Leaned against the bar backwards Owen's attention was caught by a clumsy waitress had caused amidst the lobby's tables.<br/>She crashed into a man, flooring him. The drink for that now someone had to wait a little longer was spilled over…Hopefully-Mr-Hatcher’s nice rack?<br/>There she was sitting around a table with a young girl, the fella who crawled back on his seat and a pretty dedicated looking man in a noble suit.<br/>If somebody offered you 25 grand for a job and waited for you in a hotel lobby he definitely would look like that - the barkeeper confirmed his assumption with a small nod.<br/><br/>Owen emptied his whiskey smashing the glass back on the bar.<br/>“It’s on him” the priest grinned pointing towards the real Mr. Hatcher. The barkeeper just shrugged his shoulders. Nice guy, silent but almost as cynic as himself. Owen would ask Mr. Hatcher to tip him generously.<br/>He rummaged his pockets for his clerical collar. Every now and then it was kind of funny to pull off the devout priest act. It was a nice way to figure out how people ticked also it reminded Owen of the days he actually were a devout priest. Good times.<br/><br/>The priest wiped his grin of his face and tried to look stern and gracefully. His hands folded he strode towards the four people.<br/>He had almost reached them when a voice, cold, grieving and reverberating, boomed in his head.<br/>Owen knew ‘the dirge’ as he called it for over sixteen years now so it didn't do more than causing a small shiver. ‘The dirge’ was the reason for what Owen was – voices of the deceased that warned him of danger he was about to face. As he was younger the dead talked to him rarely, but since he worked as exorcist he had to face their cryptic gibberish every other day.<br/>This time it wasn’t very cryptic, though.<br/><br/><div align="center"><em>"You think we die alone, in this case you are right<br/>No friends by your side or family in sight<br/>There'll be no talking your way out this time<br/>So don't count the cash cause you leave it behind"</em></div><br/>his Uncle Padraig forecast Owens early dead.<br/>The priest ignored the warnings and continued his way to the table.<br/><br/>“Excuse me for interupting! Are you by any chance Mr. Caleb Hatcher?” he asked in a calm, dulcet voice addressing Hatcher.<br/>“I am Father Graham.” Owen nodded to everyone around the table and smiled. Not-Mr-Hatcher's shirt was was soaked and didn't hide a lot anymore. Owen's smile got a little bigger before he pulled himself together again.<br/>“I was sent by His Holiness in Rome to help the troubled facing…extraordinary problems.”<br/>‘And it seems I’m not the only one around her’ he added in his thoughts, grinning inwardly.<br/><br/><br/><br/>