06-29-2014, 11:39 AM
Drayson did not appreciate having people 'given' to him. No matter how well recommended an officer was, it rarely worked out well when they were sent to him with the expectations that they would be of use to him. That they weren't some corrupt yes-man or someone's cousin, or son. He had been saddled with such 'recommendations' in the past, and it had always been an unwanted headache to find a place to squirrel them away where they couldn't do any serious damage.
Ivan had, so far, proven to not be one of those sorts. Maybe, just maybe, the stars had come into alignment and the man had been selected because he was actually good at his job, and would actually be of use to him. Well, if what he had been told of the man was true, then maybe his task force had a chance of doing it's job. Fight magic with magic.
So the man had proven skilled in training, and had a good record. And, apparently, had a few tricks up his sleeve. But could he handle the things Drayson was saddling up the new unit for? Well, the best way to find out was to see how he managed under pressure. Of course, Drayson wasn't just all killing monsters and stopping witches and warlocks. Moscow might have been the greatest city in the modern world, but it was a dangerously thin facade draped tight over an abundance of ugly truths.
One such truth was, as it had become known to those aware of it, the undercity. A huge population of poor illegal immigrants eching out a living beneath the city. The place was rife with gang crime, smuggling, illegal drugs and slavery and worse. And there were things down there, lurking in the shadows. Of course, it was the abundant population of forgotten and ignored that kept those things in check; they didn't need to wander to the streets of Moscow for food, it seemed.
Drayson's arm should have been in a sling for a few more days yet, but he had opted to leave it behind for the day's activities. He was in good shape, and recovered quickly, and a dislocation wasn't all that serious an injury after all. He was dressed as he often was; nice, albeit not terribly expensive, wool suit, the tie pulled a little loose after two hours wandering the tunnels beneath the city.
They had already visited two small squatter camps, populations of no more then a few dozen each; migratory ones, their populations mostly Chinese, which would have made conversation awkward except that Drayson's Wallet had various translation programs in it now. He'd learned his lesson and forked out for the expensive apps. All the while Drayson spoke with Ivan, trying to get a good bearing on the young officer. Opinions on Moscow, of the undercity, of illegal immigrants, of ghost and goblins and the myriad of unsolved cold cases. The reason behind those unsolvable cases were becoming clear to Drayson; they had not been solved, no murderers or abductees found because it hadn't been a human behind them.
He'd started the day with both himself and Ivan carrying dufflebags, in which were a handful of blankets, a few pairs of shoes sized for small children, and a pair of emergency survival batteries, the sorts that could be charged by handcrank. One had been given to either group, in exchange for information about trouble that might be brewing, and by now their bags were mostly empty.
Most of what they learned was mundane; gangs snatching children and teenagers, drug smugglers, the usual. But the second group had mentioned that they stayed well away from a large underground chamber; it may have been intended as a deep line metro station at one time, but the place was pitch black.
The place was filled with debris, the most valuable of which had been wooden pallets and lumber, left untouched even after all these years. The wood was valuable for building shelters, or for cooking fires, yet no one had salvaged any of it, out of fear of something that lurked there in the darkness.
Drayson had enlisted the help of a city worker crew chief, a man he had ventured into the tunnels with a few times now. The fellow was knowledgeable of the tunnels, and never seemed to get lost. He had a good head for directions underground. So after a short discussion, they agreed to go check it out. None expected to find anything, but the description of the place made it sound like debris had fallen from the ceiling over the years, an alarming thought to the crew chief who feared the possibilities of cave-ins. A likely reason why the place was untouched of it's abundant wood.
Each man carried flashlights, but the crew-chief favoured a long-life electric lantern instead. It cast a bright glow around them, and he carried it high over his head in untiring arms; he was well used to holding the weight of it over his head for long periods of time, although he did switch hands routinely.
The three men made their way through tunnels and chambers, occasionally muscling open old service doors and passing through rooms long emptied of anything useful, until they all stopped. A sound echoing from ahead; a scream, perhaps, but whether it had been from a throat or old protesting metal was hard for Drayson to tell. A glance at the crew chief told him which of the two the man thought. He seemed worried, bordering on spooked.
Drayson was a large man, and carried with him an abundance of raw strength. His good shoulder was planted against a resisting old metal door, and the metal let out three brief squeals of protest before it was forced open far enough for them to pass through. A short corridor, another door, and soon they entered a large chamber, lit by the flickering grow of a fire near the far side.
The place had a high ceiling, and was longer then it was wide, lending to the idea that it may have been intended to be a metro station. But there were no tracks, no tunnels leading off. The walls were raw brick, from what their lights and the fire could illuminate, and mounds of fallen, rotten, brick and concrete dotted the floor where it had fallen from the ceiling.
"Mr Mikhailov. What do you make of this?"
Drayson shined his flashlight towards the ceiling, but even it's powerful light didn't do much up there, lost and broken up by the girders and supported that held it, and a wide variety of old pipes and such in place.
The old crew chief glanced around, and thumbed the bricks of the wall adjacent the door, before brushing his hand clean of the crumbling red brick, "Early 1900s probably. Who knows what those neanderthals wanted something like this for. Probably a supply dump."
It would certainly explain the hundreds of old wooden pallets stacked against the walls, and the wide doors and ramps that lined one wall. Probably had elevators of some sort behind them. Likely manually operated ones, rather then electric. Drayson nodded slightly and tossed his gaze towards the fire, partly hidden from view by piles of debris or old wooden beams and pallets, and started walking deeper into the chamber, "Hello? Anyone here?"
Ivan had, so far, proven to not be one of those sorts. Maybe, just maybe, the stars had come into alignment and the man had been selected because he was actually good at his job, and would actually be of use to him. Well, if what he had been told of the man was true, then maybe his task force had a chance of doing it's job. Fight magic with magic.
So the man had proven skilled in training, and had a good record. And, apparently, had a few tricks up his sleeve. But could he handle the things Drayson was saddling up the new unit for? Well, the best way to find out was to see how he managed under pressure. Of course, Drayson wasn't just all killing monsters and stopping witches and warlocks. Moscow might have been the greatest city in the modern world, but it was a dangerously thin facade draped tight over an abundance of ugly truths.
One such truth was, as it had become known to those aware of it, the undercity. A huge population of poor illegal immigrants eching out a living beneath the city. The place was rife with gang crime, smuggling, illegal drugs and slavery and worse. And there were things down there, lurking in the shadows. Of course, it was the abundant population of forgotten and ignored that kept those things in check; they didn't need to wander to the streets of Moscow for food, it seemed.
Drayson's arm should have been in a sling for a few more days yet, but he had opted to leave it behind for the day's activities. He was in good shape, and recovered quickly, and a dislocation wasn't all that serious an injury after all. He was dressed as he often was; nice, albeit not terribly expensive, wool suit, the tie pulled a little loose after two hours wandering the tunnels beneath the city.
They had already visited two small squatter camps, populations of no more then a few dozen each; migratory ones, their populations mostly Chinese, which would have made conversation awkward except that Drayson's Wallet had various translation programs in it now. He'd learned his lesson and forked out for the expensive apps. All the while Drayson spoke with Ivan, trying to get a good bearing on the young officer. Opinions on Moscow, of the undercity, of illegal immigrants, of ghost and goblins and the myriad of unsolved cold cases. The reason behind those unsolvable cases were becoming clear to Drayson; they had not been solved, no murderers or abductees found because it hadn't been a human behind them.
He'd started the day with both himself and Ivan carrying dufflebags, in which were a handful of blankets, a few pairs of shoes sized for small children, and a pair of emergency survival batteries, the sorts that could be charged by handcrank. One had been given to either group, in exchange for information about trouble that might be brewing, and by now their bags were mostly empty.
Most of what they learned was mundane; gangs snatching children and teenagers, drug smugglers, the usual. But the second group had mentioned that they stayed well away from a large underground chamber; it may have been intended as a deep line metro station at one time, but the place was pitch black.
The place was filled with debris, the most valuable of which had been wooden pallets and lumber, left untouched even after all these years. The wood was valuable for building shelters, or for cooking fires, yet no one had salvaged any of it, out of fear of something that lurked there in the darkness.
Drayson had enlisted the help of a city worker crew chief, a man he had ventured into the tunnels with a few times now. The fellow was knowledgeable of the tunnels, and never seemed to get lost. He had a good head for directions underground. So after a short discussion, they agreed to go check it out. None expected to find anything, but the description of the place made it sound like debris had fallen from the ceiling over the years, an alarming thought to the crew chief who feared the possibilities of cave-ins. A likely reason why the place was untouched of it's abundant wood.
Each man carried flashlights, but the crew-chief favoured a long-life electric lantern instead. It cast a bright glow around them, and he carried it high over his head in untiring arms; he was well used to holding the weight of it over his head for long periods of time, although he did switch hands routinely.
The three men made their way through tunnels and chambers, occasionally muscling open old service doors and passing through rooms long emptied of anything useful, until they all stopped. A sound echoing from ahead; a scream, perhaps, but whether it had been from a throat or old protesting metal was hard for Drayson to tell. A glance at the crew chief told him which of the two the man thought. He seemed worried, bordering on spooked.
Drayson was a large man, and carried with him an abundance of raw strength. His good shoulder was planted against a resisting old metal door, and the metal let out three brief squeals of protest before it was forced open far enough for them to pass through. A short corridor, another door, and soon they entered a large chamber, lit by the flickering grow of a fire near the far side.
The place had a high ceiling, and was longer then it was wide, lending to the idea that it may have been intended to be a metro station. But there were no tracks, no tunnels leading off. The walls were raw brick, from what their lights and the fire could illuminate, and mounds of fallen, rotten, brick and concrete dotted the floor where it had fallen from the ceiling.
"Mr Mikhailov. What do you make of this?"
Drayson shined his flashlight towards the ceiling, but even it's powerful light didn't do much up there, lost and broken up by the girders and supported that held it, and a wide variety of old pipes and such in place.
The old crew chief glanced around, and thumbed the bricks of the wall adjacent the door, before brushing his hand clean of the crumbling red brick, "Early 1900s probably. Who knows what those neanderthals wanted something like this for. Probably a supply dump."
It would certainly explain the hundreds of old wooden pallets stacked against the walls, and the wide doors and ramps that lined one wall. Probably had elevators of some sort behind them. Likely manually operated ones, rather then electric. Drayson nodded slightly and tossed his gaze towards the fire, partly hidden from view by piles of debris or old wooden beams and pallets, and started walking deeper into the chamber, "Hello? Anyone here?"