NightStalkers, Inc. Prologue v.2
Camping: a favorite past-time of many human beings. It was an event in which an individual, often accompanied by friends and/or family, heads out into the wilderness for an indefinite amount of time, then returns home with the claim that, “It was a lot of fun!” And, for some, that exclamation would be true. For a vast majority of those who have experienced camping, however, this is a complete lie.
Billy Noel was one of those souls who had never experienced camping, or the adventures so often associated with it. He and his family had always been quite comfortable, living in industrialized South Carolina. Between work and sleep, and the comforts of his own home, there didn’t seem to be much of a need for it. Really, what could camping possibly have to offer that he couldn’t get on his own, or didn’t already have? Well, his friend ¹Blue certainly had a comment for that, which went something to the effect of, “Punchin’ them damn keys all day in yer quiet lil’ cubicle ain’t gonna put as many hairs on yer chest as a week out on a date with mother nature will!” Perhaps it had been his way with words, the indirect challenge, or pure curiosity which had caused him to act . . . but, regardless of the cause, Billy promptly demanded to be taken on the next camping venture that Blue had had planned. And, given how out there Blue was, Billy probably should have seen it coming that the next “venture” was in a matter of days.
Admittedly, Billy had considered backing out of the whole ordeal countless times, in the days leading up to the camping experience. It wasn’t made much easier to deal with, either, when taken into account that Blue and Bob (who had been invited to tag along) worked in their own cubicles on either side of Billy, and had no problem whatsoever when it came to harassing him. Between Blue’s manly stories about wrestling bears and catching fish with his bare teeth and Bob’s horror stories about his father suffering from third-degree burns from a campfire, he had come quite close to simply diving out of the third-story window of the office building. Then again, Blue firing an air-horn at sporadic hours of the day and Bob giving a daily (and, eventually, hourly) countdown until the trip didn’t much help, either.
By the time that Saturday morning rolled around and the trio were packing their things into Blue’s van, Billy was still contemplating feigning ill. They would understand, right? No, probably not. Billy kept his head considerably low as he hauled the last of his things into the back of the van, an overwhelming feeling of regret tying itself into knots in his stomach. “Ready to go, Billy?” Bob called as he approached his friend, delivering a harsh pat on the back as he surveyed the progress.
“Er, yeah. Ready when you guys are.” Billy managed to choke out, between coughs. Bob, he had come to decide, must have been ridiculously active as a child, given the force behind the "friendly" pat on the back.
"Alrighty, then! Let's get a-goin'!" Blue demanded, patting the side of the van heartily. With the way the man spoke sometimes, Billy often remained surprised by the fact that pigs didn't come running up to him.
With the command given, everyone climbed into the van -- Blue into the driver's seat, Bob in the passenger's seat, and Billy lost somewhere in the back, amongst some of the ridiculous luggage they had managed to cram in. Before he could so much as find his seat belt, however, Blue had the gas pedal floored and the deathtrap-on-wheels was soon barreling out of the drive-way and down the street. Billy was positive that his face had turned at least three shades of green before he managed to buckle his seat belt, and cling to the seat for dear life.
But, of course, what was any adventure without a bit of music? Given a choice between anything and what he got, Billy probably would have picked `anything`. What his pals would likely pass for music was Blue singing loudly (and quite out of key, if at all possible) to the tune "99 Bottles of Beer", with the sound of a fresh titled can being opened up every odd number or so by Bob. While the nausea, earlier, had likely been owed to the nervousness and reckless driving, it was now entirely thanks to the plausibly insane driver. Had Billy not been seated in the back, he was certain that he would have given the steering wheel a good yank and let the van barrel into some god-forsaken ditch.
Be it owed to some merciful god, magic, or intense sleep deprivation, Billy managed to drift off into sleep before too long -- perhaps around the time the buffoons up front reached number seventy-two? He had managed to curl into a sort of ball in the seat, against the door and various odd and ends beside him, and let his head rest against the window. While he had been staring out at the trees for some time (which, in hindsight, might not have been such a good idea), things soon seemed to blur together and his eyes grew heavy. Before he really knew it, he was dozing off in a pleasant dreamland, and was somewhere far away from all the madness.
While they say that the average dream can last up to twenty-minutes, Billy had the sneaking suspicion that this was just a bunch of malarkey -- either that, or he simply wasn't average. Or, perhaps, there had been a change in plans? Blue had specifically told him and Bob that they would be going up to some forest in Virginia for the weekend, and would be pitching tents not too far away from a nearby lake. By Billy's calculations, it would have taken something around four hours to get to where they were going. And, yet, when Bob was jarring him awake they were already parked in some sort of clearing and most of the van was unpacked. Bob seemed to say something, but Billy couldn't quite make heads or tails of it, and before he could ask the other man was walking away.
Nature was, as one might have predicted, something that Billy had never paid much attention to over the years. Granted, thunderstorms and the occasional hurricanes were bound to happen, but he never went out of his way to see them. But standing there, just outside the van and looking around the clearing, it all hit him at once. It was beautiful, really. The trees seemed to caress the clouds above, with outstretched limbs covered in luscious green leaves. The grass stood at attention, accompanied with a few wild-flowers and bugs. It was simply picturesque; it was the sort of thing that humans would never be able to create all on their own, no matter how advanced technology got.
"You just gonna stand there, Princess, or are you gonna help?" Bob's voice beckoned from across the clearing, though it sounded much further. As a matter of fact, it seemed to take a few moments before Billy even figured out that he had been talking to him. After blinking a few times, as though to shake away a mirage, he turned his attention to his pals -- who were in the process of unloading and unpacking. Taking a deep breath, Billy rolled up his sleeves and jogged over to the duo to help.
A few hours, a meal, and some work later . . .
"We oughta get a fire goin'." Blue suggested, rather suddenly. After getting everything unpacked and set up, the three had gathered a few chairs together and sat down to relax, and drink a bit of beer -- and, in Billy's case, water. For the most part, it had been quiet, too. Apart from the chatter of the birds, the occasional rustling in the nearby brush, they were all but swallowed up in a veil of silence. And though all three of them had noticed the darkening sky, no one had had the audacity to shatter it. Well, until Blue spoke, anyway.
Rather than coherent words, Billy and Bob merely nodded and grumbled in apparent agreement with the suggestion. With that, everyone gradually rose to their feet and stretched.
"Bob and I'll gather some sticks and stuff to torch. Billy . . . you just sit tight." Blue said. And, giving Bob a gentle slap on the arm, began to leave the clearing.
"Hey, hold up!" Billy whined, resisting the urge to stomp his foot. Reluctantly, the other two turned about to face their less-than-experienced friend. "Why can't I go?"
"Billy . . . let's face it: you can't handle these woods. You'd get lost, or somethin'." Bob replied, managing to sound a little thoughtful despite the insult.
"Come on, it's just the woods! It's not even completely dark out!" Billy insisted, motioning to the trees and sky respectively.
Rather than dignifying their friend's retort with a proper response, Bob and Blue merely chuckled and shook their heads. "We'll be down near the shore, alright? Just wait here." Bob maintained flatly. With that, the two turned and hiked off into the distance, leaving Billy alone.
With a huff, Billy glared to the ground at his right. "You can't handle these woods." He mocked bitterly, giving an innocent stone a kick. Yelping quietly, he hobbled around for a moment or so on the foot that hadn't committed the assault -- apparently, worn out tennis shoes weren't much of a match for an experienced stone in the Virginia wilderness. Not only this but, as he leaned backwards so as to sit back down in his chair, he had a bit of a miscalculation -- rather than landing safely in his chair, he fell to the ground just before it. With a sigh, he sat there for a moment or so and looked to the sky. "I just can't win, today, can I?" He inquired, as though some presence from the heavens might bellow down an answer. But, rather than the expected silence, he got the laughter of a passing crow. Taking that as a sign, Billy laid down on the ground and folded his hands together over his stomach, still staring at the sky blankly.
Watching the sky seemed to be something everyone did, at least at one point in time in their life. Billy could remember quite clearly the last time he had simply sat down and watched the clouds roll by, as a matter of fact. He had been nine, and it was a warm, bright summer day. It was the sort of day when the rays of the sun were about as comforting as a hug, and there was nothing more to do but let it embrace you. He had laid there for some time, that day, identifying certain clouds with certain objects and shapes . . . before his mother had called him inside for lunch, anyway.
As he laid there, now, he couldn't help but grin ever so slightly as he reminisced. Unlike a lot of unfortunate people in the world, Billy had had a rather nice childhood, by the standards of most. Then again, as the only child of an upper-middle class family, there were very few who would argue with that. They had been nothing short of that perfect family that everyone just loved, and secretly envied. They hosted barbeques, helped out their neighbors, and everything -- hell, they even had a white-picket fence and a golden retriever named Max, to top it all off!
Billy wasn't too sure how long he had laid there, watching the sky grow darker and darker while he thought and remembered and waited. It had been just long enough, however, for him to note that it was becoming increasingly difficult to see very far -- too long for Bob and Blue to still be out there in the woods. Concern beginning to stir inside him, he propped himself up on his elbows and looked around the clearing. Though it took a moment or so for his eyes to adjust, he couldn't make out any human figures -- just the tents and such. And, for a few moments, he just sat there, looking around and wondering. Could something have happened to them, or were they just messing with him? Whatever the case, neither of them had a flashlight, as far as he knew -- wandering blindly around in the dark probably wasn't such a good idea.
Springing to his feet, Billy walked over to his tent and began to rifle through his luggage. He had always hated having to search through luggage -- you could never find what you wanted it right when you wanted it. Nonetheless, he emerged from his tent a minute or so later, wielding a lit flashlight. With an accomplished sigh, he jogged out of the clearing and into the woods.
Most people, to Billy's knowledge, did not like to be out in the woods alone . . . in the dark. Then again, most people didn't like the dark, in general. He had never thought much of it, himself, until he was out there, looking for his friends. And, then, he began to see why. Being human -- an inexperienced, unprotected human, at that -- left Billy susceptible to a vast number of threats . . . and made him well aware of that. And being a human in the woods -- in unfamiliar woods -- only increased that number. And being a human in the woods in the dark shot it through the roof. It was as though being in the dark, in the woods, flipped a sort of switch and knocked you off your high horse -- it made you realize that the world was not always rainbows and butterflies, and had a much less friendly side to it.
Fortunately, it didn't take very long for him to get through the trees and out onto the beach -- five minutes, at best. Not bothering to stop until he was a few paces away from the line of trees -- never knew what might pop out of there, while he wasn't looking -- he aimed the flashlight at various points on the beach. Again, however, no human figures -- this time, just discarded trash, twigs, rocks, branches, and decaying trees.
"Bob! Blue!" Billy called out hopefully, setting off further down the beach. Perhaps the two were just joking with him? Quite frankly, Billy wasn't sure what he hated more: the concept of the two idiots messing around at a time like this, or how the sand seemed to eat his feet with every step he took.
There was nothing very comforting around him, then, as he walked along the beach in search of his friends. The waters lapped at the shore, and shimmered beneath a waning crescent moon. The aforementioned sand continued to grab his feet and slow down his hike. And the flashlight, which should have made him feel more safe, threw shadows around and created monsters out of rocks and trees. The further he walked, the quicker his heart beat, and the more he wondered.
"Guys, this isn't funny!" Billy whined, hanging his head a little as he continued onward. But, still, there came no answer.
A few paces later, Billy came to a slow stop. Gathered on the ground before him were two piles of branches and twigs. Billy was no expert, but he was fairly certain that it wasn't a good thing when your heart skipped a beat and then picked up the pace once again. Shining the light on either pile, he began to scratch the back of his head nervously. Had there been fewer branches there, he might have surmised that it was just a mere happenstance. But, he couldn't shrug off the weight of the possibility of `what if`. What if Bob and Blue weren't joking? What if something bad had happened? And then he began to wonder how . . . why . . . and what.
A bright light from the sky pulled his attention away from the piles. Looking up to the sky, he felt his knees begin to knock a little. There was a sort of craft hovering in the sky, just above the lake. Large enough to blot out the waning moon, it quickly reminded Billy of just how small he was, in comparison to the rest of the world. Yellow-white lights encircled the craft, and seemed to give only a vague idea of its proportions. Perhaps most unsettling of all was the fact that it made no noise . . . and that it seemed to appear out of nowhere. If you were to ask someone who lived in, say, New York, to describe the craft, the likely response would be something to the effect of, "A giant [expletive] blimp, just [expletive] floating through the [expletive] sky." Ask a child, you would hear, "One of those under-water fishes with the dangly-light-things on their head that lives at the bottom of the ocean . . . but, not." Billy's friends, Bob or Blue, would label it a "UFO".
Billy felt his mouth go dry as he tried to swallow, tried to make sense of the entire situation while he continued to stare up at the craft. He knew that he wanted to move, wanted to drop the flashlight and run like hell, but his feet didn't seem to get the message, hiding somewhere beneath the sand. He knew he wanted to look away, but it was like someone had taped his eyelids open and held his head there, forcing him to watch and fret. Then, for whatever reason, he decided that, perhaps, he could aim the flashlight at the craft. He hadn't moved his arm too far, however, when everything went black.
Some time later . . .
There came a scream -- the sort of ear-splitting scream that makes your ears cry for mercy and brings your to your knees. It echoed all around, but seemed to linger most somewhere between the ears of Billy Noel. With a jolt, Billy shot up -- or, rather, attempted to. He couldn't so much as prop himself up on his elbows before being forced back down -- and, if he had the audacity to try anything further than that, his head would have collided with a large metal object hanging overhead. But, of course, there was no way he could have known that -- especially when given the blinding lights focused on him. His forehead collided with the overhead object -- which sounded not unlike a gong, when struck -- before he came crashing down, with another clang. Whilst muttering several curses beneath his breath, he struggled to bring his hands to his face, to survey the damage. But, again, he was met with an opposing force to any movement he attempted to make. Now, rather aggravated, he lifted his head up, so as to see what this force was. He didn't much like the answer he got, either.
Billy was strapped down to what seemed to be a sort of medical table, with leather straps. The large, metallic, hanging object was the sort of thing one might find in a dentist's office . . . but, not quite the same. And, once his eyes adjusted to the difference between the light and shadow, he could make out the rest of the room. To his right there was a counter against the wall -- with what looked to be a sink -- that had overhead cupboards. A little further down that same wall was a door -- the automatic sort. To his immediate right there was a sort of medical tray with various instruments -- none of which looked very pleasant. To his left were several cabinets, all pressed to one another and against the wall. With a groan of defeat, he let his head fall back on the table once again with a single, painful conclusion: he was in a doctor's office.
"Bob? Blue? This isn't funny, anymore!" And, had it even been funny to him from the start, this claim would have been entirely true. As Bob and Blue, both, were fully aware, Billy was deathly afraid of hospitals . . . and even more so of the staffing. And could you blame him? It wasn't as though there were countless horror movies and films based on at least one of the two.
Much to his relief, there came the sound of the automatic doors opening, not much longer after his shouting, followed by the sound of two sets of footsteps approaching. "I hope you two had your fun." Billy practically hissed, shaking his head a little as he stared up at the ceiling. "Would you get me outta here? This kinda hurts." He confessed, squirming about a bit.
The footfalls ceased, before long, and Billy was aware of the presence of two people -- one on either side of him. From what he could see, however, neither of the people were Bob or Blue. Both of his friends were of considerably large stature -- in both girth and height. The two now surrounding him appeared a bit more lean, and their heights weren't quite the same. For another thing, both of his friends never dressed very formally -- unless attending a funeral. And, from what he could see, the person to his right was wearing a black suit . . . with cufflinks in the shape of daggers.
For a few painfully long moments, no one said a word. At least, not to Billy. The two, instead, spoke to each other, over Billy, in a different language -- perhaps Russian? Both voices sounded male, and the words didn't sound to pleasant. Then again, that might have just been the language. The two laughed, after a relatively brief discussion, and the one to his left placed a strong, cold hand on Billy's shoulder.
As the man leaned down, into the light, Billy could make out his features . . . though, he wasn't so sure that he wanted to, now. Unlike the man to the right, this man didn't wear cufflinks -- but, he did have a blood-red kerchief in his breast pocket. His skin was pale, but not unbelievably so -- just enough for one to make a comment about him needing some sun. Slick black hair, parted about down the middle, fell to his shoulders. His face was masked ever so slightly by a bit of shadows, but a goatee was clearly visible -- the sort you'd imagine a wicked villain in a comic to have. His features were sharp, and no wrinkles were present. Perhaps what was most unsettling about this man, to Billy, was his eyes -- which were such a pale shade of gray, they almost seemed white. Then again, maybe it was the jagged scar running from the notch in his left brow, over his eye, and to the bridge of his nose? On the other hand, both paled in comparison to the wicked grin on his thin lips -- the sort of thing that could, and did send chills down Billy's spine.
"W-whe-where am I? Where are my friends? Who are you people? What do you want? I haven't any money, I swear!" Billy stammered, his words spewing out more quickly with each syllable. For a moment or so, there was silence once again, while each man looked to the other.
The man with the goatee frowned, after a few seconds, and drew back into the shadows. Now that Billy looked at him, his eyes actually seemed to glow in the dark. From what he could see, he was looking to the man with the cufflinks for further instruction.
Before Billy could spit out any further questions, a hand came whirring through the air and struck him on his left cheek -- though, for all he knew, it was a metal bat. His face had only just touched the suddenly forgiving surface of the medical table when, presumably, the same hand grabbed him by the chin and forced him to look at the man to his left.
"You're not amongst friends, Mister Noel -- that much I can tell you." The man to the left growled, his voice not unlike the snarl of a wolf mixed with the hiss of a snake.
Oh, how Billy wanted to look away! If the man with the scar had been unsettling, this man was the very definition of terrifying. This man didn't even look human, save for the silhouette! His skin was a deep, dark shade of blue -- a bit like the waters of the ocean at night -- and covered in black, tribal-like designs. His eyes were much larger than that of any normal human's -- at least by a factor of two, if not more -- and black as pitch, save for small, vertical slits of white at the centers. From what he could see, the man had no hair -- but, his head was not vacant. Instead, two black stumps sat atop his head, kind of like miniature tree stumps. And his ears didn't look like ears but, rather, small holes on either side of his head. And . . . was that a tail hiding behind him in the dark?
"What have you done with my friends?" Billy asked, after a few moments had been spent trying to find his voice. It wasn't until he spoke that he became increasingly aware of a bit of blood trickling down his cheek, apparently from the slap the blue-skinned man had given him. The blue-man looked to the man with the scar for a second, only to nod back towards the door. Dumbfounded, the scarred man simply stood there for a few moments, his pale eyes reflecting nothing more than confusion.
"NOW, Ezekiel!" The blue-skinned man roared, inadvertently tightening his grip on Billy's face as he did so. It wasn't until the man with the scar cleared the room that Billy was released, his head left to fall back to the surface of the table once again. While Billy, himself, altered between praying for his life and muttering curses, the blue man seemed to be growling in the shadows about the stupidity of his cohort.
A few moments later, the sound of the doors opening came again -- this time, accompanied not only by footsteps, but by the sound of wheels being rolled, as well. Despite the curiosity blooming inside him, Billy didn't look up -- he had the strong feeling that he wouldn't like what he saw.
Apparently, the strange men had other plans. In a flash, it seemed, both were standing on either side of him once more. Rather than looming over him, once again, both gripped the edges of the table and proceeded to flip it. Billy was quite certain, then, that he would have screamed, if he could have found his voice once again. Instead of colliding with the floor, as he had expected, however, the table merely stood there, vertically -- the straps which had been preventing him from struggling, now kept him from falling.
"What am I looking at, exactly?" Billy managed to choke out, rather wearily, after a moment or so. In the dark, there wasn't much to see at all -- just two separate rectangles not too far away from him. The men looked to each other once more, but only briefly. While the blue-skinned man shook and hung his head, the scarred man stretched an arm out in the direction of the wall near the door and gave an upwards flick of his wrist. Strangely enough, just as the man flicked his wrist, the rest of the lights within the room came on.
Billy looked between the two men, curiously. What the hell was going on? Was this all some sort of elaborate prank? Before he could ask, however, the man with the scar spoke;
"Look." He commanded simply, motioning to the rectangles before him, that sinister grin in place once again.
For some reason, Billy had a feeling that acting against the wishes of either of these men -- if either could even be called that -- was not the best idea. So, slowly, he turned his attention back to the rectangles. When he looked this time, however, he saw something much less pleasant than rectangles.
Propped up what appeared to be variations on dolly carts were Billy's friends, Bob and Blue. Though . . . the were far from themselves . . . or alive, for that matter. Both of their faces were contorted in horrified expressions, and various wounds seemed to all but cover them -- both seemed to be disemboweled and slit at the throat.
Billy gagged and looked away, pulling his eyes shut tight. There was no way what he was seeing could have been real . . . right?
"Oh, I assure you, Mister Noel, this is all quite real -- you're not dreaming." The blue-skinned man hissed, as though he could hear his thoughts. "You might as well open your eyes now -- it's not going to get any better." He added in a rather flat tone.
"Who are you people? What do you want?" Billy choked out, keeping his eyes shut for a moment or so longer.
"My name is Proxen and this is my friend, Ezekiel -- please to look at him, I'd hate for him to feel offended." The blue-skinned man began, a smile apparent behind his words. Though it took a moment or so, Billy reluctantly opened his eyes and looked to the man with the scar, Ezekiel, and looked back to Proxen. "We are agents for a company I'm sure you've heard of, by now -- NightStalkers, incorporated. And, please, don't play coy -- I'm really not up to that, right now." Proxen added, looking to Billy flatly. Before he could deny anything, however, Proxen continued on. "The real questions are, henceforth, to be asked only by myself and Ezekiel. For every question you ask, we remove one of your appendages. Do you understand, Mister Noel?" The blue-skinned man went on, conversationally.
Billy was silent for a few minutes, though he opened his mouth several times to speak. He wanted desperately to ask a hundred questions, but something told him that Proxen wasn't bluffing. So, instead, he merely nodded and hung his head, looking to the ground with a perplexed expression.
"Good." Proxen grinned, nodding pleasantly. "Now, Ezekiel and I are going to ask you a few questions. For each lie you tell us, we beat or cut you, with our fists or one of these fancy tools, here, respectively." He went on, holding up a scalpel for Billy's inspection. Proxen didn't return the object to the medical table, either -- not even after Billy had surveyed it solemnly, then returned to looking at the ground.
"Where is the book?" Ezekiel asked, after a moment or so. With his arms folded across his chest, his pale eyes were trained solely on Billy.
Here, Billy looked up, his expression somehow even more confused. "What book?" He replied, without thinking, as he looked to the scarred man.
The only response he got, however, was a sigh from Ezekiel as he looked to Proxen, solemnly.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk." Proxen sighed, shaking his head slowly, looking down at the scalpel in his hands. For whatever reason, he reached over to the medical table and set the scalpel down, replacing it with a sort of knife that made Billy swallow. "What did I tell you, Mister Noel?" He asked with a sigh, looking down at Billy with a plain expression. "This is going to hurt a bit." He admitted. Before Billy could ask "what", Proxen had a firm grip on his right wrist. The next thing he knew, the blade was slicing through the skin, muscle, and bone of his pinky finger at the knuckle. Billy watched, horrified and screaming in pain, as the finger fell to the floor.
"Where is the book?" Ezekiel asked again, when Billy's screaming had been diminished to whining. Just as the first time, he had a tone of seriousness and boredom.
"I don't know!" Billy whined, flopping his head back against the table. "I don't know anything! I've never heard of you people before, I swear!" He went on, shutting his eyes once again as he shook his head from side to side.
What Billy missed was the Ezekiel and Proxen looking to each other, plainly, and Proxen shrugging rather innocently.
"I hate my job." Ezekiel muttered. And, the next thing Billy knew, it was dark again.
The next morning . . .
Billy sat upright, panting heavily as his eyes darted around. The morning sun was shining down upon him, and the sound of birds chirping echoed in his head. With a groan, he rubbed the back of his head, noting the presence of a sort of lump. Swallowing, it all seemed to come back to him. The strange craft . . . the stranger men . . . his friends. But, it couldn't have all been real . . . could it? There was only one way to know for sure, though. Taking a deep breath, he dropped his right hand and held it before him, for inspection. One, two, three, four . . . just four digits, on his right hand. The sound of screaming soon echoed throughout the clearing -- the sort of scream that can be heard for miles and sends birds to the sky.
Somewhere else . . .
Footsteps echoed through the hall, accompanied by muffled chatter and a bit of laughter. To anyone who had never been there before, it looked like your average waiting room . . . with not-so-average attendants. The people here didn't all look like people, really. Some had horns, some had wings. Others had forked tongues, and others still were covered in fur. Most people, if they were to see them, would call them 'monsters'. Here, however, they were just people -- just workers, like everyone else. And, like everyone else, they were there for a reason: to wait.
The doors to the waiting room opened, at nine o'clock in the morning on the dime, to reveal to gentlemen. One of the men had a scar over his right eye, the other had blue skin. Upon their arrival, everyone in the waiting room looked up hopefully. Neither said a word but, rather, walked straight ahead.
"Ezekiel!" A female voice called, from somewhere not too far away. A young girl came running up to the men, looking perhaps ten-years-old, at best. She had long black hair which fell to the floor, and eyes pale enough to be called similar to Ezekiel's. As she skidded to a stop, beside him, she looked up at him hopefully, smile in place, revealing particularly sharp canines. "Did you get it?" She asked -- the very same question everyone else in the room had been dying to ask.
Ezekiel was silent for a few moments, looking down at the floor. After a moment or so, he simply shook his head and looked away, and began to walk with Proxen, once again. The room fell silent with dismay at this simple action, watching in disbelief as the two walked to the door -- the door to their boss, the head of NightStalkers, inc. If they didn't find it soon . . . there would be no hope, for anyone.
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¹No one really knows why he’s called Blue, as it’s nowhere close to his real name . . . and, as far as anyone knows, it’s not even his favorite color. Given that Blue is a rather big fellow, who looks as though he eats people like you for breakfast, people tend not to ask him about his name.
