Bold = my character

“That promise is much better served if it were between you and God,” says Marius, reaching into the pocket of his garb. A vial of precious blood, real human blood, as dark and crimson as the vampire’s eyes is what he offers. “You cannot carry out your service in this state. Drink.”

Dogs will turn on their master if they’re hungry enough. This is no different with vampires.

-----------------

"I have a single available. It'll be $45 a night, though if you wish to extend your stay the price will be cheaper."

Isiah peered at this sulking figure over thin-rimmed square glasses, not quite judgmental about his guest but moreso inquisitive. Many a soul had stepped inside his motel in search of shelter; mostly travelers but there had certainly been some individuals with nefarious intentions residing in their heart. Not that Isiah minded of course, for they paid well and tended to spread word about his business to their acquaintances.

Which group did this new customer belong to?

"You don't have to decide right now, of course. Should you need anything there's a phone in your room that will call me. I'm available twenty-four hours so don't hesitate to call."

The scribblings of pen on paper for Isiah's ledger as he awaited the payment; gray eyes moving off of the man to alleviate the tension. He too had sensed this shift in mood; all instincts pointing to something not being right with this newcomer. No, such unease was not sourced from malice or freshly committed crime caused by his customer. Isiah was old enough to make the distinction when something was afoot — decades of having a target placed upon his back helped polish such instincts.

"May I have a name, sir?"

Asked politely, his pen stopping at this pause.

-----------------

Viktor Vyazemsky was a dog who knew to sink his teeth into flesh and never let go.

And right now his victim was one Yuri Morozov; the gigantic man who was comfortably taking the brunt of his bite long enough to spare the rest of his men. That is; orders trickled down from Vyazemsky to Morozov to Marchenko should the major give him any trouble. Which was predictably often, a frequency that was far too common for the Podpolkóvnik's liking, too frequent a reminder that it was these ungrateful bastards who knew not what blessings they received and currently squandered. Wasteful; drudgery; a total lack of disrespect for himself and his men’s time; the grinding of teeth that occurred whenever Vyazemsky recognized resistance for the sake of resistance.

He was no fool. Where the lack of medals marked the difference between himself and Morozov, this Podpolkóvnik was certainly not born yesterday and had a particular craving in making sure Mozorov understood that. To wring out sirs and agreements from this incompetent major was already a familiar pastime since the days (weeks; months;) after his arrival; sick satisfaction that substituted for dwindling alcohol.

“Might I remind you that the issue with low munitions was exasperated by your refusal to agree with my changes,”

The office of Viktor Vyazemsky had been spruced up as best as possible by Marchenko’s pitiful obsession with his superior; as one might recall a horde of men carrying out unsalvageable furniture; scrubbing the floor; dusting away any nook and cranny they might find; pitiful attempts at pretending this farmhouse was anything remotely close to the luxurious lodgings Vyazemsky and his ilk were used to. And considering the hidden bottle or dead mosquito shrine—Marchenko hadn’t had enough time (barely a day) to gut the farmhouse and please his superior.

A wooden desk and one old leather chair had been moved into the living room; perhaps the only nice things in this house—which wasn’t a compliment considering the way it creaked at night; cold drafts that snuck past wooden boards; a mattress he would hardly call a mattress. In fact—he was sure the recent aches at his neck was a result of poor sleep.

“That you drag your feet on so many tasks I might assume you want to embarrass me in front of my guests.”

Then and only then did Viktor look up—pen setting down from whatever he was writing to grace Morozov with his attention; gaze resting easily on that frustrating man. Orange glow flickers onto aged walls; a nearby fireplace that tried its best to warm the Podpolkóvnik as if its life depended on it. Underneath this glow the accents of metallic buttons gleaned as if to outshine Morozov; nary a scuff on them. Any available bookshelves had been taken over to use to store files; and most importantly that hellish document which proclaimed Viktor king above all.

Was it unfair that Viktor spent his career at the academy; studying under seasoned men in the most sanitized of scenarios; to don a uniform that was tailor made for him; belt cinched with barely any slack; a well constructed jacket that sharpened his already cutting frame; pants that flattered the legs; black boots which suspiciously blessed his height? No, absolutely not, and Viktor took great pleasure in the elevated air of difference between himself and his major.

If God wishes to bless him again; then it would be to make Morozov obedient to his every whim.

“The status of your preparations. What have you gotten done since we last spoke?”