[b]Nestor Grimsley: Demonspawn[/b] ...I rang the bell again, now for a fourth – then a fifth, a sixth time. Damn it all. I slipped the watch from my breast pocket, gave the numbers an irritated snarl – gave the bell an equally irritated ring. Seventh. Eighth. Still nothing, just that endless tapping on the glass behind me. The pitter-patter of rain against a dismal storefront in some seedy corner of an equally seedy little town; perhaps it had been a fine venue once – but the dark wood stain had all gone to mouldering rot, and the green of the slime that seemed to have worked its way up the further door led me to wonder whether the swollen thing could even be opened. Ninth, tenth... still nothing. The tapping continued. I stared at the clock on the wall – four hours slow. Gave a snort. No wonder he was late. I had all but reached to ring the bell for the eleventh time when, to my vague surprise, the door actually opened a crack. A pair of strangely familiar eyes peered back at me from the darkness beyond. Something gave a little within me; something ticked in the back of my mind – I looked again at the clock, then to the eyes, then suddenly on a whim pulled my watch free again. “You are late, Grimsley” The voice came from behind, and I whirled about in a start, the watch nearly flying free of my hands as I stared at the newcomer. The eyes vanished, and though I thought I might have heard something else – something from beyond the door even as it slammed to – I could not make out what it might be. Only notice that whomever it was had left a scrap of paper, left it to go drifting in lazy spirals toward the scummed stretch of haphazard tiles behind the counter. “Late, Nestor Grimsley!” The speaker bore no features I could see, and his shadowy formed shifted to and fro without warning; I finally managed to pry open the suddenly resistant watch case, to take a few steps back from the approaching stranger. But the face of the watch was blank, an empty face, only laughter echoing forth as I mindlessly leapt behind the countertop, dove for the floor and scrabbled at the drifting scrap of paper. The shadow proved faster, and I found my fingers snatching around the cold darkness of his empty form; caught up, swirling about me... and then a quiet nothingness. [centre]***********[/centre] Nestor's eyes gradually opened. Blinked. Opened again. He groaned and held a hand up to his eyes at once, the blinding light from the window beyond branding itself painfully in the back of his skull. The surroundings were unfamiliar; where in the seventh circle of hell was he, anyway? Bland curtains, bland ceiling tiles, the steady hum of some quiet machinery -- that smell -- like an overly nosey bottle of some cheap twelve-year... “Shit” Was all the Demonspawn could manage to mutter to himself as the realization dawned. The tapping began again – something at the window, it seemed. But the throbbing in his skull made rather certain it was no dream this time. With a groan he shrugged off the sterile embrace of the hospital covers, staggered upright, planted his feet firmly upon the floor and lurched upright. A move he immediately regretted, the motion sending a spurt of blood to his head, a fresh wave of pain wracking his form. Doubling over, he growled beneath his breath and staggered toward the window, mindlessly ripping free whatever needles they'd stuck him with the night before. Squinting against the harsh morning light, Nestor gradually made out what seemed to be a small silver sphere, tapping incessantly at the window. “I'll be damned...” Was all he could muster up once again. “Of all the things...” prying the window open just enough to retrieve the thing, he paused upon hearing voices in the hallway just beyond: “Didn't look too good last night...” “Nah, didn't think he'd pull through – strange though, you hear what they said last night?” “Mmm?” “Couldn't get an ID on him; no license, no cards, no nothing – just a few business cards in his wallet. 'Nestor Grimsley Consulting', or something along those lines.” Nestor drew a breath – the ball clutched in one hand, he wasted no more time but headed straight for the door. The approaching pair still seemed caught up in their conversation, and it wasn't until he was halfway down the hall that anyone seemed to notice his presence. “Excuse me, Sir!” Nestor walked faster – or staggered, rather – blundered toward the emergency exit and slipped through the door. Giving himself another moment to catch his breath, he paused just long enough before continuing to rip the handle of the fire alarm; as the blaring siren and lights came into play, he began his descent – steps becoming a little steadier with each flight, though the pain in his skull no better. By the time he'd reached the garage floor and beat a hasty retreat to the streets, the droning klaxon had all but burned itself into his eardrums, reverberations continuing as he held himself gingerly against the nearest signpost. Gasping again, he heaved, fruitlessly gagging and spewing the acidic bits of whatever bile remained from his stomach. Too much too fast. He heard someone swear in dismay, to lower their phone and walk cautiously toward him “Sir, you alright? Looking a little rough...” “Yes, fine... I'll be borrowing that, though” He gave little time for response, snatching the phone from the would-be samaritan, brushing aside the ensuing exclamations as he dialed and brought the thing to his ear. “Excuse me, just what the...” Nestor raised his left hand in an irritated gesture, listened to the ringing on the other end of the line. “Edward Cunningham, speaking?” “Damnit, Ned – where the hell have you been?” “Ah, Sir! It's high time; I've been...” “Who the hell do you think...?” Another irritated wave, now a waggling finger – “Just shut up and let me talk! Ned – Never mind that; the hospital – just get out here.” “Yes. Which hospital, Sir?” “Damned if I know. Just follow the sirens.” With that he hung up, handed the pilfered phone absentmindedly back to its rightful owner, before proceeding to walk past the stunned bystander and taking a seat on a nearby bench. Timely – as usual – Ned arrived only moments after the first of the fire crews, the sleek vehicle gliding up next to the curb just long enough for Nestor to slip inside, tearing off into the streets with a roar immediately afterward. “Good to see you, Sir – if you don't mind the comment, you look like hell.” “Ironic, really...” Was Nestor's unfinished reply, followed up almost at once with “Take us home, I need to change.” Ned offered a faintly amused quirk of his usually emotionless lips. “Hospital gowns never did look very good on you, Sir.” The Demonspawn snorted and turned his attention to the sphere in his hands; allowing for just the right pattern of his own will to exude onto the thing, the interior of the vehicle momentarily dropped a few degrees before the letter sprang open with a metallic tear. Nestor snort turned to a growl of disgruntled dismay. “Belay that, Ned – get me to the nearest B & H branch; apparently I've a meeting in Ireland a half hour sharp from now. Catch up with my things as soon as prudently possible, if you would.” The Vampiric chauffeur did not bat so much as an eye at this, only remarking briefly. “Understood” With that, the Audi dropped into gear and took a sudden u-turn, slipped through a gap in the traffic and sped toward the heart of the city. [centre]***********[/centre] By the time Nestor made it past the bewildered guards – who were at first inclined to stop the seeming-manic Demonspawn, but given room to think otherwise when he waved Atticus' letter wordlessly in their faces – and to the shade gates, he seemed to pause and take a moment to realise that he truly was still dressed in nothing but a hospital gown. He appears to hesitate for a moment, then – with an eventual shrug of his shoulders – he thrusts his right foot forward and steps through the portal. His arrival upon the other side finds him, perhaps, a little less late than he had anticipated – strolling quite nonchalantly up to those who have gathered thus far, he offers the Siren a bit of a nod by way of greeting, but beyond that doesn't say much of anything – simply announcing the obvious in Atticus' direction: “Well, well... I'm here. For the most part.” With that, he slumps to the grass, arranges the gown to cover as much of himself as possible, and wraps his arms about his knees – he might be seen to wince now and again as he rubs at his still-aching head.