Malak gasped a giant breath of air in, feeling cold and wet and feverish all at once. There was a dull boom that filled his head and caused a headache, and he had passed out drunk at enough bars to know what was happening.

I'm never drinking again. he promised himself, for the hundredth time.

Something dripped off his body, but even as he opened his eyes to see if he had spilled beer himself or been spilled on, he was interrupted.

Someone hissed a garbled word, their voice crackling.

They sound like a dying cat. Malak thought.

He heard another dull booming noise. Was there anything worse than passing out in a bar? He blinked his eyes open, his vision clearing to show him... red? Red and only red. Just the color red. Maybe he had gone blind in his sleep, or was still waking up? He was barely even old enough to do it legally, after all.

As though that ever stopped me.

His eyes were open now. Everywhere he looked all he saw was red.

Did I fall asleep in some sort of themed club? This is taking "red light district" a little far.

He looked down at his hands, finally able to make something out in his monochrome world only to see that they were red too. Another booming sound reached him, making his aching head split even worse. He heard someone gasping for air, it sounded like they might hyperventilate if they didn't get ahold of themselves.

Somebody’s first time for sure. A bar is a terrible place to trip acid, though, they should have done their homework before coming out. A few test runs in a controlled environment.

His thoughts were interrupted as he realized two things at the same time.

One. He wasn't only seeing red. It was more everything he saw was covered in red.

Two. The ragged, pathetic breathing sound was coming from his own chest.

Malak was awake now, and he started screaming. He wasn't at the bar. There had been a car accident, an earthquake, or a tornado. He had been driving the Mercedez, hit someone, killed someone, been thrown through a glass window. Something had happened, was still happening if the third boom he was hearing was any sign, and now he was covered in blood and so was the world. He whirled to try and find help, only to discover he wasn't on a street. Or in his house. Or at a club. Or outside, next to a smoking vehicle, crying and begging and trying to take it all back. He was in the center of a giant, cavernous room lit from above. Ornate decoration was everywhere, but his eyes were scanning by so quickly that they all faded into a blur. A red blur, because of course it was.

I'm not drunk. I'm tripping. I’m tripping, and I need to go home.

The only thing not coated in blood was a series of white marble steps in front of him. He was perfectly positioned at the bottom of those steps, as though he had been in the process of climbing them before waking up. He looked up the stairs, and saw the steps climbed for what had to have been several flights before terminating in a-

Oh Christ, what the fuck is coming at me.

The thing hurtling down the stairs crashed into him, sending him sprawling into the pool of blood coating the ground.

"Fucking Christ get off me, Jesus what the fuck!" He screamed, shoving the thing off him as he stood. "What do you think you're..."

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The thing was a corpse. Because of course it was. An old man wearing some sort of cringeworthy Roman cosplay costume, with his throat hacked to ribbons still seeping black-red blood. Malak shoved it off him, backing away as fast as his feet and hands could scrabble across the strangely malleable floor hidden under the thin pool of blood. His hands came back covered in... something. Thicker than blood. A red sludge.

Sandcastles. Malak thought, absurdly.

As he pushed himself to his feet, falling a few times in his attempts, he turned to face the source of the booming sounds. As he did, he saw more corpses, spread across the room.

This is the worst trip of my fucking life.

His eyes found the giant doors behind him that were the source of the booming sound just in time to watch them burst into splinters with a final, crashing noise. Four people advanced, three of them first dropping what looked like an ancient battering ram as the fourth pushed forward, helmet inclined to watch the ground as they walked in a slow gait in a strange, looping path towards Malak.

Wait a second... helmet?

He saw now that the figure approaching him was wearing some sort of medieval knight costume, thick metal painted a vibrant color and-

Oh come on, more red? Am I broken? Are my eyes broken?

Yes, the armor was a vibrant red, and so was the silken cape that was adorning the shoulders. He noticed now that two of the other men were in red armor as well, although the fourth wore what looked like a battered leather outfit with black chainmail over it.

Did I take acid and go to comic-con? That isn't a terrible idea... but is there an active shooter?

The main in the leather armor was watching him, he realized, with a bemused smirk on his face. The two other men had their heads down much like the person in the lead approaching him, however. The leader stopped some distance away, not approaching any further than a few yards away from the steps, and began speaking in a high, clear voice that made it clear she was a woman.

Is that fucking Klingon? Girl, we do not have time for this, someone is shooting up comic-con!

Now that she was closer, Malak could tell she was wearing her brother or boyfriend's spare costume. It was laughably oversized, clearly too heavy, and was making her puff and wheeze just from the weird winding path she walked to get to him. Despite her heavy breathing, she seemed VERY intent on giving Malak her Klingon speech. He was about to interrupt to tell her to call the cops, when he realized he was naked.

Cursing, he awkwardly covered himself with his hands as he looked around for something to save himself from this situation. There were at least ten dead bodies in the room, he looked like he had just finished bathing in their guts, and he was now apparently flashing some poor nerd girl who hadn't realized they were in the middle of an overpowering argument for gun control.

Or maybe knife control? That guy was carved up, not shot. People shouldn't even own spoons, just in case.

Before he could brave telling the girl that comic-con was over and it was time to start larping as horror movie victims, the older man in the leather came forward. He was the only one who had ever even lifted his head, the only one that had realized what was going on. Malak felt his breathing slowing for the first time. An adult, finally. Not that Malak wasn't technically an adult... but he had never really spent time developing "adult" behavior or habits. Not the proper kind, anyways.

The man wasn't panicking either. Clearly, he was some off duty emergency responder here to humor his kid, even his outfit was half-assed. He was probably the girl's father. Even if he wasn't, he had the sort of calm-but-not-serious air that marked him as someone used to catastrophe and capable of handling even the worst disaster with a quick-witted remark and a fine attention to-

He started speaking Klingon to the girl.

Oh god, it's hopeless. They are all a bunch of fucking nerds.

Malak seriously considered his options. These people didn't understand the situation at all and seemed constitutionally incapable of dealing with reality. He needed to get out of here before whoever was on this little slashing spree decided to come back and finish off the guy on the acid trip.

He did the smart thing, and began sprinting towards the door. One of the two other men lunged at him, and Malak realized the man had some sort of replica sword in his hand. Malak wasn't about to let this overzealous role-player get in his way, though. Malak jerked to the side, his foot reaching out and pivoting as it landed to spin him past the man.

Get juked, bitch. Try playing some basketball, maybe then you wouldn't-

His foot landed in what must have been the only spot to have solid ground under it, slipped, and Malak had the very odd experience of seeing a wall of red approaching his face turn into a wall of black.