"Survi-"
Those were his last words. His last thoughts. He was so caught up in the moment. He had let his anger get the best of him. God, he missed Neo. And though he'd hate to admit it, he missed Red too. She had screwed up everything for him. He hated her. She made his blood boil.
Roman sat down. Whatever Salem was using him for was despicable, but that Grimm had been sent to take him to this realm for a reason. He slumped over, his chains binding him. He remembered the way things were. The way they were before Cinder, before Salem. He remembered when he was the best crook in Vale. And then Cinder had come along. Suave, beautiful.
Evil. That was her defining trait. She was so pretty, enchanting. It almost made you forget the way that she was likely to burn you to ashes when she got bored. He stopped being useful to her. Neo had defied orders just to save him. He had been the face of their operation. And now he was reduced to a man with damaged mascara, a destroyed hat, and a torn-up suit.
He longed for a cigar. He hadn't had one in ages. He longed to see Neo again. That little snot had thrown her off the airship, and he didn't know what happened to her. He longed for a lot of things. He wanted to see Neo again. He wanted to kill Red. That was first on the list.
He struggled, the chains cutting his skin. He tried to worm his way out. Why was he still alive? Or was he still alive? Had the Grimm been a hallucination, a dying dream of some sort? Was he in hell? Why would Salem and Cinder be here too.
He thought of Red. How idealistic she'd been. How stupid she'd been. How she didn't give a thought to the fact she'd murdered Neo, and, so far as she had known, him. He wanted to strangle her. He wanted to crush her windpipe with his bare hands for what she had done to Neopolitan.
And yet, something about the poor girl had endeared her to him. Was it the red? The color of chaos? No, couldn't be. The skills? Maybe, she was certainly good. No. It was the girl herself. How she had been so determined. "Bet on that," he whispered to himself. He chuckled, to cope with the pain.
He remembered how he and Neo had been. Partners in crime. It was universally appropriate for them to go out in the same place, on the same day. He knew it was an awful decision to open fire. The other ships never would have shot at a fleeing vessel. He could have left then and there. Changed.
Ah, could have. Such a phrase. He could have done a lot of things. He could have killed Red when they had first met. He fantasized about it now. Killing them all. That snide green-haired one, the boastful assassin. Cinder, the one who organized it all. The one who had been so condescending, who had treated him like common muscle.
But most of all, he thought about killing Ruby. He wanted her dead. Dead, dead, dead. He'd like to do to her what she did to Neo. And yet, he knew exactly what Red had reminded him of. Why he seemed to care for her so, despite his hatred. Why everything was so convoluted and psychotic between them.
She reminded him of himself, long ago. He and Neo were two against the world. But then he'd learned the truth. That the world was an unforgiving place. And now, he was worse than he had been before. He was out of cigars, out of dust, out of ammo, and out of luck.
He smirked.
He wasn't done yet. Not by a long shot. Roman Torchwick would not go down that easily.
No, there was still work to be done, and Roman knew it. He had people to kill. Salem had brought him here for a reason. But what she didn't know was that he was on his own side. A wild card, so to speak. He was going to find Neo. He was going to kill Cinder. And most importantly… he was going to track down Red. She was his.
He hummed a tune to himself, examining the scars that arrived every day. They bled a black ooze. It spread around him. He knew what it was. He had seen the creations of darkness. He knew how crucial this was.
He sighed, and fell back to the ground. He wanted Red dead. He wanted to kill her. But he couldn't figure out why he had never done it. He had killed before. It was easy. He had killed plenty. Of course, those airships had housed large crews. And how many did he kill with the attacks on Vale?
He didn't regret it. He couldn't. If he regretted it, he'd lose it. He'd go mad. He would become just like every other lunatic. He'd be gibbering and laughing. Of course, that was if he stayed human. If this blackness came over him, he would be done worrying.
God, how he wanted to burn them all. He was a pyromaniac, or so they said. He liked watching things burn, people burn. He was never the kind of guy you could trust. That was his charm, the fact that you could never tell whether he wanted to kiss you or kill you. In the case of Red, he couldn't decide.
He liked her. Not in a romantic way. In an odd way. He thought of her as a kid. The kind of kid that would have to be told that they couldn't save the world. And she hadn't accepted it. "Bet on that," he whispered. "Bet on that. Bet on that." The kid. Didn't she know there were some bets you didn't take?
Of course, the cat girl. Her, he liked. And the blonde. Hadn't he seen her at a bar somewhere? And, of course, the heiress. She was a good one. Hid her feelings. Kinda like him, actually. Except she didn't know what it was like to kill. To feel so sick like that.
He did. He did feel sick. That was the truth. Every time he killed. He could feel some part of himself crying. But he'd locked it away. He was beyond redemption. They had left him behind. All of them. A professional. And they'd just let him go! He had been loyal, he had been servile.
Well, he was done being servile. In this world, it was kill or be killed. And he was going to get out of here. He was going to kill Cinder. He was going to break out, man or Grimm. And he would make them all pay.
Bet on that.