Theo Altez is seated in a dark room, aware of some few of its features. There is a chair; it is wooden, sufficiently sturdy not to break when tipped, rammed against the floor (concrete) repeatedly, or twisted. He is tied to the chair.<br/>There is a table; also wooden, cheaper and likely less sturdy than the chair. On the table is a pen, and a sheet of blank, white paper; along the paper's right edge, and the edge of the table near it, are rust-shaded discolorations. These are his own blood.<br/><br/>There are two glasses on the table. Both are filled with wine; one is empty. The other is untouched. Theo drank from one glass. Things are provided in this manner at business meetings of the type he is familiar with.<br/>This is not such a meeting. There is no job; no person that must be hurt, no thing that must be obtained, no message that must be sent. The only person here is- yes. He's here now. It is sufficiently dark in the room that the eye surrounds a moving figure, even a visible one, with afterimages and faint entanglements of shadow. There is only one candle, and<i>he</i>is stepping into its light.<br/><br/>His skin-<i>not skin</i>- is pale; ornamented -<i>carved</i>- with whorls and wire and sheen. His joints are smoothly rotating spheres; the faintest<i>tick-tick-tick</i>accompanies their movement. He picks up the glass of wine, and holds it in the manner of a gentleman; delicately, two fingers on the stem. He does not drink; cannot drink. He has no face. Only the mask, hollow and eyeless and pale gray. The color of the darkness behind one's eyes. Theo shuts his eyes, does not see.<br/><br/>He is aware, moments later, of being slapped; the contact like the impact of a bullet. His jaw moves loosely, muscle strained; his eyes open again.<br/><br/>"<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#800000">You are not concentrating, Theo.</span>"<br/>Hands are undoing his bonds; the figure is still standing, a few feet away. He does not seem to have moved. The wine remains in the glass. The hands finish, and crawl, obscenely, over his shoulders, to his neck; the faintest touch of metal.<br/><br/>"<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#800000">You are aware, I think, Theo, that you have been keeping bad company.</span>"<br/>He steps forward; his hands grip the pen.<br/><br/>"<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#800000">I require names. These names will, almost certainly, lead to your death if it is known you provided them. You are aware of this, acutely.</span>"<br/>Theo is weeping, slightly; the tears finding their way out from the corner of the eye.<br/><br/>"<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#800000">Are you also aware that, among many cultures, the ornamentation of bone is a profound and delicate art?</span>"<br/>The stranger's hand- attached to a limb this time- rests gently on his shoulder; there is the sharp, ammoniac odor of urine. The hand itself is jeweled, and delicately worked. It is very beautiful.<br/><br/>Theo begins to write.<br/>"<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#800000">Ah, very good, very good. A shame you will not have the opportunity to spend another night in my company. When you are finished, this warehouse is at the corner of 2nd street, and copper lane. Your effects will be returned.</span>"<br/>The hand undergoes a parody of a reassuring pat. The list of names is completed, the paper rolled up and stored somewhere; there is a sound like quiet hinges.<br/><br/>The touch of metal grows into a bite. Theo falls.<br/><br/><br/>The Galatean is beginning his work.