The Eight of Earth

3: Fargo Shepherd- *Snakebitten*

A party is a place of transformation. I walk through the arching doors of my home, passing by hundreds I do not know, and become someone else. It is impossible to just be. Because that doesn't exist. Yourself, even when alone, is nothing more than the combined values and behaviors your society allows. A spectrum. Extremes on either end, yet they're still tolerable in that society. The only ones that are truly themselves are the people so far removed from that spectrum, they can't even see it. Hermits, recluses, psychopaths. People so distant from the boundaries of the world around them, they cannot be influenced by them. If you're on the spectrum, you're nothing more than your version of what your society can create. Real individuality is the rarest form of existence. But what good is individuality if you have no one to impress with it? I'll keep my act and the spoils that come along with it.

A band of Heplin... entertainers... call my name as I pass. It's an unnatural name for their tongues but an arousing accent for my ears.

"The night is still so young, my beauties. What would the party do without me?" I smile at them as I continue by and grab some helpless Oltish buck instead. "It's your lucky day, my hideous friend. Enjoy." I sling the man into the waiting arms of the Heplins and shout back to them as they disappear into the crowd. "Humans, such a generous breed, are we not?" I spin back around and smile at the energy that builds around me.

Droves of power-hungry hyaenas flock to my parties. Each desperate for attention. Compensation for their shallow lives is all too present in everything they do. Extravagant dress. Bulky jewelry. Dates on their arm have lust written across their eyes, and they call out to anyone willing to answer. I've been known to fall for their siren song a time or two. I'm a lover, I feel no shame in it. I know they're motives, but that doesn't make them any less fun. I feel obligated to maximize my advantageous position. It'd be a shame to shield myself from a world so eager to expose itself to me. Miku is the saint in this house, not Victor or me.

Our house is perched at the end of a long winding driveway, a galestone gate wrapping the property. Akin to Earth suburbia. Sleek and modern. Crisp. A design only the elite of the elite can afford. Our resident Warlord champion qualifies.

And oh, how these pretentious Grogan dolts love ancient Earth architecture. So romantic. I'm not judging; I do love the privacy. Better than living full time in the Valley with Geeva and Cyto, that's for sure. It's just humorous to watch a civilization mimic one that ended in a pile of dust.

Chauffeur's line the drive, emptying their VIP clientele onto glassy stone. Servers wander about holding trays of drinks and drugs. There is no subtlety to this celebration.

The house is purposely dim. I prefer it this way. Soft light shining from the moon is brighter than the dull yellow hue that spits from the house's lights. The darkness gives my minions privacy within the festive madness. Combined with steam that rises off the ground, it creates a fog that hangs over our scandalous behavior. Victor and Miku lounge in a booth in an especially dark corner of the house.

This celebration is for him, yet he sits in the back, hidden from his worshipers. And we can't have that!

"Oh my. Aren't you the mighty Hades?!" I slide myself into the booth, wrap my arm around Victor, and shoot him a smile.