Here is my task one entry for Zahr. For some strange reason I got confused on the original way I spelled his name, so please ignore that embarrassing mistake :) I received a score of 11 with a + 1 for being Theeny's Best Quote so a total of 12. Enjoy!

This wasn't what they promised... Even as the thought crossed Zhar's mind, he wasn't disappointed, nor was he surprised. Nothing was ever what it seemed. That motto had worked for him his entire life about things, places, events, and especially with people.

They were never what they seemed, and they couldn't be trusted. Mortals, Angels, Demons... it didn't matter.

Zhar hated them all.

He especially hated the fact that he was thrown into a cell, one that appeared all-too familiar to him after a life of imprisonment, experiments and torture.

They didn't even give him the curtesy of being alone in his little private box. No. They had to throw him in with a sniveling, whining little Mortal girl. She's barely even old enough to breed, Zhar thought to himself as he glared at her.

She whimpered and pushed herself as far away from him as possible. Good. Stay away from me. It's better for you, Zhar thought.

There was nothing in the cell to do but think. After all the years that the Demons had kept him imprisoned, he was used to using thoughts to entertain himself with. He had several little mind games he would play, guessing games and riddles included.

Zhar thought back to the moment he had volunteered. The male Demon names had been called, and Jayden had asked for male volunteers.

Zhar's Master had glared at him. He was a hellish being, as calculated and logical as a genius, yet as sadistic and cruel as a hellhound. "You will volunteer, Zhar," his Master said.

Without hesitation or protest, Zhar stepped forward and raised a hand. "I volunteer as tribute."

He never disobeyed an order. He had lost the ability to feel any deep emotions years ago. If he felt anything, he was punished and tortured. So, he had learned to shut it all off, to lock it away in a place so deep inside himself that he forgot it even existed.

After the Reaping was over, Zhar and the other Demon Tributes were taken to a car and hauled inside. "You do realize that we're demons, not cattle right?" Zhar asked one of the guards. "Cows have four legs. And they're much fatter."

The guard promptly ignored him and shut the doors. The car wasn't really a car, but more of a limousine, solid black in color, with plenty of room inside. To Zhar's pleasure, he had been seated in-between two female Demons, both of which were strikingly gorgeous.

He winked at the one on the left, and then lightly nudged the one on the right's leg with his own. Just like he had guessed, they both turned away from him in disgust.

Glancing at the one on the right, he smirked and slowly reached a hand to touch her thigh.

She smacked his hand away and elbowed him. "Don't touch me, freak."

His eyes glazed over the one on the left. She had red hair reaching well passed her waist, with freckles that dotted her face. "You know... they say freckles are angel kisses. Have you been kissed by an angel?" Zhar gazed into her eyes in a way he knew drove any woman crazy.

She licked her lips and then snarled at him. "Buzz off, scar-face."

Zhar placed a hand on his chest, feigning offense. "That was so rude." He purposefully made his tone sound melodramatic.

The rest of the car ride was completely uneventful, meaning it was boring in Zhar's opinion.

The party at the palace after the car ride was much, much worse. Everything was bright—white light danced around everywhere. From the chandeliers holding hundreds of candles, to the white marble tile floor underneath their feet, to the gowns and suits of all the various races as they talked and danced, to even the food.

"What kind of moron gives angel-food cake to demons?" Zhar demanded furiously. Snarling, he punched the middle of the cake, causing several of the guests to ogle at him.

His eyes scanned the buffet table for something more suited for him. Yellow jello-squares, white cakes, pink custards and lavender sauce... Why make food look pretty? It's just going to be eaten... Zhar continued grumbling in his head as he tried in vain to find better food.

Thinking back to the party as he leaned against the grimy cell wall covered in dirt and dripping with water, he winced at the memory.

He much rather preferred to be in the cell. It was murky and dark, not to mention cold and uncomfortable. There was only one small cot in the cell, but Zhar and his cellmate stayed on the floor, which was damp. Water dripped from cracks in the ceiling, and as Zhar traced his fingers along the iron bars at the front, they came back covered in dust.

A cell had been his home for so long, that he couldn't remember anything different. Sure, he'd visited and been inside dozens of fancy places—more than he could count.

But the Demons had only left him a cell to sleep in, even after their experiments had turned him into a Demon.

After all, a cell is where I belong, Zhar thought to himself. Buried deep inside, along the thought came a faint twinge of something bitter, but it was gone before Zhar could fully place the emotion.

"Wh—who are you?" a small voice asked.

Zhar shifted his eyes to stare at the mortal girl crouching in the corner opposite of his. "Zhar Rhathone, and in case you hadn't noticed, I'm a Demon."

"I'm Oliva."

Zhar stood to his feet, smirking as the movement frightened the girl. She jumped, hitting her head on the wall behind her. Casually leaning on the wall behind him, he crossed his legs and stared at her.

"I'm—I'm a mortal," the girl stuttered.

Zhar rolled his eyes. "I know. How old are you, girl?"

Pursing her lips, Oliva slipped a strand of hair behind her right ear. "Fifteen."

Slowly, knowing it would terrify her, Zhar stepped closer to her, one-slow-step at a time. When he towered over her, she stared up at him and he could practically smell the terror swimming off of her in waves.

He reached down and snatched her arm, making her yelp. The movement yanked her to her feet and he dragged her over to the cot, and plopped her down. "You want the bed, kid?"

Nervously, Oliva shook her head. "N—No, I'll st—stay on the floor."

Zhar chuckled. "Stubborn little thing, aren't you?" Without giving her a chance to reply, he shoved her onto the bed and returned to his spot in the corner of the cell.

"What about you?" Oliva asked. The question took him by surprise, so he only stared at her.

"What about me?"

She nodded to him. "You're on the floor, and it's cold and uncomfortable..."

Zhar laughed and waved her off. "Go to sleep kid."

He knew he wouldn't get any sleep, not as long as she was in the cell. As much as he hated to admit it, he still had trouble with nightmares, and there was no way he was sleeping in front of anyone.

No one would ever find out about his nightmares.

Ironically, hours later, she woke from one herself, screaming and thrashing. Zhar found a small pebble on the ground, which he threw at her, clipping her in the face.

She sat up on the cot, gasping and panting.

"Shut up, kid. You're too loud," Zhar said in an annoyed tone.

Swallowing deeply, she leaned against the wall, shaking. "S—sorry."

Zhar sighed. "Don't let that happen again." His tone left no room for argument.

Oliva bit her lip as tears spilled over her small face. "I'm—I'm sorry."

"Wouldn't want that happening in the arena." Zhar winked at her.

She frowned, staring at him. "Are you saying you want to ally with me?"

Zhar laughed, smacking his knee. "Uh... no? Yes? Maybe?" He shrugged, hoping to confuse the girl.

As he watched her confused expression, he inwardly grinned, knowing he had succeeded. She began babbling then, prattling on about her nightmare, which was mostly about the night she was captured, though Zhar only listened to about a third of what she said.

"Alright, alright kid. You don't have to tell me your whole life story." Zhar glared at her.

"S—Sorry."

"And quit saying sorry!"

"S—sorr—" Oliva cut herself off with a gasp, realizing what she had started to say.

Zhar couldn't help but smile at her.

She quieted then and eventually started crying.

"Seriously," Zhar grumbled. "Don't do that... You're fifteen. Shouldn't you be past the waterworks and blubbering by now?"

"Just because I'm fifteen doesn't mean I shouldn't cry..." Oliva started defensively.

He stared at her, lifting an eyebrow. "Sure it is. I haven't cried since I was three years old."

Oliva cocked her head. "Really? Do Demons not cry or something?"

Zhar shrugged. "It's always work, fight, kill. Sleep, and then do it all over again."

Oliva looked down. "Oh. So there's no other reason why you haven't cried since you were a little kid?"

Zhar pursed his lips, thinking. "Something happened when I was younger and I just don't have..."

"Just don't have what?" Oliva asked.

Zhar frowned, annoyed at how much he'd spoken to the girl. He'd said too much. "Nothing. Never mind. Go back to sleep," he snapped at her.

As he turned away from her, forcing his eyes to the empty walls outside the cell, his mind thought back to when he was three years old—the last day he had ever cried.

It was just after Demons had kidnapped him.

He was a Mortal child, small, barely old enough to walk and talk. Demons had ripped him away from his home, and thrown him into the back of a van and chained him. He had cried all the way to the palace—the palace in the Demon realm that had become his home—his prison—his never-ending nightmare.

He had collapsed into the cell floor that night, crying, weeping... begging for his mom and dad to come save him. Demon Guards had walked in, followed by the Demon who would become his Master.

They had beaten him until the tears dried, until the emotions fled, until he never cried again.