Crisp, winter winds rushed into the busy hospital lobby, and on their heels was a trio composed of one woman and two men dressed in all-black suits. The younger of the two men led the trio over to the nurse's station, where a lone nurse was rubbing her arms in a vain attempt to regain some of her lost warmth. The older of the two men noticed her heart rate quicken, if only slightly, at their arrival.
"Good morning, how can I help you?" The young woman put on her best smile to hide her unease at their presence.
"Morning, I'm Special Agent Woodrow with the FBI, and these are my associates," the younger man motioned at the young woman and the older man, "Special Agents Morgan and Montoya, respectively."
"The FBI! Is everything alright?" The nurse couldn't help but raise her voice, causing some of the patients' and staff's heads to turn in their direction.
The trio pulled out their badges and flashed them to the confused and suspicious woman. She eyed them and their badges for a brief moment before handing them back.
"I'm," she lowered her voice to a whisper, "just not used to dealing with government-types, sorry. Sometimes regular cops, y'know, part of the job…Is something wrong?"
"It's not a problem, ma'am, and no, nothing's wrong. We just need to speak to a young man that was admitted last night; he had a severe laceration down his chest. We think he could be a witness," Agent Montoya spoke up, giving the nurse a solemn look.
"His name is Mordecai Rowen; local law enforcement told us that he was admitted here at 2:45 AM early this morning," Agent Morgan chimed in this time.
The nurse moved over to her computer and began searching for the man in question, muttering his name under her breath while she did so.
"Oh, found him! He's in Room 216, but there's a note here saying that he shouldn't have visitors just yet, sorry-"
'It's urgent, I'm afraid. Surely, you could make an exception for us?" Agent Woodrow's words were strangely compelling, his smile reassuring.
Her misgivings about the situation melted away. It wasn't a problem to help them, they were just trying to keep a young man safe, after all.
"I...well, I'm sure the doctor would understand, with you guys being the FBI and all…Just, please, try to take it easy on the poor guy. And if you need anything, just press the call button on the wall or use the phone near his bed and I'll send someone to assist you!" the nurse beamed.
"Of course. Thank you for your assistance," Agent Woodrow waved her goodbye.
The trio made their way toward the elevator, leaving the patients and staff to gossip about their ominous appearance.
"I can't believe the cheap suits and fake badges worked," Morgan smirked.
"I have quite the way with words, remember?" Woodrow grinned.
"So, what's the plan? We just waltz in there and ask, 'Hey, are you a scum-sucking Scelestus? No? Cool,' and then head to breakfast?" Montoya asked.
"We need to ascertain his mental status, whether he's Awakened or not, and if he is Awakened, what his part in last night's events was. Depending on what we find, we might have to take care of him. That's what the Hierarch has asked of our cabal," Woodrow replied, back to being all business.
The elevator door opened and the hallway was fortunately clear of any prying ears and ears. They stepped out and continued their conversation, this time the young woman leading them to their final destination.
"We can't just bombard him, we have to be subtle," Morgan added. "Last night was no doubt traumatic for him."
"Agreed, that's why you'll be our good cop, so to speak. I'll be neutral, and Montoya will be the bad cop."
"I love being bad cop, so that's fine with me."
They stopped in front of Mordecai's hospital room and stared at the door for a few moments. None of them saw any hidden spells lying in wait for them, so they crossed the threshold to find their target asleep in his bed, tossing and turning in a cold sweat.
"Looks like he's having a nightmare," said Morgan.
Montoya mockingly bowed and ushered the younger man towards Mordecai's unconscious form, "He's all yours then, Woodrow."
Woodrow rolled his eyes at his larger associate and continued walking over to Mordecai's hospital bed.
"I can determine what he's dreaming about in a moment. Of greater importance though is his Resonance," his eyes flashed golden as he viewed Mordecai's body through the lenses of Mind and Prime.
A subtle, infernal fire channeled through invisible paths pulsed through Mordecai's body to the rhythm of his beating heart. The cackling voice of imps arose from the flames and formed into Atlantean sigils. After some study, he turned to his cabalmates.
"He's an Awakened and he hasn't been tainted by the Abyss. His mental state seems stable, but, before we rule out the worst-case scenarios, Morgan, if you'd be so kind,"
The iris of Morgan's brown eyes took upon an icy blue tinge as they rolled back. Her hands flowed gracefully as she cast her spell and the events of the previous night flashed in her mind. From the outside looking in, she saw Mordecai bleeding out, gurgling, choking on his own blood, as the metal restraints that bound him rusted at an unnatural pace until they were nothing but dust and he fell to the floor. Muffled screams and panic faded as her eyes returned to normal.
She grabbed a nearby chair to steady herself. "That's awful…"
"We know it sucks to have you use Postcognition like that, but we need to know what ya saw. Did he Awaken last night?" asked Montoya.
"That's the thing…he was dying as it happened…"
"Shit, really? Let's hope he's not a Banisher then…" Montoya eyed Mordecai's still tossing-yet-unconscious form.
"He unconsciously caused the restraints to rust after Awakening. And we know the rest: one of ours saved his life and he was brought here to St Uriel's," Morgan continued.
"Thank you for that. Now before we wake him up, let's see what his nightmare is…" Woodrow's eyes flashed a royal blue…
A lone man walked an ashen land, populated by the dead, dotted with mountains of silver and diamond circled by raven reapers, and lit by a black sun that hung high in the sky behind the clouds of ash. A great and mighty river flowed through this land, a river of ash and liquid gold, a river of death
The river had many names and many guises: Xibalba, Styx, Hades, Gehenna, Duat, and so on. Snowflakes of ash lightly fell from the dull, cloudy sky, palely illuminated by the pathetic echo of a sun. The meandering dead, shades and corpses stumbling through grand funerary temples stained with veins of platinum and gold and decorated by precious crystals, paid little mind to the man's mortal presence little mind as he pushed past them. Some of the dead sat by the riverside and gazed into the river, while others drowned themselves in it. The man stopped for a moment and gazed into the golden-dark river, transfixed by his horror and beauty, before he continued on with his aimless trek through the dead world.
The earth opened up and from it rose a king: this king was little more than a skeleton worse for wear, his skull cracked and the lower half of his jaw missing. Upon his head was a wondrous crown, adorned with jewels of all kinds, shining with a faint light, the brightness of which was almost heretical for the land of the dead.
As soon as he arose, two of the raven reapers, angels of death with blackened and sickly wings, descended from on high and attended him, bowing respectfully in his presence. Their crimson gazes were set upon the man's very soul.
A subtle breeze rolled through, and words left the king of the dead's nonexistent mouth; hollow echoes, whistles of silent wind through bone, proceeded from his skull.
"It weighs heavy upon you. Have you cast it off, yet?", the voice was surprisingly deep, as though the wind had dredged up the words from the bottom of a well.
Time slowed as the skeletal king raised what remained of his arm and pointed a bony finger at the man's left hand. He recoiled slightly at a sharp pain in his palm; his left hand was unconsciously balled into a fist around something; a perfectly-circular and pitch-black coin with an unnatural amount of heft to it now rested in his palm.
"Will you cast it off or trade it in, boy?" the skeletal king's empty eye sockets pierced his soul. Without eyes, the king saw through the man. Without a mouth, the king spoke.
"This coin is mine, right?" the man mustered up some courage to speak.
"Yess…the coin is yours."
Shadows that clouded his judgment were banished by the light of inspiration; or rather, a revelation was the proper word for the feeling that struck the man. He looked at the coin and then at the world around him. The path had been made clear to him.
"There is no point in tossing it aside," the man shook his head, "I gain nothing from that and lose everything. It's better to trade it in for that which is of equal value."
The man closed his upturned palm around the pitch-black coin and opened it again. The smooth, ebony coin had been transformed into an ivory counterpart whose raised texture resembled bone.
"A fine payment, indeed. Go then, and claim that which you have paid for."
The skeletal king crumbled with a hiss of wind, his crown rusted, and his jewels broke. His attendants took off into the gray sky, and the way was made clear. The man progressed downriver, and came upon a crypt of dark metal, illuminated by torches that shined with an otherworldly light. Upon this crypt were the names of others, names in many languages, some of which he didn't recognize. The crypt called out to him in a faint, powerful whisper. This was his destiny, and he needed only to claim it. He pressed his fingers upon the walls of the crypt. At first, the walls were as solid as any metal, but they soon yielded and his fingertips became like chisels against marble. His name etched into the crypt, the man fell, fell for so long, screaming all the while.