Grimly surveying the wreckage of his establishment, Tim Caldwell asked, to nobody in particular, “Can someone please explain to me just what the fuck happened here tonight?”
The small quiet fellow he had heard someone call ‘the Belgian’ didn’t even look up from where he was cleaning the blade of his pinfire cavalry sabre with one of Tim’s bar rags, but the tall man in the grey trench coat answered, in a British accent; “It’s…. complicated. Long, and complicated, and you probably wouldn’t believe it anyway. Probably best just to forget it ever happened and carry on as before.”
The red haired woman stepped over something demonic with the broken leg of a barstool sticking out of its abdomen. “Magic’s real. Mostly it’s bad. We make it stop.” she said, casually tucking a pair of silver revolvers back into her belt.
Tim looked at her. He looked at his bar, transformed into a wasteland of kindling and gore. He looked down at the still warm shotgun in his hands, that had sat unused behind the bar for five years; insurance he’d never expected to actually need. He was quiet for a long moment.
He took a deep breath.
“Cool. Sign me up.”