Dull yellow light illuminated the long narrow veins of the ship. The only company he had was the jostling of rusted pipes and the whining of loose metal, soon to break. The clashing of his mud stained boots briefly silenced the distance screams of the voices, above deck. He was moving though an intersection covered in thick crimson and torn flesh. To his left, tongues of yellow-red flew from the captain’s chambers, engulfing most of the western vessel with a thick black gas many must have choked on. The colours of it howled out, further feasting on metallic panels now scorched black. It was clear as daylight that Vincent started the chaos. The foul tempered little brat was a problem within SMITE’s ranks everyone refused to acknowledge due to his father’s position. Vincent had the same beady green eyes and greasy brown hair with a familiar stench of tobacco. He had the same short, chubby build as his father but half the backbone. Most of the time Vince was seen carrying the battered rifle he liberated from a sergeant in the Terror Counter Force; more commonly known in the southeast as The Provisionals.
A voice echoed out, gentle and feminine.
It called for the man who continued his descent into the chambers of the ship. Searching each baron room for his target, he told himself that he didn’t do this job to kill nor worship that damned infection. But instead for the simple luxuries so many lived without. Warm meals, clean clothes, fresh water and a secure shelter. That is all that he wanted at this point. He turned a sharp corner, another voice screamed out. Malice and delight obvious in it’s tone.
“Paragon Andrew, how I am so glad to gaze upon you once more.” It paused, the voice was of youth and refined. Andrew turned briskly to spot a pale young man with shaggy brown hair and cold jade eyes glaring at him. His face contorted into a twisted half smile exposing golden teeth, he spoke again with a hideous stench to his words. “My father would be so proud of me”
His gloved black hands clasped a ornate blade, no larger than a sword. No less than a kitchen knife.
Andrew forced a wide, toothy grin, waving his right arm high above his head and then lowering it. The scales of his midnight armour glimmered in the bleak lighting as he did so.
“Don’t you have something more productive to do, Vincent?” Andrew yelled out mostly uninterested in his present encounter. A quiet flushed through the hallway.
“Are you pleased with my efforts?” He exclaims, holding his head up high. He removed a hand from the blade and unholstered a pistol to his right. “Do you think I’ll get your position one day, old man?” He called out, smirking. Andrew watched on in silence gazing as Vincent raised his weapon, his fingers twitching about at the trigger. A gunshot screamed out through the ship.
Vincent stumbled backwards, his jaw stretched open and his emerald eyes widened. In an instant, Andrew had raised his rifle and launched a volley of bullets out into the hall. Flashes of golden light struck Vincent’s armour tinting the once pure black chest plate with red-brown. A red shadow stained the dark grey hull behind him. Vince slumped down against a wall as ruby pooled in his open mouth, engulfing his yellow teeth. Slowly beginning to drip.
Was it the best decision Andrew made? Probably. The worst decision? Certainly. There was no time to reflection on previous actions now as Andrew knew that Cyrion (the group cleric) skulked the lower deck hunting the Provisionals. His armour yet another shade of midnight though decorated with a drab brown backpack that complimented his fair hair. Although he had earned his company’s respect, killing the son of a prophet was no small act of defiance.