Fall, 1937
Ian
Ian poked at the pasta-esque mass on the plate in front of him with a fork. It was a damp, goopy mess of yellow noodles melded together after being cooked for far too long. A haphazard clump of grated cheese was thrown atop it without thought, the bottom of the pile growing soggy from the pasta below it.
Crimson was staring at Ian intently, one hand on a glass of Dandy’s identical to the one she’d poured him, the other shoveling forkfuls of the soggy noodles into her mouth. She didn’t seem to mind he was clearly not planning on eating the food she’d made him, she simply continued eating, a wide smile clearly visible upon her food-stuffed face.
Ian awkwardly returned her gaze, grabbing his glass and taking a sip. After letting the liquid linger for a moment, a sudden burning overcame his mouth. His face instinctively scrunched up with the feeling.
Of course she’d spiked it.
Noticing his reaction, she quickly spoke to defend herself, “Tasted watered down! needed a little kick.”
That’s definitely more than a little kick.
The alcohol burned all the way down, and even when he’d finished swallowing he could’ve sworn he felt the burn linger in his gut.
Crimson still kept the same stance, swallowing her final bite of pasta, taking a sip of her drink, and simply continuing to eye him.
Lord, she’s acting super weird tonight. Did something happen?
Still in a half-awake stupor from Crimson waking him only a few minutes ago, Ian racked his brain for something one of them might’ve done earlier to prompt this kind of behavior from her, but his train of thought was swiftly interrupted by her voice.
“What’d it feel like?”
Ian was taken aback for a moment.
“What?”
“The red.”
“Uh, well …”
What had it felt like? For all the contemplating Ian had done of what had happened tonight, he hadn’t thought about the red very much. It was almost as if his brain was actively trying to bury the memory.
“Well, I remember I was really angry,” as he spoke the words, it was like the memory became more and more vivid again, “yeah, I got super mad at … well, nothing in particular I guess.”
Crimson’s stare was more intense now, looking at him intently as if to usher him to continue.
“And, uh, there was a burning feeling, I think?”
She frowned at the uncertainty in his voice.
“Do you not remember?”
“Well, I mean,” Ian wasn’t very sure why he was even struggling to remember, “I dunno. It’s been a long night, the memory might become more clear later. You know what it was?”
Crimson looked at him for a moment. She took another sip of the drink in front of her, leaving a few more seconds of silence before she spoke again.
“Rage.”
She stopped for a moment, as if to form what she was going to say.
“I've got this thing, where when I get the shit beaten out of me, that red, it just sort of builds up around me,” she pointed a finger at Ian, “just like what happened to you.
“When it builds up enough, you get that wall of red, that’s what happened to you earlier tonight. But if you can get over that wall, you just, like …”
Crimson stopped mid sentence, arms frozen mid-gesticulation, like she couldn’t think of the right words. She dropped her arms, grabbing the drink and downing half of the contents as if it would clear her mind.
“Christ, this is hard to explain!” She put the glass back down on the table, “you know that feeling you get, that surge of power when you get possessed?”
Ian nodded.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
“It’s like that, tenfold! But it dredges up this part of you, this violent, animalistic nature. Now, for me that part ain’t too deep down, but for someone like you,” she paused for a moment, “it just makes you … I dunno, monstrous, I guess. Way more than you already are upon possession.”
‘Monstrous’. God, what would’ve happened if I had gotten over that red?
“Why not just tell me all this beforehand? You always hide this stuff from me-”
She swiftly interrupted him, “Good lord, Foolhardy, we’ve talked about this! Infernals get pissy about people learnin’ about this kinda thing, and we don’t need a bigger target on your back! If you get yourself killed, I don't have a vessel anymore.”
She stopped as Ian began to frown.
“But hey, listen!”
Crimson got out of her slouch, leaning into the table. Her frown turned to a grin.
“Today was the first time I've ever seen a vessel get to that wall of red! And I've had my fair share of vessels. Not just that, but the way you can take over possessions! You’re a real special guy, Foolhardy.”
‘Vessel’. After the first couple possessions she’d explained to him what that term meant.
By this point in time it’d been very well documented that many infernal beings had the ability to possess others, taking over their body, and coming out unscathed whenever they decide to leave.
There were only two problems.
One, it took a lot out of them. If you were planning to be moving around the body you’re possessing, you should expect to be thoroughly exhausted by the time you’re finished. Sometimes you’d get so tired, you could accidentally expel yourself from a body out of exhaustion.
Two, no one was more powerful than infernals. That is to say, if an infernal creature possessed a human, they’d be using a human body, and inherit all of its weak, spindly, slow traits. And since infernals can’t possess one another, there was a common consensus that possession was really only viable in extremely specific situations.
That was, until the discovery of vessels.
Crimson had explained that vessels were creatures that sort of activated when possessed, not only allowing their body to inherit the properties of the infernal creature, but acting as an amplifier of sorts, making them even stronger.
She said they were far and few between, so when an infernal creature found one, they made damn sure that it wasn’t going anywhere.
That’s how she’d found him. Said it was an innate sense, that she could feel he was a vessel somehow. He supposed it was just an infernal thing.
But as she’d just said, he was different. When Crimson possessed him, he was in control. That’s not how possession worked, infernals couldn’t even hand over power to the vessels if they wanted too.
So why was he like this?
Crimson swirled around what remained in her glass. “So, if you got to that wall of red, who’s to say you can’t get over it?” She downed the drink before finishing her thought, “It’s somethin’ to think about.”
She nabbed Ian’s glass from in front of him, beginning to drink his as well.
He spoke as she chugged down the alcohol, “You really think I could activate that, what'd you call it … ‘rage’?”
She slammed down the cup onto the table, the empty glass clattering against the wood.
“I guarantee you can do it. Soon, even! You just need some, y’know, stamina. Can’t climb that wall if you’re already fuckin’ exhausted!”
Ian thought about it for a moment, the prospect of the rage Crimson talked about, the idea of not being able to control himself. Going into a state like that, with even more strength than he ordinarily had, who knows what could come from that.
Crimson, probably sensing his reluctance, spoke again, “Listen, just ‘cause that bloodlust comes over you doesn’t mean you can’t learn to control it. Even for a heartless bastard like me,” she exaggeratedly gestured to herself, “those primal instincts get in the way of, y’know … actual, well thought out fighting, which can be an issue. That’s why we gotta practice so much, which is exactly what we’re gonna do tomorrow!”
Ian frowned, he was already sore as hell, and Crimson’s idea of ‘training’ got fairly out of hand more times than not.
But, maybe if he learned to use that power, like Crimson was saying, they could get their chance at taking on-
“Greed.”
Crimson paused upon hearing that name.
“What about ‘em?”
“Do you think … we could take him with this, uh, rage thing?”
“Aces, Foolhardy! exactly what I was thinkin’! You get used to that rage, we find that fucker, and we can kick his goddamn teeth in!”
Ian couldn't help but feel a little better at the idea of that.
This was it. What they were working for, all this time. It was everything he could dream of. Revenge for Victor, fix the city, resolve this infernal contract with Crimson. And it was all within sight.
Finally.
Crimson yawning snapped Ian out of his joyful zoning out, and he suddenly noticed just how tired she looked. She stretched for a moment, then pushed her chair back, standing up and walking away from the table.
“Alright, that’s a wrap on tonight.”
She walked past him yawning, patting him briefly on the back as she walked towards the living room.
“You did good tonight, Foolhardy, just try not to get shot next time!”
With that final comment she let out a raspy cackle, the sound of which had that same infernal undertone as her words. Hearing it still felt odd to Ian.
He heard her sink into the sofa behind him, and she let out a relaxed sigh as it cushioned her body.
Ian stayed at the table, the glob of soggy pasta still sitting on the plate before him.
He couldn’t deny that this life ate away at him. Every time he came back, recalling the people he killed just hours earlier, it felt as if he lost a part of himself. Some days he didn’t even feel like himself, as if some creature had stolen his body from him and he was left to watch in horror.
That feeling of losing yourself was all the more real when Crimson possessed him. Because he inherited her traits, it seemed he could also inherit her skills. Things like shooting and fighting had come naturally to him after the first couple possessions, as he was easily able to fetch how to do it from within her subconscious.
It was like upon possession, certain elements of Crimson’s brain would be planted within his, and sometimes those elements could be less than savory.
That’s how he was able to kill so easily, without even thinking about it. This passive apathy was planted into his brain while he was possessed, draining his conscience from within him.
As he tore through guards with knives and guns, it was like he couldn’t even bring himself to feel anything, the only exception being the scenes so grizzly his mind was able to break through that veil of uncaringness.
But despite all that, he was still just Ian. Ian, who was currently knee-deep in a conspiracy against the largest criminal organization in the whole goddamn city.
Sometimes, it felt like he was in a little over his head.
And yet, despite that, it gave him hope. Hope that he could actually do something for this godforsaken city.
But that was the future, he had to focus on the now.
And so he looked at the food before him.
The pile of noodles had considerably drooped, now taking up most of the plate after flattening itself out.
Ian picked up his fork, skewered a couple wet noodles, raised them up and gave them a unsure look. Beneath all the soreness and aching he could feel his stomach crying out for something to satiate it.
Still not sure if this was the smartest course of action, Ian put the fork in his mouth and slid off the noodles, beginning to chew.
He suddenly gagged, spitting the noodles back out onto the plate. A familiar burn covered his mouth.
Goddamn drunk.
Ian decided against eating anymore of Crimson’s whiskey pasta, deciding he was better off just going without food for the night.
After all, he could probably get a few hours of sleep in before the hunger pains woke him up.