walls, the more I realized that this wasn't what I wanted. What was the material beneath the thin layer of shining yellow?

Who was the money beneath that?

"Mr. Cassida," came a clean, crisp voice that rang through the hollow emptiness of the mega-scale corporation. I turned slowly, beanie traveling to face away as my eyes fell on a supple, ironed-out version of a woman with pretty teeth and falsely lifeless eyes. She probably hated this; she was a talented actress.

"That'd be me," I said, more under my breath than over to her. My hands remained in my shallow pockets and I progressed from my stagnant position.

"Follow me," she clipped, but the way she said it made you think that she had all the time in the world, that you were the most important thing that ever happened to her. Her heels clicked against the polished floor - they polished the bloody floor - and my shoes padded silently behind her. My eyes were more on the sway of her ass than the decor of the building as we walked on through it.

It was a nice ass.

After a while, the ground changed from a white mirror to tiles of grays and blacks, each with its own twist of reflected reality. It hurt my mind, so I brought my eyes to level again and caught sight of passing people dressed in similar, smart style.

My beanie wilted charmingly back, unabashed.

The room where she took her leave was a large one that amazed me, despite my lack of care for architecture. The great hall had the throes of past music still soaked into its majestic walls, the ceiling high and the stage wide. There were rows on rows of chairs - the fancy kind that knew what it was doing even when a person was sitting in it - and a great fixture of something Kandinsky might do hung from the abyss of the plastered ceiling. The entirety was almost completely white. White walls, white panels lining them; white ceiling, white Kandinsky ornament hanging from it; white chairs, though black frames; white stage with a brilliantly black piano atop it; white doors and glossy white floors.

Intimidating as hell.

"Sir," the nice piece of ass said. I looked over my shoulder and gave a parting grunt as she turned around - yes, cordial, I know - but really I had a reason.

The ugliest hairstyle I'd ever seen was standing a few meters away. My mouth parted in shock.

I was a man with a passion for hair. It was the one component of my appearance that I relished in. There were days when I threw a hat on and didn't bother, days where I purposely wore a hat, days I gelled, days I blew it out and they pinned it up. Any shirt would do, but the hair was a particular expression I had mastered.

Today was a hat day.

The ugly hairstyle turned around, and a gorgeous face looked at me. "I'm Alec," the hairstyle said.

"Ollie," I replied. He held out his hand; I took it. I hadn't heard of the name before - he must've been one of the competitors for the spot. I had done my homework - Derek Solier was the boss-man to impress, and the band members... I couldn't remember names, but I could remember faces. This face didn't belong to any of them.

I'd have serious concerns for the taste of the company had that hairstyle been orchestrated by its faculty.

It was a twisted, pale thing that did nothing to emphasize the angles of the man's round face. He was a pleasant fellow with or without it, but there were already styles springing into my head that would suit him more. The worst was its lack of presence as it lay lifelessly on Alec's head, as though he'd actually made an effort and had killed the beast in the process.

The door opened a few minutes after the awkward pause Alec seemed to enjoy prolonging, and a third male entered behind the fine-ironed assistant. This one looked good - rich. The clothing was designed to purposely give off a rugged look, but I could smell the money rolling off of the scarf that hung from his neck, see the muscle beneath the sheer material of his buttoned shirt. God's sake, it was November; why was he dressed for spring?

This one talked even less than Alec had, and Alec didn't bother taking it upon himself to make introductions like he had with me. The hall shuddered from the ongoing silence.

I was not a fan of silence.