Prologue:

Cold rain pounds upon the desolate city streets, sweeping away the refuse that has piled in the alleys and gutters. It drenches those careless enough to be caught in its path, leaving a chill in their bones and driving them to the shelter of their insignificant homes. The whole city cowers beneath the sudden unexpected deluge; the poor and rich alike hiding like rats in their holes.

The weatherman who just yesterday proclaimed clear skies darts underneath a bus shelter to preserve his expensive golf shoes. He grimaces at the old homeless man who has also found refuge inside, but turns his attention back to the sky and waits for the weather to clear.

The downpour takes the main street by force; flooding over the storm drains as it builds in the streets. Cars struggle through the torrent hurrying to their destinations. Soon only a brave or foolish few still walk the streets.

A man sits watching the drops beat against the thin drywall that separates himself from the brunt of the storm and smiles. He’s always loved the rain; it sweeps aside the filth of the world and allows new life to flourish. He lets the blinds slip back in place; the roar of the elements fades into the background of his life.

He sits in a small dreary room, its shady surroundings and cheap furnishing contrast with the well tailored suit he wears upon his slim shoulders. He doesn’t seem to notice, or care, about such trivialities. He’s waiting for another; they were supposed to arrive some time ago. He’s not used to tardiness; he always has an unparalleled sense of time. He considers leaving, but then soggy footsteps begin to creek their way up the ancient staircase of the battered apartment complex he has chosen for the meeting point.

He checks his watch; it takes exactly twenty three and a half seconds for the footsteps to reach the paint chipped door that bars entrance to his small sanctuary. He doesn’t bother getting up; the other will make their way in regardless of what he does. He won’t expend the extra effort after waiting so long.

The doorknob screeches and protests as it is turned upon a spindle that has seen far too much use over the years. The one he is waiting for follows the old door into the room and shuts it gently behind them. The door falls silent after it is returned to its natural position.

“You’re late.” says the man, tapping his father’s old dented pocket watch. It has rested in his suit pocket ever since the man passed away twenty seven years ago, “Surely the rain didn’t keep you.”

The other figure doesn’t reply; he didn’t expect them too. They have hoarded their words like precious treasures since before they first met, saving them for when something truly important occurred.

The man flicks his watch back away from his companion. They have not changed at all since he first met them all those years ago; when he was still young and filled with a foolish hope for the future, a hope he is afraid he may have allowed to slip back into his life.

“So, I take it your vacation went well.” he continues, carrying on this one way conversation. “I have fulfilled my end of the arrangement we made. The other three seem on track as well, although we have not been in touch.”

The other figure gives what might have been a nod or merely a trick of the dim lighting which floods the room yet leaves almost every cranny in muted shadows.

“Good, good.” mumbles the man; he is looking around the room uncomfortably now. His companion always has a way of making anyone they interact with nervous. Despite all reason, he wishes to be home in his comfortable bed and clean room. He wishes he could hold those who loved him, but he has put all of that behind him. He refocuses and continues his speech, “If you want nothing more, then I don’t see what else there is to talk about. Why don’t we cut this meeting short?”

The figure tilts it’s head, it is barely perceptible, but the man has learned to pick up even the slightest signs of movement. He remembers why the figure is unsatisfied and spits out the words that will keep this meeting civil.

“I looked into what you indicated.” he assures his associate, “I found out where he is; it’s not far. I’ll send the information to you soon, but I have events to set in motion. I am a very busy man.”

After those final words the room is only occupied by one shape. The figure sits in the cheap apartment chair for an indeterminable amount of time; for there is no one else present to record how long they lurk before slipping out into the downpour outside. Soggy boots cross a flooded thoroughfare, splashing through the darkness of the dreary streets before only the laments of the storm can be heard in the depths of the night.

The storm beats upon the city without mercy, refusing to let go of its stranglehold. The water floods over sidewalks, rising towards the doorways of homeowners who have tried to flee. They bury themselves deeper into their beds and blankets as the wind howls in the blackness of the night.