[b]Red Death: An Exotic Story[/b] [i]The Dark Age was a time of vast suffering and terrible evil, a time that birthed heroes and gods and monsters. It was a time that most couldn’t remember, and trying to remember was like trying to catch fraying, half-forgotten dreams. One particular story was consigned to oblivion. It was about people who couldn’t handle the weight of their own fears, and one man couldn’t, so he built an underground shelter to protect himself from the threat of the Darkness. He populated it with survivors. He reveled in bloody battles and open combat. He sealed the entrance. He hid, even when his screaming Ghost went mad and silent. However, as much as he tried, he couldn’t stop one intruder. [/i] The sanctuary’s eternal glowery lamps shot bands of light through the viewing gallery and made the shadows of Tarlin's guests dance nervously. As much as he needed the blasted things, the sickly green luminescence was wearing his patience thin. However, without electricity, he didn’t have a choice. The lamps were made with an unknown mix of chemicals and fire that made them ever-burning. They were Golden Age relics. A spider of lightning crawled across the dome of the Crucible arena. Guardians below scattered past the damaged pillars, while some disintegrated into static particles as the lone Titan rose from his knees. The scoreboard flashed and the lights dimmed. It signaled the end of the match. The audience let loose a subdued applause that had grown quite worn after several hundred bouts. “If Grouse and your team keep winning,” said Victor, closing his eyes, his expression conveying a vast, weary dismay, “I might have to slit my throat.” He held out his hand. Tarlin outstretched his own and tablets fell into his palm. “One less person to feed,” said Tarlin. A vicious grin spread across his face and he popped one of the blue tablets into his mouth. Seconds later, a light feeling of euphoria and a dominating sense of thrilling power coursed within him. There wasn’t much else to do but gamble. There wasn’t much else to gamble [i]with[/i] except dwindling drugs and pieces of rare food like candy. If Tarlin made the stakes any higher, no one would play with him. His team was too skilled, especially with Grouse at the helm. Both teams began to make their way out of the labyrinthine arena when Tarlin caught a dark figure at the very end, halfway into the shadows. He counted the leaving players. Twelve. With the unknown figure, that made thirteen. An odd number. Victor seemed to notice this as well. “Tarlin.” There was a weight of cold fury in his voice when he said his name. “Who is that? Did you have another Guardian fighting in this battle to win?” “Of course not,” said Tarlin, frowning. There wasn’t supposed to be any spectators within the ring. It was strictly forbidden. Yet, there he was. The figure stepped out of the shadows and Tarlin's lips made a thin, bloodless line across his face. The figure wore a tattered robe, which was a kind word because it was threadbare, pocked with holes. He wore a helmet with no visor. From what Tarlin could see, there wasn’t so much as a sensory strip, so how could the man see? Though, the man’s appearance wasn’t what unnerved him. It was the weapon he held in his hand. It was a black rifle, studded with bloody spikes and tipped with a jagged bayonet. Before Tarlin sealed his shelter, there had been rumors swirling of a madman that murdered fellow Guardians with a modified auto rifle. He felt a flush of fear start in his face and sweep, cold and prickling, down the entire length of his body. That was him. But it couldn’t be. Every single entrance into the shelter was welded shut to keep enemies out. Tarlin shook his head. It didn’t matter now. The man was inside. The Crucible combatants caught their frozen stares and some began to turn around, noticing the intruder. Tarlin leaned over the railing and pointed. “Apprehend him!” Grouse moved first, raising his assault rifle. Slowly, the other Guardians aimed their weapons at the mysterious figure who barely twitched at the sudden threat, but they moved in a cautious manner. If they were wise they would have been bolder. Tarlin blinked and the dark man was gone. He reappeared in front of Grouse in a thin cloud of violet, lashed out his rifle, and ripped the jagged bayonet across the Titan’s neck. He destroyed the Ghost a second later. “A Warlock,” hissed Victor, face pale. The audience erupted in gasps, stunning the Guardians below to immobility. Everyone was used to death, they witnessed gruesome displays of blood and bone for as far back as they could remember, but to kill a Ghost outright in the Crucible. It was taboo. The Guardians regained whatever sense they had and began to fire at the dark man. However, it was like trying to pin down a wisp of smoke. The dark man teleported so fast and so often that it was impossible to track him. He moved in closer with every emergence. Soon, he slid underneath a hapless Guardian and dug his palm into the man’s chest, obliterating him and his Ghost. With each teleportation, a Guardian died. Whether it was from bolts from his pulse rifle or a violent surge of Void power, one died. Tarlin’s audience was frozen with morbid awe. They didn’t panic or flee, they just watched. Tarlin cursed and jumped over the deck of the gallery, rolling into a perfect execution because he was a Hunter, even through the haze of drugs. He leapt forward and slashed his dagger left and right, up and down. The dark man dodged each one, his movements thick with contempt, like he was playing tag with an infant. Tarlin thrust his hand out and the Warlock froze, fingers bubbling with the Void. His dagger crumbled away, as if dunked in acid. He dropped the hilt. The dark man was even skilled enough to use his power without direct contact? Tarlin drew his handcannon. A smoldering warmth blazed through his veins, ethereal flames grew out of his back and shoulders, and gold plated itself across his firearm. Tarlin should have run instead. The Warlock disappeared. Tarlin could only hold his form for thirty seconds and his time was running out. He started running, his chest working like a bellows, trying to find the hidden demon. He looked behind the gnarled pillars of the arena and over a trench. He sprinted over battlements and barricades. Wandered into the shadows. Nothing. He looked back at the audience, still frozen with confusion. Those useless— Something cold and jagged pierced through Tarlin’s back snapping a piece of sapphire wire. It slid out of his chest. The dark man’s bayonet. He coughed up blood and his defeat felt sharp as a mouthful of broken glass. It hurt, but he turned his head to look at his killer, at the black, featureless helmet speckled with the blood of his own Guardians. Still, the man was silent. Then he knew nothing but blackness. [i]After Tarlin died, the dark man didn’t stop there. He swept the halls across every nook and corner, killing every inhabitant until the shelter held not a single spark of life. And machine, human, and child fell like autumn wheat. And nothing moved besides the glimmering light of the glowery lamps, each gentle like a single stirring leaf. “And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.”[/i] [b]Thanks everyone, hope you enjoyed my latest story about the Red Death! Obviously, I didn’t delve into the inner-workings of the weapon, as the creation of it wasn’t the focal point of the story. I believe Bungie was inspired by Edgar Allan Poe’s story, Masque of the Red Death (mostly because the term “Red Death” is usually attributed to Poe), so I decided on writing a similar tale set in Destiny’s universe. And of course, the theme is that death is inescapable. Please like and bump! I will start a new series very soon, until then, read through my archive! I’ve written entire series about Saint-14, Eris Morn, Toland, and more![/b] [b][url=https://www.bungie.net/en/Forum/Post/100362914]DESTINY FAN FICTION ARCHIVE[/url][/b] [b][url=https://www.bungie.net/en/Clan/Forum/823422]JOIN OR FOLLOW GROUP FOR FAN FICTION UPDATES[/url][/b]