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Description
The rain fell, thick and heavy, obscuring the landscape, what little could be seen down the dark alleys and badly lit streets. Not many people were about at four in the morning, those that were hid their faces, or nothing at all. Except one, a tall, thin figure. He wore a long coat and a squat top hat His black boots thudded on the pavement but his face shone, his pale skin almost luminous. As he thudded down the street, streetwalkers and shady individuals scuttled out of his way; anyone walking with that much purpose had an agenda. In this case, the target was a door, sunk below the pavement, a dull neon sign displayed the letters "AL N' Ba " Alan, proprietor of Alan's Bar, didn't care much for new clients, his regulars paid well and kept to themselves, so maintenance wasn't a priority.

No one even glanced from their drinks as the door swung open, although this may have been different had they realised the newcomer was a stranger; outsiders weren't normally appreciated in Alan's bar. The man strode through the smoke, crushing old paper cups and cigarette butts beneath his boots. The room was dark, the only light coming from the dirty strip-light behind the bar. The barmaid straightened up from rooting around under the coffee machine. The man looked at her, in better lighting she would have been attractive, also, she could do with a less morbid expression, as for him, now he was standing in the light anyone could see that his face was not luminous, the white mask he wore was.

It was plain, unadorned, a simple porcelain face, although in a certain light, and at certain angles it look simply demonic, leering eyes, sharpened teeth and a grin the stretched from ear to ear. But right now it was blank, impassive, much like the face beneath. The barmaid looked at him through tired eyes, the fact she didn't comment on the mask was a testament to how many strange people turned up at Alan's, she asked him briefly what he wanted to drink.

"I'm not here for r&r, where is Alan?" his voice was flat and toneless.

She blinked at him briefly, "Not my business to say." she looked sad, more than sad, she looked beaten.

Now the man was intelligent, perceptive, he could look at her and tell her intimate secrets of her life, however, one point did interest him, the bracelet she wore on her left arm, it was too tight, he could see it digging into her skin, why would anyone wear something that looked so painful? Answer: they wouldn't, not by choice. That, coupled with the intense look of sorrow that hid behind her eyes, indicated something was wrong, that the bracelet was wrong; it felt wrong.

"That bracelet, it looks uncomfortable." his voice was still blank. "Why are you wearing it?"

She glanced down, a flash of guilt marred her features, and she hid the bracelet behind her back.

"Does it matter?"

"It might, depending on the answer." an edge had crept into his voice now. He meant business.

The barmaid glanced to her left, the tell for a lie, "It... It was my mothers, it's important to me."

Behind the mask his eyes narrowed, he didn't enjoy being lied to, especially when the lie was that bad. "Hold out your arm, your left arm."

With a nervous glance she did so, eyeing him warily, he reached out and took her wrist in one hand, lightly tracing some of the symbols on the bracelet with the other. This was a binding clasp. She was a slave. While outwardly he showed no changes, behind the mask his face was contorted with rage. Alan had something extra to answer for. Holding a finger up to his lips he warned her to be quiet, stretching out a single finger he lightly prodded the bracelet, there was a minute spark and it clicked open. Technology had moved on but some people still remembered the old ways, some people remembered sorcery.

The barmaid stifled a gasp and stared at him, shushing her again he smiled behind the mask, "Now, where is Alan?"

She gestured to a door behind the bar but grabbed his arm as he stood, "What about me? What should I do?"

He looked at her quizzically, "Leave, find a better life, you're free now."

She glanced around, down to her right, indication of truth, "You freed me," she whispered fervently "I owe you, and besides, what am I going to do? Where will I go?"

The man sighed; this is what you got for helping people: freeloaders. "Wait here."

He quietly walked to the door and stepped through, now he stood in a narrow corridor, a single door at the far end. Tracing a symbol on the bar door, he whispered something unintelligible, there was a glow, then nothing. He strode onward; now Alan had some explaining to do. As he reached the far door he didn't even bother with the handle, simply stretching his arm out he caused the door to explode. Singed fragments of wood flew into the room beyond. Without slowing, he entered, wood chips crunching beneath his feet. The man behind the desk didn't appear shocked, in fact, he seemed to have been expecting this, and he smiled at his intruder.

"You are Alan?"

The man smiled more broadly, "I'm sitting at Alan's desk in Alan's office behind Alan's bar so yes, I think it's safe to assume that I am Alan. Can I help you? By the way, you're paying for that door."

The man's eye twitched behind his mask, he had a history with Alan that he didn't even know about. It was time to collect. He stretched out a hand towards Alan, flexing his fingers. And nothing happened, Alan chuckled, the masked man tried again, still nothing.

"You're not going to get anywhere with parlor tricks boy, I'm no fool." he reached under his shirt and pulled out a medallion, "Protects me from your magical rubbish." he grinned more broadly.

The masked man sighed heavily, lowering his arms and bowing his head in apparent resignation, but with a flash his head snapped up, the demon-mask leering at Alan, hand snapping up again, this time reddish lightning flickered between his fingers. The medallion around Alan's neck shattered, useless. Twisting his hand, the figure exerted his will and Alan floated gracelessly out of his chair, flying towards the man and stopping dead inches from his face.

The man leaned forward slightly, "You knew a woman, her name was Brooks, and she had a son. Guess who blew up your door." he let this sink in, "You are a cheat, a con man, a vindictive and heartless destroyer of lives, and, I have recently learned, a slaver. You have thirty seconds to give me a good reason not to kill you."

Alan processed this load of information, "What the hell?! How can you-"

The man cut him off, "Time's up." he raised his hand and Alan floated away.

Closing his fist he thrust his hand at the suspended con man, taking a second to savour his power, then snapped his hand open, Alan's heart exploded within him.

The Barmaid was ringing her hands with worry, she was scared of Alan; he had enslaved her after all. What did this stranger want with him? She rushed forward as the stranger stepped through the door. No one had heard any of the racket he had caused, perhaps due to the ward he'd placed on the door.

"What happened? Where's Alan? What-"

He cut her off quickly; "We're leaving." But as he stepped forward, a figure blocked his path.

The muscular shadow grunted, "Alan is a good friend of ours, you'd best not have done something you'll regret."

The mask leered again, "You were good friends of Alan, and you will move if you know what's good for you."

The shadow growled and lunged, only to stop and stare at the .65 caliber revolver pressed against his nose, he didn't have time to breathe before the slug tore through his head. Whipping the gun around the masked man fired off three more rounds before the others had even risen from their chairs. Grabbing the barmaid's arm he pulled her out into the street, it was still dark and still pouring with rain, he glanced at the sky before pulling of the heavy leather coat and draping it round the girl's shoulders. Under the coat he was very thin and wore a black shirt, the girl stared at him as he reached up, gently lifting the mask from his face, revealing thin features, dark, soulful eyes and a ragged goatee.

He smiled gently at her, "I have no name, since I technically do not exist, but you may call me Mr. Grey, or Thomas if you must."

She stared at him, "You don't look very grey."

"Do you know how hard it is to find a grey leather coat? Anyway, before we move on, what's your name? I can't call you girl all the time." he smiled again, but his eyes were still disconcertingly cold.

"Um yes, my name's Simone, but what do you mean 'all the time'?" she was genuinely puzzled, and this amused Mr. Grey.

"By 'all the time' I mean you are coming with me. I saved you, you owe me, you said it yourself, and I can't cook, nor am I particularly unnoticeable, I need someone who can pass by and be forgotten."

She looked dumbfounded by this, staring at him as he strode into the night, calling back to her to keep up. A mysterious, top hat wearing, and revolver totting, magical psychopath had effectively kidnapped her. Why didn't she feel scared right now? She decided to think about that later as she jogged through the sheeting rain after the mysterious Mr. Grey.