What happened

The room waited in reptilian darkness. Grotesque figurines on particle board shelves and laserjet demons coiled patiently in preparation for attack, and the circle drawn in charcoal on the grimy linoleum floor in the center of the room welcomed arrivals with open arms. Little wax candles, frozen to their cracked plastic holders with their own blood, suddenly popped to life in expectaion of the return of the sorceror. Hanging censers began to sway and book pages turned, and in a brief flash of daylight, Two robed men appeared in the room.

The larger man clapped twice and cheap desk lamps around the room turned on, revealing the scene in all its bizarre, anachronistic splendor. He was helping to prop up the thinner man, but now let him slide to the floor in exhaustion.

"I mean you no harm at this time, Doctor Strange," spoke the large man, striding to a corner. "I believe you will concur that the defeat of the recent arrival to this plane requires more power or strategy than either of us posesses seperately, or perhaps even combined." He leaned into an ornate mirror draped with silks and painted on the surface with arcane, yellow symbols, and began grooming his beard. "This room is a part of the business establishment of a man by the name of Midnite. Beyond that door we will likely find some mortal or demon or other variety of being who will gladly rally to our cause. When you are ready, you may join me without and mingle with these folk."

He walked over to this door and opened it. Infernal cackling, strange music, and more than ten varieties of smoke wafted through the crack. He turned back to the other man. "Oh, and Stephen," he smiled darkly, "I believe this rescue constitutes a favor."

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They were there. They were always there. Day labor was hugely important in the City - very little was accomplished in the slums without the steady hands of a man that spoke no English. Despite the fact that he suspected some sort of 'balance' issue at work, the City took all kinds. The famous, the infamous; the powerful and the have-nots. It was the have-nots that Midnite was pursuing, and it was not a hard chase. Most of them would die to work for him - both figuratively, and literally. The sun was only just beginning to rise on their last day, the sky still hues of red and purple as the sun began its long trek against the heavens.

He promised good money for their services, and often times he had very little reason to pay when their usefulness was done. The white van was nondescript, but he had no intention of lingering - ten or so, pile them in, and go. The slums were a good place for a meeting, and even better for finding cheap labor that wouldn't be missed, but the police still ventured into these parts every now and again. It wouldn't do to be caught in the act.

Idly, his fingers brushed against the charms around his neck. He tried not to use them too often - the more he did, the more they needed to be replaced - but they kept the voice at bay. And the visions. The waking nightmares that he'd only heard stories about; his entire family arrayed before him with blood streaked down their faces. The slaves. All of them. Midnite shook his head to clear it, his eyes seeking anything to change his train of thought.

That was when a girl caught his attention. Not very tall, not very pretty, not very... anything. She seemed hazy for a moment, before clarifying in his sight. That was his first sign that something was wrong. But while the men crowded around his van, she hung back; Midnite was intrigued by someone who would be at a day laborer's pick-up spot and yet not charge toward the highest paying employer immediately.

Leaving one of his employees - his 'real' employees - to handle the mass of laborers trying to scramble into the van, Midnite dropped onto the pavement and approached at a slow walk, a cane in hand and cigar clamped firmly between his teeth. Smoke trailed from his nostrils as he approached her, and at last she took notice, her eyes narrowing on him. There was something in that gaze that piqued his interest more than her stance ever could.

A hard woman, and used to hard conditions. Hard, of a kind, in any case.

"Relax," he said, holding up both hands with his most disarming smile. "I have only honorable intentions. I just wanted to make sure you're really this eager to avoid work that pays well. The name is Papa Midnite. Most people call me Midnite - what's yours?"

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Door was running like hell again.

Those boots, laced up tightly, splashed in the murky water as her heart pounded and her ankle, which she'd twisted what seemed like hours back, throbbed viciously. She was certain that staccato rhythm must be audible to anyone or anything within fifty yards of her. Croup and Vandemar never ran; they always wore out their prey: slow, steady, then suddenly appearing just when you thought it was safe. Croup’s slick voice resonated through the tunnel:

"It’s quite all right, Lady Portico. You needn’t worry – for such a lovely girl, we shan’t make it hurt.

Much."

Panic seized her chest, squeezing down harder on a heart that was already strained from the exertion of running for she wasn’t sure quite how many miles. They were closer – still closer, that fox and that wolf. There was no way for them to have returned – she didn’t know how they could have returned. Much less did she know why they were after her.

Though that wasn’t quite true. It was clear why they were after her.

Revenge.

Croup and Vandemar were not the sort to split hairs about how their own evil natures led naturally to their own demises. No – if Croup and Vandemar were to fall, then those that pushed them – or even simply stepped out of the way to allow it – would certainly fall thrice as hard and ten times as bloodily.

In a moment of panic, Door wondered about whether Richard and the Marquis were safe.

But there was no time for that. She heard those onerous footsteps echoing through the tunnels (these accursed, doorless tunnels), until finally - finally - there was something. A long-forgotten door, not meant for use anymore. She’d never seen it before, but it didn’t matter, not for a moment did she hesitate, no; her hand was out, there was a whisper in her mind, and suddenly, like a breath, she was out.

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