The random patter of rain glanced across the windshield of the blacked out prison transport van as the large eight cylinder engine roared across the high way. The windshield wipers making a steady back and forth noise, starting to burrow into the driver's head after a while. It had been raining for the last 280 miles since the last stop of their 600 mile journey. Country Roads by John Denver was playing softly in the background, almost drowning out what was going on outside. If the driver didn't know any better, it was like a hurricane had started up in the middle of Los Angeles. But that was not the case of this....otherworldly phenomenon.<br/><br/>Like the man had done every week, he pulled the van off to an exit from the interstate that looked like it had not been completed. The road literally ran out and took a 20 foot dive to the surface road below, at least to the naked eye. But with a push of a button on the dash, the driver took that exit ramp full speed, the tires kicking up rain water from a puddle that he ran through, and then silence. No rain, no water on the roadway, even the wipers had turned off, seemingly frozen mid cycle. The only constant was John Denver singing about the blue ridge mountains, except even that seemed warped by a time distortion, being low and drawn out in tone.<br/><br/>Soon the world started to materialize around the van as if black fog being drawn back and glimmering away. All around them, the road started to form underneath the vehicle, and a large building made itself visible, looking that of an early 17th century Gothic church. Large cast iron gates blocked the route of travel into a long and winding cobblestone driveway up to said castle. The driver pulled the van up to the guard shack just outside the gate and handed him a folder of papers detailing his cargo and his own credentials. the guard, a young looking man with blond hair looked through the thin packet, and then check the driver's credentials, smirking and making a comment about the long time tenure the driver had, and handed him back the papers, waving him through.<br/><br/>As the van pulled up through the opening wrought iron gate, the driver turned the music down and unlocked the doors. The transport vehicle came to a stop next to the massive front doors of the palace, and the driver got out of his side of the vehicle, walking around behind the van to open the doors. As the reddish glow of the hellish sun filled the dark cargo area of the van, the driver saw his prized cargo, the contract he took for nearly four hundred thousand dollars. He had never been paid so much for a delivery before, and heard rumors with other drivers in his company that this was a man who was dangerous and was to be put down by the Queen of Hell herself. Other rumors stated he was meant to be the personal breeding dog of her hellbeasts. If that was the case, the driver almost felt sorry for him, but not four hundred thousand dollars sorry.<br/><br/>He grabbed the dark haired man by the pale wrist, noticing he had lashings over his arms, shoulders and some of the chest he could see, healed by time though. The driver dragged the poor sap out of the back of the van, the prisoner's wrists in shackles to protect the driver's safety more than the prisoner's. When they came up to the door, the driver pounded on the large doors, his folder of papers under his arm, and his other hand still holding the prisoner by the shackles. When the doors swung open, a small elder man looked through, holding his hand out expectantly, which was filled by the packet of papers. "Prisoner 626 for transport to the Residence," the driver announced, shoving the slightly toned man towards the door. The dirty white tank top showed his body off fairly well, and the long grey sweatpants nearly tripping him. The driver was surprised, however, that for the most part, the man barely spoke a word, had his head down, and his eyes blank. Not in a depressed, broken glare though, more like a brooding....plotting glare. For his own safety, the driver hoped he was going to try anything here. He was a mere mortal in the likes of god's and demons, and the stories that came out of this building frankly scared his company to the core. The only reason the driver accepted the jobs was the fact that he made the company it's revenue for the year in a month's worth of jobs, and it sustained his family and house fairly well.<br/><br/>The butler looked through the papers slowly, almost tiredly and then looked up to the prisoner, a solemn expression on his face. When he spoke, his voice was calm, cool, and deathly. "Follow me, Spike. It is imperative that the Mistress inspect you instantly," then to the driver, "Once he is checked thoroughly, the money will be sent to your dispatchers," The words coming out of this bag of death was slow and chilling to the bone, like every word he spoke slathered in hate and plotting dread. Without waiting for a response, the butler walked off down the hall, expecting the prisoner to follow, which he did. The giant doors closed, and the driver was left with nothing but his van, his silence, and the demonic red glow of the hellish sun overlooking him.