Elliot tears down yet another white, featureless corridor, his mouth tightly pressed in a line. His black hair whips wildly around his ears and his muscles scream in need of rest, but he presses on at his hurried pace. It is determination and loyalty that drives him on this mission, not personal interest. If given the choice, he certainly wouldn't be pulling off an assassination mission when he could be relaxing at home, enjoying Alias reruns.

He rounds another corner and is faced with a hallway that looks.. like all the rest. White, blank, featureless. There aren't even any doors or signs saying where he is, so he just has to trust his memory on where to go. He slows down at a place identical to the rest of the hallway and begins to slide his hand across the plaster compound. It moulds beneath his fingers as if it's still wet, but in a few seconds the imprints are gone again as if they never were.

Freezing, the lackey swivels in his thick soled shoes, narrowing his brilliant blue eyes. He leans forward to press his ear against the wall, scowling immediately.

"Open up, you batty hag, a'fore I force my way in!" Elliot shouts at the wall, knocking forcefully on the barren wall. He pauses, waiting for an expected reply, tapping his foot in annoyance. When nothing happens, he shouts louder and bangs with his entire fist. "OPEN THA BLOODY DOOR! I can hear your ********' music, I know you're in there!"

Elliot almost falls forward when the wall slides out from under his hands. The white material slurps out from a middle point and slides away to create a doorway passage for the lackey to enter through. He brushes off his hands on his shirt, narrowing his eyes at the walls accusingly, before ducking inside the room revealed to him.

"S'bout time," he growls, pushing aside strings of beads that hang from the ceiling. The lighting is dimmer in here, and the air thick with some kind of incense or similar fragrance. Whatever it is, it makes Elliot's eyes water.

"I knew you were coming," a croaking voice rumbles by his right. The room is tiny and cluttered with miscellaneous objects, ranging from crystal balls and potion canisters to voodoo dolls and other hokey, traditional magical objects. And at the centre of it all is a small veiled person hunched over a table of tarot cards. Elliot squints through tears. Once he brushes them away he can see the figure more clearly: the teller is extremely old, a feature that confirms that she is not of Ranger blood, and her eyes are milky white, signalling her blindness.

Letting out a snort, Elliot shoves aside a few items to free up a stool for himself. "Like hell you did," he retorts, smiling slightly as the teller winces at sound of her precious items breaking. He leans over the table with a smug look, tapping the card beneath the teller's hand. "Tell me this, she-witch. How is it y'can read these cards without the use o' your eyes, eh?"

The teller trembles visibly, but straightens up her crooked back a little. She is hesitant to reply, as if choosing her words carefully, but when she does, her voice is harsh and rough, unlike the first time she spoke. "I marked the cards with pinholes," she explains, turning over another card.

Elliot's expression sours. "Listen here, teller," he barks, his blue eyes wild. "Miss Pandora didn't like what you had to say one bit." He sits up, no longer leaning on the table, and watches the teller for any signs of weakness he can feed off of. He needs any help he can get when it comes to intimidation; his boss is the one who has the upper hand on that quality. "Now, I've come to you t' offer a proposition."

His eyes catch on a pile of oversized gold coins on the teller's table. On a whim he pockets them, keeping one to play with in his fingers. "You're going t' first tell me who it was you saw in your prophecy. Then - well, then you and I are going to have a little heart to heart. O'er some nice herbal tea, 'cause that'd be mighty nice of you," Elliot explains calmly, though he clearly has no such intentions.

The teller looks panicked, even torn. She turns over another card, drags a weathered finger over the marking, and lets out a little gasp. "I cannot, dear boy, I cannot change what is to be!" she wails, her words holding double meaning. "Lying will not make the corrupted one's fate any brighter! I will not do it, I will not..!"

Elliot clicks his tongue, rising from the stool. "You haven't made a wise choice, ol' hag," he scorns with a grin. He twirls the coin one last time before sliding it up his sleeve, rounding the table closer to the old fortune teller.

No!" she shrieks, throwing up her hands in fright and pushing her seat backwards. Her white eyes are wide and frightened, especially since she cannot rely on all five senses to give her an idea of what's happening. But she can very well guess. She shouts desperately, waving her bony hands wildly in front of her face. "No! NO! I am having a new vision, uhm.. I see.. I- I SEE.."

"Bloody hell, woman, you can't see a thing," Elliot growls, and with a snap of his wrist, the old woman's nose cracks against her table and all life in her is gone. He turns and leaves, but not before the coin again meets his fingers, twirled between them methodically.

Beneath the fortune teller's lifeless hand is the card of death.