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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Trip to the apartment complex done, Max headed back out. Time to try safe harbor number four. It was the last one, and she wasn't honestly sure how safe the Lair would be. Sure, she'd done all the security herself, but it was no Clock Tower, she didn't have any delusions of this. But she did know it was someplace she could get work done and not feel scarily alone.

So to the dock area Max went. The walking was hard in the ever present heels, but she headed anyway because she knew a lot of cabbies were starting to charge more to take customers down there. Ever since the crime rates had spiked.

Maybe she could work at getting out of this dress too. Max planned on trying. The frills were getting ridiculous and the coat she wore to cover it was hot. She stripped it off once she was deep into the docks, stopping in a spot she remembered, Ace's favorite spot to pee in front of the abandoned buildings. She pulled her backpack off and began stuffing the jacket in.

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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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The doors were closed, and closed tightly. Little light leaked in from what was a sunny day, and as a result the club was as dark as could ever be hoped. Soft red lights, placed strategically, gave just enough illumination to avoid running into anyone. The small, roped-off square in the center of the establishment stood empty tonight. And the establishment itself was much the same, with very few patrons entering through the back or even approaching the front doors. It appeared to be nothing more than a closed-down bar, but the rear entrance was manned as though it were the main, and it was through that opening that all of his patrons entered. All three of them.

Giving the nearly-deserted building a dissatisfied sneer, Midnite removed the cigar from his mouth and exhaled into the darkness.

It had been this way since he'd opened the building, truth be told. Only a few nights out of the week were busy; with the concentration of busybodies and do-gooders in this town, no one wanted to draw attention to any one spot. Midnite had no fear of their attention, and tried to impress that on those brave enough to enter, but even the ones that continued to come and lose themselves in the revelry had fear in the pits of their bellies. As long as there were so many of these 'heroes', as one fellow nervously called them, in his city - then there would be no hope of raising more money. Of buying his way back to his true home, before they gutted his empire completely.

If they hadn't already.

Heroes. No one was a hero; not in the way that the common man wanted. They were afraid of what they could not understand, could not bargain with, and so they lashed out. Midnite had no patience for such fools. The alternative to carving out whatever you could take was the idea that you always served some nobler cause, some higher power, up to and including giving away your life for that service. Milton had made his point to Midnite, though he was not an avid reader. The voodoo king had been living proof that you could have your cake, and eat it, too.

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