The place was dingy and grimy, the wall nearby scrawled with something that looked like a very bad word, though it had been overwritten several times by words that, while bad, weren't so bad as that one. In the distance you can hear police sirens wailing, and several shouts seemed to emanate from the same direction. It wouldn't have surprised you to have heard automatic gun fire, and turning to your guide you were about to ask him a question, but he was already walking down the alley, his robes vanishing as he moved, becoming what you could only describe as street clothes, and looking at your own night shirt you were not so surprised to find yourself similarly garbed.
"Heh, let me guess what your next words will be. You were expecting to arrive somewhere where the walls shone so brightly that they were blinding, and everything looked cleaner than a plate before a meal? It's true, some would flaunt their power in this way, but our kind doesn't need such flashy displays to know we're special," he answers you as he continues to walk, and you follow, increasing your pace as shots are fired behind you, the loud pops telling you they were handguns rather than semi automatics.
"Hurry now," he instructed, and then suddenly someone appeared in front of him. It looked like someone you would have expected in such a place, dingy clothes, a knife in his hand, and a wild look in his eye, but before you could cry out the knife in his hand literally melted, and his clothes simply vanished, leaving him naked. In the next instance he was holding a cellphone, and the clothes he wore were that of what you could only call a businessman, who ignored you two as he walked off, chatting to someone on the other end of the line.
"Poor soul. A wife, three kids, and an ailing father to feed. His job lost because someone went and chopshopped his taxi," commented your guide as he shook his head and continued down the alley, suddenly descending a flight of stairs that were set so no one could see them until they were literally right on top of them. Walking up to the door the man who'd brought you hear tapped on it nine times, in a rhythm you remembered as being the morse code for SOS.
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