Chapter Text
7:37 P.M. August 8th 2868 AD
Old Haven, Pandora
Crimson is very, very busy, as of late.
Some obnoxious Jakobs-former-Maliwan employees tried to get back at the company for ‘wronging’ them (refusal for a promotion they didn’t deserve) and went out to infuse elemental effects into Jakobs products to drive Maliwan into the ground.
However, as everyone should know, the second you sign the contract under Jakobs, you turn into a fucking moron, and morons don’t know how the hell elemental effects work on weaponry, especially harsh projectiles like bullets.
Their whereabouts were easy to find (morons), some abandoned building that looks like the aftermath of some god awful nuclear disaster that could’ve been spotted from space. And it was!
Further protection beyond his gas mask, more like a full body insulation suit to avoid any traces of eridium.
Eridium is terrifying. Even to sirens, no, especially to sirens, the only people who can physically handle it in small doses. The only good thing Jack had ever done in his life, was shoving enough of it into Lilith’s system for her to lose her mind. But even Crimson can admit that it is a torturous fate, but she deserved it so he can’t really empathize with her. Still, can’t deny its agony. Can’t deny it’s deserved. Anyway.
Pure, pure power, in the palm of a hand, knowledge, physical strength, force, if taken more than maybe 4 grams, snorted through your sinuses and up to your brain can shatter anything holding even a Pandoran’s sanity together in seconds. And that’s being generous.
That’s the worst of it, it’s not physical pain, it’s psychological. Fries your synapses to their worst and makes you think you’re dying. You’re not, really, but the agony of it convinces you that you are until, well, you are.
And now, Crimson has just walked into a place where it’s on every square inch of the walls. Bleeding out the floorboards, popping like a firecracker.
Anything left of Old Haven, which was already a junkyard, is now a straight up contamination site. It’s a little depressing, memories now seeping through the planet, the soil glowing with hallucinations. He crosses his fingers it’s his imagination and nothings seeped through his mask.
Tiptoeing into the building flickering with energy like a beacon, summoning any presence, any life left to absorb.
Crimson is tasked to pick up the skeletons, or ashes, any remains that may be.
This is Maliwan’s speciality. Studying anything eridium based, any more knowledge of the drug is good, any research is more power to them.
The more they know on the effect of various doses of eridium, they can string to their advantage on whoever uses a Maliwan gun and means they don’t get sued when someone’s hands start irreparably glowing just by holding the gun.
And if they aren’t torturing people with it, just exploiting accidents, it’s not morally reprehensible, right?
Maybe?
Fuck you, he’s not doing anything wrong, shut up. He works for an arms company, it’s inevitable moral conundrums are a part of everyday life.
The energy lining the walls burns, hurts his eyes, makes him shake every time he tries and take another step.
Walking up the illuminated staircases, with the strength of jello- it’s almost fascinating, though, dipping his feet onto a step and lifting it back only for the ground to pop back up as if its never been touched.
Focus.
Upon his ascent, there are remains, and by God if they’re not stunning. Perfectly contained skeletons, lined with the glittery purple resembling near pristine eridium.
These are perfect specimens, corpses, people, lives now turned experiments, value.
Crimson’s lips twitch up to a grin as he steps over to his grand prize that’ll be met with a handsome paycheck and a wonderful exchange with his boyfriend.
Squatting to examine the bones, wrapping his hands around the beauties that are glistening, glowing, twitching, moving, grabbing.
Crimson retracts, shooting up to his feet now on the highest sense of alert, eyes wide and anxious behind the mask.
The jaw of the skull drops open, turning up to meet its empty eye sockets with the glass panels against his eyes.
It falls forward, burning hot phalanges singing through the ankle of his leather suit and down to his skin that plant their mark down to bare muscle.
The open mouth, the lack of vocal cords somehow shriek, beg for help, some soul lost against the ribcage begs for help, a brain leaks out the actively melting cranium that glows and blinds.
Fuck.
*Fuck.*
He kicks his ankle loose from the shockingly strong and boiling grip of the man, sprinting down the stairs and nearly tripping at the forgotten gelatinous texture of the steps.
Exposure.
The one danger was exposure, and now it’s embedded into his bare skin. His veins, his blood, and he runs like all hell is chasing him, the hell that’s already seeping through him.
He doesn’t step in the shuttle. He’s shaking, the ship is sealed with defenses for eridium, he can’t risk entry from himself, not infecting the whole ship, God, not Kyoya.
His hands shake, chewing his lip until it bleeds, before dropping to the ground and tearing a blade from his belt.
His eye twitches, shoulders tense, and squeezes his eyes shut before he shrieks.
Sawing through the already torturous pain pricking through every nerve he has, screaming and twitching and sobbing, the pain near higher than when he had his eye ripped out.
It’s painful, but this time it’s hot, it’s so hot, it’s not that frigid rusty knife the psychos used, it’s a lava hot razor he’s using to saw through a drug filled limb before he’s dead on the ground, as if this mission wasn’t dangerous enough.
God help him.