Oh boy. I just couldn't leave the poor plot bunnies alone. Or maybe it was the other way around. Whatever. Anyway, this is the first one-shot in a series called Childhood, alternating between Blade's and Deacon Frost's childhoods.
DISCLAIMER: Do you think this story would be here if I owned any of it? Other than the plot, that is.
Childhood: Blade's First Sugar-High
Whistler sighed, banging his head on the wall in time with the beat of the small feet that were skipping around the hideout.
"If only I hadn't let him go Trick-or-Treating," Whistler groaned. How was he to know the little brat would eat all that candy in one sitting? He didn't even know how it all fit!
Blade had dragged home a garbage sack bursting at the seams, candy falling out of the top of the bag. Whistler had been proud, at first, that the kid had done such a good job at acting like he hadn't gotten much candy. Now Whistler wished the kid had not done such a good job.
There was the sound of a small explosion. Whistler shut his eyes, leaning his head against the cool cement of the wall. "Oh God, there go the exploding shots."
Hoping no vampires would attack tonight- after all, this was the night after their big night, and they should be sated and tired- Whistler turned and headed for the weapons room. He was going to hunt down his old tranq gun, no matter HOW long it took.
When he reached the weapons room, he was horrified. Weapons had been taken apart, broken. Scraps of metal that had once been guns and ammunition were now scattered everywhere. There was liquid splattered on walls and tables- it had undoubtably once been coagulant. One corner of the room was charred, where the earlier explosion had occurred.
And the kid was still merrily wreaking havoc.
Whistler sighed. He would deal with the mess later. Right now, he had to hope his hidden, peice-of-crap tranq gun was still in one piece.
Eventually, after much digging, he found it. By then, Blade had moved on to another room, from which crashes were being heard every fifteen or thirty seconds. That made the kid easy to track.
PTUNK!
The tranq dart shot out of the barrel of the gun. Whistler breathed a sigh of relief. Half the time the darts got stuck in the gun. The dart hit its mark, and in two seconds, the little daywalker was out cold. Whistler grinned and slung the boy over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
After he hauled the kid off to bed, he surveyed the mess that was his home. What the hell had been in that candy?
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