an admirable history

Conversations with Lucia continue, then peter out into an awkward lull. The girl is looking anywhere but the three of you, fidgeting in her seat and picking at hangnails. The executive assistant is standing by the door with her mouth set firmly, though she watches you all intently.

Kincade parks the truck near a grove of trees, just down from the sign proclaiming the entrance to Wild Oak Street.

"So, what's your plan?" she asks, looking over at Fon, then glancing back at the others.

"So," Kieran says, after they've finished the plate of nachos and Crow hasn't died, probably. "What exactly are you guys going to do next?"

Continued from here.

Kincade is keeping a sharp eye on people as they get into the truck. The seats -- other than driver, of course -- are passenger and three in the back. Divvy them up as you see fit.

You wake up slowly and don't remember when you went to sleep. Everything feels vaguely blurry, and you feel dirty, like something is crawling around the back of your head and leaving fuzzy residue wherever it touches. You're lying on something soft; however, you feel that your hands are bound tightly behind your back.

You begin to hear voices, one female, one male.

After receiving the phone number of the hostel, some vague directions sketched out onto a piece of paper, an area map that has perhaps seen better days, and a bag full of Hostess cakes, you head out into the early, early morning. It won't be sunrise for another hour at least, but you can see the hint of light on the horizon, if you squint.

You leave the hospital and exit near a busy street at around four o'clock in the morning. Distant (and not-so-distant) sirens wail in the air; traffic still rushes, this late at night, and neon "open" signs still buzz loudly at the occasional all-night restaurant or convenience store. The weather is clear, crisp, but not too cold.

You are in a small room, dimly lit by moonlight filtering through blinds that have definitely seen better days. There is a narrow bed up against one wall, where you can see the vague shape of someone sleeping. The air smells like smoke and Chinese take-out. The room is quite sparse; an empty desk near the window, and two large bags near the foot of the bed. Totally normal, really.

Except, of course, for the fact that the people now standing in it absolutely weren't there a few minutes ago—or anywhere nearby, really. Oh, and the giant magic circle drawn in chalk on the floor. There's that.

The place you find yourself in is unfamiliar, but fairly easy to identify—a room made for surgery, with a long narrow bed, the walls and ceilings crowded with strange metallic arms and LCD video screens. It's late at night, you can guess, although the room has no windows; the only lights in the room come from the dim emergency lighting tucked into the corners and filtering in from the equally dimly-lit hallway. Sheets cover unused equipment, forming eerie shapes. But what's most alarming, probably, is that you have no recollection of where you are or how you got here.

Thankfully, at least, you aren't alone.