General (POV)
Earlier...
Returning to the warehouse, he found Whistler semi-collapsed in a chair, pale-faced. Puncture wounds marred his neck, evidence that his mentor had clearly been bitten by his greatest enemies. The sight sent a spike of pure rage through him. In a frenzy, he stormed through two vampire nests, each kill a desperate attempt to purge the fury coursing through his veins. Finally, he reached a flickering screen that revealed Deacon Frost's smug face.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't Blade the Daywalker himself," Frost taunted, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Someone ruffled your feathers tonight? Need a couple of bloodsucker babes to unwind?"
Blade glared at the infuriating face on the screen, each word he forced out laced with icy venom. "You, bit Whistler I am coming for you?"
Frost, with a cruel grin, turned the camera. Blade stared at the screen, his gut churning with a cocktail of disbelief and a flicker of desperate hope. The screen displayed a woman – his mother, who had presumably died a long time ago – telling him that she had been kept prisoner by Frost all these years.
"Oh, Blade," Frost taunted, "in case you think that's just a trap...I can assure you it is." He then continued to nonchalantly rattle off a location. A grin stretched across his face as he ran his tongue over his sharpened teeth. "If you want to see your mother," he continued, "or send me to oblivion, you know what to do. Don't be late."
With that ominous promise, Frost's face vanished from the screen. Blade responded with a primal roar, his rage barely contained. He lashed out, slashing the static-filled screen in half with a single, brutal stroke. He took a few deep breaths, trying to quell the inferno burning within him.
It was a trap, no doubt about it, set by Frost, Frost himself told him that much, the very monster Blade had dedicated his life to hunting down. Yet, yearning for a connection, for a shred of truth in the face of his singular obsession, he rushed all the way to the location reported by Frost. After getting out of the car, he grabbed his gear from the trunk—two Mac-10s, fully loaded—and, with a promise of violence, entered the building.
Blade entered the building and began fighting his way up to the top floor. Each cleared floor brought him closer to the truth, the weight of his mission pressing down on him. He reloaded his submachine gun his heart pounding, before walking into a white room.
The room, white, devoid of warmth or personality. Only a single, imposing bed stood in the center. As Blade approached, a mechanical whirring filled the air. The upper section of the bed split open, revealing a figure.
Seeing this, he pointed the gun's barrel at the bed, but what happened next stunned him to his core. His breath hitched. There, pale and seemingly fragile, lay Vanessa. His mother. The woman whose memory had fueled his every move, whose death had been the defining tragedy of his life.
Disbelief warred with a desperate hope in Blade's mind. He hadn't believed the call, not entirely. But here she was, undeniably real, and undeniably different. Vanessa's gleaming fangs glinting in the light answered all his unspoken questions.
His whole life – a crusade fueled by vengeance – was thrown into question. If Vanessa wasn't dead, if the very foundation of his purpose was a lie, then what was left? The shock of it all nearly short-circuited his brain. Dazed and confused, he didn't even register the door creaking open behind him. Big mistake. Before he could react, someone whacked him with a stun baton that felt like a lightning bolt straight to the nervous system. Lights out.
Frost, looking smug as a cat with a whole creamery to itself, strolled over to the unconscious figure propped against the wall. He leaned in and gave it a creepy hug and a kiss. "Well, well, Blade," Frost cooed, turning to his still-twitching captive. "Took you long enough to find your dear old mommy, wouldn't you say? I expected a warmer welcome, honestly."
Blade remained silent, which clearly wasn't part of Frost's dramatic script. With a sigh of disappointment, Frost flicked his wrist dismissively. His henchmen shuffled forward, ready to haul Blade out of there. Looks like playtime was over.
...
The quiet hum of the S.H.I.E.L.D. rapid response center was almost peaceful—like the calm before the storm, both in the world and within. John Walker sat in the middle of it all, a figure of composure amid the chaos, his broad frame hunched over a worn leather notebook. Each movement was measured, deliberate—like the calm before a bullet flies, or maybe a sniper lining up his next target. His jaw was clenched tight, focus unwavering, but there was a certain gentleness to the way his pen danced across the page—like he was diffusing a bomb, one word at a time.
The door slid open with a hiss, cutting through the silence. Walker didn't even flinch. He wasn't done yet—not with the thought that had been rolling through his mind all afternoon. The faintest curve of his lips suggested he was onto something, something that felt right. Then came the voice, as familiar as it was deadly.
"Writing a diary?" Nick Fury's voice cut through the air, that signature dry wit sharp enough to pierce steel.
Walker didn't look up, just held the notebook up like it was a trophy. "You bet. Been doing this longer than I've known you. Between this and you, this one's the real MVP. No offense."
Fury stepped in, his trench coat swirling behind him in a way that only Fury could pull off. He leaned against the table, his one good eye narrowing with that mix of exasperation and curiosity that Walker knew all too well. "Good. You might want to write this one down. We're up against vampires. And this time, I need you to bring them back alive."
Walker snorted, sitting back in his chair, a cocky grin spreading across his face. "Vampires again? Thought we already showed those bloodsuckers how Team Humanity plays ball."
Fury didn't flinch, his expression a study in unreadability. But there was a flicker of something in his voice—humor, maybe, or annoyance. "The old-timers got the memo. Their kids? Not so much. They think they're invincible—untouchable."
Walker's chuckle rumbled through the room, a mix of amusement and challenge. "Perfect. Been stuck in HQ too long anyway. Time for a little warm-up."
Fury's tone shifted—hardening, sharpening like a blade coming into focus. "Walker, you're good, but I need more than just bravado. The team's safety is priority one. No lone wolf antics this time."
The grin on Walker's face softened, becoming more serious, more grounded. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, his voice suddenly carrying weight. "You've got my word, Fury. I'll do my part. But you know how this works. Once the bullets start flying…"
Fury's sharp look cut him off, lips pressed into a thin line of frustration. "Don't remind me."
Walker raised a hand, his voice calm but full of quiet confidence. "Hey. You're the Director. Trust your people. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a Pulitzer-worthy journal entry to finish up."
Fury studied him for a beat, his gaze piercing. Then, with a quick nod, he turned and walked out, the door closing with its signature hiss. Walker exhaled slowly, eyes drifting back to the notebook.
"Hope everyone makes it back in one piece," he muttered, the weight of the mission briefing still fresh in his mind. The footage was unsettling—a blur of speed, violence, and something suspiciously familiar about the woman in the clips. "That woman… She fights like me. Guess we'll see who's better."
He snapped the notebook shut, locking it away in a compartment as secure as his thoughts. The gold-embossed name on the cover gleamed briefly in the light: Jonathan Walker.
Standing up, he stretched, joints popping like old gears being put back to work. He grunted in satisfaction, shaking off the weight of old battles. Time for a shower—and maybe, just maybe, a fight he could sink his teeth into.
....
Night had fallen by the time Frost and his merry band of bloodsuckers reached their destination—an ancient temple that looked like it hadn't seen a good cleaning in a millennium.
Blade had no idea where he was. His body jostled up and down, the rhythmic motion dragging him toward consciousness.
"This... feels like a vehicle?" he muttered hoarsely, his voice barely above a whisper. His tongue swept across cracked lips, the dryness gnawing at him more fiercely than thirst. This wasn't just dehydration—this was the hunger, the unrelenting need for blood. Fresh blood or serum, nothing else would suffice.
The vehicle came to an abrupt halt.
"We're here. Get him out," a gruff voice barked.
The rear doors groaned open, flooding Blade's senses with the stale air of captivity. Quinn stood there with a smug grin, practically bouncing with sadistic glee. Blade didn't resist as rough hands gripped his arms, dragging him across the cold, metallic surface of the truck bed. His limbs twitched sporadically from the aftereffects of the shocks, his body barely his own.
The faint sound of footsteps echoed around them as they entered. The acoustics told Blade everything—this wasn't just a room; it was a massive chamber, its open expanse amplifying every movement.
"Echoes? An open interior. Must be a large structure... Could this be the Eternal Night Temple from the files? What's Frost playing at?" he wondered, forcing his mind to stay sharp through the fog of weakness.
His thoughts were interrupted by the rough scrape of stone beneath him. The air inside was damp, heavy with the weight of something ancient.
"Uhh!" Blade groaned as he was hauled into the temple. Ten agonizing hours without serum had left him depleted, his strength a mere shadow of its former self.
A smooth, taunting voice broke the silence. "Well, well, our Daywalker has arrived," Frost announced.
A yank at the cloth over Blade's face revealed his surroundings. Frost loomed over him, the faint smirk on his lips barely disguising his satisfaction.
"Blade, Vanessa, glad you could make it," Frost continued, his words dripping with mock hospitality.
Off to the side, Quinn couldn't resist adding his own brand of derision. "Hey, man. Thanks for the shades," he said, flashing a crooked smile.
Frost strolled toward the center of the chamber, gesturing expansively. "Our ancestors called this place the Temple of Eternal Night," he said, his voice echoing with an almost reverent tone.
He paused, glancing down toward a raised platform in the middle of the room. It was surrounded by intricate carvings and symbols, all pointing to some dark purpose. Frost turned back to address his vampire audience.
"Nice, isn't it? Apparently, these geniuses forgot it ever existed. Fortunately for us... I'm what you might call a student of history."
His gaze shifted back to Blade, and the smugness returned in full force. "Why are we here?" he asked rhetorically. "This temple was built for one glorious moment... this night, for the Blood God."
Blade's jaw tightened, his defiance clear even in his weakened state. But before he could respond, Quinn stepped forward and delivered a solid punch to Blade's face, sending him to his knees.
Frost barely spared a glance. "Thanks," he said dryly.
Straightening up, Frost addressed his entourage. "Let's see this sword of yours."
Mercury stepped forward, her movements graceful and deliberate. Unsheathing the sword, she let its polished blade catch the dim light before tossing it to Frost with a knowing smirk.
Frost caught it with practiced ease, turning it over in his hands like an appraiser admiring a priceless artifact. "Titanium, right? Acid-etched?" he mused, spinning the blade expertly. "I could get used to a weapon like this."
With a flick of his wrist, Frost brought the blade dangerously close to Blade's face. He thumbed the switch on the hilt, activating the security mechanism meant to ensure only Blade could wield it.
"What? You look surprised," Frost said, his grin widening. His gaze bore into Blade's. "I told you, Blade, I know everything about you."
Turning his attention to Quinn, Frost's tone shifted, becoming almost playful. "Hold out your arm, Quinn."
Quinn froze, his eyes darting nervously. "Why, man? These are... they're, like, all better."
Frost's patience wore thin, his voice cutting like the blade in his hand. "Hold out your arm... Now."
Quinn hesitated but complied, extending his arm with obvious reluctance. Frost placed the blade against it, his expression unreadable. Quinn's breathing quickened.
"Deac, I..." he stammered.
Frost raised the sword, his movements deliberate, as if preparing to strike. At the last moment, he stopped, his face splitting into a sly grin. He patted Quinn's arm lightly. "Just kidding."
Quinn exhaled in relief, his laugh loud and nervous. "Ha ha ha! He was fckin' with me. He was, like, fckin'..."
Vanessa's worried voice broke through the tension. "Blade. Blade?"
Frost turned to her, his tone patronizing. "He can't hear you, honey. The thirst has got him now."
Sniffing the air theatrically, Frost held out his hand expectantly. Quinn scrambled to hand him the belt of syringes.
Frost inspected the belt with mock appreciation. "What do we have here?" he murmured, pulling out a syringe. "The precious serum."
Crouching to Blade's level, Frost dangled the syringe in front of him, taunting. "Mm. How long's it been since you shot up? Twelve, thirteen hours, maybe?"
His tone grew more mocking. "I bet you're just dying for a drink, aren't you? What's it feel like? Is your blood on fire?"
Blade's eyes met Frost's, burning with defiance. "Try some. You might like it."
Frost chuckled softly. "Thanks, but I prefer the real thing."
Standing, he flung the belt across the chamber. It landed with a clatter near the altar below. "In any event, I don't think you'll be needing these anymore."
He turned back to Blade, his voice laced with mock pity. "It's a shame, you know? When I think of what you've become—what you should have become."
Shrugging theatrically, he added, "I guess I don't blame you. I mean, with everything that's happened, it's the human side of you that's made you weak. You should've listened to your blood."
Blade's voice, though strained, was resolute. "Say what you want, but I promise you, you'll be dead by dawn."
Frost smirked, gesturing lazily to his lackeys. "Ooh. Get him outta here."
To the nearby vampires, he barked, "Get these fucks downstairs. Now."
Mercury clapped her hands, her tone almost cheerful. "Come on, let's go."
Two henchmen grabbed Blade roughly, dragging him toward the stairs. Halfway up, Blade's legs buckled, and he dropped to his knees, dust rising around him.
The henchmen exchanged irritated glances before yanking him up and dragging him the rest of the way without ceremony.
Arriving at their destination a giant stone coffin, looking like something out of an Indiana Jones flick, dominated the center of a raised platform. With a creak that sent shivers down Blade's spine (if he was still feeling shivers, that is), they popped the top open and shoved him in like a sack of potatoes. Once they had him nice and secure, Vanessa, watching her son lie motionless in the coffin's recess, stepped forward and pressed a switch with her foot. The lid slammed shut with a loud thud – Blade's personal nightmare fuel coming to life. To make matters worse, as the coffin sealed, hidden blades inside sliced open his wrists, and blood started pumping out like a rogue sprinkler.
Down below, in a cylindrical, wide space that looked like it hadn't seen sunlight in what felt like forever, stood Frost. With a smirk, he surveyed the scene, standing like a villainous boss in the center of a circle of grumpy-looking vampire elders, fully aware that his plans were nearing completion. As for the elders, their faces made it clear they weren't fans of his little soirée—but who could tell with vampires? Blade's blood, courtesy of some fancy plumbing, trickled down from the top of the temple, dripping onto the foreheads of the elders and Frost himself.
Then, things got weird. A lightning bolt, seemingly out of nowhere, struck the temple, lighting up the creepy symbols etched on the walls. The elders, who probably should've brought earplugs, started shrieking like banshees. Just as quickly as it started, the screaming stopped. In their place, skeletal creatures with bone wings ripped out of the elders' bodies, like a twisted butterfly emergence. These winged monstrosities circled the room once before dive-bombing Frost and hoisting him into the air like a particularly creepy party favor.
When Frost finally touched down again, the symbols on the walls had faded, leaving the room bathed in an eerie silence. Everyone stared at Frost, who stood there all dramatic with his head bowed. Vanessa, clearly worried despite the whole "turning evil" thing, inched closer and squeaked, "Frost, you... you alright?"
Slowly, Frost lifted his head, revealing eyes that looked like they belonged to a particularly grumpy tomato. He scanned the room, then spoke in a creepy voice: "Deacon Frost is dead. From now on, you can call me... La Magra!"