A swirl of smoke encircled his face as he exhaled. It was like getting to know an old friend after suffering amnesia. Everything felt familiar and yet completely new.

"I'm a mutt," he offered. "Mother was a demon, father had a healthy glow. Both sides wanted to kill me right oughta the womb, until someone got the bright idea I could be used to keep the sides balanced. I'm old as fuck, like I saw Nero fiddle while Rome burned old. I used to freelance with London until I realized just how fucking ass-backwards a lot of them were. Had a really good friend who got killed by a schizophrenic Slayer. No I don't hold it against Slayers in principal, just the idiots who thought she didn't need help."

Another puff of smoke, followed by the rest of the coffee in his cup. "Here's a fun bit of news. This isn't my first trip to Nevada. I got stuck in Searchlight fifty years ago. Got drawn in by something, and it wouldn't let me go. Until one day, it went..." The Agent clenched his fist and then spread his fingers. "Poof. And the original reason I came back was after I got a phone call from Greg's daughter -- he was the Watcher who got offed by said Slayer -- from Searchlight."

He refilled his cup, and swished the carafe. There was enough for another coffee. He held it out to Rhiannon. "Oh, I'm also a pretty good bowler."