Fall, 1937

Ian

 

An unreal pain came over Foolhardy as the shot went off. It wasn’t the bullet, he could barely feel that. Rather, the red streaking the ends of his peripheral was growing quickly, covering his entire vision, and with it came a burning like he had never felt before.

 

It was similar to the first couple times Crimson had possessed him, only amplified. The ache of exhaustion tore at every part of his body as the burn threatened to tear him away from consciousness. And the rage. An unfathomable anger overflowed within his brain. 

 

He couldn’t see now, it was all red.

 

Shit, shit! What’s happening!?

 

It’s the rage. Can you handle it?

 

Handle it? Handle what!?

 

All of it. Just breathe, Foolhardy.

 

Foolhardy hadn’t noticed it before, but he couldn’t breathe anymore. He didn’t know how. Could he even blink?

 

I can’t. I can’t move.

 

I’ll give you a break. We’re coming back to this, though.

 

What?

 

It all stopped in a single moment. Usually depossession hurt like hell, but this was an instant release. The pain must’ve just been lost in the rage, as Crimson had called it.

 

As the release occurred, Ian found himself lying on his back. He could feel the gunshot wound now, though it was mostly masked by his adrenaline. Red blood seeped out from beneath him, and as he raised his hands he could see the pale stumps where his fingers once were, sealed up thanks to Crimson’s regeneration.

 

Crimson was above him at once, having ejected herself upwards from him. Before the armed man even had a moment to think she was upon him, and sliced at his face with her sharp fingertips.

 

Her red skin had no sign of damage, no surprise since it was Ian’s body that’d taken the damage, and thick, black tufts of hair ruffled around her head, pierced by two spiked horns. She was fitted in a black one-piece, the material of which shimmered in the light. She’d called it an “infernal garb”, a piece of clothing that materializes upon depossession. The top edges of the outfit curled over in spiked patterns, devilish indeed.

 

She shoved the man over, straddled him, and as Ian raised his head to try and see what was happening, the pain hit him like a brick. First was the bullet hole, the perimeter of which radiated pain all over his chest. It was hard to breathe, maybe it had hit a lung or something. Trailing just behind, an overwhelming soreness overcame his whole body. Every joint and muscle cramped and strained, the energy depleted from every inch of himself.

 

He heard the man hit the ground with a pained grunt, before a series of cracks sounded from the area, most of which were accompanied shortly thereafter by a visceral cry of pain. The man stopped making noise after a while, but Crimson did not relent, each hit sounding progressively meatier, like pounding into a ribeye with your bare fists. Every once in a while Ian would feel a fleck of blood land somewhere on his prone body.

 

Christ.

 

He knew Crimson could be a little over the top, but this was well beyond anything he’d ever seen, or rather, heard from her before. After a few more whacks, footsteps started and Ian could see her again. Her hands were covered in bright red blood and meaty chunks, as was the handle of the pistol she held. The same pistol the man was holding.

 

As Ian fully processed the sight, her voice came out in a guttural rasp, not too dissimilar to his when possessed. A slight undertone was stark in her speech, each word bringing with it a frightening aura. Inhuman.

 

“You alright, Foolhardy?”

 

“Yeah, I’m alright.”

 

“Yeah, well you fucked up my suit! Gotta get that patched now.”

 

Crimson shot him a wry grin. He only glared. She put out a bloodstained hand, the deep red of her skin masking most of the fluid.

 

“You’re the one who made me wear it, asshole.”

 

He winced as he put out his hand, just enough for her to reach it.

 

“Yeah, whatever.”

 

As she wrenched him up he cried out. The pain had dulled while laying in one position, but as she pulled him up, it all came back, stronger. The hole in his chest still hurt like hell, and he was starting to notice the pain that came with breathing. Each inhale felt like it sent fire up his chest. Probably wasn’t a good sign.

 

She smirked as he winced, pointing a finger at his bullet wound as he went to clench it with a hand.

 

“That bad?”

 

She strode around to look at his back.

 

“Yeah, it's not great.”

 

“Ah,” Crimson spoke from behind him, “Didn’t come out the back! You know what that means.”

 

Foolhardy paled, if it was even possible to further pale from his current condition.

 

“Can we please not do that right now? We could just get it done when we get ba-”

 

“Nope, gotta get it out. Healing would just seal that bullet in there, and then we’d have to cut you open!”

 

She walked in front of him, beginning to crouch and sticking out a pointer finger on one hand, placing her other hand on his back.

 

“Alright, hold still real quick.”

 

Crimson stuck her forked tongue out of the side of her mouth, as if gauging the best way to enter the wound.

 

“Wait, wait, wait! Can I just-”

 

Crimson shoved her finger right into the bullet hole, and Foolhardy gritted his teeth, hard. Burning shot through his entire body, even stronger than the simple chest pain the wound had provided him earlier. Every once and a while the shock spiked within him as Crimson wriggled her finger inside of the wound, and every time he felt he might pass out her hand was there to press against his back, straightening him up. 

 

After dozens of agonizing seconds, she spoke again.

 

“Aha, there we are!”

 

Her finger scraped at the inside of the wound and Ian clenched down harder on his teeth, holding back a cry. If this went on much longer he was going to turn them to nubs.

 

And then, she held her hand up in front of him. Pinched between her bloody finger and her thumb was a bullet, shining faintly in the dim lighting of the hallway.

 

“Look at that beauty!”

 

His vision, blurry from the adrenaline and bouts of pain, began to level out, and as the fuzz faded from his sight he saw the body.

 

The man that had shot him was mostly the same from the neck down, a bloody hole in his leg, his right hand bent at an odd angle, but his face was a horrible sight. His lower jaw was hung open, his final scream cemented in death, and among the red muck above it, Ian wasn’t even sure if he could even make out the upper jaw. The top half of his head was a bloody mess. It looked less caved in, and more as if someone had tried to make a bowl out of his face. His black hair was sticky with blood and gore, matted together in wet, shiny clumps.

 

Ian stared at it long enough for Crimson to notice, stopping her proud look at the bullet to gaze back at the body.

 

“Oh. Right.”

 

Ian suddenly turned his head away from the body, covering his mouth with a hand as he started to retch.

 

“Oh god, I think I’m gonna be sick!”

 

He awkwardly limped over to a wall to prop his hands up, and began to throw up. Crimson, seemingly unphased by all of this, didn’t bother to look at Ian, still observing the body.

 

“I was just gonna shoot him and say we couldn’t get the info ‘cause he killed himself to keep it under wraps. But it was that rage you built up! It took over for a moment, and, well-”

 

She stopped, studying the body as Ian continued to vomit against the wall.

 

“Don’t think the suicide story’s gonna work anymore.”

 

Ian, finished with spewing on the floor of the hallway, stumbled back up to Crimson, using a hand to shield his eyes from the brutalized corpse. 

 

“Is it fine to just … leave him like this?”

 

Crimson didn’t respond, her head suddenly turning towards the window as sirens faintly made their presence known in the distance.

 

“Hear that, Foolhardy? That’s our cue to split!”

 

She put out a hand to Ian, who gave her a sour look.

 

“You think you can make it back to your place?”

 

He didn’t answer her, simply gripping her hand. She was so damn rough with him, uncaring. He shouldn’t go along with this. But he wouldn’t stop. He’d never stop. He’d been powerless for so long, that feeling of power that flared through his veins each time he was possessed, it gave him life. Made him think he could actually avenge Victor.

 

As he grabbed her hand she gave it a strong squeeze, flashing him a grin. 

 

And then, chaos.

 

This happened each time, visions of things so unfamiliar. His sight was filled with flickering pictures, swapping back and forth with no time for him to process. Blood, sigils, shapes and symbols he didn’t even know how to describe. And then, he could see. 

 

The red was no longer there as it had been, his peripheral was free of it. He raised his hand for himself to see, flexing each of the red fingers. The pain and ache of his body was still there, but dulled. It was like he could barely feel it now. It was this he longed for, this power. He couldn’t even imagine what it would be like to constantly wield this.

 

Taking your fuckin time, are you?

 

The sirens were close now.

 

First we gotta go back and kill the straggler you smacked with the dagger. After, I saw a window back by the entrance, fire escape on the building across from it. An easy jump.

 

Sounds like a plan.

 

If you’re so certain, you better start hauling ass, coppers are probably almost on us!

 

Foolhardy sighed.

It was going to be a long night.