Who indeed. The waiting room was full.
"Get me wardrobe, Dept. 140, or Dept. 210 - I can never remember."
Dr. Z siphoned off a boil with lancet, poured the vile substance off into a tissue. "This suit's developed a skin condition. We're going to need to have someone stitch this up."
http://img.infictive.com/infict/src/125088435667.jpg
(Parafaxitas Lounge, int.)
"Quiet, yeah? What you think they are doing upstairs?"
"They have always been quiet. What do I care?"
"A - little - unusual, you must concede."
"You snoop too closely, you get what you deserve."
(Abbadonando's and Oscuro's glasses clink together, another two shots downed. Wide-eyes pass over them slowly, then back up at the closed doors to the offices above.)
Johnny Rush passes off the brown paper bundle to Dr. C., his hands trembling from withdrawal, sweating in the cold. The esteemed recepient of the bundle, for his part, pays the sniffling runner little mind, all attention focused on fingering the thin strings holding the contents of his package.
"You work for them too, huh?" Johnny Rush gargles up hoarsely as he watches the Doctor, wiping his hand along his scalp, anxious to get his mind on something.
No answer comes -- just a glancing look, a derisive laugh, and the door shut in his face.
The Owl King stretches forward over his towering perch, looking down to the denizens far below. He presses his lenses up to the bridge of his nose, an amused smile spread on his lips.
