PART I

AN INTRODUCTION TO THE RED

 

Fall, 1937

Aceton

 

It was a cold, wet night in Aceton. The paved roads were slick with water, reflecting the light of hazy yellow street lamps in mirrored pools.  A blood red moon shone upon the city, bathing the labyrinth-esque mess of streets in dull, scarlet light.

 

And among it all, there was a thick tension in the air of the compound.

 

That’s not to say the tension was abnormal, there was always a sort of stress that came with the job of guarding such a facility. Neither of the two men, nor the vampire or the imp, really had the slightest idea of what they were even guarding.

 

All they knew is that they were being paid to shut up, stay alert, and not ask any questions. And that was enough. 

 

Enough was always the bar in Aceton. Enough to get by. Enough to live another day.

 

Some might question the worthwhileness of coughing up enough scratch to subsist in such a shithole, but to most a shithole was a far better option than whatever may lie behind the veil.

 

So the four of them did as usual, and awkwardly stood around the room, just barely lit by a single fading light bulb hanging above them. Some slouched, some casually leaned against walls, but all had a certain stiffness that was apparent in their look. They were waiting for something to happen. 

 

And then it did.

 

A sharp knock rattled the metal of the door, causing one of the men to jump before sheepishly straightening up. The others chuckled as he went flush in embarrassment, each giving him a mocking look. The other man strolled up to the door, a quiet laugh still lingering in his mouth. “It’s just the boss. He comes every night.”

 

He rested one hand on the door, using the other to wrench open the metal latch to look outside the door. Rusted old metal sheets scraped against one another as the man tugged, eventually giving against his strain.

 

He peered out the door, and in a flash he paled, posture stiffening.

 

“Who the hell are yo-”

 

Sadly, the man never found out who was on the other side of the door, as before he could get the question out, the bullet had already gone most of the way through his head. 

 

The others in the room barely had time to react as the shot went off, blood spurting from the hole freshly put in the back of the man’s head. His legs went slack and he crumpled against the metal door, a small trail of blood smearing along the cold metal.

 

Even in death it seems the man couldn’t catch a break, as his corpse wasn’t given much time to rest against the door before it went flying backward into the room. Whoever had shot the man had decided to promptly follow it up by smashing the door in, its lock flying backwards with the corpse. Its hinges quickly swung open, slamming the door against the wall next to it, and what proceeded happened very quickly. 

 

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Ian Foolhardy liked to think he was fast on his feet. He must have been, right? You don’t make it far as a killer for hire if you’re not fast. Then again, he hadn’t been a killer very long. It was all very new to him.

 

He was wearing a dark red suit, with pants and leather gloves of a similar hue, a little formal for the occasion, but Crimson had insisted. She said it helped with blending into the red light of the night. That made sense enough, but why not wear something more easy to move in, like a cloak, or just normal clothing? His skin was bright red thanks to her anyway, so did it really matter?

 

With that she told him to fuck off. He guessed she just liked the suit.

 

What kind of name was Crimson anyway? She’d told him that imps were named after the hue of their skin, but it still didn’t sound right. Didn’t sound like a name. Like, this green imp reaching for their gun, they could be named Pine, or something. Pine was a better name than Crimson. Rolled off the tongue better.

 

It’s a perfectly fine name.

 

Agh, stop doing that! Gives me a splitting headache. 

 

Oh, suck it up! You’ll get used to it.

 

I guess.

 

Look, now you’ve taken too long! He’s got the gun, and he’s gonna-

 

Foolhardy broke into a dash. He got a couple feet into the door before sidestepping to the right, and as he predicted, a bullet whizzed past him, hitting the brick wall outside the door. Imps had a reputation of being like savages, not having to think while fighting due to a pure strength advantage. 

 

It was a very helpful reputation, they never expected the sidestep. 

 

The second human and the green imp were fairly close to one another, standing next to the hallway leading further into the facility. The vampire was to his right, closest. Perfect.

 

He turned to dash towards the vampire, who greeted him with a toothy smile. Fighting was about more than physically sizing people up, you had to read their face as well. The vampire had a cocky smirk spread across his face. He thought Foolhardy was going to attack him head-on. Well, hopefully he did.

 

As he got within a few feet, Foolhardy skirted around the vampire, just as he lunged forward. It took a second to grab a knife from the many around his waistband, but once he got one out it wasn't very hard to plant it in the creature’s neck.

 

The vampire’s eyes lit up as Foolhardy twisted his wrist and wrenched the knife to the left, tearing a large gash into its throat. He never liked that look. It kept him up some nights. But for some reason, whenever he was possessed, the guilt was always dulled. Perk of the job, he supposed.

 

The vampire gave into his instinct and reached for his bleeding throat. Mistake. Foolhardy swept his legs and quickly looked to the left to gauge the other two as the vampire fell to the floor. The second human was running down the hallway, trying to get to the end to alert the others. The imp had cocked the hammer of his revolver, ready for a second shot.

 

Foolhardy locked eyes with the imp. He looked scrawny, unsure. That worked. He sidestepped again, away from the door, and chucked the knife towards the imp’s hand. 

 

It sailed through the air, rotating so fast it was a blur. The imp fired off a shot and moved to the right, but the knife was too fast. Just as it planted itself into the green flesh of the imp’s wrist the bullet nicked Foolhardy’s ear, taking off a chunk of its pointed end.

 

Pain shot through it, but it wasn’t so bad. The possession dulled pain too. Very helpful in a job like this.

 

The imp dropped the gun, he had had a loose grip, just as Foolhardy had hoped.

 

Sterling is in the left gun, right?

 

Yep.

 

Alright.

 

Foolhardy unholstered the left revolver and placed his foot on the back of the vampire beneath him. It clawed at his ankle, blood still gushing out of its neck. Two bullets, then. He lined up the shot.

 

POW! POW!

 

It stopped moving. The sterling bullets shone through the gaping wound in the back of the vampire’s head. 

 

Stop doing that, you're supposed to use them one at a time!

 

But they’ve all taken two.

 

And eventually there'll be one that only takes one, so you gotta check! We’ve only got so much sterling!

 

Yeah, I know.

 

He turned, the imp had ripped the knife from its wrist and was running towards him.

 

You think I can take them? 

 

Every imp who thinks they’re hot shit joins a guard patrol like this. Easy way to get your reputation up, rise in the ranks, you know?

 

Yeah, I guess.

 

Should be an easy kill.

 

Foolhardy made his way towards the imp, slowly approaching, studying its movements. Most imps lived up to their reckless reputation. It ran at Foolhardy with a visceral rage in its milky white eyes, its face contorted into a twisted expression of pure anger. 

 

And then, they reached each other. It swiped the knife towards his neck, but Foolhardy ducked the blade, throwing a sharp jab at its ribs. The blow slammed into its chest, and Foolhardy heard a sharp crack, but this did little to stun it. With a ferocious speed, the blade swapped hands and the imp lashed at the gloved hand that Foolhardy had planted in its side.

 

Shit.

 

Foolhardy was barely able to register the movement of the blade, the imp moved so quickly. One second the imp moved the blade to its right hand, the next the blade had already struck him.

 

Foolhardy used the imp’s turned body to deliver a powerful kick to their chest, slamming his heel into its gut. Another sharp crack. They went stumbling back a few feet, an opening.

 

Foolhardy reached for a knife and quickly chucked it at the imp head. His grip was loose, that would cost him. The blade flew through the air and pierced the imp forehead, going an inch or two in before stopping.

 

Why had his grip been so loose? Foolhardy looked at the hand the imp had struck. Black blood oozed from it, two of his fingers now reduced to stumps, and the glove sliced with them. He looked to the ground, and sure enough, there lie the fingers, covered by the reddened leather of his glove.

 

Jeez.

 

You gotta be careful. Imps aren’t the brightest, but they pack a goddamn punch!

 

I just wasn’t thinking. Won’t happen again

 

You feel that?

 

Feel what?

 

The red.

 

Oh.

 

It was gradual, so he hadn’t initially noticed, but everything had a red tinge. It was very slight, eating at the edges of his peripheral. And with it came this feeling within him. It was building up, too small to recognise, but it was there.

 

This hasn’t happened yet, has it?

 

No. What is this?

 

You’ll see. Haven’t been hit in a while, have you?

 

I said it won’t happen again.

 

We’ll see about that.

 

The imp was back on his feet, and coming for Foolhardy. It seemed to have no regard for the blade lodged in its head. Black blood oozed from the wide gash in its wrist, but it looked completely unphased by that wound as well.

 

Just wait for the strike.

 

It lunged.

 

It slashed the blade towards Foolhardy’s chest this time, but he ducked and grabbed the hand wielding the blade. Before the imp could react, Foolhardy skirted around the imp, its arm still in his grip, and moved it into position, before yanking hard.

 

Pop.

 

The imp howled in pain, its dislocated arm hanging limp, dropping the knife to the ground. Foolhardy took the opportunity of the imp’s pain to quickly shove it forward.

 

It stumbled a moment, before falling to the ground, unable to catch itself due to its out-of-socket arm. Its other arm softened the fall, not letting the blade dig further into its head, but unable to defend from behind.

 

Before it could react, Foolhardy placed his foot on the imp’s head.

 

“NO, NO! WAI-”

 

He stomped, hard. It took a couple tries, but eventually the imp stopped moving. A pool of black blood formed around its head.

 

As Foolhardy gazed at the battered body of the imp, a quiet noise sounded to his right. He turned. The human was still running down the hallway.

 

You think I could get him with a knife?

 

There was silence for a moment.

 

It’d be a hard throw. You think you can do it?

 

The memory is somewhere in here. It usually comes to me when I try it.

 

Let’s see it then.

 

Foolhardy focused. He could do this. Only a thousand feet or so, he just had to throw hard, and be very, very precise. 

 

He gripped the blade.

 

The human ran.

 

He arched his arm back.

 

The human ran.

 

He eyed the shot.

 

The human ran.

 

And then he threw the blade.

 

It sailed through the air, speeding down the hallway, barely a sliver from Foolhardy’s perspective. He squinted his eyes, standing there for a moment. It spun, and spun, and spun, becoming smaller and smaller. It took a few more seconds, but then:

 

CRACK!

 

The handle smashed into the human’s head, and he fell to the ground.

 

SLAM!

 

His head smashed against the floor.

 

Yikes.

 

Dumbass.

 

Whatever. It still hit him.

 

He walked back up to the imp’s body.

 

Where did you say the regeneration thing is?

 

Somewhere in the brain. Don’t know exactly where, though.

 

Alright.

 

Foolhardy took out the left revolver and aimed at the green imp’s smashed head, the end of the blade jutting out of the back just enough to make a noticeable sheen. 

 

Gross.

 

You might’ve already severed it after that!

 

Better safe than sorry.

 

POW!

 

Blood spewed from every side of what remained of the imp’s head with the shot, the black liquid rippling from the force of it. Foolhardy couldn’t help but look down at it for a moment, eyes lost in the green and black mess he’d made of the imp. It was like he had zoned out.

 

Enamored?

 

He came back with a jolt as the thought entered his head.

 

A beautiful thing, isn’t it?

 

He scoffed, walking away from the body.

 

What are we even looking for anyway?

 

You really forget?

 

I guess so.

 

You should be asking WHO we’re looking for.

 

A sudden pang of realization came over Foolhardy.

 

Fuck!

 

He suddenly started to bolt down the hallway, running as fast as his legs could carry him. Unmarked doors flew past his view as he moved, some open just enough to make out blurry recollections of tables and filing cabinets. But none of that mattered. He’d messed up. Big time.

 

Fuck is right! They’ve probably already made a daring escape with all that ruckus you caused!

 

Why didn’t you tell me!?

 

Running with this insane strength was exhilarating to Foolhardy, with each push of his feet he’d fly a good ten feet forward. It was surreal, he could barely comprehend just how fast he was moving. If he’d had his human heart, it probably would’ve burst under the strain. Luckily for him, Crimson had strengthened that too.

 

Just thought I’d see how you’d handle it.

 

Foolhardy scowled, turning to the right and letting his shoes streak across the floor. The moment he rounded the corner he broke out of the slide into another run, picking up the pace. He could hear them, right down the hallway. Footsteps scuffling up ahead, struggling to escape him.

 

Again he skirted the edge of a hallway. Placards on doors zoomed past him, room numbers stretching into vague lines. He saw them. A faint silhouette at the end of the hallway. Foolhardy sped up.

 

I can handle it.

 

Go ahead, then.

 

He studied the silhouette of the figure ahead. It clearly wasn’t matching his pace, growing closer and closer as Foolhardy ran, but the dim lighting paired with the red moonlight streaming in through intermittent windows made it hard to see what type of creature happened to be running from him.

 

Whatever, bullets hurt everyone.

 

Foolhardy, beginning to realize just how much energy this sprint was taking out of him, fumbled his hand towards the left holster, reaching for the normal revolver. Wait, was it the left?

 

U-um, left is sterling, or right?

 

Christ, Foolhardy. Left is sterling, right is normal. How many times do I have to tell you?

 

Sorry. Just getting tired.

 

He reached for the right holster, gripping the gun and lifting it out.

 

We need to work on your stamina, Foolhardy! We literally just arrived and you’re already wussing ou-

 

I’m not wussing out. I’m finishing this job.

 

Despite only being a thought, there was a certain steely resolve in the way Foolhardy thought it. 

 

Alright.

 

As that thought rang through his head, a presence seemed to fade. Crimson was finally shutting up and letting him get the dirty work done. Good riddance.

 

The arc of his arm came to a sudden stop as the sights of the revolver came to his eye level. Thanks to Crimson, it only took a moment to line up the shot. The feeling was odd, it was like Foolhardy could fetch her abilities from the back of his subconscious. It had been hard to do the first couple times, then again it had been hard to do anything but keel over the first couple times.

 

Possession had its toll.

 

POW!

 

The shot rang through the air as a bright red plume of blood shot out from the figure’s leg.

 

It’s no imp.

 

He hadn’t thought it’d be one anyway. Imps don’t run. Well, for the most part.

 

The creature yelled in pain, but something else was mixed with the pained wail. A certain tone in the scream that he barely was able to register. It was surprise. Lord, he had been running in a mad dash, was he really that quiet?

 

Foolhardy shuddered and nearly stumbled out of his run as a voice tore its way back into his head.

 

Light on your feet, always gives ‘em a spook!

 

Seemed Crimson had noticed the surprise as well.

 

The figure fell, its shot leg flailing limply behind it as it tripped out of its run and landed on its face. 

 

Foolhardy slowed apace as he approached it, spotting its olive skin through its large gray coat.

 

Human.

 

This’ll be quick.

 

As Crimson’s voice flared through his mind, he wrenched his hand to his head in pain. Whenever he got tired his head would get like this, it made communication a hell of a lot harder. 

 

The human grunted in pain as Foolhard approached, and quickly flipped itself around as it heard his approach. The human was an older bald man, black dots flecked across his chin forming a semblance of a beard. His eyes went wide when he locked eyes with Foolhardy, eyes frantically darting across his red visage as he grasped his leg in pain.

 

This our guy?

 

Before Crimson could respond the man jerked his hand into his coat, reaching for his waistband. He took out a small pistol, trying to take aim Foolhardy approached, but was quickly met with a swift-

 

CRACK!

 

The man’s wrist bent at an awkward angle as Foolhardy slammed his foot into the hand holding the gun, the pistol flying down the stretch of the hallway. The kick appeared to shatter some part of his hand, as it wasn’t long before the hand gripping his wounded leg quickly moved to shelter his freshly broken fingers, a loud cry of pain following the action. 

 

For a few seconds his attention was completely absorbed by that hand, fleeting only for a moment to look up as Foolhardy grabbed him by his neck. 

 

“I-imp-”

 

The man was unable to sputter the word out before Foolhardy’s grip tightened. He planted the man against the wall, just high enough so that the man’s feet couldn’t reach the floor, and met his eyes with a cold glare.

 

Ask him about the Crows!

 

The Crows?

 

Somethin’ like that, some minor priesthood. Apparently we’re supposed to get some info out of this guy before we kill his ass.

 

Yeah, alright.

 

The pain from communicating was fresh in Foolhardy’s head, it pounded at the edges of his skull, like it was going to burst like a balloon. His heart was beating fast in his chest, and it felt like every part of his body had a deep, visceral ache. He really had to get this possession stuff worked out.

 

His voice came out a deep rumble, gritty and deeper than normal.

 

“What do you know about the Crows?”

 

It sounded wrong coming out of his mouth, the voice always had a bizarre undertone within it, one he couldn’t recognise. It felt so unnatural, but then again, everything felt unnatural like this. The strength. The agility. The numbness.

 

“C-crows? Yeah, I can tell you a-about ‘em!!”

 

The man stuttered as he spoke, his lip quivering all the while, it was seemingly hard for him to spit the words out of his mouth. He stared at Foolhardy with a look of horror, but he didn’t continue speaking. Foolhardy waited a few awkward moments for the man to continue. 

 

He didn’t. Foolhardy tightened his grip.

 

“Listen, if you wanna make it out of her-”

 

Midway through the sentence Foolhardy felt it, a round tube pressed up against his chest.

 

He only realized what had happened the moment he heard the hammer click.

 

Two guns, dumbass! Always check for two-

 

And then the shot rang out.