Rolling in the 'Deep [Exemplary]

[Kenpachi Zaraki]

The force of the explosion threw the Prime backward into the adjoining room, the vault door slamming shut in his wake with a tremendous ‘BOOM’. He lay for a moment, flat on his back, staring up at the door. Heat was emanating from the room that housed the now-charred mercenaries, a fire having likely been left behind by the explosion. He was out of breath, his method of entry having knocked the wind from his lungs. The gunslinger breathed rapidly, sweat beading on his brow. It was a few moments before he realized his whole body was shaking.

What the hell happened in there? Vincent wondered. The ex-Turk stood up uneasily, brushing debris from his clothing. He glanced down at his body, noting its lack of translucence. Had he been imagining things? Had the heat of the moment played tricks on his eyes? Then there was the matter of the sudden agonizing migraine that had gripped him. Mental deficit and extreme head pain spelled stroke to him, though he had no trouble dispatching his foes after the pain passed and he doubted that his ageless body would succumb to such an ailment. The fact that his opponents had failed to notice him during that moment told him that it was likely not all in his head. Had some hex taken hold of him?

Another explosion shook the thought from his brain; this one louder than the first, though it seemed to be farther away. The whole ship seemed to shake in response, nearly knocking Vincent from his feet. The ship's dim lighting flickered in response as the earthquake-eqsue vibration rumbled through the ship. The gunslinger looked quickly down at the threshold, bracing for another blast from the storage vault. None came; the fire seemed even to be dying down. He wondered briefly if perhaps the previous explosion had set off cargo elsewhere in the ship. As if to answer his query, the vessel shook violently once more before ceasing, a loud groan audible from below him. Vincent paused, awaiting further noise. A speaker hanging from the ceiling some 20 feet ahead quickly filled the silence.

“Hello hello, all. This is Lieutenant Duro. Seems as though we're having some engine trouble. Imperial guards: please report to the Captain's quarters. Vultures, secure the prisoners and the cargo holds before meeting on the upper deck. That is all.”

Vultures, the gunslinger mused. That would likely be the group name for the nondescript mercenaries he had been encountering, undoubtedly hired goons employed by the Empire. Ral's brother was likely one of the referenced prisoners, or so the Prime hoped. He thought briefly of the man dead on the sands of Costa del Sol. Shaking the thought from his head, Vincent continued through the maze of hallways in the ship's depths.