SERENITY CHAPTER ONE

         "What does Hell mean to you"

We find ourselves in a parlor. Luxurious as that of the stature of a queen, the cream walls richly decorated in fine silks and gold molding, stained glass depicting obscure landscapes among the windows. A grand chandelier made of fastened iron sconces hangs rather low from a domed ceiling, gasoline lamps glow a dim orange, casting shadows across the floor. Its spaciousness feels ludicrous, considering the lack of much furniture. Only two lavish, overstuffed couches lay facing each other on a plush rug woven in raspberry-hued designs. Spread across these couches lay two men, lazing with a youthful, obnoxious poster; quite an unfitting sight as their demeanor clashes with the surrounding space.

The man who had spoken continues flamboyantly.

There are endless theories, ideologies, pertaining to Hell. More are made every day. Whether one believes Hell as a concept opposed to a physical place. Whether it's real at all. You mean to attempt to fit decades of history, dozens of cultural adaptations, into a simple moral? It seems rather... ignorant.

The other man listens with vague amusement, giving his companion a languid grin and fanning his hand in the air as if to wave away the other's words.

"You overthink things, as usual, my friend." He says with a vulgar amount of certainty. "Our..." The man pauses, meaning to choose his words carefully, leaving the vicinity in silence for a brief moment "...guests," he finally settles on, " will not be distraught over the moral of the game, but how they will survive it, don't you think?. Honestly Salem, sometimes I believe you have a soft side for the human race."

Salem's sneer etches a deep frown into his features. "Our line of work is in no need for us to be soft, Aliah. That would be distastefully ironic" He emphasizes the other's name with a deep-seated annoyance gained from years of forced tolerance. "I am only saying, why there be a need to create a theme at all, then? It is effort wasted, they never last long enough to notice."

"We are not Death, not exactly," Aliah states firmly. "We do not have rules to follow nor others to answer to. Why not have a bit of fun when you have the freedom to do so? "

Salem shakes his head remorsefully, concluding this conversation a losing battle since the beginning. Yet, he cannot help but admit, "I do not call the situation we are in 'freedom'."

"Then what, might I inquire?"

Salem takes several seconds to contemplate, leaving the parlor in a haze of silence once more.

His body slacks ever so slightly as he finds what he is looking for, and says it with a confidence as if it is written before them both in the air in bright, bold lettering.

"Masochistic subjugation."