The One Who Was Lost

OOC: For _freaksrus, queen_c_tm, evilhandissue and big_pile_o_dust and anyone else who's expressed interest in the new agency. Bendy-time as needed to fit into people's storylines and timelines.

Wesley Wyndam-Pryce had faced a number of challenges in his years, from vampires to werewolves to sorcerers and demons. And none had frustrated him so much as those with whom he and the others had been made to contend in the establishing and opening of the new agency. Between simply getting the physical plant of the offices and equipment arranged and the bureaucratic tangle of permits and licenses required to hang up their shingle, he had been more than ready to give up the whole thing and set up a folding table and cardboard sign reading "VAMPIRES SLAIN 5 CENTS" on the side of the freeway.

At last, though, the last papers had been signed and the last screws turned. He and the others stood outside the door of the office suite, though every one of them had already been inside, inspecting their own spaces and whatever details which fell under their particular charge. But this was a ceremony, and as proud as he was to be officially resuming this work with these people, Wesley wanted to stand on ceremony this once.

He glanced at the brass plaque that hung beside the frosted glass doors.

THE ENDEAVOUR AGENCY
Private Investigations

When the question of the agency's name had gone unsolved, Wesley had thrown open a thesaurus to the entry for "crusade" and selected a synonym that would suit their higher-class location. He turned the key and opened the door.

"Open for business," he said, and stepped inside.

Holiday gifts go out late. Wesley contemplates calling them 'Boxing Day' presents, but knows no one will get the joke.

( For Cordelia )

( For Lindsey )

( For Logan )

( For Gwen )

It wasn't the trendiest or highest-profile eatery in Los Angeles, but that was most of the point. Wesley had chosen the restaurant more for the ability to hold a meeting where topics that no one outside of their peculiar community would be prepared to overhear. That, and the fact that Dominick's quietly boasted quite a fine wine list. Wesley nodded to Bernard, the maitre d' and slipped the older man the promised hundred dollar note. Bernard was perhaps in his late sixties, and had no doubt stood his station since Dominick's played host to Los Angeles underworld luminaries of a much more organised crime sense of the world. Certainly the private back dining room into which Bernard ushered Wesley was a holdover from those days.

The lighting was low, but sufficient to keep the atmosphere from entering gloom. Wesley ran his hand over the rich woods and leather backs of the chairs and table and wondered what nefarious men and privacy-seeking Hollywood golden age celebrities had taken refuge in this room. He hoped whatever ghosts might still linger in this space would look kindly on his intentions. Taking a seat with an unobstructed view of the door, Wesley ordered a scotch, neat, and awaited the first of his invited soon-to-be teammates.

( The players assemble at one table, new faces meet old, Wesley makes his offer and reactions are mixed. )