Paxton kicked down the stabilising stand of his motorcycle and disembarked, taking his keys out of the ignition, the key ring of which held a stylised, small scale version of his combat crucifix, albeit without the retracting silver blade and deadly edge of its larger cousin. He pocketed the keys and surveyed his surroundings.
He stood among parked boats of all kinds that would be better described as wrecks, for so dilapidated and neglected were the empty husks that he was sure many of them must have been salvaged from the sea floor and dragged from abandoned shores. He stood in, for lack of a better term, a ship graveyard on dry land, one that somehow held a greater sense of foreboding and air of death than a regular graveyard.
Like mockeries of tombstones, each boat had a unique name and look about it, as if no two were from the same country, manufacturer, or even time period, and there were hundreds of the things, stretching as far as the eye could see and further still, judging by the sea of cracked and often crumbling masts that blended into a solid wall of black and damp brown on the far horizon.
To his left was an immeasurably old and somehow even more neglected warehouse, shipping warehouse, clearly, although it was mostly empty, filled with little more than damp driftwood, miscellaneous sailing clutter, and no more than a dozen shipping containers, most of which were open, purloined of their contents years ago.
A single, large sign that was flaking and peeling with age and erosion, identified the building as the main receptacle of 'Charon Shipping Ltd.'
Paxton, Agent Ω, take your pick, made for the warehouse, stepping over a life ring emblazoned with the fading name of some long lost ship. Stepping through the massive entranceway into the warehouse, which smelled of wet wood and the unmistakeable musk borne from years of abandonment.
Now inside, he could see the only new thing in the building, multiple sets of footprints spread out among the dusty floor, they congregated towards the only black shipping container in the place, scuffed about a bit, and stopped there, no doubt the owners had foregone walking out and gone with leaping out of the windows thirty feet up. Vampires were so fixated on not leaving a trace when they left a place that they often forgot to erase any traces of an arrival, the inexperienced ones anyways.
Agent Ω made his way to the only black container in the warehouse, the handle of which looked well used, a clear giveaway, these dealers were beyond sloppy.
He opened the container, the door of which screeched and rattled on its hinges, protesting at the rough and rude opening.
Inside it was dark, very dark.
He took out a torch and walked inside, entering the claustrophobia inducing space so entrenched in darkness that the torch did little to help besides illuminating a single wooden crate no taller than his waist, forcing the thing open with the point of his crucifix, much better than any crowbar, he took a look inside.
Dozens of thin glass tubes as long as his hand were nestled within. The luminous yellow liquid in each one lighting the place up better than his torch ever could, vampire narcotics were much more potent than any conventional drugs, this stuff induced a near supernatural physical enhancement to already supernaturally enhanced vampires, and often produced vivid hallucinations. This stuff would melt a normal man's oesophagus in seconds.
"You touch it, you buy it"
Paxton turned his head, the light coming in from outside was now blocked by three figures who were silhouetted in shadow, no weapons visible, yet no less a threat, for these were not your run of the mill dealers and junkies.
"You don't look like you have much money on you, mate"
Another one spoke up in a mocking tone.
"But you can pay it off in certain other ways, eh?"
The third figure added his voice
"I'm sure you get the message"
All three figures flashed their fangs, which caught the yellow light of the narcotics in the crate, giving them a dirty orange hue that made them look even more feral, like the dripping canines of wolves, circling their trapped prey like the natural born hunters they were.
Wreath was trapped, and he knew it. But he was certainly not prey, even if his trappers did not know.
He could certainly show them.
Originally Posted by Evelyn <3
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