Fall, 1937

Crimson

 

Ian’s fist cracked against the side of Crimson’s jaw. 

 

Her head jerked to the side with the punch, It was a strong blow, and she smiled as the pain radiated up her mouth.

 

She returned the blow, shooting an arm towards his side , but he blocked the it with an outstretched arm. He grimaced as her fist met it, but seemingly brushed it off, raising his leg, preparing for a kick. 

 

Big mistake, Foolhardy!

 

As he shot his leg out towards her gut, Crimson sidestepped, grabbing Foolhardy by the ankle and tugging, making him lose balance, falling to the floor.

 

He let out a pained gasp as his back slammed against the ground, but Crimson gave him no time to recover, spinning as she still had his ankle in her grasp. Foolhardy’s eyes began to widen as he moved with her arms, quickly beginning to orbit around her feet.

 

Crimson’s smile only widened as he swung around her, his body nearly flailing under her strength.

 

Suddenly, though, Crimson felt a pressure on her own ankle.

 

With barely any time to register what was happening, the strength of Ian’s tug on her leg was only compounded by the strength at which she was pulling him, and Crimson quickly found herself tumbling to the ground, her leg pulled out from under her. 

 

Crimson impacted against the concrete ground, falling onto her stomach. Her face had smashed right into the floor, forgetting to shield herself from the fall in her hungover stupor. The breath was knocked right out of her, and as she tried to prop herself up with her arms, she noticed the ever widening black puddle on the floor beneath her, blood gushing from her nose. 

 

As she pushed herself up from the ground, Ian was already on his feet. Blood was matted all over his nose and mouth, bright red on his pale face. The source of the mess, his bloody nose, was obviously broken, an odd indent now lying in the middle of its ridge. Not only that, but both of his eyes were completely bruised, black rings forming large halos around them. And yet, despite all of this, there he stood, ready to continue.

 

He’d gone into a combative stance quite quickly, he must’ve near-instantly gotten up upon tripping her. His fists, slightly spattered with her black blood, were up, ready to throw another punch if need be.

 

He looked down at her with gritted teeth, a visceral scowl on his face. An immense anger was apparent in him, the type of anger you needed to rock someone’s shit. She’d felt it, during the whole fight. With every blow she pounded against him, he seemed to glower more and more, using the frustration of a losing battle to further determine himself.

 

Seemed she was rubbing off on him.

 

Crimson let out a loud cackle from the ground, and instantly Ian’s features slacked, his scowl morphing into a more passive frown.

 

“Good shit, Foolhardy!”

 

Crimson propped herself up with her hands, popping up onto her feet once she was upright. She fumbled a hand into her coat pocket, grasping for a flask.

 

“You’re getting better,” she pulled the small metal flask out after finally finding it, “a whole lot better.”

 

Ian’s scowl came back as she took a swig.

 

“Feels like I’m only making these hits cause you can’t go ten minutes off booze.”

 

“You’re goddamn right,” she waggled an intimidating finger at him, “the day I go sober you’ll be shaking in your boots!”

 

She took another swig, just to be certain she could put back the hangover a moment longer, and crammed the small flask back into her coat pocket, turning around and taking in the room around her.

 

The abandoned warehouse was quite cold, a cool breeze drifting through every shattered window and long-rotted away wooden wall. The chill pricked at Crimson’s skin, it’d amplified every blow to her body, and the painful sting would last a long while more, no doubt. 

 

It was a good feeling. The feeling of being alive.

 

The floor was painted in dark strokes of black and red, dried puddles of blood covering what seemed like every square inch of the concrete floor, all courtesy of her and Ian. They all ranged in size, from minor spatters, to massive stains that were large to a disturbing degree.

 

She smiled as she looked among them, each bloodstain bringing back fond memories of training days from the past year. There was a window with black streaks all along its shattered glass and sill, from the time Ian had bashed her head right down on the broken edge. And over by the back exit, the edge of the door was covered in dark red marks from the time she’d accidentally severed his hand at the wrist with a well timed slam.

 

Good times.

 

They came here for training, this old warehouse, abandoned who knows how long ago. It was way down in Aceton, in a fairly secluded area. You would be hard-pressed to find anyone besides aimlessly stumbling drunks around here at this time of night.

 

It was the perfect spot to duke it out with no repercussions.

 

And even if someone were to find them, upon seeing an imp and human fighting, very few people would be willing to do anything but ignore whatever seedy business they thought might be occurring, and simply walk away.

 

Crimson looked back to Ian, who was currently preoccupied with pulling a particularly nasty shard of glass out of his hand. He cringed as he yanked at it, and as it came out the wound began to bleed out.

 

“You got gauze?”

 

He put out an outstretched hand, the one currently not sliced down the middle, and gestured for her to get it out.

 

Crimson slided a hand into her coat pocket, pulling out a small roll of dressing, and tossed it to Ian. As he stumbled to catch it, she stuffed her hand back into the coat, this time taking out a small black box.

 

The corners were outlined in a golden yellow color, an elongated serif font of the same color reading ‘Brimstone’. She gave the box a little rattle, before flipping open the top and pulling out a cigarette. All black, with a red stripe signifying the front.

 

As she put it in her mouth she held the box out towards him.

 

“Cig?”

 

He looked at her, in the middle of wrapping his hand.

 

“No, how many times do I have to tell you!?” He looked back down to his hand, continuing to wrap, “They’re bad for you! I’m not putting that shit in my body.”

 

She rolled her eyes, “Your loss.”

 

With a snap of her fingers a small flame shot out from the tip of her pointer finger. A cantrip she’d learned a while back - mostly to do this. She held the flame up to the black cigarette for a moment, waiting for it to light before shaking her hand, letting the motion put it out.

 

Inhale.

 

The smoke funneled down Crimson’s throat, a slight burn leading all the way down into her lungs. Along its path it carried with it a buzz that circulated all throughout her body. She let it sit there for a moment, lingering in the middle of her chest. It felt good, resting there.

 

But after a moment, she had to exhale, blowing out of the side of her mouth as she gripped the cigarette between her teeth.

 

The smoke billowed out of her mouth in a bright red plume, flooding the space in front of her before dissipating into the air around them, only leaving the slight smell of char and sulfur.

 

It was a familiar smell.

 

She glanced over at Ian, who was still pulling glass out of himself. It seems their tumble to the floor had put them in contact with some fairly large shards. She looked to the ground, and sure enough, most of the building’s floor had miscellaneous chunks of glass, be it from the windows, stray bottles, or anything else someone may have ended up chucking into here.

 

Ian was sitting down on the ground, his pant leg pulled up, wiping flecks of the translucent scraps off of his right leg, before beginning to wrap the gauze around the bloodied limb. As he did, a large red oval began to bleed against the bandage, but it didn’t give.

 

Crimson got the good shit.

 

She took another drag of the cigarette, looking down at her own legs as she puffed out a second red cloud. The black pants sparkled in intermittent spots, and with the shimmers came barely visible trails of black liquid, masked by the dark hue of the pants. 

 

The moment she saw the blood she began to feel the pain in her legs. Long, bloody gashes made themselves known from beneath her pants, only knowable by the searing pain they brought with them.

 

Gotta take care of that later.

 

Crimson slid the cigarette box back into her coat as a sudden, sharp tear broke the silence. Ian stood up from his crouch, walking up to Crimson and handing her the bandage roll, the end frayed from the rip.

 

“Thanks.”

 

His tired face didn’t match the gratitude of the word. She grabbed the roll from him, giving him a sharp slap on the back.

 

“No problem.”

 

As Crimson crammed the roll back into one of her many coat pockets, she turned looking at him face-to-face.

 

“So … round two?”

 

Ian looked at her like she was crazy, as he usually did. 

 

And maybe she was.

 

He awkwardly backed away, shoving his hands into the pockets of his plain trousers. Whatever he was intending to do wasn’t working, as Crimson only approached, keeping the short distance between them.

 

“I really don’t think I’m up for-”

 

“Oh, c’mon Foolhardy! Feeling tired?”

 

He stopped, glowering.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Nothing a few jabs won’t fix!”

 

The moment the words came out of her mouth, she flew a punch towards his chest, smashing into his ribs.

 

Ian stumbled backwards, struggling to regain his balance, as Crimson reached for her belt loop, gripping the handle of a dagger.

 

The words rang out as he finally was able to get his balance, “CATCH!”

 

A blade shot into Ian’s shoulder, sinking far enough to embed itself.

 

He shuddered as it speared him, letting out a loud, pained noise as it stuck.

 

“Fuck!”

 

As Crimson grabbed for another dagger at her hip, Ian gave her that look. The same from earlier, that wicked scowl. He wrenched the dagger from his shoulder, blood spewing from his shoulder all the while. As he pulled it out, his face scrunched up in pain, but his gaze didn’t stray from her. 

 

He held the dagger at his hip, and approached her at a slow shamble, limping on his sliced leg. Crimson gripped her dagger in the same way, walking towards him as well.

 

“That’s the spirit!”

 

At once, they both dashed towards another, Ian pushing forward on his good leg.

 

As Crimson raised her dagger, looking at him for a good point to strike, her eyes were quickly brought to Ian’s hand.

 

It was bent back, looking to be quickly gauging a throw of the dagger.

 

Crimson slowed to a stop as Ian flinged the blade at her, and the shimmering blur quickly spun towards her head. In a flash, her hand shot out towards the knife, catching it in a tight grip mid-spin. She’d estimated the grab correctly, and the dagger’s handle was clasped in her hand as opposed to the blade.

 

As Crimson looked towards Ian to give him a smug look, she quickly realized that she couldn’t see much of him past his fist.

 

The hand cracked against her head, but unlike his head-strike from earlier, this one was aimed more towards her temple. As the punch struck against her head, Crimson was pushed back, the cigarette flying out of her mouth as she quickly lost her balance.

 

Huh. Maybe I should lay off the booze.

 

As Crimson struck the ground for the second time today, she was more disappointed with herself than anything. 

 

She was out of practice. 

 

Since Ian always took over jobs, it felt like she never really got any time to work on herself.

 

These brawls she deemed “training” were it, really. And even then, she always had to dial it down for him, never use all of her strength.

 

The only real exception was the occasional fuck-up on Ian’s part. Sometimes she had to depossess, if only to stop him from getting himself killed. Like last night. 

 

Man, that’d felt good.

 

That schmuck with the gun was the first guy she’d actually gotten to kill in, lord, who knows how long! It didn’t feel so great, holding back for that long. There was always that little nagging thought that you had to stave off, infernal impulses trying to bubble up into your thoughts.

 

She’d told Ian what she did to that guy the other day was just the rage boiling over, and it was obvious to her that the rage had definitely played a part in the gruesome act, but she still wasn’t certain it hadn’t just been her nature getting the better of her.

 

They told you ‘bout that shit when they shipped you off to the Dirt, there were certain compromises to be made if you wanted to experience more earthly things for yourself. 

 

Of course, you could go hog wild whenever you wanted, see how many people you could get away with killing, but unless you had some type of protection, a group like Septem to bribe you out, it was more likely than not that authorities, or worse, Hallow, would be on your ass before long. They’d pump you full of sterling and call it a day, send you straight back to Hell.

 

Now, ordinarily that’d be no big issue. Get your Earthwalker certificate back, sign up for another shipment, and head on back. But as many ended up learning the hard way, anyone who dies on Earth gets judged equally.

 

No exemptions, not even for infernals.

 

And yet, even though boiling in the very pools of magma you were once made to look over was obviously not a fate many would look forward to, infernals flocked in swarms to get shipped to the Dirt.

 

Mostly imps, as it looked damn good on infernal promotion request forms, trying to work your way up to becoming a devil ‘n all that, but even devils and, god forbid, demons made their way onto the Earth. There were a multitude of reasons infernals of higher rank decided to leave Hell, working towards higher promotion, to have power over lesser creatures, or even just being able to endlessly wander the planet. Vast landscapes of thick, smog-filled air, jagged mountains of crumbling basalt, and endless seas of lava, while awe inspiring at first, got old after a while.

 

And infernals had a whole long lifespan for things to get old.

 

Limping footsteps sounded from across the room, and with it came Ian’s hoarse, pained voice.

 

“I’m going home.”

 

Crimson scoffed at that, though it was doubtful he heard it from her prone position in the middle of the large room. 

 

Whatever. He needed sleep for tomorrow, and besides, she’d beat him next time. 

 

The sound of awkward shuffling continued across the floor, growing quieter and quieter. Crimson propped herself up with her hands, looking to address him.

 

“Rest easy Foolhardy! You’ll need i-”

 

But he was already gone.

 

Damn.

 

The dilapidated metal door swung back and forth on its rusty hinges from where he’d pushed it open, a sharp metal creak coming from it as it rotated.

 

Crimson sighed, putting her hands back to her sides and laying down on the ground once again, idly staring at the concrete ceiling. Cracks seemed to splay across every square inch of the gray surface, like sinuous black veins. She traced along them with her eyes for a while, taking deep breaths of the cool, humid air.

 

The loud rattle of raindrops sprinkling onto the steel roof flooded the large building, like a never ending stream of gunfire. A good sound.

 

The dark of the room was only contrasted by the dim, red glow of Crimson cigarette, which she’d retrieved from the ground next to her. She took another drag from it, blowing out a curling, red cloud above her.

 

Tomorrow she’d have to go report to the Lowdown, talk to Snide and tell him what happened.

 

Chances are he already almost definitely knew. Word had a habit of getting around with those bastards, and if Snide had already heard about what had gone down during her and Ian’s last job, well …

 

Tomorrow’s gonna be a shitshow.

 

Crimson liked to think she was a smooth talker, but talking her way out of this one was gonna be rough. Real rough.

 

Not only had they not gotten the information they needed, but brutalizing the gang’s only connection to it? It definitely wouldn’t help their reputation, and their reputation needed all the help it could get.

 

Crimson had been on a very simple loop of events as of recent, get initiated into a gang, start off strong, build a little bit of rep, and then have it all come crashing down. 

 

Now, that crashing down was mostly the product of her less than professional habits, most of which involved savage violence, a subject which she was rightly hesitant to bring up during the process of joining a crew.

 

Sooner or later, though, her cruel streak eventually showed itself, which usually would coincide with her getting fired.

 

But with Ian, it was so much easier! There was no need to worry about keeping your urges within when you had a human in control, no worries of mutilating whoever happened to trigger a killer instinct that lie in the depths of your mind. It was all smooth sailing.

 

Until he fucked up.

 

In Ian’s defense, he was doing damn good for a vessel. I mean, maybe it was just a product of whatever special trait he had about him that allowed him to control himself during possessions, but compared to all the vessels Crimson had gone through in her life, he was getting used to possession pretty damn fast.

 

Sometimes it seemed vessels were a wild card when it came to their reactions to the act, some would be perfectly fine from the get-go, whereas others would lie comatose for days at a time after depossession. 

 

Now, it wasn’t like he’d had no reaction at the beginning or anything, the first couple possessions had been followed by Ian spewing his guts out onto anything unfortunate enough to have been in front of him, but besides that he’d warmed up to it fairly quickly.

 

And compared to most, having to puke every once in a while was on the fairly nice end of the spectrum of possession reactions. Having little to no reaction was an extreme outlier, and more times than not vessels were only able to make it through a few possessions before becoming “drained”, as some put it. Most of the time they’d go comatose and stay that way ‘til they died.

 

It’d become habit, ‘cause of that, for different infernal to develop their own styles of possession. Some put vessels through the ringer, possessing them at every opportunity they could just to see if they were up to snuff, make sure they could take it. Others would be very selective with their usage, only possessing when direly needed, out of fear of draining them too early.

 

Crimson was a fan of the former, put ‘em through the ringer enough and the cream of the crop really start to show themselves.

 

And hey, even though it usually ends up with more vessels dead than not, every once in a while it lets you find a diamond in the rough.

 

Like Ian.

 

Streaks of sunlight began to shine their way through the boarded windows, daylight ever encroaching. Crimson hadn’t thought about it much, but they must’ve been brawling nearly all day. Or, at least, as much of the day as they’d been awake.

 

Ian was usually spent after jobs, being a vessel ‘n’ all, and so most of the time would spend much of the day afterwards sleeping in late to an unnatural degree. She’d forced him to get up earlier today, made him come out and train with her. Maybe after enough times he’d get less tired after possession.

 

If he even manages to survive that far …

 

Crimson spat out her red cigarette onto the floor next to her, and it spewed a few flaming ashes into the air before only letting out a dim glow, one that slowly faded as she stared at it.

 

A cool draft swept through the building, sending a chill up Crimson’s spine as she closed her eyes, trying to formulate a list before dozing off.

 

Tomorrow, talk to Snide, get chewed out, take a job if we don’t get our asses fired, go get Foolhardy, and then … um … 

 

Bah, she’d cross that bridge when she came to it.

 

And then, she let the tiredness overtake her, and Crimson fell asleep, resting on the cold, wet, bloody concrete beneath her.