Damian The Grey

Damian crept over on wary feet. He froze when the knock sounded again, and then closed the last few steps to look out through the peep hole. Two suited strangers stood on the other side of the hotel door, looking very much like stereotypical government agents. Righty leaned back as if he had been the one knocking, while Lefty rocked back and forth on his feet impatiently.

"Who's there?" Damian called out.

"Room service," Lefty said dryly.

Righty chuckled.

They do not appear to be employees of the inn, Inigo observed.

No shit, Sherlock, Damian replied.

"I'm sorry, I believe you have the wrong room," Damian answered the men.

Righty leaned in toward the door and smiled.  His teeth were stained yellow and cracked, gums dark around the edges.  Damian involuntarily took a step back.

"Damian Gardner," Righty growled.  "No, I believe we have it right.  Open the door."

And though there was a door between them, Damian felt naked.  Wood, or metal, or whatever it was did not hide him from their penetrating eyes.  They knew right where he was.

"G-go away," Damian stammered.  "Whatever you're here for, I don't want any part of it."

"Well that's just too damn bad."

The door exploded inwards, splinters of the jamb spinning through the air.  Damian backed up until his knee slammed against something painful, and then flipped onto the bed.  The men strode into the room, eyes burning for Damian.

Literally.  They were burning.  Damian gawked.  Their irises were orange flames licking against a black background.  There was nothing human about them.  Panic shot through Damian like electricity arching off a Van de Graaff generator.

Damian fought with the comforter on the bed, wiggling like a fish caught in a net.  He thrashed about, managing somehow to chuck the two pillows at his pursuers.  Lefty swatted one away casually, while Righty slashed the other aside with a knife.  A shower of white fluff spurted from the wounded sleeping implement.

A knife!  A knife!

There seemed an echo in his brain.  No time to worry about that now.  Damian flipped heels over head, rolling across the bed and landing on the other side.  His hand darted out and grabbed the first thing it could find.  The lamp.  He pulled it off the nightstand and held it, burning before him as it if were a wizard's staff, though it was hardly large enough.

The men paused on the far side of the bed, pinning him with those awful eyes.  They spread ever-so-slightly in the cramped room - Righty to the right, Lefty to the left - blocking both an escape around the foot of the bed, and back across its disheveled surface.  A crazed psychosis overcame Damian just then, and he embraced it, saying the first thing that came to his mind.

"You shall not pass!" he bellowed.

Lefty cocked his head and took a step forward.  Righty just laughed.