The crystal shard had struck where his head was supposed to be. Dion knew this, because the air was so strong and the sound of penetration so near.

Dion rushed to the right, behind a smelter, further beyond where coils of wires hung from their metal posts. Ladling buckets stood slanted off their stands, the metal already coagulated and pooled to one side or on the floor.

“It’s all ruined,” Floyd said, the muscles in his throat choked. And from the corner of Dion’s eyes, behind the smelter, he could see him keeled over. The crystalline growths appeared below Floyd’s feet, in a circle that rose and shot out with sudden growth. They stabbed everything in between in their path - a path ending with Dion.

He jumped. He caught the edge of a chain and climbed it to the top, to a walkway.

Most of the walkway was severed, out by the time he got there. Just standing made it shift to and fro.

So he hopped, piece to piece, as the shards of crystals kept whizzing past him. Jumping. Catching another chain. Swinging, now, to rubble and sand on the bottom floor of the foundry. He rolled for a bit, then leveraged himself and stopped. And stood.

More aggressive than before.

Dion knelt. The gun, held firmly in his hands, his hands held firmly against his bent knee. He shot.

Floyd turned, eyes hostile. His hands made a gesture upwards. A wall of crystal spurned up from the floor in front of Floyd. The bullet ricocheted, hit three different panels of levers, and rolled on the floor.

And Floyd raised his long, slender foot. With the heel, he kicked the crystal shield. It dragged all manners of trash and metals and electronics, winding with growing momentum, down the floor, and towards Dion.

Oh, gosh,

Dion jumped again. The crystal struck the wall, exploded it rather. The beams and steel clinked and scratched against each other as the wall came down. Brick, now rubble or dust, laid out the floor near Dion. He was struggling to stand, the explosion was so close. The newly formed hole ventilated the dust, cold air brushed his hair.

He spat on the floor and took a hard look at Floyd. And with a grin, Dion went into the smoke and from the smoke, receded into darkness.

He ran, the wandering shadow, in between the metal foundation posts of the warehouse.

And after a few minutes of moving, he stood still behind some stairs. He looked in between the gaps of steps, looking at Floyd who had not moved an inch.

“Come out, don’t be afraid. What man feels fear!” Floyd screamed. From the rags of his pants, Floyd produced a gun. Dion's gun. He shot it into the air. Kept shooting. Over. And Over.

The roof exploded to chunks, the rubble fell down on Floyd, on his face. He shook it off, laughing, his whole appearance now basked in that moonlight. And his ghoulish form was laid out to display, the wretched creature with piles of excess skin tags, with boils. As if blight itself had decided to vomit on his face.

One bang of white hair fell over his eyes. It clung to the gaps left in between his sharp teeth, before he spat it out.

He pulled the trigger once more. Snap. Out of ammo.

“Oh, what a shame,” Floyd said. “I would have loved to kill you with your own gun,”

Floyd threw it to the side and looked around, his body lurked around in circles.

"Don't make this hard," Floyd giggled.

“I just want to rip your heart out, Vicar, I just want to rip it out and see what your body does,” he said. “It's what'll save all of us,”

He laughed. And cursed and shifted so quickly between the two that they became the same thing. Hoarse, laughing curses. Cackles of rage.

It was as if there was no difference between his wandering, fluctuating voice, and his wandering, fluctuating thoughts.

Devolved. That’s the word that came to Dion’s mind as he saw the creature, once a man. Devolved past primate, past the first tadpole that decided to step onto land. Devolved into something vile, dark.

A servant of Mammon. Not man. Not demon. But broken servant.

What was done to him? Jesus Christ, how can you see this and call the world fair?

He lowered his face, not in humility, but in spite of the Higher Powers. And he brought it back up, biting his lip. He pointed his gun and started to aim.

Floyd went in circles, throwing his arm out and an assortment of crystallized bullets with. They scattershot, like shotgun blasts hitting every piece of equipment; eviscerating the metal walls, the train tracks, the half-destroyed trucks, ladle buckets filled with cooled steel.

Nothing was spared.

Dion lowered his gun, and then his body, for cover.

Floyd went in circles, waving his destruction in clockwork order.

And Dion flinched as the clippings and shavings of steel fell on him. He aimed again though, closing one eye, trying his best to ignore the chaos. Floyd's back was to him, finally. He shot twice.

It didn't matter.

Floyd’s head turned a full one-eighty, his vertebrae snapped and popped to the sudden jerk. He raised his hand, another wall rose up. The black wall. The sparks flew, the bullets clanked before falling to the floor in front of Floyd, smashed.

Then Floyd's whole body turned. His bones snapped back into place.

"Wha-What?" He couldn't even conceal the words as thought. They came out of him.

Dion shot another two rounds, they bounced off the wall before it came flying back at Dion.

He rolled through the rubble. He pushed his hand down and stood. Running, almost tripping. Going under and over machinery now dangling in pieces, or laying lopsided. He made his way to another set of stairs, in the corner of the factory.

“Out, out you rat,” Floyd screamed. He slammed down on the floor, the crystals out-grew and shot up at Dion as he ran up the stairs. They cut through the rail guards, cut through the walls.

Then they struck him.

“Ahh,” Dion shouted. He caught his mouth, bit down on his tongue.

“What’d I hit?” Floyd's tongue came out of his small head like a snake from its hole. Dripping, slithering.

Dion kept running. Something had hit his chest, the gnash lead up from his stomach to his shoulder. Not so deep, but stinging heavily and healing even slower.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

“Oh don’t run, let me take the doctor take a look,” He chased after Dion, crawling on all-fours, stomping and slapping the floor to summon forth those black diamonds of his. They decimated the metal posts, the hole-meshed walkway, destroyed it to utter smoke.

Dion ran, as much as he could, before the floor and stairs wobbled.

The crystals shot up, Floyd was directly below him. So he did his best, dancing almost, feeling the crystals zip and scratch his clothes and person. A thousand cuts, it felt like. As the blood kept falling from his arms and legs.

And Dion would have died eventually. But the roof crumbled and shifted.

Dion looked up. So did Floyd, a little too late.

Dion jumped, grabbed a chain, and swung out of the way.

One piece. One singular, long piece of metal and wood, pipe and all wiring work, came down and flattened the corner of the foundry, right where Floyd stood.

Dion struck a wall. He hit the floor with a thump and shook his head of all rubble. He could finally breathe, finally absorb that asphalt and dirt smoke-cloud. And he could see, barely, the rays of moonlight coming from the new holes and old broken windows.

He cleared his face of sweat and looked around him. The sliding door was adjacent. Good.

He could have run.

But he had to look. He had to see the stone and wood piled on Floyd, he had to see it move and shuffle. He had to see the dome shield wrapped around Floyd, protecting him from the ceiling.

And he had to see Floyd crawl out of the dirt, like a damn centipede, his long limbs going one after another, speeding out of the cramped hole.

Of course it wouldn’t be that easy.

Dion opened his gun, he had a dragon breath left. He searched inside his jacket, shifting his hand in the dimensional empty space.

What do I do?

He felt his legs want to give in. He wanted to run, wanted to shoot. He pointed his gun to Floyd, and put his hand on the trigger.

Stop. Don’t act. Think. Think you moron.

He slapped his face with the side of his gun and scratched his scalp. The dust was still covering him, offering some protection from the rampaging monster.

“Stop hiding!” Floyd screamed. He stood atop the pile, looking like a searchlight across the horizon of the foundry.

Think. Think! He had to look at where I shot to protect himself, right? Right?! He has to know the bullet was coming. He has to be conscious of it. It's not infallible, his defense relies on him to act. Not the other way around. He's an animal now though, with an animals reflexes. Oh, boy.

He loaded his gun and moved the cylinder over one. He put a yellow bullet instead, as next in line. And in third place, skipping over the dragon breath, he put a green colored cartridge.

Yellow. Red. Green.

The cylinder snapped in place. He cocked his gun.

But what do reflexes matter when you’re confused? And animals...animals get scared easily all the time, don't they?

He moved his head up and down in seeming agreement. And next to him, the chain holding the door down. He punched it. A few links shot out, hitting him across the face. With his shoulder, he put his weight against the handle and pushed it open.

The exposed air drew out the smoke like a vacuum, letting it rise up and out. Dion ran.

“You would, wouldn’t you?” Floyd said. “You would betray me too, coward?”

Floyd turned and crawled out towards the doors.

Dion shot at him, as soon as Floyd appeared past the smoke.

And Floyd raised his shield just in time. The giant black wall of diamonds.

Floyd smiled. The bullet exploded into black dust, wrapping around him, like a thin cloak. Dion aimed.

"Almost got me when I wasn't looking," Floyd giggled. Dion cocked his gun. “Try it,”

Dion waited, and the black dust kept enveloping him, kept wrapping around Floyd's body, around the shield. He took a sniff.

It made him cough once, a light cough. Another breath. His eyes swelled, he coughed again, deeper, heavier.

Dion was glad no one could see the smile behind his mask. The joy.

He shot his explosive round. It struck the black wall and did nothing so much as bruise it. That was... until the fire extended out and around.

Like a nice left hook across his defense.

Floyd’s eyes widened as the fire wrapped around him. And before he could put up any kind of defense, it was too late. Another explosion occurred, directly behind him, that blew him out.

The black smoke had caught on fire. And still, very much was in flame.

Floyd’s body tumbled out.

“Yellow bullet, gunpowder. I gotta remember that,” Dion took a deep breath. “It lit him up like a firework,”

Dion would have shot a gun, should have. But he stopped as he saw Floyd's appearance. His crimson eyes expanded. His smile went away and his mask pooled with sweat.

Floyd’s left arm dangled by a few inches of flesh. It was blown off, from his elbow down. There were other spots, on his forearm and biceps, where the tissue was completely missing. And in these spots of missing bone and muscle, growths of black crystals had formed. They formed with pain so severe that Floyd fell to the ground.

It felt painful even just watching.

“Get off me,” Floyd screamed, at his own elongated arm. “Stop!”

Dion hesitated to pull the trigger. Seeing a pained man did that, it was like a kill switch to his bloodthirst. Seeing the monster, turn to man, begging and crying. Yeah, that made him reconsider.

Floyd laid on the floor, his arm overtaken by crystals, his green blood pumping, and spilling and coagulating into even more growths on the floor like spores.

“I said stop!” Floyd finally screamed. With his only good hand, he raised it up high and brought it down. His arm plopped on the floor, severed. The growth continued independent of his body, until his whole arm became one solid block. With the blood spilling, with the crystal tumors resuming from his exposed wound, he slowly stood.

“Devil magicks. Dark Arcana. Can't you see it's killing you?” Dion asked. “You can still stop, Floyd. I can let you do that. Maybe even help, maybe. It's not all your fault,”

Floyd's quivering legs shifted left and right. He tripped. Then pushing himself with his only good arm, found leverage to stand. His body struggled to even stand, and in that pain, with the sweat and tears streamed down his face, he giggled. Small bits of laughter, like children playing in the distance.

Dion felt his shoulders shake.

“They say we’re made in God’s image, but look at you and me…” He laughed. “If that’s true, what does it say about our God?”

Small pieces of crystal fell from his wound, his white hair withered away like snow. And the shrapnel in his neck and cheeks and shoulders moved with each of his deliberate words. If bodies are temples, then Floyd's had long since been ravaged.

It was like watching a walking suicide. Floyd, taking shambled steps.

"Stop," Dion said.

Floyd kept going.

"I said stop!" Dion raised his gun.

He shook his head, conviction came back to him, it came in the form of shivering hands and long-held breaths. And churning pity too.

He hated pitying. He hated feeling it in his gun, now of all times.

"I'll never stop," Floyd said. He raised his hand.

Dion shot. The casing jumped from his gun, to his rear. This was the green bullet.

Floyd, prepared, put a dome around himself this time. He hid himself under it.

It's over...Oh, god...

“I’m sorry,” Dion said. The bullet struck the dome but did not explode, did not even ricochet. It seemed to…shatter on impact. Dion could hear the glass audibly, even from the far distance he stood at.

And at the bullet impact, a growing…wetness, enveloped the black diamond dome. Dion could see Floyd’s body underneath, still expecting some explosive, he saw his shadow move and curl.

“It’s too late now,” Dion said softly. “You had your chance,”

The liquid wrapped around and fell down the dome, like rain. And after a few seconds, began to smoke. It bubbled. It hissed.

Acid.

An acid that quickly dissolved the dome, reduced it to some viscous, toxic black goop. An acid so strong, it made holes through the dome. Holes of course, that let the acid fall down unto Floyd.

Thaddeus had called his invention, angel's feather. It was an ironic name. But it wasn't funny.

Floyd screamed. He writhed.

Dion walked over, loading a bullet into his gun. Just one normal round.

The acid had penetrated through Floyd’s shield, had made its way onto his face and had begun to work holes into his body. By contrast, Floyd’s body had tried fighting back. Like antibodies to the blood cell, the black tumor-like growths of crystals filled the gaps left by the burning acid. Open wounds were treated first, his burned and melted flesh was last.

Floyd rolled around. Dion came up next to him, calm. His eyes weren’t even crimson anymore, the battle was done, and only a philosopher and a fool would call it victory.

Not even he could take glory in seeing Floyd. How he was, rolling on the floor, screeching, his arms and legs trying to rub out the acid only for them themselves to be covered in the substance. The smoke and burned flesh growing out of patches in his body where the acid had pooled.

Floyd turned his head, off the floor and towards Dion.

Dion felt the urge to vomit.

Floyd's face was drooping. His eye had come out of the cavity of his skull, as most of his head was already dissolved. The blood and black diamond and acid all dripped and fell, dissolved into some pool of alchemical nightmare.

Seeing Floyd, was already a kind of horror. His left side could not move, he could not form words. And the structure and composite of his flesh eventually failed utterly. His lips went. His eyelids. The blight, was literally burned and melted away. Only blackened, fizzing blood was left on him.

Dion turned his head.

I have to see what I did,

Floyd was unresponsive. His hands were propped in front of him, he held his own body and convulsed. His body withered.

They crossed eyes. Staring at each other. Floyd, teared up, screeching indiscernible moans and whines, narrowed his eye.

All Dion could see was anger. Rancor like no other, dwelling inside Floyd's green eye. As if the acid had reduced Floyd to his singular element, rage.

It didn't make it easier.

“I never doubted you thought you did the right thing,” Dion pointed his gun. “And maybe you were, in a strange way,”

He brought back the hammer.

“I’m so sorry for you and your family,”

And shot.