Board Thread:Role Plays/@comment-5999656-20190205035159/@comment-25389303-20191107221533

As a man whose fortune was dependent on the trade of illegal goods and substances, Diaboli took great pride in knowing everything there was to know about his homeland. Every tunnel. Every sidestreet. Every sea current. Everything that made it easier to ship merchandise more efficiently, he made a point of learning. As such, even this far from the capital, Diaboli was far from lost.

By the time his negotiations with the Bluthardt leader was complete, he had already picked out the ideal landing zone for his departure. Not because of its secrecy or importance - but because of the route they would have to take to get there. After communicating his wishes to the motor launch's captain, Diaboli silently hoped the man was competent enough to see the tactical advantages of his choice and follow his lead.

He watched as the medics went about their work, tending to the wounded and stabilising the maimed. A part of him wanted to get his hand checked out, but he didn't allow himself that luxury. Whether it was out of pride or his usual paranoia, he didn't know. Regardless - what was most important now was solidifying what shaky control he had over this unfortunate situation.

As the two boats began to move away from open waters, Diaboli made his way back to the bridge. His suspicious, doubtful side urged him to remain on deck so as to keep an eye on the newcomers, but his mind was in too much of a mess for that. He needed solitude - a reprieve that would allow him to sift through the hurricane of thoughts whirling in his brain. Something he couldn't get with a dozen eyes and barrels trained his way.

Nursing his temple, Diaboli ascended the steps to bridge and stepped into the cabin once again. Now that he wasn't in such a rush, he could take the time to appreciate the level of damage the room had sustained in his absence. The window had been smashed through, and the back wall was now decorated with splotches of blood and brain matter. Shrewn across the room were pieces of metal and rock of unknown origin, and splayed out across the centre of the floor was a decapitated corpse of the male Syndicate agent. Across from him, Trago had thrown Wynston against the back wall, while the robot himself stood in the corner, head down and eyes dimmed. Motionless.

The naive might have thought the machine had shut down, but Diaboli was far from fooled. It was an interesting trap for an A.I., though.

"Any problems in here?" Diaboli asked calmly, glancing between Sorrel's corpse and his unfortunate hostage.

"Nothing to report," Trago immediately replied - the orange glow quickly reappearing behind the machine's protective lenses. Diaboli's bodyguard circled the room to stand beside the door, before falling still and silent once again.

The minutes passed uneventfully, and Diaboli treasured each moment as he walked back and forth, humming a tune to himself as he mulled over the night's events. With the strain on his restless mind easing, he found his constant pace falling in sync with the lapping of the waves against the ship's warped hill. Occasionally he would stop and peer out the shattered window, keeping an eye out for local landmarks. He knew they were on the right track when the previously sparse coastline became littered with rocky outcroppings and risen reefs that jutted out from the sea like blackened teeth, growing larger and denser closer to the shore. The shallower waters made another sea monster encounter unlikely, and made pursuit by the deeper-hulled police craft dangerous - if not outright foolhardy. Exactly as he had hoped.

"Looks like everything's coming up Diaboli," he grinned, only to then to suddenly slip on a wet patch on the floor. Pivoting mid-fall, he managed to keep his balance and remain upright, before inspecting the deck at his feet. Without realising it, he had accidentally been walking in the pool of blood surrounding Sorrel's body, leaving messy bloodprints all across the cabin floor.

"Oh, bloody hell," Diaboli muttered, raising one foot a time to wipe clean the sole of each shoe with the agent's bloodstained windbreaker. When he was satisfied with his work, he stepped back and waved Trago over.

"Do something about him, will you? I can't concentrate with him...bleeding everywhere."

The machine's head tilted slightly to observe the corpse. "This male's heart stopped some time ago, Commander. He is not bleeding anymore."

"I don't recall programming you to be pedantic, Trago," Diaboli replied with his arms crossed, as if telling off a troublesome student. The giant obediently reached down and grasped hold of one of the man's ankles, before turning back to his master.

"What should I--this unit do with him?" he asked, only to be dismissed with a disinterested wave of Diaboli's hand.

"I don't care, just get it out of here. I've seen enough of dead bodies for one night."

With a simple nod of compliance, Trago headed towards the door. Diaboli's gaze returned to the coastline with a sigh - his busy thoughts deafening him to the fleshy thuds that sounded out as the man's body was dragged unceremoniously down the wooden steps of the bridge and to the side of the ship for disposal.