*a little bank-holiday flourish*
Epilogue: Things about which I do not yet know.
A young man with no name walks into a bar. He is a lawyer, a man who finds people. They call him Kobayashi, it's just a nickname from work, but he likes it. The bar is half empty, full of those who don't want to go home, or cannot. It is past 4am. The floor sticks to the soles of his shoes as he strides through the low lit crevices and takes a seat at the bar.
Upon seeing him, the barman peals himself from his comfortable corner, by drained dispensers. He slumps over, more asleep than alive, and looks his pristine patron in the eye with half-cocked amusement. "We don't serve your kind in here, it gets messy," he says.
"Lawyers?" Kobayashi smiles, though his mouth is small, it barely moves. He has a face that always wins at poker.
"Humans," laughs the bar-man.
The bar, "A Csomagolás", is in Hungary. It is down one of those streets in Pest that only fools stumble into, and only the dead are thrown out of. It is a blockish, Stalinist, cage; this is where the wolves come to prowl. But it does not phase the lawyer. He slides a wedge of notes across the bar and waves the barman away; no drinks for Kobayashi today. He is working. Once he has been left alone, the lawyer lifts a heavy briefcase up on to the bar and flips open the clasps.
Click.
Click.
When he slides the case along the bar the pooled alcohol streaks upon the glass with a squeak until it rests in front of the man beside whom he has sat. A thick-necked, black man, with one paw wrapped around a heavily laden glass of whiskey, stares at the gift. He is a man who wears his war scars like an old, well-torn jumper, even those that have cut his soul are flecked across the fabric of his face. No one doubts this is a man who might kill them at a word. In the bar, they call him 'Milo'.
Kobayashi knocks open the lid of the case, betraying piles of notes inside. The ink upon the money smells sweet. "They say you're the man we need," he smiles.
"They?" croaks Milo, shutting the lid of the case. He turns his head, slowly, sardonically, and looks his bar companion up and down. The thick air shivers. One of the other patrons at the bar vacates the premises.
"They do," says Kobayashi.
"I'm busy," Milo adds and pushes the case back to the lawyer.
"That's just for travel expenses," Kobayashi explains. "My client has instructed me that there is no limit to how much they will pay to have the job done."
"Things have changed," Milo says, "I'm just cleaning up here. Then I'll be gone."
"Moving on? Now the Old Ones aren't here to clean your wounds."
"Starting again," Milo says and tips the drink back into his gullet. He waves the glass in the air. The barman places the bottle of liquor between Milo and the lawyer.
"I said that I'm not interested," Milo bristles. He stands. "Generally, I don't have to ask things twice."
Another patron, from a near corner, hurriedly leaves. But Kobayashi is not phased by threatening behaviour. He turns on the bar stool, stands, takes up the case and holds it before him.
"You should be interested," Kobayashi insists with a slight air of condescension. "Things are going to get very, very messy. Your friends, if you can call them that, are all dead. Whatever petty semblance of control existed, has now vanished. That means we have a power-vacuum, Milo. You don't strike me as a well-read man but, if you were, you would know what is going to happen next. Humanity may be flawed, barely clinging on to the idea of 'order'; but, without the fear of the Old Ones looming above them, every supernatural alive has been cut loose. Put simply: we will have anarchy. From what I have learned of you, my friend, you are a man who likes to be on the winning team, but when chaos reigns there are no winners. My client has the means to ensure you are funded to escape the destruction. If that doesn't interest you then I am here to tell you something my client does not know: that this job will put in your hands something of greater importance...Power."
Milo's shoulders relax by such a small degree it is only the astute eyes of the lawyer which spot it, "I'm listening," Milo adds.
"History shows us that after anarchy comes a new order. Those who have money in their pockets are betting on what kind of power will form when it is all the death is done. Some say were wolves will reign supreme, some say a new group of viscous vampires will claw their way to the top of the pile. Few honestly believe the dead will take control, but you would be surprised how many bets are upon the humans! I have other beliefs, something a little 'blue-sky'. Call me crazy but personally I believe humans, vampires, wolves, the dead… can work together. My client is looking for someone. Someone who, until recently, they thought dead. Someone who, the more I learn about, the more I think might be what we need…"
"We?"
Someone taps Milo upon the shoulder. He turns, lifting his glass above his head, ready to bring it down upon the head of whoever has accosted him. Behind him he sees only the ectoplasmic remnants of an overweight woman with bad dress sense.
"Ello' love," smiles the spiritual lump, "Name's Connie."
"I don't work with ghosts," Milo spits at the lawyer. "You should leave now."
"Now, Now, love, there's no need to be rude."
"Mrs Simm is just here to help us with our first task, then I'm confident she'll pass over. If you are interested I have another Type 3 in mind to complete our number. But first we need someone who, despite my incredible skills, I have yet been unable to find."
"A vampire?"
"A vampire."
"I'm done with vampires," Milo huffs. "I'm sticking with my own kind. If there's a war to be won, then we will win it without the help of spectres, blood-suckers or dead-men-walking."
"Oh, love," interjects Connie, "My Lady ain't like any of the vampires you know, she's something new. You'll see."
"Lady?"
Kobayashi reaches into the case and extracts a large manila envelope. After replacing the case upon the floor he hands the envelope to Milo. The werewolf tares it open incredulously and removes a photograph and a paper from within. "Lady Belinda Weaver confirmed dead."
"She's a vampire?"
"More than that, she's a candidate, Milo. But we have to find her first."
"Fine," Milo grunts, picking up the case from Kobayashi's feet, "but we're doing this my way..."