Everest,
Dan Villa's inn
Southern Syria (human realm.)
( Background chatter, glasses clinking, people laughing softly)
A grumpy huntsman slouched in his seat, waiting on the bartender. His cowboy hat sat snug on his head, angled like he meant business. A thick, dark mustache covered his upper lip, the kind that whispered of old cattle trails and tougher times. Beside him rested a weathered den gun, his trusted companion.
He fished a cigarette from his shirt pocket, lit it with a flick, and exhaled slowly.
"Damn. I never get tired of smoking, do I?" he muttered, flicking the empty box onto the floor.
His eyes, sharp and irritated, locked on the bartender, who was lazily wiping a mug with a filthy rag.
"Oh, surely you'll kill me this time," the bartender said, catching the look.
He scrambled and handed the huntsman a bottle. "Sorry for the wait."
Without a word, the huntsman yanked off his hat, downed the drink in one long pull, and set the bottle aside. Hat back on. Gun in hand. Silence.
"Thanks," he grunted.
The bartender exhaled, visibly relieved. "At least it's not my time yet…"
The door slammed shut behind the huntsman. The bartender grumbled to himself. "Could he be a little less dramatic?" His eyes landed on something hanging from one of the chairs.
"A driver's license? Oh, come on."
---
(Radio channel 45.4 — Playing)
The huntsman's car tore through the countryside, heading toward a lonely wooden cabin nestled in a dense forest. The sky darkened. Wind howled. Lightning flashed.
"This is the 4 p.m. news. Researchers investigating the Northern Syria pandemic have arrived. The outbreak began a year before 1991. Though a cure remains elusive, investigators recently uncovered a volunteer's belongings at Mount Kurgansk on the southeast coast…"
The huntsman turned up the volume.
"Refel, a failed archaeologist who joined the mission in 1991…"
Tires screeched. He slammed the brakes.
"Refel… You idiot. You shouldn't have gone." Slamming the door behind him, he entered the cabin, gathering his things quickly like a man preparing for war.
Trash littered the floor. Socks, paper, cigarette butts — chaos.
A sound behind him.
"This boy never learns," he growled, loading his gun and turning fast.
"Wait…easy," a voice said.
A figure stood in the shadows.
"What are you doing here, Pie? How the hell did you find me? You tailing me?"
"Chill, Azra, will you?" Pie raised his hands.
Azra hissed, lowered the gun, and continued packing.
"At least invite your VIP guest to sit," he muttered, pointing to a worn chair. Pie took it, eyes scanning the room.
"Not bad, Azra. It's a rough place, but better than a motel. Smart investment."
Azra stayed silent.
"The air's thick, though. You ever clean this dump?"
"If you came to mock me…" The sound of his gun cocking cut through the room. "…then get lost. You know I don't play."
Pie leaned back. "Back in '47, I saved your ass from that train wreck. You should be grateful. But no … I get nothing. People these days... cold as ice."
Azra sighed. "I didn't forget, bro. Been through hell. Got deported from Mexico last year over some dumb paperwork. No one believes my side. But trust me. I'm doing what I can."
Pie nodded. "So where you off to now?"
"Got some bad news. I'm heading north to find Refel. He's in trouble. After that, I'll help with your case."
"I don't think you should…"
(Suspenseful scores raises...)
Azra stared at him. His heartbeat slowed.
"You're not Pie. Who the hell are you?"
He raised the gun again.
The sky turned black. The house trembled. Lightning lit up the room, revealing Pie's true form.
A demon.
Without hesitation, Azra transformed into a glowing blue tiger. They clashed claws and flames, shadows and teeth. The fight raged, but Azra overpowered the beast, tearing him apart.
As the demon's body crumbled to ash, Azra returned to human form, the blue flame of his hybrid power flickering.
Water+ Air compression. Explosive.
Cool down: 30 seconds. Unless facing an "Original." Original demons resist water. Takes 2 seconds minimum to weaken.
Azra stood, panting.
"That's the price of negligence."
He cleaned up the room, collected his gear, and sat in thought.
"I'm coming, Refel. I'll get you out of that pit."
Rain tapped gently on the roof. The candle flickered restlessly. The shadows danced across the ceiling, cast by the satellite moonlight above.
♪♪ Low foreboding music playing…♪♪
The door creaked open.
"Who's there?" Azra's voice cut through the dark.
Lightning struck the iron pole behind the door, BOOM!
"Ahhh!" he screamed, thrown backward by the force.
He staggered to his feet, flung open the door… nothing. The storm had torn away his metal siding.
"Shit. Life in Syria is a damn disaster."
He stepped into the rain, ignoring it, fixing the damage quickly. Then headed for his truck.
Gone.
"What? Someone stole it?!"
Suddenly, blinding headlights. A car pulled up fast.
(Low Ominous Tune Plays.)
A figure stepped out.
Azra froze.
"No way…" he whispered, eyes wide with fear.
{Curtain}