The Spanish sun did not beat down on his shoulders like the two suns of Rhy'din did, but kissed his skin the way a lover might: an occasional sharp bite of heat, soothed by errant breezes coming up from the bay. Sinjin Fai adjusted his sunglasses, straightened his back, and looked out over the writhing mass of a city that was modern Barcelona.
He was leaning against the railing of an office balcony in Greater Barcelona, where the buildings reached up to touch the sky, while he pensively smoked a cigarette. Nearly every day for the past five months he walked out onto this balcony, observed the sky for a half-hour or so, and waited. There were exceptions, of course. Days when he reached through the thing facade of normalcy and crawled back to Rhy'din again, found himself in his own bed with his own cat and his own lover. He remembered even seeing Ali once, though the memory was vague at best. But business was business, and Rhy'din would move on fine without Sin stretching out a leg to trip it every once in awhile.
He was getting to the end of his cigarette when a Door opened in the middle of the air beside him.
Natural energy sucked in to a point in space just to his left, clustered and then burst out into a space wide enough for a tall, thin man to walk through. His red hair was tied back and his expression was sour; it made Sin grin every time he saw it. "You know," the Spaniard began, his accent pleasingly thick, "you're going to die with a scowl on your face that no man can fix."
"It would be my last pleasure," Marcus drawled flatly as the Door shut behind him. "We have a problem."
--
Two hours later, in a dark corner alley just north of the Red Dragon, shadows coalesced and formed the shape of a man. He had changed his suit out for his proper dress code: all black, with a beaten old trench coat thrown over his shoulders despite the weather. In one hand, he carried a machete, and in the other, he had a newspaper.
"Well," Sin told the alleyway. "Well. Guess we have some work to do."
He was leaning against the railing of an office balcony in Greater Barcelona, where the buildings reached up to touch the sky, while he pensively smoked a cigarette. Nearly every day for the past five months he walked out onto this balcony, observed the sky for a half-hour or so, and waited. There were exceptions, of course. Days when he reached through the thing facade of normalcy and crawled back to Rhy'din again, found himself in his own bed with his own cat and his own lover. He remembered even seeing Ali once, though the memory was vague at best. But business was business, and Rhy'din would move on fine without Sin stretching out a leg to trip it every once in awhile.
He was getting to the end of his cigarette when a Door opened in the middle of the air beside him.
Natural energy sucked in to a point in space just to his left, clustered and then burst out into a space wide enough for a tall, thin man to walk through. His red hair was tied back and his expression was sour; it made Sin grin every time he saw it. "You know," the Spaniard began, his accent pleasingly thick, "you're going to die with a scowl on your face that no man can fix."
"It would be my last pleasure," Marcus drawled flatly as the Door shut behind him. "We have a problem."
--
Two hours later, in a dark corner alley just north of the Red Dragon, shadows coalesced and formed the shape of a man. He had changed his suit out for his proper dress code: all black, with a beaten old trench coat thrown over his shoulders despite the weather. In one hand, he carried a machete, and in the other, he had a newspaper.
"Well," Sin told the alleyway. "Well. Guess we have some work to do."