Midnight. Sirens blaring in the distance as a light rain begins to fall. Faint. Barely there. Just enough to slightly moisten the skin, like you're a vegetable in a bin at your local grocery store. Moonlight pours through the clouds and illuminates the streets of Rochester, New York. For the most part, they are empty streets. Most folks are in bed. However, past the resounding blast of an emergency vehicle and in the darkest corner, there is an unsettling sound. Whimpers. Sobs. Soft prayers and the smell of copper. Or rather... the scent of blood and slow moving death.


"P... p... please, don't kill me."


A man lays on his back in an alley way. His head in a puddle, a mixture of rainwater, blood and traces of urine. The front of his clothes stained in crimson and thick trails of bodily gore. On closer inspection it is seen that his throat is torn open. A huge chunk ripped from the left side. This is the source, the root of the man's unsavory condition. A few feet away, another man leans against a dumpster. Shroud in shadows, he lights a cigarette and momentarily enlightens the situation, thus revealing his face. Blood still fresh on the corners of his mouth. He takes a drag from his cigarette and wipes it away with his hand. This man is the one you will come to know as Mick Ashcroft.


"It's a little late for that. You've only got minutes."


"N... no. This... this.. c... can't be h... h... happening."


There is no remorse. Only cold indifference from a man who's seen death and carnage, many times before. Both delivered by his hand and not. Mick exhales a cloud of smoke and sighs.


"It can and it is. Best you make peace with whatever god it is that you believe in and accept the facts. Death is coming for you and like a spoiled, little rich girl, death always gets what it wants."


A bitter chuckle.


"Well... usually."


Sick gurgling noises erupt from the dying man's throat as he releases a sob. Tears flow freely and he coughs, allowing a river of blood to rush from the open wound in his throat. He momentarily chokes and then gasps but for the time being, he is still alive. Hanging on by a thread that's dangling between the blades of a hungry pair of scissors. He is very close to the end.


"Then... plea... se make me... like... you."


"Not going to happen. Sorry. I don't do the whole, taking a fledgling under my wing. I'm already a scourge on this world, I don't need to create another. No, that would be an even bigger mistake than what was committed tonight."


"A... mis.. take? You tore my fucking throat open! You... you attacked me! I'm laying here dying... be... cause of.... YOU!"


Another cough, more tears and an ocean of blood. Those blades come even closer to the fine strand of life. Mick takes another pull from his cigarette and turns his eyes to the night sky. This wasn't supposed to have happened. He had better control than this. More than 200 years alive on this planet and he fucks up like it was his first day. What the hell happened? Why did he lose control? Why did he do this? The scary part here was the lack of answers. He couldn't find a reason for any of it. Releasing a large cloud of smoke, Mick placed his attention on the dying man and stepped into the cleansing light of the moon. For a brief second, he appears almost sympathetic.


"I am sorry. This shouldn't have happened to you."


A drag from his cigarette and whatever slight overcast of mercy that had manifested upon Mick's face vanishes.


"But it did, so would you get on with dying. I don't have all bloody night."


Mick exhales smoke and turns away, his eyes back on the obsidian canvas above. The night carried a weird energy but everything seemed off since he joined up with the XWF. Yet another curious aspect of his damned "life" that he couldn't explain. What possessed him to join up with a professional wrestling company? And on a whim no less! The questions kept piling up, while the answers still eluded him. It was at this point, Mick noticed the sobs, soft murmurs and burbles had ceased. Returning his gaze to the pathetic form that once was a tall, upstanding army veteran, he saw that death had finally arrived and left with its prize. Another mortal soul. Vanished into the darkness.


"It's about fuckin' time."


A crackle. Static. Mick takes a pull from his ciggie and then tosses what's left on the ground, snuffing it out swiftly with his boot. More static and a hiss, then from somewhere there is a voice.


"Mick. Did you forget we're on a stake out? Where the fuck are you?"


With a long sigh, Mick removes a walkie talkie from his pocket and presses the button to talk.


"I had to take a piss. Keep your skirt on, I'll be right there."


Smirking slightly, he shoves the portable two-way radio back into his pocket and starts walking. Nothing like New York's finest to bring you back to the cold, harsh reality of things. Don't worry fine citizens, Detective Bloodsucker is on the case. Nothing to see here. Death is a part of life after all and he was proof of that in the most poetic way possible. In his death, he was "alive" and with that "life" he brought death. Sure, he avoided it as much as possible, taking only what he needed to survive and nothing more but sometimes... there was a moment like this one that reminded him, in this curse there really wasn't control. And a monster was still a monster, even if he so happened to sport a tan trench coat.