A cold winter breeze gusted along through the docks. The dark sky was overcast with heavy clouds that blocked the stars from view, hidden behind their canopy. The wind would occasionally flare up with a roar before dying down to becoming a minor inconvenience and repeating the process.
The chilly waters below lapped restlessly at the hull of the freighter that was docked, two ramps extended down where men were carrying boxes, or pulling along people, dragging them aboard. Cargo containers were stacked high along the ship, creating a maze on its surface. The people being dragged along were put into these containers, sealed within. Slaves.
A man cloaked in shadows and darkness stood at the feet of the dock, staring as what appeared to be mostly children were unloaded from containers on or around the dock before being herded onto the ship.
His face was briefly illuminated by the light of a cigar as it burned brighter for a moment when he took a puff on it, its length down to a stub when he pulled it from his lips and dropped it to the ground, stamping it silently out. The smoke that drifted from his mouth was swept away in the breeze that blew about. A storm was brewing, and the freighter would take to sea soon. He had little time left to spare.
Slowly, the man began to walk onto the dock, heading his way toward the nearest ramp. He went unnoticed by most of the men, who were dressed similarly, though a few stared at him for a moment. None made to stop him as he stepped onto the ramp, stepping by a man tugging along a frail-looking girl, no older than eight.
Not his target.
He moved on, eyes darting about at the faces of children, their eyes gaunt, skin sickly pale, faces sunken. Despite his casual demeanor, he felt a little sick by it, though that was stowed away. He wasn't here for them. He was here for one.
"Privet! Ey, ty!" the man paused as he heard a voice call behind him in his native tongue. Glancing over his shoulder, he could see one of the slavers darting his way up the ramp toward the stranger, who had now reached the top.
He didn't have time to answer questions. He needed to find the shipping manifest, find his target, and everything else would fall into place. With an incredible burst of speed, the cloaked stranger darted forward, disappearing around a bend.
When the running man rounded that same corner, he stopped, aiming a flashlight beam about and seeing nothing. Another joined him after a moment. "Vy yego poymali?"
"Net."
"Mozhet, on prosto khochet poveselit'sya. My budem nablyudat' za nim, kogda prichalivayem v Somali."
At this, both men laughed before leaving, watched by the stranger who hung from one of the containers, staring down at them until they were out of sight. With silence and finesse, he climbed to the top of the stack of containers, disappearing entirely from sight.
The wind began to pick up, growing in ferocity and length as it went. Several men and children nearly fell into the water below while crossing the ramps, but managed to stay on.
These children were their profit, and losing any would detriment their operation.
The stranger had made his way down the length of the ship to the bridge, sneaking his way onto the ramp that encircled it, risen above the rest of the platform. His boots clunked with a metallic thud on their grated surface. He approached the door, peering through the window at its interior. Within stood three men wearing heavy winter coats and donning shaved heads with haphazardly-shaven beards. A fat one, a skinny one, and a muscular one. That was one of the only distinctions between them.
The stranger's eyes left the men and began to pick apart the room before he found it. Right beside a microphone sat a clipboard, a few dozen pages clipped to it. No doubt the manifest he required.
Grabbing the handle of the door, the stranger gave a light tug to find it was locked. The noise, however, attracted the attention of the men as their eyes fell upon the door, interrupting the drunken conversation they'd been having. A bottle of Medovukha sat on a table nearby, beside two empty ones, glasses in each man's hand.
The stranger slammed his fist into the window of the door, and the glass shattered with ease, shards cascading within as he unlatched the door before sliding it open. Wind howled behind him, gusting within the bridge as he stepped in, watched by the three men.
"Dmitriy, zaymis' nashim gostem," the fat man ordered, and the muscular one slammed his fist into his palm, cracking his neck after dropping his drink, which shattered against the ground.
The stranger stopped as Dimitri walked toward him, rearing back a fist before flinging it forward. A dull crack split into the roar of the wind as the stranger remained still, Dimitri stepping back with a howl of pain, clutching his hand, which was bent backwards, broken from the hit.
The cloaked figure now moved forward, fist extending in the blink of an eye as it slammed into Dimitri's throat. A sickening crunch could be heard as Dimitri fell dead to the ground a moment later, a white SOUL rising from his body before it shattered.
The remaining men now looked terrified as the skinny one pulled out a Makarov pistol, aiming it at the stranger before a gunshot rang out. The two men ducked as the bullet ricocheted off of the stranger's chest, pinging around the room before lodging in the fat one's leg, who crumbled to the ground with a yelp of pain.
The cloaked figure stepped forward again, this time grabbing the thin man's head with one of his hands, and he began to squeeze. The thin man screamed as he was lifted off the ground, kicking and yelling as his skull began to crack, before it caved.
The body was dropped calmly by the stranger, who now turned his sights on the fat man, ignoring the breaking of another white SOUL shattering behind him.
"Chto ty khochesh'? Den'gi? Devushki? YA dam tebe vse, tol'ko ne delay mne bol'no!" the fat man sputtered out in terror, stumbling back against the wall as the stranger now approached him.
He stopped a foot away from the fat man, glaring at him for a moment, before he opened his mouth, his low, scratchy voice replying simply with; "Ishchu devushku," with that, he nodded at the manifest sticking out from behind the man.
Quickly, the large man grabbed it. "Konechno, konechno! Chto ugodno dlya takogo... takogo pokupatelya!" he nodded frantically. "U tebya yest' tipazh?"
"Rozovyye volosy. Rozovyye glaza. Devyati let," the stranger answered roughly, and the fat man's eyes widened as he grinned nervously.
"Oy! Nasha ekzoticheskaya krasota! U tebya prekrasnyy vkus, moy drug," he began to flip through the clipboard, sweating like a stuck pig as he kept glancing up at the stranger before him, who watched patiently, waiting to be told the information he seeked.
"Vy mozhete nayti yeye po levomu bortu v konteynere s nadpis'yu sorok tri. Ty mne nichego ne dolzhen, prosto... voz'mi yeye i ukhodi, yesli... yesli khochesh'…" he gave a nerve-wracked smile to the stranger, who gave a simple nod before he reached his arm out, placing it over the fat man's face, who began to wail in terror, fearing what came next.
A minute later, the stranger left the bridge, the fat man now a thin, mummified corpse on the ground, eternally trapped in a position of writhing agony. The cloaked figure wasted no time in returning to running about the tops of the containers. Judging from the shouts he could hear below, they were preparing to leave the shore- not to mention they'd discovered the bodies he'd left behind. They were on high alert now.
He made his way to the port side of the ship, eyes scanning through the dark as best as he could at the numbers labelling each container. They weren't in any particular order, going from from '117' to '24' to '272' and so on. No 43 yet.
He moved further down along the ship's length, keeping an eye out for the number, before something surprised him. A spotlight, cast from a tower in the center of the ship landed on him. He'd failed to notice it.
The men there began to shout and yell through their talkies, and in a matter of seconds, the entire vessel was aware of his presence. So much for stealth. Discarding subtlety, the stranger leaped from the top of the containers to the surface of the ship and began racing along through the maze of containers, quickly searching for 43 before he stumbled upon a group of about five men.
They shouted at him before opening fire with automatic weapons. Most of the bullets pinged off of the stranger as he took cover, diving around a container, not out of fear of being struck, but to formulate an offensive. He reached a hand out from behind cover- and a bullet slugged against his palm. He pulled his hand back to inspect the bullet he'd caught, before waiting for a few seconds.
The gunfire halted for a moment, in which the stranger dove from his cover, throwing the bullet he'd been shot with, which slugged into one of the men's faces, his head snapping back before he fell to the ground. The remaining four opened fire again, though this time their target was scaling up the side of the wall of containers before he launched himself off, landing on another of the men, whose legs splintered beneath the weight as his shoulders dislodged from his body. The stranger grabbed his fallen weapon and jammed the butt of the rifle into a third man's face, crumpling his skull as he fired the weapon at the man behind him, who collapsed in a heap, leaving one last man to watch in paralyzed terror as the stranger focused his sights on him.
In a matter of minutes, the sound of gunfire had ceased. Blood stained the ship, torn body parts flung haphazardly about. The stranger had lived up to his title. He was known simply as 'Wendigo' for the tenacity and brutality he displayed in battle, which was on full display here as the man stepped over a severed head, its spine still clinging to the skull.
Lighting a cigar, Nikolai walked toward the container labeled '43' before he took a puff, feeling ice cold rain beginning to sprinkle down. He was covered from head to toe in blood, something he'd been trying not to do. He'd been given this task in order to test his abilities. This was usually how it turned out, however. A bloodbath in his favor. He'd lost count of how many degenerates he'd murdered over the years. Rubbing at his five o'clock shadow, Nikolai unlatched the container before pulling it open with a heavy, dull creak.
Inside sat a single child. He could see why, the walls of the container were damaged, blackened with explosive magic, a couple guards even lay dead within. Any other cargo with her would have been blown apart. The girl was leaned against a wall, her knees pulled close to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs. Nikolai stared at her for a moment as she stared fearfully back, no doubt put off by the blood staining his body, and the cigar clinging to his lips.
"Menya zovut Nikolai. YA zdes', chtoby otvezti tebya v luchsheye mesto. Voz'mi moyu ruku," he told her, though her face made it clear she didn't understand him, but she understood his gesture. He had extended his hand out toward her. Timidly, she stared at it, before looking past him at the ravaged bodies in his wake, before into his eyes. She stared there for several long moments, until the fear seemed to vanish from her eyes, and she accepted his hand without question. He pulled her gently to her feet, before picking the traumatized girl up into his arms.
Nikolai held onto her as he carried her through the maze of containers and carnage. Many of the children now run amok, free of their captives. Any that Nikolai had missed had presumably fled by now. Their operation was canceled, so to speak.
"Et les autres enfants?" the girl asked through a light French accent, brow creased in worry as she looked up at Nikolai. He glanced back down at her for a moment, his gaze empty.
"Seulement vous comptez," he informed her in her native tongue before he led her down the ramp, headed away from this forsaken place.
This was something he'd never thought possible, yet it was happening.
Nikolai could feel cold sweat dripping down his scalp as he leaned against the wall, doing what he could to keep his guts from spilling out onto the floor around him, where blood was already pooling in mass.
The world was revolving as he sat there, dazed, and amazed. His opponent had been everything he'd hoped for. Something he had created. And now here, he paid the ultimate price for hurting them. For torturing them. Here, he would die. What an anticlimactic end to his life, though he felt satisfied he'd left his mark.
Nikolai heard a strained cry, and saw someone run toward him. He could feel cold, thin fingers wrap around his bloodied hands, helping him with the pressure of trying to keep his body from falling apart. His blood pounded in his ears as he looked weakly up at the person before him.
Her bright pink hair, eyes… it was unmistakable. "Ty zaglyaden'ye," he grunted out, followed by a few coughs, blood trickling down his chin. Her brow creased as her eyes watered.
"No. No, you're NOT dying. You can't die. You can't," her lip trembled. "I never got to… I never…"
He blinked slowly, barely hanging on to her words under the immense pain he was experiencing on top of being on the verge of blacking out. He hardly even noticed how battered she appeared.
He removed one of his hands from his gut, grabbing her arm, focusing on her pink eyes as best as he could. "Ne sdavaysya. Vam nuzhno n-nesti Messiyu," he struggled out.
She shook her head, an emerald glow surrounding her hands- though they both knew it was far too late for that. Healing magic at this point was useless, had been for days since he'd first been given this gaping hole in his middle. Shaking his head slowly, Nikolai grit his blood-stained teeth. "Otomsti za menya…" he breathed out.
She watched, grief turning to boiling anger as his eyes slowly began to close, losing their focus. "I loved you," she hissed out between grit teeth. "This wasn't supposed to happen, you were supposed to love me back."
He was dead. There was no mistaking that. Slowly, she stood, face going lax as she stared down at him. Her misplaced love in the Russian, one that could never have been reciprocated, was all that truly tied her to the Messiah. Her dreams to be his lover were now replaced, emboldening him as a martyr.
Witch knew who had been the one to deliver this killing blow to Nikolai, and she would not rest until he was eliminated.
A new age of the Messiah was on the horizon. Out with the old, in with the new.