Home Sweet Ho... Wait, Whats that Smell?

Archae did not like planes. No sir. Not one iota of admiration for the things. 26000 feet above the ground in what essentially compared to a glorified tin can. With people on it. Noisy people. Noisy people that weren’t comfortable with the concept of ‘leave me alone.’

He’d spent the entire flight with his hands irrevocably glued to the armrests, while Mr. Robert Blake from Wisconsin talked his ears into epileptic shock. A shitty way to spend 6 hours, especially considering the fact that the little voice in his head had been desperately trying to convince him that they walls were closing in. Archae had ignored the voice, but it contributed to the shittyness of the flight.

By the time rubber had touched pavement, Archae was in the mood to kill someone. Never a good mood for him to be in. He settled for knocking Mr. Robert Blake from Wisconsin in the testacles, and then plowing through the lines of people in an animalistic desperate bid for freedom. No one recognized the desperation, of course. Most of them just figured he was an asshole; which—Archae reminded himself—was a fairly accurate assertion.

Twenty minuets later, he was standing outside the terminal, breathing in great dollops of gasoline-scented night air. Lovely. He coughed and hefted his two overstuffed duffle bags over his right shoulder—using just the one hand. Sure, city air smelled like the excrement of a mechanical 80-year-old with dysentery, but at least he was out in a (relatively) open space; no filtered air, no cramped walls, just the never-truly-darkness and the deep purple sky.

He managed to procure a cab, after giving the small Chinese man who had actually hailed it a look that he barely managed to avoid wetting himself at. He dumped his bags in the back seat, with a suspicious metallic clashing sound, and gave the driver the address he had forced into memory. The drive was silent, not because the driver didn’t want to talk, but rather because Archae was giving off ‘don’t you dare talk to me’ vibes. The little voice was back, damnable thing. Darkness. Walls. No movement. Closing in. Crushing him. Trapped. Trapped. Trapped. Trapped. Tra—

Archae gritted his teeth and sat on it. The voice dimmed, the vague, nebulous memories with it. The cabby pulled to a stop out front the optimistically named “Twilight Towers.” It was a single tower, and looked like most of the action in it took place at midnight, between people who barely knew each other. Not at twilight, certainly. There was still some light to glare on the shame at twilight.

He got out of the cab, lugging his bags with him. The driver was paid, with only a light growl from his passenger for trying to ask for the money, and the vampire swept into the lobby.

It was empty, save for a single—probably broken, judging from the baseball bat lodged in it—vending machine. The once white linoleum tiles had changed to a rather unpleasant shade of yellow, and the walls—with their flowery wallpaper—had scratches, dirt, and scuff marks marring their surface. Oh, and a large number of bullet holes. Joy.

Archae sighed, closing his eyes and counting to ten. It wouldn’t do much good to get angry here. There wasn’t anything alive enough to care. “Fucking agent.” He growled quietly. He was beginning to wonder how long it would take to drive to New York, and if ripping out said agent’s throat would merit the trip. Probably not. Besides, it wasn’t worth the guilt.

The Viking vampire kneed the call button for the elevator. It dinged and opened without the requisite pause for the car to reach him. Archae wasn’t surprised. This wasn’t the sort of place that many people were bound to go into, most of them probably wanted nothing more than to get out.

Once inside, he pressed the burned out button for floor three. The elevator sighed in protest, as though angry at the interruption of its perpetual rest at L but ascended anyway. When it dinged again and the doors opened, Archae slipped into the hall leading to his newly procured room. He blinked for a second at the keypad lock, stupefied that anyone would spend that much money on this sort of dump, and dropped his bags.

The grumpy blood sucker fished a paper out from one of the pockets of his back duster, frowning at it. It was a handbill for the condo, with a handwritten note at the bottom, in the accursed agents writing. ”Code: 1812.” Archae snorted in a combination of self disgust and disgust in general. He shouldn’t have missed that. A quick button punching later and he was into the apartment. Not impressed in the slightest.

The place was bare of any previous evidence of habitation. The furniture was all empty. A table in near the middle of the room, empty, a desk in one corner, empty, with hard backed and very uncomfortable looking chair. At least they had given him a couch. He dropped the two bags onto it, and they smacked into it as though it were made of wood. Archae’s mouth tightened into an unpleasant smile. Wonderful. The cabinet before the couch was empty, he had been promised a television—probably a lie. Or else it had been stolen. The Vampire made a mental note of the possibility of burglary, not that it hadn’t occurred to him the instant he set eyes on the place.

There was a door on the opposite wall—presumably leading into the bedroom and bathroom. A kitchen was positioned in the room, separated from the rest of his ‘living space’ by a white, bland countertop.

Home Sweet Home.

Archae shrugged off his coat and started covering the windows.

(ooc: Archae's done. Lock up)