"Judith, what do you think you're doing?"
"We're doing what I could never do alone. We're stopping you."
"No! Guards, get in here!"
Darkness.
And then . . .
The man gasped, jerking his head up sharply as he woke up to the sound of knocking and sending a few papers cascading off his desk onto the ground. The man looked around, still half-asleep and taking in his surroundings.
Dim lighting, a ceiling fan slowly rotating above him. A rough bed surrounded by bottles of wine, a set of dillapidated cabinets in the corner. On the door, the words "Private Investigator" and on the wall beside him, a framed Ph.D. A set of windows on the opposite side, blinds blocking out most of the light directed at them.
With a bang, the door was kicked open. The silhouette of a figure stood in the open doorway, framed black against the light outside.
Groggily, the man reached for the .44 under his desk when he realized that the intruder was a woman. Frowning, he squinted at the figure. Stepping inside delicately, the woman seemed to take in her surroundings.
The man sent her a scathing look, motioning towards the CLOSED sign pinned up by what seemed to be a dart of some kind.
The woman caught his look and scoffed, putting her hands on her hips.
"You don't look the sort to turn down legitimate work."
It was true, and the man knew it. Hollow eyes, dirty clothes, grey-white hair, and a goatee that had grown into a short beard. He sighed, admitting defeat with a flourish of his hands.
The woman let the door swing shut and sashayed towards the window, looking through the gaps while withdrawing a cigarette from a pocket on her jacket.
The man raised an eyebrow, gesturing for the woman to continue. The woman raised the cigarette in her left hand, still looking at the window.
"How about we start with a light?"
Groaning, the man got up from his desk. He turned and walked towards the woman, clear on what the woman wanted him to do. As he got closer, he began to notice more details about the mysterious woman.
Short hair, pulled back by some kind of band. Pants, what appeared to be a jacket, and a belt. A belt. On a woman.
Wondering who exactly this client was, the man stopped next to her.
Snapping his fingers, a small flame enaminated from the man's hands. Reaching out to the cigarette, he lit it with a touch.
It illuminated a pale-brown face around 30 with features that the man would have found attractive if he had been younger.
As it were, he simply raised an eyebrow. The question was clear.
You got a name, miss?
The woman remained silent, bringing the cigarrete to her lips. Pondering a bit, she turned and blew a puff of smoke off to the side.
"Alyx. You can call me Alyx Vance."