<strong>Nick Ramirez -- Ambrosia Restaurant, Downtown -- Waiting for an old nemesis</strong><br/><br/>Nick Ramirez sat at his table, his cigarette burning slowly down to ash, his eyes turned upward toward the stormy grey sky.  He had specifically requested the balcony, over the protests of the maitre d'.  Not many customers ever wanted open-air seating--and who could blame them? The sky was always cloudy and bleak, like an overcast thunderhead right before the storm.  Every so often, a piercing ray of sunlight would break through the dull smoky canopy, briefly illuminating a city block or two, and then it would be quickly swallowed up by the roiling clouds, only to poke through somewhere else.  It was always like this in Gilead.  Nick had always assumed it was just the Most High's not-so-subtle way of reminding its occupants that they lived on the virtual and literal border between Heaven and Hell.  If ever there was a place that personified Purgatory, Gilead was it.<br/><br/>He wondered what went through the minds of the Nephilim, as they pointlessly stumbled through their day-to-day lives.  Were they aware?  Did they know?  And if they did, did they care?  It was a pale shadow of reality, a bleached and Gothic imitation of Earth.  There was very little real beauty here -- such as there was, was greedily hoarded and kept secret.  A rose in full bloom, a bird's song, a child's laugh--these things were more rare than gold, in Gilead, and valued accordingly.  It was rumoured that there was even a black market, where the memory of love's first kiss could be purchased for a millionaire's ransom.   And whenever he heard it, it always made Nick smile, for it was only half-true.  Oh, the memory part was certainly legitimate enough, but the price was, in actuality, far, far more costly than mere money.<br/><br/>Nick put the rolled paper cylinder to his lips and inhaled deeply, then blew a jet of smoke at the sky.  He gave the menu a quick glance -- it was entirely in French -- although that meant nothing, languages were no longer a barrier to communication.  It was like Babylon all over again;  everyone found, much to their initial amazement, that they could speak Farsi and Mongolian and Esperanto quite fluently.  Just another little divine joke, he supposed.  If the four thousand years of his exile in Gilead had taught him anything, it was that God had one hell of a twisted sense of humor indeed.<br/><br/>He was dressed exquisitely, in a late-twentieth century Italian suit, complete with ruby cufflinks and black silk tie.  A little gaudy, perhaps, but then, it wasn't often that he did this.<br/><br/>For as long as he could remember, they had met here, or somewhere like here, one day every year, on neutral ground.  Old adversaries, ancient monsters who had been playing the same chess game for millenia, again and again and again.   Perhaps it was that they had been opponents for so long, he supposed, growing used to each other's tactics and habits for so much time, that they became something very like friends.  It was odd relationship, but there it was.  Immortal enemies, both tasked by their superiors to struggle in endless combat, until the very last soul could be claimed by either infernal or angelic forces.<br/><br/>"Etes vous prêt, monsieur? Voulez-vous commander?" said the head waiter, passing briefly by the table.<br/><br/>"Pas encore, merci," responded Nick, tapping his cigarette over an ashtray.  The man nodded, and passed on his way.  Nick paused, took a sip of his vintage 1878 Clos Vougeot, and smiled.  He always looked forward to these meetings, however brief.