When humans don't understand something, they give it a name so that they can pretend they do.

When humans looked out into the universe and realized how much of it they were missing, they named the thing they couldn’t find Dark Matter. When they drew out their models and followed them to their natural conclusions, they named the force they couldn't prove existed Dark Energy. They named the crying sky and shaking earth and hungry seas and the great big ball in the sky and felt satisfied that they understood them for a time. They pretended because to do otherwise would be to face their fears.

They had named you many things. Abaddon. Apollyon. A hundred thousand epithets besides, curses and final acts of spite directed towards you which you had draped yourself in like laurels. Before the appointed time came and you were given free reign over those He would not sort out himself, you were content to simply reap what you were owed.

Humans did not understand you. But understanding was a two-way road, and so you had come to understand the worms who unknowingly squiggled and crawled their way into your palm better than they understood themselves.

Thus, whenever you signed a Contract, you knew what you were getting into.

A short-sighted summoner would piece together the shattered pieces of lore required to make your summoning circle. They would demand from you many, many things, if they were not cowed into submission by the sight of a mere fraction of your being, and would almost certainly never uphold their end of the bargain.

It wasn't hard to make mortals slip up, after all.

This was one of the reasons your preferred form was that of a shapely human woman, dressed in the stations of wealth, class, and finery that your summoners often found out of their reach. To tempt them to violate you, and in doing so, violate your contract. Where the shape of a woman failed, the shape of a man worked just as well.

Where Lust failed, Greed was an excellent substitute. Where Greed did not tempt them, then Envy came so easily. If they were not an envious soul, then even the most tempered of humans could become lost in their own Wrath. Pride could tempt Gluttony, and Gluttony could tempt Pride once fed; both of which fed that ever-dangerous human complacency, that desire to simply stop, relax, and be Slothful.

The crux of the matter was that no matter the terms of your contract, no matter how long it took, and no matter how many souls you’d already claimed as payment for your presence... you took no joy from anything save the moment your summoners finally gave in to their hubris.

You shall spare your audience the need to do more than imagine what you do with them, lest you remain captive to your own vices for the rest of the day.

This contract was an odd one, but not the oddest you had ever bound yourself to. It had been explained to you in great detail, and rewritten as necessary when you dictated it. You had been offered compensation in mere mortal currency, an accommodating healthcare plan, and housing should you require it. In return, all that was required from you was to serve as a mundane employee for your summoner.

Apollyon, Demon of the Pit, and a Baker's assistant.

It had been the most amusing thing you'd ever heard. How could you do anything but agree?

Your summoner had been most diligent about following his proffered contract to the letter since your summoning. He had yet to try to grope you, shortchange you, or ask that you work longer than you'd agreed to without offering appropriate compensation on that same day. In return for not violating his contract, you had yet to take his soul as your own. He'd lasted long enough that soon, perhaps, you would deign to remember his name.

It was not likely. He was a fool who still didn't understand what he had summoned without meaning to, and you had not felt particularly inclined to inform him.

You were known as Abaddon, and Apollyon, and a hundred names besides. And at the moment, the cheap piece of plastic pinned to your suit made very clear the name which you would be known.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Candace.

It would do.

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Even you were beholden to something of a daily routine. Each morning, at 8am sharp, you would arrive at your Summoner's quaint little bakery just in time for him to unlock the door and flip a little sign around from "Closed" to "Open". It took you roughly an hour to walk from the park where you spent your nights to his shop, and on your way there, you made sure to stop by a coffee shop and purchase a medium cup of dark coffee with a dollop of milk.

You had picked up this habit after asking your summoner what his favorite type of coffee was after overhearing him casually complain to a customer about not having the time to drink it anymore. It was not for him. It was for him to eye out of the corner of his eye and smell over the baked goods he'd spent the past few hours preparing while you casually nursed the warm drink.

Your summoner promises true to the word. You were required to wear a mask, the same as him, when serving customers from behind a glass screen. He had been worried about your ability to smile. He had not been wrong to do so.

At 10AM, 2:15PM, and 4PM you’re consistently beset by customers, and must hurry to serve them with a friendly voice. When they comment on how sharply-dressed you are, you're expected to thank them and return their compliments in some small way while subtly rushing them out the door. When you are not dealing with a customer, you are waiting to answer a phone and write down some form of custom order. Oftentimes the most notable exchange you have with your summoner was simply handing over a custom order for some fancy cake.

You had taken down orders for products which were too complex for the Bakery to make, or which you had been explicitly told it did not offer, multiple times. Each time you brought those orders to your summoner he would take to wearing a weary and worried expression as he tried to figure out how to make the orders you gave him. Eventually he would ask you to call the customer back and tell them that he simply couldn't give them what he wanted, and try to explain to you the ways in which you could avoid such mistakes in the future. You always just nodded and apologized, savoring his woes and the way in which he was unwilling to blame you for your purposeful failures.

Your summoner has recently taken to trying to teach you his art in the hope that it rectifies the mistakes you so commonly make. You're a fast learner, to be sure, but you're overall not especially passionate about the art of decorating cakes or placing Yeast into an oven.

On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays you stayed at the bakery until it closed at 6PM. You would wipe down the counters while your summoner cleaned his kitchen. Then, while your Summoner emptied the till, you would begin quietly packaging what perishables could not be sold that day and would not last the night. On some nights your summoner joined you, and on others he attempted to help just in time to find you’ve finished cleaning. He would bid you adieu and leave to donate the perishables to a local charity which existed to make good use of what he could not sell.

On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays you would leave at 4PM, exactly as the customers began to pile into your Summoner's store. He would wish you a good evening and you would simply nod, slipping your name tag into the same pocket it normally hung to. On these days you would walk your way to the local library, purchase three pieces of butterscotch from a little snackshop they had, and sit down at one of their computers for the next fourty-five minutes while enjoying your candy.

After you had finished sowing misery and disseminating the seeds which would allow more competent fools to summon you out of their misguided hubris, you would sign out of the computer, throw the butterscotch wrappers onto the ground beside the garbage cans located by the Library's entrance, and walk to the park. If it was a Monday, Wednesday, or Friday, you would already have reached the park, and found a nice bench to sit on after taking off your mask.

There you would sit until the next morning while the sky grew dim and the sun stained the world red. Passersby gave you a wide berth whether they were man or beast. You simply sat, enjoyed the cold wind of winter, and smiled.

A child witnessed your smile once. They began to cry, and when your smile grew at the sight, their mother began to cry too.

It is in this park where you spend your nights in quiet contemplation and consideration of the future, content to sit with your hands folded in your lap, one leg tucked over the other. Each morning you stand up, brush away any wrinkles in your suit, and pin your nametag just above your breast before making your way to the bakery. Perhaps, in the future, this will change, and you will be forced to act on the plans you've prepared should your summoner prove wise and resourceful enough to need a little push to violate your contract. He had made clear that, if you needed a place to stay, he was willing to offer a roof over your head.

You had no need for any roof other than the firmament, and you had no need to stay so close to him when not contractually bound to. Not until you saw the need to actually act to bring him closer to his damnation.

The sun pokes its head over the horizon, dazzling purples and pinks claiming the stars. It will not rise for a while yet.

For you, it merely marks another day of work.