Red Nightmares at Midnight

Douglass : Finally the day had been spent; the thirty-second hour rolled by when finally she set out for her pad. Her pad, as she would call it, was not a home; it was a place to sleep, to clear her mind and to be alone. In a home there were people that loved you, it was a warm place with chocolate-chip cookies, smiles and hugs; then there were guns. Homes were broken; lives were shattered inside the home, that's why Douglass vowed to never have one. She'd had one before, a long time before, before her burns, before her father's death; that was when the home fell apart, never to be graced with a loving word again. As far as Douglass knew her mother still lived there, still called it her home; the happy memories kept her there, and the sad ones too. Douglass wouldn't let herself be tied down by fading memories, she'd fight them with every fiber of her being, and she'd break away, apart from the world and live a life without purpose, without direction. That's when she met Conroy, her father's friend. He picked up the fifteen year old, took her away, away to where she could be as she wanted; alone, free of confines and binds emotional or other. However, it was human nature to develop emotional attachments, even weak ones. Weak ones were all she had, damned by a woman's heart and a warriors mind; Conroy had once called her a puzzle box, just waiting to be cracked. He wouldn't be the one, which she vowed to herself, neither would it be any of the people she worked with. That was too close; her work was just too close. It had been well past three O'clock when she returned to her pad, water dripping off the motorcycle helmet onto the floor. The place was littered with various things; ammunition cartages, empty and used; gun parts, radios, electrical pieces, the occasional piece of clothing. A pair of boxing gloves hung from a hook in the wall just above the beaten up couch; as she dropped her jacket upon it, dust flew. The bedroom was no different, except there was an unmade bed in the center of the room. Stripping down she pulled an oversized T-shirt over her head and crawled in under the covers, mind swimming with the conversations in the earlier part of the day. She could feel the denseness of the .35 under her pillow. "Speak softly and carry a big stick," President Roosevelt had said that; however for Douglass it was "Speak softly and carry a big gun." She smiled at the limerick, eyes falling quickly for want of sleep.



Dante woke to blessed cool darkness. Blinking bleary eyes dazedly, he realized with a yawn he was in his own bed and Lucille, bless her, had kicked on the air conditioning in his room only. But when he rose and toddled about, she’d doubtless lower the temperature in the rest of the compound as well. After about a five minute stretch, groaning as nearly all muscles and joints cracked at once, he rolled out of bed, not bothering to straighten the expensive black silk and strolled naked to the bathroom. Stepping in the shower, the wash of hot water made him gasp, fully pulling him from sleep’s grip. Bathing quickly, he dressed comfortably and padded barefoot to the made-over kitchen/galley, idly inquiring as to messages or mail. Settling comfortably in his worn desk chair in the study, Dante propped a bare foot on the desk and drained one can of beer for starters, proceeding to imbibe the massive triple decker sandwich he’d thrown together while Lucille pulled up the mail. A brow flicked at the headline. Local police gunned down in gang war. Crime rate skyrocketing Swallowing, he reached for the other beer he’d brought and snorted. “What a crock of shit,” he muttered, pulling the tab. “Something wrong, Dante?” Lucille inquired politely, her mechanical feminine voice echoing from the ceiling. “Yeah,” he said sourly, scrolling down through the article. “This little ‘shootout’ was nothing more than those damned mercs, and me slaughtering ‘em. The fuckers interrupted my hunt!” Scoffing in annoyance, he deleted that one and proceeded to the next. The computer which ran the place, affectionately named Lucille, clicked a bit then spoke a bit abruptly. “You forgot to load the washer, Dante.” The devil hunter flicked a glance ceilingward. “Sometimes I think I installed a ‘nag-chip’ instead of a ‘personality-chip’, Lucille,” he informed it tartly. “I’ll get to it in a minute.” A few more clicks and whirrs. “Of course, Dante.” He rolled his eyes and muttered sourly. “Friggin’ machine,” he breathed under his breath. But he kept reading, finally getting to the payment verification information from Harris at the station. The standard fee had been deposited in his private account. Dante smirked. “You better have, you lily white bastard. Seems he remembered what happened the last visit.” It hadn’t ended well, Harris’s dentist had been a happy man.



Douglass : The rain patter had drummed her asleep, and now six hours later it drove her awake. The storms had eased, but water still poured from the roof as though it were Niagara Falls. Sitting straight up she blinked a few times, not really knowing where she was. Her eyes were swollen and red from too much use and not enough rest, but it was time to start the next day. Throwing the covers back she picked her way across the room to the small bathroom. Flicking the switch, the tell-tale buzz of a fluorescent bulb hummed to life as it flooded the room with artificial light. Closing her eyes for a moment, she gave them time to adjust; peering into the cracked mirror above the sink she almost didn't recognize herself. Damn, I've looked bad before but not like this. Turning the partially rusted knobs, water began to run, filling the room with its babbling sound. Filling her cupped palms she splashed the water to her face, the surprise of its chill shaking her nerves to an awakened state. She ran her fingers through her hair, pulling loose a few lost strands, permitting them to fall to the floor. Her towel hung crooked on its bar, just outside the shower door. Tossing it open she turned on the hot water, balancing it with the cold until it was just the right temperature; piss warm. Stripping herself of any and all garments she slipped in, the cool water shaking her body alive. Ten minutes was excess, five just slightly too little, somewhere in-between she found a happy median. Killing the water she reached for her towel, dabbing herself dry as she began to slip from the small bathroom. None-the-less, something in the mirror caught her eye, the beginning of her tattooing. There, down her left hip and over the left side of the small of her back, wrapping around to her stomach and down towards her woman-hood was the scar, lavishly covered by the fist of her tattoos. She shut her eyes and turned away from it, not ashamed but unwilling to face the recollection of that day. Towel wrapped about her she slipped back into the bedroom, pulling from a heaping pile of clothes a pair of red, cotton pants and a white button down top. "Fuck." It needed ironing; she didn't want to waste the time so she threw the top back and selected a black three quarter sleeve snap top. "Good enough." Throwing on her clothes she padded into the living room, crinkling her nose at the mess. "I need a maid, or to burn the place down." Turning her back on the mess she went into the dinette. Pulling a bottle of water from the fridge she turned then to the cupboards to see what would be there; nothing like usual. Pulling on a pair of black boots and then grabbing her jacket and helmet she headed for the door. "Shit, brush." She dropped the items by the open door and quickly walked to the bedroom, pulling a hairbrush from the nightstand and running it through until all knots were out; next she searched for a ponytail holder, finding none she figured it wasn't important. Briskly walking back to the door she grabbed her jacket just as the cell phone buried inside the pocket sprang to live; guess who it was. A text message from the boss, "Your up." "On my way," she uttered, annoyed by the thought of him. Slipping the jacket on, she then pulled the helmet down, buckling the snap under her chin. I'll get dinner later. Pulling the door shut behind her, the latch kicked on locking it up. It was time to start another day.



Dante hit town that night around eleven. Just when the place was starting to come alive. God, he loved Los Angeles. Always something, or someone, depending on preference, to do. Dressed for work, the same familiar red leather and weaponry, he parked his bike in a deserted alley, not bothering with a damned parking garage, he needed to be able to get out fast sometimes, and mingled with the crowd, for some reason most ignored him. In a city this size, with this melting pot of ethnicity, it didn’t matter if you were green, blue or purple. So a tall white haired red clad man hauling iron wasn’t anything they hadn’t seen before. Dante grinned as he pondered this, strolling easily down Sepulveda Boulevard, the sights and sounds of the night calling to him. Hookers on the corners sashayed over to the tall male, but they were merely grinned at then dismissed, all thoughts of such gone from his mind. He didn’t mind female flesh, not in the least, but the last one’d been quite a bit ago. No time for such, nor inclination. Always the job. Besides, he thought with a wrench, mobile mouth turning down a bit, she was gone, it didn’t matter, he hadn’t been able to save her from the ultimate enemy after all. Fuck. He hadn’t meant to let his thoughts go there tonight. But he hauled his brain from the past and kept nose, ears and eyes open for anything up his alley, his muscles twitched; he needed to kill something. Raking a black-gloved hand through tousled platinum hair, he cleared his forehead only to have the rebellious strands flop right back. A moot endeavor. Turning a block, he wondered with a smirk if the ‘strike team’ from the other day would show up. Let ‘em. He’d trounce the little kiddies and put that bitch with a horse tranq right to sleep with his damned fist.



Douglass : There was something off about the text message she had received; true it came from the right place, said the right thing, even had the right paraphrasing. "Yr up." That's all it said, but there was something about the timing. Pulling her black helmet down over her head, the orangish-gold flames dancing in the fading street lights she took hold of her bikes handlebars. A motorcycle it was not, it wasn't even a chopper; it was a street legal dirt bike, the license plate reading "DGM-8." Kicking it to life she pulled it around, dark skid-marks lining the place where it did a 180 turn. The motor purred as the bike tore down the streets, flying through stop signs and lurching past cars; the tinted visor of her helmet keeping her face from the sight of the drivers she passed. Obscene gestures were thrown her way, and some even yelled; she'd long learned to ignore them. As the bike tore past a familiar street, her interest changed, she looked down a long ally and upon reaching the next turned the bike sharply, heading sharply eastbound; back towards the Microsoft building. The bike ate up the street, roaring past the residential buildings that lined the ally-way. As the building came into view, she slowed slightly, watching it with suspicion. At first it seemed vacant; seemed that way until she was past; then out of the corner of her eye she caught movement in the third story window. Got'cha. Without hesitation the bike was thrown into high gear once more, ripping away at the pavement until finally she pulled up along the curb outside of "The Clinic." Pulling the helmet off, she shook her head, hair falling in cascades down her back and over her shoulders. She looked, first, up the street then back down. Strange, where are all the cars? None of her brothers' cars were there, not even Conroy's. Biting at the inside of her mouth, suspicion growing in the pit of her belly, What's fucking going on? Placing her keys into her jacket pocket she began to stride up the stairs, taking them two at a time. The muscles of her legs flexed and retracted under her pants, causing them to become first taut then slacking off. I need to get some new clothes. Placing her key into the door, it opened with ease, the lock wasn't set. As it slid open, banging at the ends of its hinges she peered into the lobby, casting her vision first this way, then that. Something is off. All the hairs of her body stood on end, but there wasn't much hair left on her body. To ease the job she'd had laser hair removal, everything below her neck had been removed as well as any that might be on her face. Really all that was left were her eyebrows and the stuff on her head. If she hadn't been a girl it was likely that her head hair would have been removed too. Striding into the large lobby, the click of her heals her only company she went straight to the front reception desk; no one. Pulling up the clipboard she glanced at the names, nothing seemed amiss. "So you got my page." Before the voice had finished the barrel of her .35 magnum was aimed straight at his face, and the trigger had been pulled. All that kept the man alive was her thumb on the hammer, keeping it hovering over its mark. "You know better Sam," her voice was cold, and well to the point. "Yeah but I had to talk to you D." He looked her dead in the eye, wearing nothing more than blue jeans and a maroon t-shirt, she could tell by his posture that he wasn't carrying a gun. Slowly she let the hammer fall back into place, and slipped the gun back to its keeping place. She nodded at him slightly, go on. "I'm out of the game D; I refused Conroy's orders so I'm being sent to 'The Institution.'" Her brow furrowed, she'd never seen him like this before, he looked scared. "So anyway D, I wanted to say goodbye to my best girl." He smiled at her slightly. "I'm your only girl Sam." She didn't make an expression. "Yeah I know D, and you always will be. Take care kiddo, you hear?" He offered her one last smile; she couldn't believe that a corpse was smiling at her. "You too Sam," as he turned to walk away, she cracked. "Sam… I'll mourn you, but I won't cry." He half laughed, "I'd be offended if you did D. See ya." And like that he was gone, strolling right out the door and out of her life. It was as easy as that, refuse an order and your brain was turned to mush and you lived out your life in a mental institution; you were a danger to the job if you could remember what you had once done. Die in battle, or die a babbling idiot, not much of a choice really. None-the-less, she didn't have time to mourn him now, there was work to be done. Everyone was gone, and she had a fleeting suspicion where they were.



Dante snorted as he kicked the bleeding decomposing corpse off his blade. What a bitch, he thought sourly. And that wasn’t far from the truth; the hellhound female had been quite testy the white-haired hunter interrupted her meal. Dante smirked slightly. “Sorry, sweetie.” But something tickled across the back of his neck, a cold wind brushed his skin, heavy with anticipation. A brow lifted in curious inquiry and he sheathed the still-flickering blade, striding to the edge of a dark building. Craning his neck back, looking up, he grinned snarkily and bent knees, strong hips and thighs propelling him at a tremendous rate skyward. So nice, demon blood…save for the inherent insanity that went with it. Landing easily on the rooftop, he flicked his coat behind him and strode to the other edge, the east side, crouching on the concrete, listening. Black gloved hands rested between his knees as his head tilted slightly, the better to catch all the voices carried on the wind. Scents came to his nostrils, tinged with blood and fire. Sitting perfectly still, the only movement that of his hair and coat in the chill breeze, the devil hunter processed and categorized all information diligently, storing it away for future reference. There was a hunt afoot…not now, but soon. Very soon. It was coming, and blood would soak the ground. He was sure of it.



Douglass : The compound was empty, the hollow noise of her steps echoing off the vacant walls her only reprieve from the silence. The key in her hand controlled everything, she was one of two who carried them; Conroy was the only other. Hmm, I can't help but wonder where everyone is. Her thoughts were sarcastic. Making her way swiftly through the building, she turned four doors down, veered left, and went seven doors down that way, then took the next right; it was all second nature, she didn't even need to think to make it through. Pushing open the door, row after row of lockers lined the entirety of the room. Sliding through them, she glanced at each one; each was vacant of their field gear, replaced with street garbs. She smirked, You think your so sly. But through the sarcasm she could feel herself growing angry; Conroy's arrogance and pride kept him striving for an impossible goal, a goal she herself wanted so badly to accomplish, but couldn't find tangible at the present time. Finally she came to her own locker, number eight. Tossing the helmet into the bottom she began pulling her gear from the locker; the chest armor made especially for her, the leather suit along with the scaling gear and everything else she carried on a normal mission. Stripping out of her street attire she pulled on the cotton undergarment, it was very much like a swim suit. Next went the chest plate, fitting to her body snuggly, its ends seamless under the leather suit. The leather outfit was a perfect second skin, never inhibiting any movement of the wearer or adding too much extra weight. The rest of the gear they packed did enough of that. Slipping into her harness, she draped all the appropriate accessories around herself. Climbing rope, the clasps and links that went with it; her field knife, a one foot long, five inch thick blade with deep serrations that pointed back towards the yielder, meant to enter with ease, then rip away the insides of anyone unlucky enough to be on the receiving end; an automatic assault riffle fitted with tranquilizers; various guns and extra clips to go with them. All this and more she would carry on any given day, and she loved the feel of its weight. Slamming the locker shut, she finished by pulling her long, sun bleached locks back and clamping the ponytail with a stun device. "Ready or not Conroy, here I come." Grabbing her helmet she quickly ran from the building, making sure it was locked behind her. Jumping onto her bike she tore back down the roads to the Microsoft building. -shift- All the way across town, just outside of the city a large, abandoned factory loomed over the private road. Six men slinked away in the dark, night-vision goggles bouncing in the moonlight as they closed in; an older man led them, although he had grown a bit in his age, he still had the makings of a strong man, possible a body-builder. Silence was their friend as they slipped in through the front door, never knowing what awaited them inside. -shift- Back in the city Douglass scaled the fire escape of a building just across from the Microsoft Co. building. Zip line secured she slid to the building, dropping at a perfectly calculated moment so that she crashed through the window of the third floor; hitting shoulder first, she rolled into a ready position, gun aimed and trigger finger twitching. She wasn't met with the expecting face of Conroy, or the blood thirsty eyes of a "demon," instead she was met with the horror filled face of a hobo, piss leaked all over the front of his trousers. NO! In The back of her mind, she could hear the opening shots being fired, as three of the six fell victim to the waiting hands of the demons.



Even over the purring of his bike, Dante heard the shots. Familiar music, that. Zeroing in on the location, he spun the motorcycle in a perfect circle, gunning the engine, damning the laws of man that kept him earth-bound. But he’d be no good to the rest shot out of the sky. Fuckfuckfuck, seethed through his brain as he hit over a hundred twenty miles an hour. The road blurred beneath him, but he knew he was already too late. His demon blood surged and screamed within him, sensing the presence of its kin on this plane. Feeding. Feasting. Flesh rending teeth and howling in lust. God, he loathed it. But somewhere, in the back of his brain, he gloried in it. Grinding teeth, he just pushed the bike faster and harder, even as the towers of the factory loomed in his vision. They were dead, that he knew, they were no match for what they faced. Not bothering to slow down, he barreled through the front gates, knowing it didn’t matter who heard his arrival now. The place was alive with fire and screams. Shit. Tearing through the empty parking lot, he slammed on the brakes; the bike fishtailing as it swerved. Dante crouched on the seat and launched himself from the vehicle, aiming for a window high up. Better to take ‘em from above. He ducked his head and turned his shoulder to crash through, and crash he did. Guns already blazing from holsters, he aimed and fired upside down, falling as if in slow motion. All demons screeched in surprise, pausing their feasting and snarled at the interruption. The hunter flipped in mid-air and landed on his feet, spinning in place, shooting with uncanny precision. The magically enhanced bullets pulled power from his own body and tore through demonic flesh, severing limbs and appendages. No emotion played in his eyes or across his countenance as he killed; to kill was to be cold. When the pack closed in, too many for just guns, with snake-quickness he holstered the pistols and unsheathed the gleaming Alastor from his back, lightening already shooting from the blade, the demoness inside thirsting for the blood of her kin. Thunder rumbled as the blade flashed in Dante’s hand, the slain howling in pain and anger. A crimson blur of fury and skill, it took a demon to hunt and kill a demon, and he bloody well excelled at such.



Douglass : The motor of her bike ached, but still she pushed it harder, accelerating faster and faster. The inside of her helmet was alive with blinking lights and coding, it was all second nature to her, she could read it without really looking at it anymore. The small computer chips insider her helmet sifted through Conroy's files, searching for where he might possible be. She raced on, ferociously searching for what the fool could be thinking. Finally a hit, an abandoned Microsoft warehouse and office building; far enough outside town; that's where he'd be, him and the rest of them. Veering to the left, the flashing screens grew dark as the bike whined its way out of town. The main roadway was congested with traffic, brake lights glared at her like demon eyes; fuck. Lifting up on the handlebars, the bike lurched off the road, spitting dirt up behind her she flew off-road, bounding over the uneven terrain with effortless ease. She'd mastered the off-road, she loved it even. Perhaps if she would have been afforded a 'normal' life she might have made a hobby of dirt biking. Now she used it out of necessity, not novelty. All-in-all it took about fifteen minutes to reach the private road, racing up the way the top of the building peeked from behind lush tree coverage. God damn you to hell Conroy. She kept going, even after she dismounted, the shots echoing in her ears; she could hear the very fibers of her life being torn apart. Screams and shouts from inside, gun fire and the sound of ripping flesh, it was all a blur in her mind. It couldn't have been more than five minutes after Dante entered, but she never saw the red drabbed man, all she saw was the dead bodies of her comrades, lifeless and half eaten. Eyes were wide under the helmet, vomit threatened her; but she swallowed it down and dogged hesitation. She could hear Conroy barking orders, "HOLD YOUR GROUND!" The only question was, where was he; she scarcely had time to think it when one of the demons lunged at her, sidestepping, she ducked into a shoulder roll, pulling from its holster one of her hand guns and firing into the beasts knee. It faltered for only a moment before throwing a hand at her, knocking her back and sending her helmet skidding across the floor. "Eat shit," if anything her voice was calm, both hand guns aimed at the impeding demon, her back was almost flat on the floor, her head lifted and shoulders up, arms extended and guns firing, unloading round after round into the demons chest. Its approach never slowed, save for its newly acquired limp. Her upper lip curled into a snarl, what the fuck? It leapt, propelling itself with only the good leg, as it began it's decent she rolled out of its path, pulling her blade from behind her and stabbing it through the remaining usable knee of the beast. It howled only when she pulled the blade out, pushing herself up simultaneously to avoid its reach. “Stay," she commanded, as if the thing were a disobedient puppy. Ducking out of the range of fire, she took cover behind a crate, just in time to see Conroy overtaken by two of the demons; "NOOO!! CONROY!!!" Suddenly things seemed in slow motion, she ran towards them, legs pumping faster then ever before, she took hold of one of the demons and tossed it back, plunging her blade deep into its middle, it screeched at her, but it didn't back away; instead it attacked, lurching at her, pulling at her arms, peeling away the flesh. "CONROY!!!" But the other beast had already removed his jugular, there it stood feasting upon the flesh of her inherent father. Tears stung her eyes, and a wild rage the likes of which she never felt washed over her. Taking the automatic riffle from its place, she fired with one hand, sending a tranq deep into the demons forehead. It seemed stunned, but she wouldn't wait to find out how badly. Slipping away, arm torn open and dripping blood she ran, ducking low; the sound of gunfire a memory now. The only option now was to survive, survive to kill the beasts that killed her.




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