Rating/Warning: PG (language)
Category: Gen - wing!fic
Notes: Part of my gen wing!fic verse.
Disclaimer: Written for entertainment purposes only. No money, no sue.
“You’re ruining your career. You do realise that, right?”
Henrickson looked up at Agent David Jannings and took his hand off his temple long enough to waggle his fingers in a be off with you gesture.
“I mean, c’mon. You sit down here in this dusty old basement for hours, sometimes days at a time.” Despite being dismissive of what Henrickson was doing, Jannings still seemed to always find a reason to meander down to the basement whenever Henrickson was immersed.
“I’m chained to a desk, Janny,” Henrickson sniffed. “They didn’t specify where.” When he said that he made an expansive gesture, taking in the rows of boxes and the small, cheap Formica table he was sitting at. The only thing he’d done to make his current residence homier was drag his own office chair down eight flights of stairs rather than sit in the wooden monstrosity from the seventies that had been his only other option.
“Don’t you find it creepy?” Jannings asked, wrinkling his delicate little nose. Henrickson found it a constant source of amusement that such an effete looking guy could kick the ass of nearly every single person in the building. Henrickson suspected Jannings cultivated the waif look on purpose just so more people would mess with him.
“I find it soothing,” Henrickson said. Despite his protestations otherwise, he found Jannings’ visits useful. Sometimes his mind would get stuck on a particular track and he needed the interruption to jolt it, get it playing a different tune.
“Cold cases, man,” Jannings sighed, crossing his arms over his chest and rocking back on his heels. “Hundreds of poor bastards whose killers are still walking around in the daylight.”
“Not always,” Henrickson mused. “Sometimes the guy’s been tagged for something different.”
“Chances of that are pretty slim,” Jannings dismissed. He then raised his eyebrows. “I’ve been meaning to ask. You lookin’ for something in particular?”
“Patterns,” Henrickson said. He ran a hand over the files he had spread out in front of him, something he’d pulled on a hunch. A priest with his throat slit wasn’t anything much, wouldn’t ping too many agent’s radars. They’d dismiss it as something the police should handle but Henrickson wasn’t so sure. He tapped one of the crime scene photos, an outside shot of a church, the preacher killed in the basement. His eyes found the very edge of the photograph and he stilled.
Henrickson breathed, fingers coming to rest on the car that was almost but not quite a blur at the edge of the picture. The big black car that he’d seen before. He just knew it.
“There’s always a pattern.”
They’d been laughing.
Debating stupid crap like who was hotter, Betty or Wilma. Sam had been circling around and Dean had been calling out. They thought they were alone and Dean could’ve kicked himself for not being more careful, more aware of their surroundings. With Sam up high like that, Dean had felt a kind of awesome invulnerability, like they would see the thing they were hunting way before it saw them.
Other hunters on the other hand, whole different story.
There’d been a kind of whisper-snick that Dean recognised but before he could call out he saw Sam jerk. All the paintball clay pigeon target practice in the world wouldn’t prepare Sam to dodge something he didn’t see. Jerked and fell, wings folded down around his body like a bird who’d hit a window.
Sam disappeared behind a warehouse and Dean ran for it. By the time he circled the building, slowed down by a chain link fence he had to vault, Sam was gone, nothing but the fading screech of tyres to say he was ever there.
Dean cursed long and loud, did a circuit of the clumped together buildings just in case he’d misjudged where Sam had fallen and called Sam’s name until he was hoarse. He dug out his cell phone and called Bobby and then Missouri because Sam was just gone and he needed help.
“Don’t look much like the ones on the state building.”
Sid looked over at Barney and rolled his eyes. “You were expecting something like in the cartoon?” When Barney just blinked at him blankly, Sid sighed. “How’d I get lumbered with such a moron?”
“’Cause you got the last moron killed?” Barney hazarded with a grin. “And nobody would put up with your stupid ass that wasn’t related.” He was digging into the takeout bag he’d brought back, rummaging like maybe he’d find a prize at the bottom. Sid snatched it away and held it behind himself when Barney made an abortive grab for it.
“Get your greasy mitts off my burger,” Sid snapped, turning so he could dump the food out on the small table in the corner of the room. Fries scattered across the surface and onto the floor and Barney made a whine of protest. “Did you bring the thorn shackles in?”
Barney bit his lip and looked back at the door. “Think they’re in the car.”
“Really?” Sid said. “Think you could scurry on out and fetch ‘em before this guy wakes up and kicks our asses?”
“He’s sure a big motherfucker,” Barney noted, edging around the tied form in the metal chair that was bolted to the floor. “Didn’t look so big up high like he was.”
“Stop staring and go get the shackles,” Sid ordered, giving Barney’s butt a kick on his way out the door. When the door rolled closed behind him, Sid turned back to their prisoner. The creature chose that moment to grumble and raise his head, blinking blearily in the dim light of the storage closet, the single incandescent globe not doing much to chase the shadows aside.
“Hey there sleepin’ beauty. You speak-y the English?” Sid prodded, retreating to the corner where they’d stowed their weapons and bringing his crossbow up. He already had a black birch arrow loaded.
“I… ah Christ,” the creature groaned when it shifted and the movement jolted its shoulder. Sid had left the arrow in and its left wing was pinned to its shoulder with the bolt. It had its arms fastened back behind it with normal handcuffs but Sid knew those wouldn’t hold long. The right wing came up and fanned out and Sid didn’t really know why it made him uneasy that the wings were white. Every other Gargoyle he’d bagged had had uniformly dirty-grey wings, mostly the colour of the stone they shifted into in the daylight. Usually there were horns or fangs as well but Sid had already pried the thing’s lips open and seen normal-looking teeth and its face was clean-shaven and almost sweet-looking.
He figured most monsters were good at adapting though.
“Where am I?” the creature groaned, dropping its chin to its chest. The wound in its shoulder was still bleeding sluggishly which was also pretty odd. Most Gargoyles regenerated which is why the bolt had been left in, the irritation from the wood supposed to keep the wound open.
Sid was getting a pretty bad feeling about the whole thing.
The roller-door on the storage space groaned upwards and Barney slid through it half-opened, yanking it shut behind him. When he saw the creature awake and Sid standing off to the side he jerked forward, concern on his face. “Aw geez, I leave you alone for a second and you get mesmerised?” His tone was full of complaint and worry in equal measure and morphed into confusion when Sid looked over his shoulder at him.
“I’m not sure this is a-”
“You guys going to tell me just what’s going on here?” The creature interjected.
“I’m starting to wonder if we should maybe ask you that,” Sid said, frowning. “You’re not a gargoyle, are you?”
“Not last time I checked,” the creature sniffed, sounding offended.
“Holy… we did not shoot down a goddamn angel… did we?” Barney yipped, panic tinging his tone. Sid turned a raised eyebrow on him.
“You wanna blaspheme a little more, just in case?” he invited, smacking Barney upside his head.
“Oh c’mon,” the creature grunted. “Do I look like an angel to you?”
“Um… yeah,” Sid admitted, scratching at the back of his head with the hand not holding the crossbow. The creature looked down at himself and then back up, grinning wryly.
“Oh, right. Yeah, sorry,” he allowed. “Look, you might not believe me but I’m a hunter. I’m assuming you guys are too if you were looking for the gargoyle.”
“Are you kidding me?” Sid said with a laugh. “Oh man, I’m so sorry.” He started forward but then hesitated. “Um, what’s with the wings though?”
“Got cursed,” the creature, no, guy said brightly. “Damn fairies. They’ll fall out in about a month. Pain in my ass, I can tell you.”
“Really?” Barney said, amazed. “Looked pretty useful to me.”
“Obviously not,” the guy said, clinking his cuffs on the back of the chair. “I’m Sam by the way.”
“Sid,” Sid introduced, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. “That’s Barney, my inept partner and cousin.”
“Who you callin’ inept? You’re the one who shot down a hunter!” Barney protested.
“Look, I’m not saying you don’t look trustworthy or nothing, but you know anyone we would too, who could vouch for you?” Sid asked. Sam raised his eyebrows and then nodded.
“Maybe,” he said, biting his lip. “You know a Bobby Singer?”
“I… think so,” Sid said, tapping at his chin with a finger. “Dirty baseball cap, good with exorcisms?”
“The very same.”
“Cool. I think I have his number around somewhere. He’s going to know who you are?”
“He’d better,” Sam confirmed, nodding. “My brother’s probably already called him to let him know I’m missing.”
When Bobby gave him a thumbs up after taking a call, Dean almost collapsed in relief. He made to snatch the phone but Bobby smacked his hands away and glared at him. Not Sam, he mouthed and Dean frowned at him.
“Who was it then?” Dean demanded as soon as Bobby hung up.
“Hunter named Sid. He and his cousin Barney specialise in cursed objects, shape shifters, that kind of thing. Gargoyles actually fall under both categories funnily enough.”
“Yeah, hilarious. What about Sam?”
“Well, since you two dumbasses were hunting a flying creature and they spotted your brother, they figured he was the gargoyle. Sam managed to talk them into calling me to vouch for him. I nearly told Sid he was one anyway. Might make you two knuckleheads think before you leap.”
“So we’re good? He’s okay?”
“I wouldn’t go getting all relieved quite yet. Sid and Barney aren’t the brightest bulbs in the box but they’re cunning and opportunistic. They get wind of Sam being anything other than a hunter on the sticky end of a curse and… well, I don’t know.”
“How do you mean?” Dean asked, the worry that had been draining from him ratcheting back up again.
“I mean, they specialise in gargoyles and you can’t kill those sons of bitches, only bind them to a building in their stone form. The stuff about gargoyles protecting property is true enough, bind a real one to your place and you sure as shit ain’t getting robbed. I’ve heard some rumors that those boys haven’t exactly been settling on where to bind the gargoyles they capture at random.”
“They’re selling gargoyles?” Dean asked, incredulous, then rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe I’m having a conversation where I have to say the word gargoyle more than once.”
“They probably don’t see the harm. I mean, as long as it’s bound anyway. They just seem to be a little… morally flexible about making some cash on the side.”
Dean made a disgusted noise as he picked up his jacket. “I can’t believe you of all people can see an okay side to what they’re doin’.”
“Why? Sid and Barney are a couple of generations removed from the killin’ that got their family into hunting, same as me. It’s a little hard to be fuelled by revenge for the death of a grandmother they never set eyes on.”
“Not all hunters-”
“No, I’m not saying they are. You’ve just got a very narrow world view is all. They’re not doing it to make the big bucks, just to keep going so far as I hear. You got your credit card scams and they have this.”
“They are in no way the same,” Dean grumbled, shrugging into his jacket and trying not to feel too annoyed that Bobby was defending hunters that were… profiteering. The fact that they were currently holding his brother had nothing to do with his automatic ire towards them… mostly.
“I’m not arguing with you about this. Let’s just go get your brother,” Bobby said, sounding a little peeved himself and Dean thought, wow, first official fight with Bobby. He knew his dad had them all the time and he always wondered just what triggered them. The difference between their reasons for hunting made everything a little clearer. Dean knew his dad was a purist and he supposed he was to.
Dean subscribed to the Spiderman school of thought. Action was his reward. He supposed he could understand people wanting to be Batman though.
Much cooler outfit.
Dean shook himself and followed Bobby out the door, grimacing when Bobby made his way to his broken-down, rusted piece of crap rather than the Impala. Bobby didn’t even check to see if he was following and Dean realised he was now being punished. Bobby knew him well, having to sit docilely in the passenger seat while they drove towards where his brother was being held captive was going to drive him fucking nuts.
This was the Bobby he could see pulling a shot gun on someone who’d irked him enough.
Henrickson kicked at the road dust under his heels. He was missing something, he just knew it. Tracking the black car across the country hadn’t been easy, even for him, but while canvassing the surrounding area kept putting it back around the general location he was currently standing in, there was nothing there.
“Looking for something?”
Henrickson startled and jerked his head around. He could’ve sworn there was nothing but flat plain and road for miles when he’d pulled up but a single man had approached and was standing near the front of his car. The man was young, no more than maybe twenty five and has black hair and dark blue eyes, a colour Henrickson was pretty sure he’s never seen before.
He noticed things like that.
The man was wearing a suit despite the heat of the day, close-cut and black, jacket and pants so dark it was hard to tell where one stopped and the other started, only when he moved and the line was broken. Henrickson looked down at himself, rolled up sleeves and sweat stains standing out stark against his shirt, once white but now going creamy yellow because he’d been wearing it for three days straight.
“You could say that,” he allowed, watching the man slink, and there was no other way to describe it, along the side of his car, trailing fingers along the metal strip. There was nothing around, the man had appeared silently and he didn’t seem to have a vehicle of any description. Henrickson let his hands drop to his waist and edge backwards, making the move easy like he was just changing position. His gun and holster were in the car but he had a blade strapped to his spine for emergencies and a gun at his ankle. Something about the man was making his skin prickle and Henrickson was a big believer in gut instinct.
The man stopped his approach, as if sensing the unease it was causing and lifted his hands, soft palms held out. A wry smile touched his lips. “That’s interesting because I am too. There’s supposed to be a town right around here but it’s the weirdest thing. I can’t seem to find it.”
Henrickson nodded slowly because that’s what he’d heard too. It was supposed to be called something hokey, little one-bar town that no one ever left. It wasn’t on any maps and it certainly wasn’t in the immediate area. The man was tapping one finger on his chin and looking curious. “You see, the thing is, I’m pretty sure I know why I can’t find it but what’s perked my interest is… why can’t you?”
Henrickson was getting a little tired of the one-man-weirdo show and he was about to say as much when he blinked and the man was right there, next to him with a hand over the blade at his spine. “You got a little… devil in you maybe?” the man purred and everything went dark.
“We going somewhere?”
Sid looked at Sam, who’d been starting to get a little edgy about still being handcuffed to the chair, and then away again. He was packing fast, weapons and clothes. Barney had already shuffled out with his own stuff.
“Hey!” Sam barked and there was real worry on his face now.
“Sorry,” Sid finally sighed, scrubbing a hand over the back of his head. “We… made some calls. Nothing personal.”
“What’s not personal?” Sam demanded. He was upright and pressing forward, the chair groaning. The bolt had been removed from his shoulder and it and the wing had been strapped up as best as they could manage with him still trussed. His movement had obviously broken the scab forming over his shoulder because a patch of red suddenly bloomed on the gauze, soaking through.
“Someone else nabbed the gargoyle we were after and we’re in a little bit of a desperate situation,” Sid explained, holding his hands out in a got no choice gesture. “We’re skating the edge here and our guy… has interest.”
“I don’t understand,” Sam said, face going blank. “My brother and Bobby are on their way. You talked to Bobby, you know I’m a hunter, like you.”
“Not like me pal,” Sid dismissed. “I don’t buy into all that solidarity bullshit.”
“You’re…wait,” Sam said, realisation dawning on his features. “Are you… selling me?”
“It sounds so… bad when you say it like that,” Sid said, pulling a face. “Look, we’re a little desperate and our guy is expecting product. We don’t want him going somewhere else.”
“He’s going to notice I’m not a gargoyle,” Sam deadpanned, rolling his eyes.
“Not so much, no,” Sid said and Sam’s mouth dropped open. “See, the funny thing is, the binding we use works on anything. Long as you got wings, our guy isn’t going to know squat.” Sid moved closer to Sam and patted him on his bad shoulder, Sam flinching and cursing under his touch. “And you’re not exactly going to be able to explain to our customer the mistake, you know, being stone and all.”
“My brother,” Sam growled. “Is going to kill you, resurrect you and then kill you again, slowly.”
“We’re going to be long gone by the time he gets here,” Sid dismissed, going back to his bag and retrieving a small, black satchel. When he laid out a syringe and a vial of clear liquid, Sam’s struggles increased. “And given the rarity of free gargoyles these days, thanks to yours truly I don’t mind saying, you’re our retirement sale.”
“Have you… have you done this before?” Sam asked, sounding appalled.
“Not exactly,” Sid said, sticking the syringe into the vial and loading it. “I mean, we weren’t fortunate enough the last time to actually find a guy with wings already.”
“Don’t do this,” Sam said, his voice low and even, making Sid’s skin prickle. “I’m telling you now, you won’t survive doing this.”
“I’ll be thinking of you as I’m sipping daiquiris on a beach somewhere,” Sid promised, plunging the needle into Sam’s forearm.
“Okay, maybe not.”
Dean was standing in front of the storage locker with his hands tucked up under his armpits and his face blank. There were squares of dust on the floor and a single chair bolted into the concrete in the middle of the space, a pair of handcuffs hooked over one arm. Someone had cleared out of this place, and fast.
He looked sideways and saw Bobby remove his cap so he could scrub a hand over his head. The manager had been down and had helpfully confirmed that the previous renters of the locker wouldn’t be back if they’d taken their padlock with them. He then proceeded to bitch about the floor being damaged and Bobby had herded him clear down the hall just when Dean most felt like turning around and socking the guy.
His phone chirruped in his pocket and for a second Dean squeezed his eyes shut tight, like he could mentally will Sam’s name onto his caller id. He tried not to let his disappointment and the edge of panic he was starting to feel bleed through into his voice when he answered after seeing it was Melinda.
“What’s wrong?” she asked as soon as Dean answered.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Melinda huffed, sounding impatient. “That Hell Hound was fine up until this morning, gorging himself and chasing my chickens until they were all practically having strokes. He won’t stop barking and crying and dammit all if he just knows when something is up with you boys.”
Dean put his fists to his eyes and rubbed, feeling horribly tired. He would’ve like nothing better than to bury his face in the scruff of their dog, mostly because he had come to associate dog with Sam. The addition of Hell Hound to their house had been nothing more than adding a second puppy.
“He’s been taken by hunters,” Dean admitted, hating the way it sounded. Dean wouldn’t rest until he had Sammy safe and back in Sanctuary, but the fact that he was taken by people who knew what they were doing added another dimension to his fear.
“Taken? What do you mean by taken?” Melinda demanded, her voice tinging with worry. Dean winced. Ever since Freddy had left town, Melinda had become increasingly dependant on them both. Just knowing he and Sam were still in town and safe seemed to go a long way towards making Melinda’s sadness ease off just a little. Dean adored Melinda and he was pretty sure she felt the same about them both and the risk of losing someone else so soon…
“I mean someone shot him down while we were out on a job and now they’re doing… god knows what with him,” Dean gritted.
“You don’t know where he is?”
“Isn’t that just what I-?”
“No, wait,” Melinda said, sounding suddenly distracted. “Wait!”
Bobby was looking at Dean with puzzlement. Dean just shrugged at him and turned his back on the empty storage locker. He didn’t want to think about Sam chained to the chair in the middle because then he was likely to throttle the first person he came across. Red was already tinging his vision but he knew rage wouldn’t get him very far. He had to think. He was so busy trying to calm down that he almost missed what Melinda said.
“- chipped him.”
“I said, the last time I checked him over I chipped him,” Melinda repeated and Dean blinked, something in his face causing Bobby to step forward.
“Melinda, I like you a whole lot but if you don’t start making sense I’m going to do something I might regret,” Dean warned.
“Okay, you know how you can put a microchip in a pet with the owner’s details and that kind of thing?” Melinda prompted and when Dean made a noise of acknowledgement she steamrollered ahead. “A bunch of cats were going missing in town and we couldn’t figure out why. I modified a bunch of id chips with a GPS so we could track any that disappeared.”
“You did what?”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” Melinda sniffed. “I went to MIT before I decided I liked animals more.”
“You…” Dean was at a loss. “Okay, point though?”
“You came over to dinner I think maybe three weeks after I chipped all the cats and you were talking about how Sam was flying further out and you were worrying and… I just… I told him I was giving him a shot for wing rot. I meant to tell you but then… stuff happened.”
Dean grimaced, knowing exactly what stuff Melinda was referring to but then his mind latched onto just exactly what she was telling him. “You can track Sam?”
“Yes! Just give me five minutes and I’ll have a location for you.”
“Mel… I…” Dean was at a complete loss. He knew something like a tracking chip would be just exactly the thing to make Sam’s head explode, invasion of privacy and all that but if it was about to save his life…
“Hang on,” Dean said. “You gave me a flu shot at the same time.”
“Um, yes, that was… that was just a flu shot,” Melinda assured but Dean didn’t quite believe her.
Sam was chained to the stone plinth they had picked out, on top of Sid’s client’s building. Driving rain was making it hard to read the incantation but Sid persevered, wanting to get it over with. He was well aware that Barney wasn’t too comfortable with their arrangement but it was a little late to be delicate.
Sid turned his head slightly, expecting to still see Barney by his side but instead there was a man with short hair plastered to his head, about six foot and with the biggest gun Sid had ever seen pointed at his temple. “Uh… hi,” Sid said, swallowing hard.
“The only reason you’re still breathin’” the man grated through clenched teeth, flicking his head slightly to get the water out of his eyes. “Is because it’s too good for you to go quick.”
“Dean!” Sid turned his head sideways and saw Bobby Singer, holding Barney with an arm locked around his neck.
“I’m halfway through,” Sid yelled over the driving rain. Bobby advanced on him, dragging Barney with him.
“So, stop,” Dean instructed, cold rage in his voice but Sid blinked at him and then looked back at Bobby.
“I’m halfway through,” he repeated to Bobby, hoping the older man would get what he was saying. Sid suspected that he was about to get shot in the head despite what Dean had said.
Realisation dawned on Bobby’s features and he looked from Sid to the stone platform and back again. Dean was looking between them, his features tugging down into frown. “And I said stop-!”
“No, Christ!” Bobby swore, clocking Barney over the head, quick and efficient and letting him drop like a sack of clothes. “Not if he’s already started.”
“The binding to the building is the last step in the ritual,” Sid yelled as thunder threatened to drown out everything. “The incantation to revert the gargoyle to stone is first. It works from the inside out. If I stop now your brother will die because his heart, lungs, everything is already changing!”
“You expect me to believe-”
“He’s right,” Bobby called, putting a hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean looked stricken, his gaze finally finding his brother on the platform and Sid noticed a tremor start up in his gun hand.
“There’s a café called Magill’s about twenty minutes from here. You guys go on and call from it when you get there. I have the number in my phone so it’ll come up on my caller id.”
“You think I’m going to leave you here to turn my brother into a freakin’ statue?” Dean demanded, looking horrified.
“If you want me to finish, yes,” Sid replied, snapping the book he’d been working from closed. “Look, there’s a way to reverse this and I’m sure you’ll find it. Might take you a couple of weeks but you will and he’ll be fine, safer than he’s ever been in the meantime.”
“Why don’t I just make it clear to you that if you don’t finish right the fuck now, I’m going to pitch you off this damn roof?”
“Considering the moment I finish, I expect you won’t be able to fight the urge to do that anyway, I’m going to take my chances,” Sid said, lifting his chin. “I finish, me and Barney here get a head start, it’s the only way this is going to go down.”
Dean’s hand came up, lightning quick and gripped Sid around the throat. He pushed his thumb into Sid’s windpipe and leaned forward. “You’re sure there’s a way to reverse it?” he growled. “Because if there isn’t, you better believe that I will hunt you down to the ends of the earth.”
“I believe that,” Sid nodded. “That’s why you can believe me.”
Bobby’s grip tightened on Dean’s shoulder. “C’mon,” he urged. “I know a guy we can call. Probably have everything we need before Sid here is even done.”
“I don’t want to even look at it” Melinda said with a small shudder.
Dean looked up from his enormous slab of chocolate cake to raise an eyebrow at her. He and Sam were sitting in her kitchen. She’d been going a little overboard with the baking over the last few weeks and both boys were more than happy to help her out in that department. In the middle of the table were a couple of Polaroid pictures. Dean picked one up absently.
“It is pretty damn creepy,” Dean allowed, rubbing his thumb over the surface. It was a picture of Sam, crouched down at the edge of the roof of the high rise where they’d found him. He overlooked the city, wings fanned out and a snarl on his features. He was startlingly grey, one hand planted between his feet, looking like he was about to leap.
“I don’t remember much,” Sam said, mouth half-full, reaching for the glass of milk Melinda had set in front of him. “I just… I was really cold.”
“So, maybe you guys should think about sticking close by here,” Melinda urged, making both Sam and Dean look at her. “You’re safe here and…” she shrugged, making a helpless gesture with her hands.
“What’s going to happen to Sid and Barney?” Sam asked, grimacing at his unsubtle change in topic.
“Bobby’s put the word out to other hunters,” Dean said with a small, vicious smile. “I don’t think they’re going to get very far.”
“I’m just glad you’re okay,” Melinda interjected and Sam grinned at her.
“Always will be as long as Dean’s around,” Sam said and smirked when Dean ducked his head, the tips of his ears going pink.
“Stop being so… mushy,” he said with a wave of his hand.
“You’re ruining your career. You do realise that, right?”
Henrickson looked up and blinked. Jannings was standing over him, idly paging through one of the files he had spread out on the chipped Formica desk in the basement of their head quarters. “I’m sorry?” He rubbed his hands into his eyes. He didn’t remember falling asleep but maybe…
“Wow, I didn’t realise you just came down here to sleep,” Jannings said with a grin. There was something up with his eyes. They were… too blue. Jannings leaned over the desk, a missing person’s file sliding under Henrickson’s nose. There was a business card paper-clipped to the top. “You’ve got work to do,” he said and when his tongue darted out to wet his lips, the tip of it was forked.
When Jannings had left, Henrickson opened the file that had been pushed in front of him, tugging the business card free. The business card read -Missouri, Mystic and Mind Reader – the future can be yours. Henrickson set it aside and ran his thumb over the name on the missing person’s file.