"How much more elaborate can this building be?" I wonder as I take a ride down on the third elevator so far.

"For all the money they're spending on their warehouses those damned supercentenarians could have bought out a whole other syndicate. They're nothing but a waste of space."

Initially a guard from the first floor had been accompanying him; some random brown-haired grunt. He wasn't of much significance, and had stayed at the first basement floor.

"But if he wasn't allowed to come down this far that suggests those elders didn't just send me somewhere to get me out of their way."

In any case, it didn't matter. The elevator finally ceased its descent and the heavy doors slowly slid open, revealing a much more dark and dank place than the previous floors had been.

Two more guards, wearing officer's clothing and holding assault rifles, stood in front of a huge sliding metal door; its airship-like appearance suggesting that his "assignment" was just on the other side.

"For them to abandon their usual "luxury over efficiency" policy this must be fairly important."

As I step out of the elevator and the doors close behind me, the guards aim their assault rifles at me.

What make and model they are doesn't really matter; you could actually cut a human being in half with the power in those things if you had enough ammunition.

They tend to jam though, which makes them less reliable in long-lasting or re-occurring fights.

Not like swords; you take care of the blade and make sure everything is solid and in place. Not to mention you get to feel the person die.

With guns you have to worry about jamming, broken parts, absence of ammunition, thorough dismantling and cleaning, maximum effective range, firing speed, stopping power and safeties.

"I'm thinking too much."

I walk towards the guards, stepping out of the relative darkness near the area and into the area illuminated by the bright, uncovered bulbs high overhead.

Once they see who I am the two lower their weapons without having to see so much as an ID.

It's not surprising. Anyone who doesn't know me by my own reputation knows about me being the ex-partner of the once up-and-coming star Spike Spiegel.

I smirk inwardly as I think about Spike; those days were a lot of fun. You couldn't see five feet in front of you without spotting another enemy you had to kill.

Reaching the guards and the door I tell them I'm here to pick up the "merchandise" that the old fools seem to find so important.

The two look at each other, probably surprised I would refer to the "Honorable Van" in such a way.

"Open it up." I tell them, tired of waiting.

They nod and pull out card-keys from their jacket pockets and insert them simultaneously into slots on both sides of the door.

A loud beep sounds out and the huge door starts to slide with a light squeak into a wall.

Another two guards are on the other side and I wonder how important this damned stuff could be that it would require such extensive measures to be taken to keep it safe.

I walk through the doorway and into the other room which is smaller but still very big, easily larger than most two-story homes.

Only a single light illuminates this room and everything beyond its reach is completely cloaked in darkness.

When the other guards see me one of them runs off into the darkness and snaps something on.

A few moments later, previously-unseen lights at the top corners of the room flicker to life and reveal a big rusted freight container that seems to be hundreds of years old.

Rust covers the whole thing and any individual details the container might have had at a certain point, such as numbers letters or any other forms of identification, have either eroded or are covered in the prevalent dark-colored rust.

If I was the type to scoff, I would have done so right now.

Though perhaps the trashy outward appearance is just intended to deter anyone from looking inside it.

Walking forward, I wait in front of the container as the two guards in the room attempt to pull open the doors on the container.

Loud metallic strains can be heard but the two are unable to wrench the doors free.

"Hey! Come over here and help us will ya?!" One of them yells to the guards in the other room.

Reluctantly the other guards come into this room and try to help pull open the stubborn doors.

"This is my assignment; attempt to carry something of apparently significant importance within a busted old container around with me and protect it with my life."

"The doors are welded shut." I mention, staring at the metal in the middle of the doors that has obviously been melted together in the past.

Noticing this, the guards back away from the container and look at it.

"We don't have a cutting torch though. How're we supposed to get it open?" One of them asked no one in particular.

"A waste of time; if this is so important why don't the guards here have a means to open it?"

The mummies were being awfully cautious to not even give the guardians of whatever this precious cargo was a way to get to it.

"Go to the upper floors." I tell them while touching something in my coat pocket with a free hand.

They stare at me with ridiculous expressions and I wonder if this is even worth it; if they aren't even trusted with loyally watching over the container they can't be of that great of importance.

"Stay here then." I say while putting the sheathed-katana down on the cold floor and pull the thing out of my pocket.

All of them seem surprised and back off as they see what I'm holding.

"A quarter ounce should be enough."

I pull a small thing out of the other pocket and connect the vial with its dispenser, aiming the Red Eye drug into my own eyes.

They back away from the doors as I spray the chemical into one eye, and then the other.

My frown turns into a wild, upturned snake-like smirk as I thrust the things back into a pocket and run forward, grabbing hold of the inside of the doors and pulling on them.

Instantly a loud tearing metal sound can be heard squelching throughout the floor and quite possibly all the other levels.

But I don't care.

The container and everything else gains a slight magenta tinge as I pull harder, the sound growing louder and more horrific.

To everyone else anyway.

To me it's the best noise I've heard all day. The tearing sound of the doors being torn apart just exhilarates me and causes my hands to pull harder.

There's a brief silence as I stop for a second, focusing.

Then the doors fly open and slam into the outside of the container.

I stare into the blackness, looking for anything else to rend apart, but a second later the magenta tinge turns to an orange one. Then yellow and white until I finally blink and everything is back to normal.

My face returns to normal as I turn away from the container and walk back over to the katana and pick it up.

The guards stand there dumbly, staring at me.

When I look at them they scramble into the container and haul something out, setting it down once they get it outside.

The euphoria at having torn the doors apart was gone now, which meant that when I saw the red-wood box about the size of a coffin with golden dragons as trim I was just as irritated as usual.

"Those fossils are going to have me carting around a childhood friend? This is the 'important merchandise' that they were warning me about?"

"What the hell is that?" One of the guards asks.

"Looks like a coffin." Another one responds.

I look back into the container to see if there is anything of actual worth, but I can't see anything.

"Get a transporter." I tell the guards in general.

They look at me again, those frail, pathetic eyes looking out at me in their idiotic curiosity.

"Or carry the coffin up to my ship on the surface."

The same guard who turned the lights on walked over to a wall and pressed something on it.

Part of the wall, a hidden door, moved in and then slid into the wall, revealing a small storage room.

A second later the man pulled out an old but functional hover-trolley and moved it over to the coffin.

The other three lifted it onto the transporter and the guard who was holding it moved out of the room. Vicious glanced back at the container again, his eyes still not seeing anything, and then followed.

"This is a waste of time."


For anyone who didn't know(like me before I looked it up) a supercenteranian is a person who is older than 110.