Rue doesn't know where he is.

He could be in an apartment, maybe, or a motel. He's wrapped up in sheets on a bed, his limbs stiff and his vision blurry. There's a throbbing pain in his head, fading in and out with each heartbeat. Gradually, he sits himself up.

Has he been sick? He can't remember. It's always possible it's a hangover, but-- for all the hangovers he's had-- this feels different somehow. No, no. There's something else. It's tugging at the back of his mind, like a half remembered dream, flashes of white, gold, and black.

Has he been dreaming?

He makes his way out of the bed unsteadily, using the wall to keep his balance. His hands are shaking, fingernails tap tap tapping against the plaster.

They've got Duffey, right? We know they'll be going for you next. Dump your PINpoint if you haven't already.

Somebody has kept Balathzar's business card. That somebody doesn't have it anymore.

There's a well-dressed man staying in one of the nicer Nexus apartments, turning the card in his hands. He's aware of a greater plan here ('get healing potions, psychic blocks, magical battle anythings...'), but only knows the bits and pieces, hardly any specifics. It goes without saying that being ordered to summon a demon to his apartment, no questions asked, had him a little... on edge.

He has already consumed two cups of coffee, a piece of key lime pie, two bowls of cereal, a slice of peanut butter toast, and twelve mini crunch bars. He's a bit of a stress eater. Sue him.

Despite all of this, he keeps an outward calm. He feels a sort of calm, after all, if only because he's been waiting so long. He removes a swiss army knife from the pocket of his slacks, flicks it open, and presses it against his index finger just enough to draw blood. He wipes his finger on the card.




The back of the card reads 'we admire your work.'

The room is perfect.

Smooth, empty whiteboards. Fancy, something-hundred dollar pens neatly alligned with the edges of the table. Pounds of paper arranged in even stacks. Chairs pushed in, unoccupied. All but one.

Mr. Rue, with his carefully combed brown hair, sits towards the end of the table, his head resting in his hands. He closes his eyes, his lips tracing silent half-words and syllables. Every so often, his eyes flicker open and he takes a glance at his watch.

Somewhere down the hall, a copier coos and hums.

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