->He sits on the cold, polished marble floor of the De Rais Institute, in nothing but a pair of suit pants. Around him burn red, white and black candles, their smoke lazily drifting up into the air. He sits cross-legged, concentrating. To his left, a studio photo of a beautiful woman; to his right a polaroid of a young girl.
"Is everything prepared, Doctor?" It is his accomplice, the gravely voice unmistakable.
"Yes, of course it is. I want this as much as you do." He replies. The emotion drains away from his voice first, then from the rest of him.
"Good. Losing focus now could be very detrimental to our shared vision."
"I know. I'm focussed."
"Soon, Doctor, soon. Now, spill the blood."
He takes up the knife, and gets up. He begins to cut his arms, spilling his blood carefully onto the various hand-drawn chalk circles and squiggles that occupy a large portion of the entrance hall.
He suddenly feels the surge of power in the air around him. He feels the air ripple across his bare skin. He feels the force of the buckle. It reminds him of being in a car crash.
Above him, the air is deformed, twisted. It tears right above him, in the middle of his sigils. A ragged hole opens. Through it, he can see infinity.
"We've done it! Or at least you've done it, Doctor!"
He looks down at his accomplice, a look of wonder and anticipation on his face. His reflection is grinning from ear to ear.
"Yes, yes, we have." The doctor's mouth spreads into a grin.
