The alley way old. Not necessarily dark, but the age seemed to have some way of blocking the sun. Large grey concrete buildings, with few lights on stood on the side. The street was empty, and a single trafic light at the end, changed colors mournfully, as if hoping someone, someday would need it. There were very few cars on the side of the road, old vans, or perhaps other smaller ones. Trees, planted in a civic manner were along the sidewalk, slumped, leaves, already shedding in the fall air, swished along the edges of the buildings, or scutteled like crabs through through the concrete beach.
But then, a change. A car came down the street, obaying all speed laws, despite the fact that it could have done a hundred, and not a single policemen in the world could find it in himself to care about it. It slinked down the street, as if the driver didn’t want to be seen. It was seen anyway. A man watched it from one of the buildings. He wore a gas mask over his mouth, the rest of his head carefully wrapped in bandages. A motorcycle helmet thats jawstrap had been hacked off was also on his head, covering the rest of his face. A scarf was wrapped around his neck, but a tiny bit of it was visable. There were more bandages., He also wore a long coat, which hung around his body as if it was on a hat stand. His arms were crossed, and on his hands he wore ski gloves, thick puffy things. He stood straight up, and he wore a pair of dusty khacki pants. On his feet was a pair of neatly polished shoes, also slightly dusty. He spoke, and his voice was muffled by the gas mask. “She’s coming up. Get the door.” There was whine and he turned, then gave a muffled sigh. “And put some damn pants on.”
The whole building felt like a parking lot. The stairs were concrete, the railings were industrial iron, and small rubber mats were put down stairs. The doors seemed to seperate the hallway from the rest of the buildings, and all were different. But after a few floors of stairs and uncomfortable lights, she came to a wooden door with small brass plaque on it. The plaque read “Alan and Phil: Professional, Discreet, Licenced Practitioners.” She knocked tentativly, and the it was pulled open. In front of her was a beaming man, with scruffy blond hair and a no beard. He was wearing a hawian shirt, gym shorts, and 3 pairs of socks. He smiled. “Alan Pendragon, professional investigator.” He motioned with his arm. “Come on in.”
The room was not as she was expecting, a pigsty, and neither was it a occult library. Instead, it gave the feeling that half furniture came from Sweden, or had been stolen from a expensive hotel. Half was neat and overly tidy, a gentlemens study, the other more like a collage dorm. There was a desk, a TV, some chairs. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man who had introduced himself as Pendragon discretly push some magazines under a couch.
“Er, I was told over the phone that you deal with unusual problems....” The was a muffled voice and she gave a start. “Yes, we do.” There was a man at the desk, even though she hadn’t seen him a second ago. He spoke again. “Please excluse my unusual appearence. I was involved in a incedient a few years ago that crippled my immune system, and despite my eventual restoration, my appearence is quite unappealing, and so I wear these.” He motioned toward the gas mask and ski helmet. “My skin is also quite sensative to light, and other stimuli. I find it helps to explain my unusual appearence before meeting with a client.”
“I am Phil Newton, please take a seat. And how may we help you today?”
