When the light faded, I found myself in a quaint, minimalistic office. I was seated in a rather comfortable leather chair, one of two that sat before a mahogany desk with little decoration carved into it. To my right, the wall was lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves. It was filled with both the obvious and unique--four wooden globes with one map I recognized and three that I didn't, trophies and plaques celebrating achievements I couldn't make out etched onto them, woodcarvings of various animals that were vaguely familiar.

The far wall was lined with windows that opened up to a city the likes I had never seen before. As far as the eye could see stood these towering structures, brick and wood, reflective glass and metal. Glowing letters dozens of feet high decorated several of the buildings with characters that I didn't understand. Some sort of foreign language, perhaps?

“--and this is why I always insist on bringing them right here!” The voice was muffled, coming from just beyond the door leading into the room. I recognized it as Reggie Dalton's.

“Put yourself in their shoes,” a second voice chimed in. It was deeper, heavier, and carried with it an air of authority. “If you found yourself suddenly approached by a ghost and whisked away to another plane?”

“Please don't make fun of my skin condition.”

“How would you feel, Dalton? You'd feel confused, you'd feel angry, you'd refuse to cooperate, you might even try to escape!”

“Not with our security measures, sir.”

“And one day, even those might fail. Like so many others that we've brought into the fold here at Pantheon.”

I turned around as the soft clicking of the doorknob announced a visitor. A giant of a man filled the doorway. He, much like Dalton, was dressed in a fine three-piece suit. He was apparently very fond of the color black. The only color the man allowed himself were three medals that were pinned to his chest in a triangle, each one set at a perfectly measured distance from the others.

He was a bit on the old side, a weathered, scarred face on a square-shaped head. His hair was salt and pepper and kept short, military-style. His eyes were almost steel, cold and distant like so many warriors that have seen the carnage of countless battles. A smattering of color returned to his cheeks when he laid eyes on me. He did not flinch at my appearance, which is more than I can say for a lot of people.

“Ah, you must be Madison Freebird. My name's Victor Markov. It's a pleasure to meet you at last.”