Wolfy's Story

He stretched, his buttoned vest wrinkling. A few cracks of his spine did the trick. Even harsh administrators like himself had to relieve themelves of a long shuttle ride. The man was of tan skin, and black curly hair. He appeared of Indian, or Middle-Eastern descent. But, that's all it was: An appearance. He was Erutin, himself. He was dressed in something akin to the attire of a waiter: A grey vest matched with a white cuff-linked shirt, and grey pants.

A scrutinizing gaze was casted upon the boy, and the other man, of whom were both mingling up ahead of the platform. "You there!" He called out to the man. This Erutin had missed whatever mysterious incident had just occured. "Where do I go to get to Dev'Eru?" He looked around, obviously unsure of which direction to proceed.

"Hey!" Terrence, this was the man's preferred name, shouted at the man, once again. "Sir? Are you alright?" He didn't jog after the man, but merely made a brisk walk toward him. However, he was halted by the abnormal darkness on the ground. He stared down, and looked ahead to the man. "Of course, something always happens." He had been no stranger to the strange. He, in-fact, knew a man worth the very title of 'stranger danger.'

He eased toward the man with a cautioned step. "Just... relax." His words trailed along softly to possibly soothe the man's mind.

All Mr. Yatata did was run around turning loose small objects into butterflies. Sadly this made Mr. Yatata bored, so he told his wand to teleport him and his cat to Gambit's Bar. They then disappear in a puff of smoke.

James didn't respond to Terrence's inquiries as he vomited up a thick black stench. One of his hands slid from the floor to his stomach, splattering the dark substance across his uniform as he clutched himself.

Hregh... hercchh... help...

he heaved, trying to gain footing underneath himself.

It was at this moment that the walls in the room began to burn away, despite no apparent heat. It started with the soft grey paint, which singed and burned before peeling away and evaporating into ash. The metal underneath was exposed, and it too began to glow and melt away under the effects of something unseen.

The monitors James had been assigned to flickered and flashed under some sort of energy surge. Their panels smoked and sparked, emitting a foul odour as the plastic insulation vaporized under the same influence as the rest of the room.

James looked up towards Terrence, his eyes clouded over and smattered with flecks of blood. He wasn't there anymore, but there was something behind those glowing orbs, and it wasn't comforting.

Are the characters all technically supposed to be heading into the Atria?

The vast catering system allowed for just one more hard working server to waltz through a crowd of the more well-heeled denizens of Terra. A lean, thin man with flawless dark skin hovered about the affluent chuckles of guests. He was sharply dressed in tightly fitted evening wear.

His hand held perfectly balanced a tray of wine glasses, as he towered them in the air to avoid spilling any on the incoming guests in the Atria. Every so often, he would offer one to interrupt any idle wall-flower. A bright smile, and astute nod followed after every passing gown and tux. His dark eyes caught sight of Director Lebrun, and Drulović. Though, they had already been served by the looming NPA. A strong foot pivoted him to the opposite right to let the server maneuver his way through the crowd to loop around and flank the two TNG representatives with a warm greeting. He would avoid even looking at the agents.

"Mr. Lebrun, and Ms. Drulović, I'm sure these gentlemen have taken care of you, yes?" He looked between them, nodding with a grin. "My name is Terrence, and if there is anything else you need, anything at all, all you have to do is ask." He blinked his eyes, as they almost fluttered enoguh for him to be laughing. His voice carried a smooth, accentuated tone.

Terrence simply gave a receding nod, and disappeared upon the address from Davrell. He kept a close eye on Lebrun, and followed subtley behind the old man during the address, amidst the remarks of Joran. His steps grew to travel with haste after the Director. Terrence slipped his fingers into the front pocket of his dinner jacket, though nothing in sight was retrieved.

Finally, he was directly behind the wheel chair. He slipped closely behind the director, laid an arm across the old man's shoulders. Using sleight of hand, a tightly rolled trim of paper was slipped into Lebrun's front pocket. He stepped in-front of the Director, and offered him a smile.

"Mr. Lebrun, perhaps you didn't hear me, but if you wish for any other refreshments, then please don't hesitate to ask." He stood there for a moment, before hearing the voice of Davrell. Terrence made an idle retreat to serve the other guests; a quiet Catira, in particular.

Terrence finally managed to reach the little vampiress, of whom he caught staring so intently at the subsidiary waiter. He drew up beside the opposite waiter, and smirked between them. "I believe this one might be craving something a little stronger, than what we're serving." He looked at Catira, and pleased the air with a warm smile. "If you wish to, I'm sure they have a greater variety of refresments at the buffet table."

Terrence, just another server, turned on his heels, and poked out his elbow. "I can usher you there, if you wish." The tray of fragile wine filled glasses was still carefully balanced atop his palm.

"I heard Dr. Davrell took it into account to put out a fine bottle of blood." He added with a smile. His brow arched to signify his asumption she was a vampire. He had seen such eyes, before.

"Oh, my apologies, miss." He nodded deeply in reply. He began to escort her through the crowd. He was found to be very light on his feet. His figure seemed to flow through the crowd with the girl as a fish in the sea.

And, then they came upon the alluring sight of a long, stretched table, which was littered with delights: Pre-made cocktails stood at sparkling attention, like the ones Terrence carried across the room, on the table. Little garnish desserts were piled on one corner, while several chopped turkeys, and hams laid plump in the center. Side items to with it all were too many to count, as the buffet table was layered with whatever the guests might imagine.

"None needed," He quoted back to her in a comical manner. "Please, help yourself," He shuffled over te a corner of the table to set downt he tray of glasses, and relieve himself of such a pressure. He drew his index finger to the plates and silver-ware, of which were right next to the cocktails. "There are other drinks, as well." He blinked in essence of the girl's subtle confusion. "Did... you need help with anything else, miss?"

Terrence glanced over the drinks with a furrowed brow. He examined each group, as there were a variety. "Well, you appear young, so I'm guessing a Chocolate cocktail." He walked along the edge of the long table, and scooped up a small glass. The drink contained whip cream with graded chocolate on-top, drizzled down with chocolate syrup, and infused with a chocolate liquor. He held the glass to her at eye level for her to examine. "I think it suits you." He chuckled.

"How is it?" He asked. Wrinlkles caused crevests on his previously smooth forehead, upon the rise of his brows. "I hope I wasn't wrong." His tone slid into disdain.

A grand smile was displayed by Terrence. "Excellent, miss." He splayed a hand and motined it toward the table. "If you wish for more, then please don't worry about asking. The food and drink at this table is free for all." He prepped a step toward Catira, and extended his hand for a shake. "My night happens to be coming to an end, miss Catira. It was a pleasure serving you, this evening." He retracted his hand and clasped his palms to lock his fingers.

"Well, the Detente spans far and wide in the city. I'm sure we'll bump into each other soon enough." He nodded, feeling quite genuine, and closured. He waived her goodbye, and stepped off into the crowd to disappear out the side entrance.

-Occurred on 2nd Night: Before Aschen Rescue-

"Exactly forty-eight hours have passed, since the kidnappers brought a certain Wing City officer to Eden, and hid her away."

The camera view bounced around, as a man, of whom appeared to be of Indian ethnicity, was recorded somewhere in the snowy, more rocky area of Eden. He acted as if he was on a hunt, or "safari" to search for the hideout. The man was dressed in a grey polyester jacket, and cargo pants; suitable clothing to scour the gritty trails of a mountain.

"We've been notified that the officer was kidnapped away from her Wing City apartment, only to be met with gruesome torture from the kidnappers."

---

The video flickered back to view. The sound was initially scratchy, and the quality was gritty at best, but it evened out upon view of a dimly lit cabin. The man's back was to the camera. He looked around curiously at the dull scene of a bright fire-place flickering in the off corner of a living room. Suddenly, his head snapped upward, and the camera zoomed in on a flight of stairs. There was clutter upstairs, though whatever went on was unbeknownst to the visitors down stairs.

He looked back at the camera. "Try to stay quiet," He whispered, before slowly walking ahead. He watched out for all the stray pieces of furniture; standing lamps, and the small coffee table in the center of the living room. He stepped up one stair, and it creaked. The next step, and step after, also followed with a creak. He shook his head at the decrepit wood beneath. The clutter upstairs stopped. The camera motion stopped. And, what was sure to be viewed as the "reporter," of the scene, had also stopped all movement. The creaking of a door above echoed throughout the cabin. Slow, heavy steps clunked against the second floor. The man took one step backwards down the stairs. His hand gripped the oak railing; the camera zoomed in on this, but just briefly, before returning view to the top of the stair-case.

It all seemed like a corny horror flick.

Two boots came into view at the top, of the stairs and they stopped there. The man looked up, but didn't say anything. He took another step back, before finally uttering his explanation for actually being inside such a place. "Hi, my name is-" He was cut off, as the sight of a hand-gun popped up on the screen. The reporter raised a hand in rebuttal of the gun. "Hey, wait, you don't want to do that. Listen, we-"

The man standing at the top of the stairs was clothed in complete black; black gloves were the first to come in sight, then the cargo pants, next the figure fitting underarmour shirt, and last was the gasmask. The goggle lenses of the mask flared in the dim light as two red orbs. They glared across the screen, when the masked man rushed the reporter.

Suddenly, the reporter's back was bashed into the camera lens. Several loud groans haunted the audio. It could be assumed the masked man was beating the intruder to the ground. The camera had rolled from its initial view of the staircase, and landed on the floor, only to be stuck recording the fireplace.

A man's strong, but fearful yell and brash noises of a scuffle had resonated equally in the background. Suddenly, a loud thump to the floor caused the camera's view to jiggle. Footsteps followed, and came in closer, as they sounded on the recording.

---

There was a scratchy sound in the audio, as the camera flicked back on. A dark figure overshadowed the view, but stepped away to reveal the perspiring face of the reporter. His dark skin shined furiously under the bright bedroom light above. He was in a bedroom, and there was a chair right behind him, which fostered the blurry image of someone sitting in it. "L-Ladies and gentleman of Wing C-..." He gulped anxiously, as so much stress had already been exhausted upon him. His eyes glanced at the assumed figure behind the camera. "W-What, ... What exactly did you want me to s-say...?"

A man's voice sounded from behind the camera. "Report the situation. Give them your name, your affiliation, and tell them the story."

The reporter looked back to the camera, his eyes fixated on the lens, as he seemed to be staring deep into the crowd of viewers. "This is Terrence Wolf reporting from an unknown location in the country of Eden. I'm here in the place where..." He pulled up a sheet of paper to read the scribbled words. "Uh.. Here in the place where Wing City Police Officer, Casey Delancy, also known officially as 'Bethany Foster,' is being kept hostage." He looked back up to the camera lens, before licking the douses of sweat from his upper lip. His eyes told a tale of fear of how the situation might escalate at any moment. "Her kidnappers shall not be named, at this time, but..." He stepped out of the shot, and the image of Casey sat in the chair behind him came into view. The camera zoomed in to focus on her face. Terrence continued with the dialogue. "As you can see, she is here, and according to her kidnappers, she has been treated fairly. I..." He looked to whoever was standing behind the camera, again. "Is she supposed to say something...?" He almost felt a sense of degradation asking such a question, but there was mention of her reading a message.

The voice from behind the camera sounded, once more. "Casey Delancy..." It began. "There is a paper in your hands. It has a very important message written on it. Please, recite it." The words were very precise, and distant. It was a demand.

"I'd like to politely tell you to go fuck yourself." she replied from her position in the chair, her eyes gazing with certain ferocity not at the camera, but at the man standing behind it.

The camera zoomed out. Then a tall, dark figure stomped ahead of the camera's view and stood right in front of Casey. The shot outlined him looking down at her, though his face and body were completely covered in black; it was the masked man. He stood there for a long, silent minute. Terrence looked in-between them, fearfully clamping his jaw tightly shut.

"Hey, don't do anything you'll regret. Please, don't do it-" The reporter pleaded in vain. The masked man had lifted his fist within the second of the puny man's words, and drilled it toward Casey's left jaw three times over.

Her face rocketed to the side, blood and saliva spilling from her mouth with the last of the three blows. She stared, gasping for breath as her eyes gazed unseeing towards the opposite wall. She could feel the pain, feel the swelling in her face, before she looked up at Proxy lazily and offered a lop-sided smile.

"And here I thought you were just dicking around."

"Read it." He demanded, again. Her blood glistened like oil on the knuckles of his glove. Terrence could only stare on in fright. His jaw dropped the moment the first punch was thrown.

"What are you doing!" He yelled at the man furiously, trying to hold himself back from attacking. The reporter knew he'd be shot in the head upon any offensive move.

Proxy reached under his arm to unholster his pistol. He pointed it at Casey's head. The cold steel of the barrel was pressed against her forehead. "Read it."

Casey glared angrily at Proxy, feeling the vision on her right eye obstruct from the swelling of her skin. Blinking slowly, she adjusted her view, looking down at the wording as a scowl fixed itself to her mouth.

Proxy stepped out from the view, so the camera could be adjusted properly on Casey.
"Good Evening, Wing City," she began, her eyes scanning the words as she read aloud. "'My name is Casey Delancy. A few short days ago I was kidnapped from my home. While unconscious, I was taken to an undisclosed location and chained to the ceiling, where I was ...'" Her expression soured, and she hesitated."'...stripped naked, humiliated and tortured.'"

Rolling her jaw, she looked up at Proxy. "This is cute."

Proxy, once again, rushed toward Casey; his pistol in hand. He flipped the pistol to hold it by the barrel. He swung the butt of the grip at Casey's right temple to club her skull in, repeatedly.

"STOP!"Terrence shouted at the top of his lungs. The receiving speakers of the audio had almost burst.

Proxy stared back at him, immediately flipping the gun right side up to aim the barrel straight at the reporter's temple. "Interfere, again, and you will be killed." No contempt was found in his words, as this Proxy was in every sense of the phrase, a 'cold, stone killer.'

Terrence stared down the barrel of the pistol, as he clenched his fist in a shaking fear. "I'm the reporter here. Let me read the rest of it."

Proxy didn't make a move. He simply nodded, and looked toward Casey. "Give it to him."

The woman didn't, and couldn't respond. She was dazed, slumped over in the chair with blood seeping from her temple. The letter in question had fallen to the floor, stained with her blood. Moaning softly, she mustered the energy to spit at Proxy's feet.

Proxy did not respond with another attack. It would seem to Casey only, that he gazed ominously back through the mask. Terrence kept his hands up, and squatted down to pick up the paper. Proxy stepped back, and trained the gun on the man; only the gun could be seen in the camera's view, now.

"Ahem," Terrence cleared his throat. He glanced down at Casey. His eyes were filled with pity of the poor woman. The blood smeared over the page, as he straightened the crinkled paper. He read over what Casey, trying to find the place where she stopped.

"Uh, okay. It continues to read in reference to Casey, 'And, I was brought here, because of one former Wing City detective: Randin D. Kaye. It was his irresponsible attitude that put me in this position. I will only survive this, if he wants me to. Randin, if you're watching, please know that they will be waiting for you. If you do not come, then they will come for you. I am here in Eden. Please, save me.'"

Terrence looked over the page, one more time, to make sure nothing was missed. He began to shake his head in slight confusion. He looked back up at Proxy with no remark of the lingering mystery. "That's all it says."

Proxy flicked his wrist at the camera. "Finish your report."

A grimace washed over the man's face. The paper was crumpled up in his hands, as fear was clearly replaced with anger. "This... is Terrence Wolf. We'll be back shortly with more."

Proxy's hand-gun disappeared off sight of the view.

---

The camera view was twirling around, and so wobbly and blurry that the viewer might get motion sickness. Finally, the constant swiveling and spinning ceased all movement. It settled on the image of Proxy and Casey. Proxy scooped up a bloodied Casey from the chair. "Keep your eyes open." He commanded what was nearly impossible for her. "You are about to meet someone very important, Casey Delancy."

Metal soled boots clunked on the cabin floor, above them the tall, sinister form of Jack Thirteen. Metal fangs gleamed in his grin, the black length of his sword tapping at the shoulder of his mottled crimson coat. "Why hello there, pretty."

Stepping around to the woman's side, fingers pale as a corpse brushed against her cheek, flakes of blood sprinkling onto his hand. He brought this up to his lips, long tongue flickering out to lick it clean. Stooping down so that his head was level with hers, the manic cannibal chuckled softly. "Know who I am, little Casey?"

She shuddered in disgust, her eyes closing as she turned her head away from his touch.
"I don't particularly care." she murmured through gritted teeth, pushing her toes into the ground as she attempted to put distance between herself and the new figure.

Proxy held Casey steady by the shoulders, in-case she collapsed. He examined the man closely. He was not informed as to who was coming along, aside from Hatchet.

Terrence's voice sounded from the background of the audio. He was put in charge of recording, now. "She was beaten senseless by that monster." He spat. Proxy didn't regard the reporter. He didn't need to excuse the very reason he was there.

Then, a familiar face to all stepped into view; the camera view was adjusted to provide a wide shot of all four subjects. A slightly slender man in an expensive black suit. His stature and gelled hair-do might cause one to appraise him as a rock star, or just a very odd man in-general. His skin was so pale that a glare from the lighting caused a flared shot.

"We should let her go, now." He began. A very neutral tone to his voice. He drew closer the man splashed in crimson. "There wasn't any agreement on killing her. You know I don't want blood on my hands." He looked up to Jack. A concerned brow furrowed at the man.

Hatchet folded his arms in defense of any rebuttal.

"Then walk away." A sharp turn of his head, deadly pale eyes locking onto Hatchet with an unusual intensity. The grin faded, replaced by a scowl. Subtly, fingers tightened on the hilt of his blade, as his other hand slid back to Casey's face, caressing her cheek before gripping her chin. "It's not like you to get cold feet. After all..."

Jack's smile returned, the twisted grin of a man unhinged. "I certainly don't mind blood on mine. I wear this jacket for a reason, you know."

Hatchet began to shake his head. "This is ridiculous!" He growled back. "Look at her! She was only supposed to be used to get Randin." He pointed at Casey. Then, he snapped his head to glare at Terrence. "You! Turn that thing off! This is over." He began to rush Terrence.

Proxy stood by to wait for an order. Very slowly, he slipped his pistol from the holster, and pulled back the hammer. With discretion, he held the gun down at his side. He didn't know who to point it at, yet.

Casey could only glare into Jack's face with a defiance she didn't realize she had. She'd been beaten, humiliated, and injured beyond recognition. The least she could do was look the man in the eye and let him know that she wasn't afraid of him. Yet, Hatchet's sudden intervention had her thoroughly confused. She glanced from Jack, to him, to the camera, and wondered if this was all just a ruse to somehow get Hatchet off the hook.

"Damn right this is over." she muttered, twisting her face to get Jack to let go of her jaw.

"Ooh, the cat has some fight left in her." Jack eased back, rising to his full height. Glancing at the camera, he lifted a finger, waggling. "Not quite yet, it isn't."

The cannibal turned to look at Hatchet, his face blank for a long moment. Then he sighed, shrugging. "Can't be helped, then."

Without warning, the camera shot flared with sudden brilliance, static blinding before it faded, catching the tail echo of the lighting curling away from Jack in shattered arcs, smoke floating in the air as Hatchet slumped, his expensive suit bearing smoldering patches, exposed flesh bearing a scorched appearance. As the man fell from view to the floor, Jack's smirking face languidly turned to Proxy, gesturing offhandedly.

"Now it's over. Deal with her."

A choked cry. Casey's eyes were locked on Hatchet's body, wide with shock as the acrid stench of charred flesh filled the room. She struggled in Proxy's grasp, attempting to wrench herself away, but without any real plan as to where she was going next.

"Wha-..? Ahhh!" Terrence groaned out a scream. His unseen eyes were filled with horror. He stepped back from the camera, and rushed over to the body of Hatchet. "What'd you do!? What the hell did you just do!?"

Proxy almost dropped his pistol due to the sudden shock of seeing Hatchet, his only reason for being alive, fall to the ground. He let go of Casey, and looked between Hatchet and Jack. The thought of survival versus loyalty was rushing through his head. He gripped the gun so tightly. His body began to tremble with anger.

Terrence kneeled down to roll over Hatchet's body. The man's pale skin had darkened, and melted as tar. Hatchet's face had taken on a grotesque form. His eyeballs had exploded out from the sockets, and the majority of his hair was ember turning into ash. Terrence reached a hand out to check his pulse. Though, he was interrupted by Proxy's words.

"And if I don't?" The masked man looked over at Jack from behind. He still didn't point the gun at anyone.

"You have a gun. I throw lightning. Which do you think moves faster?" His tone held promise, not warning. "Kill her, or I will, and then you."

He moved to stand over Hatchet's body, sneering down at him. Crouching down, he shook his head, spitting into the corpse's face. "This is what happens when you won't see things through. The spineless die." Glancing back at Proxy, the irritation bled through his blank glare. "Well? Live or die."

She couldn't just stand there. It was either stand there or die, or take some kind of action and die trying.

She drove her elbow high, driving it as hard as she could into Proxy's face before making a run for the door, out of view of the camera's wide-angled lens.

Of course, he was distracted by the overwhelming stress of his options. He had the same choices as Casey: Stand there, and not carry out the order, and die, or do so and live. The elbow smashed into his goggle lens. The lens cracked, and he stumbled back a few steps. He looked back at Jack almost questionably. The obvious indecision allowed enough time for Casey to make it out of the doorway. But, he chased after her; his figure blurred out of the camera's view. He stepped out of the doorway and aimed his gun at her from behind.

He pulled the trigger only once to fire a bullet at the center of her back.

Terrence could only scoot himself away in the corner of the room. Terror filled his eyes, when the gunshot went off. "Oh my god," The words slinked out with a quiver. His whole body began to shake in a truly ignorant, and selfish fear of what would happen to himself. He didn't make a single move. All muscles were locked. The poor man found himself staring at Jack.

It was a beautiful feeling, the brief sense that she possibly had an actual chance to escape this place. As foolish as it was, she took it for all it was worth, her body moving quicker than she'd ever moved in her entire life.

When the shot went off, she dropped like a sack of stones, hitting the ground full force and sliding a few inches before settling to a stop. Her eyes were facing the window, blood pooling as the sensation disappeared from her lower extremities.

Eyes closed. She drifted.

Jack closed his eyes as the shot went off, the smile of satisfaction on his face. "All the pieces fall into place, and the picture is oh so sweet."

Rising once more, those dead eyes found Terrence, looking down on him. He almost looked like a demon, gloating in the pain and misery wrought by his hand. Striding closer, his grin grew ever wider, as he suddenly dropped into a crouch before the man.

"Now, you get to live, messenger boy. Ya' found this place, now get the fuck out and take that camera with you."

"Oh god," He whispered in a heavy breath, as Jack drew closer. He gulped, and scooted towards the wall, until he was completely flat against it. He was cornered. Killers, and freaks surrounded him. "W-What..?" He huffed. Sweat dripped down his furrowed brow. His forehead perspired almost profusely from all the stress his body was under. His heart began to race, and his eyes almost filled with tears. Lacking any words, he glanced back up at the camera, and crawled to the stand of which it was set.

Terrence finally stood up. His face popped up from the bottom frame of the view. The short close-up allowed for a shot of his horribly blood shot eyes. He was waiting to suddenly be killed at any second.

He unhinged the camera from the stand, and carried it around, while it still recorded. There was no steady motion. The view was blurry, as he began to walk outside of the room. He looked down at Casey's bleeding body. "My god, who are you people...?" He choked down the tears. His heart was in his throat, as the saying goes.

The camera caught a quick shot of Proxy standing over Casey's limp body.

"I can't believe this happened. I didn't want this." A slight pant harnessed his breath. He echoed his thoughts one last time, before finally turning off the camera.

-RECORDING END-

"Excuse me," A vested man strolled across brightly lit lobby of the hotel, until he encountered the front desk. "I'm looking for a guest here. But, then, this individual doesn't really have a normal name."

The desk clerk quirked a brow at the man. "I think I know who you're referring to. The Black Hand of the Aschen Empire, I'm assuming."

"Yes," He eased an elbow atop the service desk, and leaned in closer. "I have some very important business with her. If you could direct me to her room, I would very much appreciate it."

The clerk raised a brow at the request for a meeting with such a high policy individual. "You'll have to exaplin what this 'business' is, mister...?"

"Wolf," He answered simply in a flat tone. "I've come to deliver something to her. It's a report on a very sensitive event that I don't feel the ned to discuss with a bell-boy." His brows lowered in frustration. "Tell me what room she's in, if you please, or I will meet her outside of the room and explain how I couldn't deliver this report to her, because of your incompetence."

The clerk cleared his throat, and reluctantly picked up the desk phone to dial the room the aforementioned guest was staying. "Uh, hello, this is the front desk... I was calling to inform you of a visitor who wishes to meet with you in your room." His eyes glanced up at this 'Wolf.' A flicker of contempt was flashed at the visitor, as he waited for a response on the other end of the line.

Wolf eyed the phone, before smirking at the clerk. He pressed it to his ear. "Bethany Foster," He began with a certain sense of amusement. "I know her real name, and I have something I think you should take a look at." Between the reply, he turned away from the desk. The phone cord draped over his shoulder. "I do have the right person, yes? The Black Hand of the Aschen Empire?"

*Knock* *Knock*

He adjusted his vest, after his knock. He had a lap-top tucked under his arm, and a flash in his fist.

"Hello?" He turned the knob, after a few seconds of waiting, and entered into the room with caution. He peeked his head through the door to examine the surroundings, until he spotted the drooping red cloak of the Black Hand. "Ah, there you are." He chirped. He slid through the door, and closed it behind, which would be his final sign of entrance.

"I apologize for requesting this meeting so late in the day, but it is important, and you are the alleged right hand of the Emperor, and Empress of the Aschen. They, the Aschen Empire, were the ones who rescued... Casey Delancy, correct?" He asked to clarify the regard.

He raised his brows in slight wonder at her disregard of the whole situation. "Well, I have a copy of the recording of what went on in the place where miss Delancy was taken to." He shuffled over to the coffee table. "It must have been a day off." He expressed his thought upon seeing the wine bottle. The lap-top was set atop the table, as he slipped in the flash drive to the port. The still shot of the video popped up on the screen.

"Here," You can watch it for yourself. "I'm in it, by the way." A discouraged frown tugged slightly at his lips. As the video began to play, he turned the lap-top screen to face her, and went on to explain the situation. "I was sent the location of miss Delancy only a couple days after her reported kidnapping. It was from an anonymous source. I simply found a note in my mail, and decided to take up the chance to report this story."

"I..." There was a pause upon the segment in the video of Terrence being thrown around and down the stairs. "I didn't know what I was getting myself into."

He let the video play to until the end, after that.