[center][img]http://i275.photobucket.com/albums/jj306/Carnage27/buffy_zps945ee41f.png[/img]
[b]Assembling a Team
~Part 1~[/b][/center]

The man in the hat sat quietly next to the hospital bed, taking turns staring at his feet and back at the elderly man laying in it hooked up to the respirator. He had never been good in situations like this. He had watched his father and two of his best friends go, and he never knew what to say. Luckily the man in the bed spoke up first, "You never were good with the feelings, were you?"

"I guess not," he smiled at the wrinkled face staring back at him. It pained him to see his old friend, once so vibrant and full of life, reduced to withering shell. Cancer would do that to you, however, especially at his age. It was a miracle he lasted long enough for the man in the hat to come say goodbye. He hated saying goodbye.

"It's time though, doctor," the man said before going into a coughing fit. When his breathing stabilized, he smiled, "I'm old. And we don't all get extra innings."

"Trust me," the man in the hat's mood turned to a mix of sadness and seriousness, "you don't want them."

"Maybe," the other man matched his tone, "but we both know you were given this gift to change the world. You've done it so many times. But when you're in this bed, you'll look back and realized your long life was the work of God. You were the knight, remember?"

The man in the hat looked away. He hated the talk of destiny, gods, and gifts. There was a time when he would scoff at such talk, but he had learned too much in his long years on earth. He knew all of those things were real. But he hated the idea that he was some special warrior chosen by the forces of good. He was who he was. 

"Yea, how can I forget."

"Excuse me," a nurse said from the door apologetically, "he has more visitors. If you wouldn't mind."

"Sure," the visitor nodded, standing and hovering over the bed for a few moments.

"You really are awful at this, Dr. Jones," the sick man hacked.

"We all don't have a way with words like you do, Shorty," Indiana Jones joked finally with his old friend. "I"m glad I got to see you. And...and when you get where ever you're going, tell everyone I said hi."

"I will, Indiana," Kennon "Short Round" Wong nodded as he squeezed Indiana Jones's hand with what feeble strength he had remaining.

Henry nodded, turning and leaving the room, barely acknowledging the people waiting for their turn to say goodbye to his old friend. Shorty was the last one to go. He was the last person from Indiana's past to make it. And now he was gone.

And now Indiana truly was alone.

[center]**********[/center]

Buffy sat in the dark room, a small light bulb dimly illuminating the dingy walls faintly. This was where Hellboy had told her to meet him. It was out of the way, and about as official as a DVD from Chinatown. It wouldn't draw attention, and she'd be able to slink back into the shadows once the meeting was over. Still, he could have cleaned the place a little bit.

The rusty door screeched as it opened. The red demon and Kate Corrigan, one of the top BPRD agents, entered, taking the other two seats.

"Well," the Slayer asked, "did it work?"

"As far as we can tell it worked flawlessly," Corrigan nodded. "The spell Willow has put on you will conceal you from being recognized for a few weeks, plenty of time to put together the team."

"About this team," Buffy started to protest before being cut off by Hellboy.

"This is the team, Buffy," he shook his head. "We need people fairly off the radar."

"Why can't I have Willow and Xander?" she asked impatiently.

"Because they're agents," Corrigan explained. "They'll be in constant contact with you. But bringing them on the team almost insures our little plan here will be found out."

"Fine, but I'm adding Giles," she was adamant.

The two BPRD agents shared a glance before relenting.

"Now that that's sorted out, I'll be on my way."

"Buffy, you know how important this is, right?" Corrigan asked.

"Saving the world?" Buffy laughed. "I think I'm pretty aware."

[center]**********[/center]

Henry Jones Jr. stood in the back of the group assembled in front of Shorty's grave. The rain came down on his hat, splattering and dripping from the rim onto his shoulders. He didn't want to go closer. He had said his goodbyes yesterday and was only here to pay his respects. He had spent nearly his entire life around tombs and graves. He didn't have any desire to be near them again. But Kennon Wong was the closest thing Jones had ever had to a son, and he was going to be here to pay his respects. He had saved the boy from the streets of Shanghai, put him through school, and the two even fought side-by-side in World War II. He wouldn't miss this. Not for Shorty.

Yet, even as much of a son Wong was, Jones still stood here, a man over one hundred years old in the body of a fifty-something. The damn grail had given him a life longer than any man should have, and what originally felt like a blessing was now a curse. He watched his father die. He watched Marcus die. He watched Sallah die. He watched Shorty die. And Mario...well Marion was Marion. 

He had barely aged fifteen to twenty years since he drank from that accursed cup. He took up a calling after the war, fighting with Hellboy and the BPRD against the forces of darkness. But after decades of that, he was tired. At his age most men would be moving on to the comforts of old age. He had barely started to turn grey. He decided it was time to disappear after a while, and has been in voluntary isolation ever since.

The crowd began to disperse and head for the luncheon that was to follow the funeral, but Indy had no plans of joining them. This is where his journey would end. He couldn't reminisce with others over his friend. Once everyone else was gone, Jones approached the casket, gave it a silent nod before turning back toward his car.

Before he could reach it, however, a familiar voice called to him from beneath the shadows of a large willow tree, "He was a good man."

Jones turned to find the woman standing, draped in darkness. Her raven black hair fell pas her shoulders, and the bright red scarf she always wore around her neck was like a beacon in the dim light. Jones approached, pushing away the cascading branches, "Mina Harker. What are you doing here?"

Wilhelmina Harker was not someone who often appeared during times of good fortune. Once the thrall of the legendary vampire Dracula, Haker had been saved by her husband and a group of vampire hunters. The scarf she wore was to hide the scars she still bore from the encounter. She was now immortal thanks to some accident from her days as a member of the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. Indy and her had dealings in the past.

"Good to see you too, Jones. Is that how you greet old friends now?" the immortal woman rolled her eyes at the adventurer. "I am here to pay my respects. Kennon and you helped me in the past. It was the least I could do."

"Come on, Mina," Jones laughed. "I know you. Something's up. Now tell me what it is so I can say no and get home."

The woman's face showed the annoyance at being brushed aside, but also worry. Mina was always involved in some sort of trouble, but she was rarely worried about it, "Jones, the Veil has been damaged."

"What veil?" the adventurer raised an eyebrow.

"The vein between worlds. Demons, or worse, now have a much easier time getting to our side," her tone betrayed the importance of the matter. "Rasputin nearly succeeded in getting Hellboy to unleash the Dragons. Red was able to snap out of it before he did so, but it may have only temporarily stopped their emergence. We're putting together a team to try and fix this."

Jones was taken aback. He had heard from Red, who told him things had gone south for a while, but Indy never thought it was something this bad. If what Harker was saying was true, the world could slowly be ending around them right now. Indiana cursed under his breath. He cursed that his damn honor and sense of righteousness was going to force him to help. He cursed his damn long life. He cursed that his friends weren't here to help him this time. But he was going to help. Because he was Indiana Jones and that's what he did.

"Fine," Jones grumbled. "But I need to go pick up my whip. And a gun."