In the Arms of Morpheus

Rain splintered heavily against the tin walls of the warehouse. Adding to the sweet melody of rain was the sporadic array of thunder, which decorated the sky in the ravishing dance of lightning that often went hand in hand. The thunder would roll in menacing waves, a double blast of bangs- pause for the flash of lightning, with a pursuing double blast of thunderous eruptions in the sky. The waves of the nearby sea lashed out in violence at the cemented docks. Occasionally the tentacles of water would aggressively assault the tin walls of the large dockside warehouse. Within the walls, the loud smash of water on metal echoed endlessly through the wooden crates marked with miscellaneous papers.

Sloshing, J. Edward Liveon, Private Eye, would sneak his way back into the small break room. The coffee pot, alone in its existence on the small isolated coffee table, hosted half a pot of stale coffee. The other, unused coffee pots, watched in anguish from the small coffee bar, surrounded by differing coffee canisters, cups, creamers, and stirring sticks. Hidden discreetly next to the open door, which led into the larger warehouse, was a stainless steel trash can; its occupants inking their way slowly over the brim. The storm's music set an ominous aura, one which only grew vaguer as the weather raged beyond the thin tin walls.

The warehouse, a behemoth of space, sprawled for easily 100 yards. Crates of wood, cardboard, and other materials littered the compound. In many spots stacking higher than six crates in any space. Heavy falling footsteps complimented each other's existence as a bugbear of men patrolled the compound. Too many men if J. Edward Liveon had anything to say about it. With a shoulder sway, the detective would loosen his limbs, slowly unholstering his trusted companion, the pristine, 1911 handgun; in a manner to not create undo sound, of course. The nogoodniks who were out of sight, hidden by the heightened shipping crates, kept their locations painfully public to anyone who may just happen to be sneaking through their compound thanks to their loud footfalls and rasping voice. Voices that held the sound of decades of tobacco abuse.

Edward just so happened to in fact be sneaking through the large warehouse. Liveon acted extremely covertly, using the crates as concealment from any unaware enemy. With ease, the graceful detective gleaned his way across the expanse of space. With one cropping of crates followed another and so forth. Large metal ceiling fans loomed their gloomy existence above as the feeling grey just seemed to seep the color and life from the warehouse. The dimly lit compound was complemented by the random flashes of lightning, which would erupt with shadows all across the room. Though it was in the middle of the day, the seaside storms always made the docks out like it was near night. Soft orange lights canopy the isles every ten to twenty feet, doing very little in support of revealing someone confiding in the shadows.

As the crates began to fade aside the menacing next step would manifest at the flash of chaotic lightning. A metal scaffolding had been previously hidden in the smog of the darkness, however as Edward edged his way up to the wall opposite his entrance a cruel metallic set of steps would appear. Steps that led up, out of the discreet silence of the crate mountains. Up the steps a loud gruff voice could be heard, the man spoke with a soft accent, one that couldn’t be placed unless you were from the location; abstract would be the best definer. Running below the scaffolding was a row of workbenches, most of the benches were shrouded in darkness. However, a handful had small white lights turned on. At these benches were wry-looking men, deeply focused on their work. Tools of precision clenched in tight hands as they measured out different substances in varying colors.

Delicately, the cunning Private Eye would slowly ascend the metal steps. The stairs, cold and unjust, would surprisingly hold firm, not screaming out a warning to the fiends which surrounded Edward on every side. The stairs were not the enemy, the catwalk was. The moment the softly padded penny loafer stepped down upon the metallic catwalk, a siren-like creak slowly eked its way into existence. A creak that spoke a thousand lies, as it found amplification throughout the tin walls. Rattling its song of betrayal through the entire warehouse, a warehouse full of human mongrels ready to pounce. The mongrels seemed to pay no mind at all to the sound. From the dozens of shadowy figures, no eyes found themselves wandering. No heads turned to ponder. Not a mind was paid. With a soft sigh, the confident Liveon would gently wipe away several droplets of sweat that had formed on his forehead.

Effortlessly, trench coat gliding across the vile metal catwalk with each step, Edward continued ahead towards the sounds of aggravation happening. The gruff voice could be heard more clearly now, even within a closed office, the man's tough voice radiated his presence. “Wha’dya mean delayed? Damn’boat ain’t delayed! Saw it dock my’self this morning! Y’deranged lass!”

Smirking, the scar on the right of his lip pressing even tighter, Edward would slink slowly past the office door. A glass window sat center placed directly next to it; positioned so that the occupant could view out over the entire warehouse with ease if needed. As Edward slinked past the large bay window his dark caramel gaze would glaze over the man inside. Large. That was the primary thing about the man, not just tall but built like a tank, the man stood an easy foot over Liveon. Shrunk in the background behind the man, was a desk with a nameplate with the simple name of- ‘Igor’- transcribed in it. Gripped in burly and hairy hands was a rotary phone, the size comparison making the phone look like a simple children's toy. A pinstripe blazer sat crumpled on the desk, as the man loosened a simple navy blue tie, which placated itself smoothly over a ruffled white dress shirt. Italian leather suspenders looped tightly over his shoulders, clinging a pair of slightly too small navy blue slacks to his muscular frame.

Edward kept moving, his ears staying only partially attuned to the conversation at hand. The rain muffled much other noise as the loud eruption of thunder declared its presence once again. Two blasts, followed by a pause of lightning, and another two astoundingly loud bangs. Several more doors discreetly displayed themselves on the wall of the catwalk. Camouflage by the storm's darkness and the metallic tone that both the doors and walls shared. After passing multiple doors as if he had been there before a scarred and tough hand tenderly grasped a cold metal doorknob. With a soft sigh, the door would open at a leisurely pace. The room was dark, true darkness, entirely void of light. Effortlessly smooth steps padded into the room, as the door sighed its soft sigh and closed again at its ever so leisurely pace.

Once in the room J. Edward Liveon, Private Eye, would fumble through his pockets. This soft patting would continue for several minutes as Edward began to form a pattern. Pat-pat, a brief pause as he considered what he felt in the pocket, his hand would shift pat-pat. Eventually, after a painstakingly long accord of patting and pausing Liveon would pull a small book of matches from one of his internal trench coat pockets. With a restrained hiss, the match would ignite to life, illuminating its brief and powerfully beautiful life throughout the squat room.

The room was small, not much larger than what someone would expect of a broom closet. Lining the walls were rows and rows of filing cabinets. Beyond that, a single light bulb hung openly in the center of the room. A crude set of wires, bound by twine, kept the bulb afloat. Tracing the wires Liveon found a brim brass button, which triggered the light to ignite with life. Life or at least a faint tangerine-shaded glow which illuminated little more than the match. The match, which had burnt its radiant life to an end, fizzled out at tough calloused fingers.

Filing cabinets, papers, a soft hum which had joined the entourage of sound from the storm outside. The hum sang itself to prominence from the scarcely alive light bulb. Tediously J. Edward Liveon dug through the cabinets. Precise fingers combed over the soft yellowing papers, envelopes, and binders. Without much luck. Seconds turned into minutes. Minutes turned into hours. After seven different cabinets had been filed through finally, Edward came to something of interest.

In bold black letters the name, “Morpheus” sat on a thick binder.

J. Edward Liveon, Private Eye, brilliant and sharp, beautifully plain, furrowed his brow in a manner of confusion. The word Morpheus was new to him. Perhaps a new drug? Perhaps a new player in the city, moving in on Moriad's turf? Painstakingly, with anxiously shaking hands, Edward began to open the binder.

Two knocks, a pause, two more knocks. A door nearby closed. Heavy footsteps, heavy breaths.

The light flickered as thunder soared outside.

The cold brass doorknob would begin to turn, preparing its leisurely paced sigh of an opening.