Red Death Chapter 1: Part 1, a gundam wing/ac fanfic

~ All standard disclaimers apply.

~ Warning: Gallons of blood, Trowa torment (not torture, torment)

~ Note: Remember, I've warned you. GALLONS OF BLOOD, PEOPLE. I'm talking seriously here. All reviews appreciated, but those filled with stupidity will be ignored.

//thoughts//

~ Red Death ~

HellFire

A drop lands on Trowa's cheek, waking him.

// Raining. It figures. //

Another drop, spattering against his bare chest.

The boy sighs and moves to a sitting position, legs crossed under him. He wipes the moisture off, finding the lamp with his other hand. He flicks it on, waits. Flicks it off, then on again. Nothing.

Heaving a sigh, Trowa gives up on the lamp. It probably hasn't worked for years anyway. Tossing aside the ratty blanket, he swings his feet to the floor, planning to feel his way to the window.

//What the…? //

He jerks his foot. The sound of splashing water reaches his ears. It's warm. Trowa stands, puzzled by the ankle-deep liquid around his feet. Carefully he makes his way to the window, the warm liquid rippling around his feet disconcertingly A faint gleam of moonlight shines around the curtain, illuminating his destination..

//It isn't possible that the room could have flooded with warm rainwater without my noticing. //

Strangely, he feels a sense of relief as he reaches his destination. It is not logical, but neither is the very presence of the warm water coating the floor. Trowa grips the rough fabric of the curtains and pulls. Moonlight floods in, bathing his form in silvery light. All is still outside. The only sounds to be heard are the soft noises of water gently licking at the boy's ankles and Trowa's own breathing, equally soft. He looks down at the water lapping at his feet.

Red.

That water is red. Even in the washed-out light it's obvious. He shouldn't be able to tell the color of the warm fluid with such ease, shouldn't be able to smell the pungent scent that suddenly makes itself known, should be able to… But does. That smell: he knows it. Oh yes, he knows it very well.

The metallic tang of blood.

There is no mistaking that smell. It coats his tongue, choking him. He knows nothing will dispel the smell of it. It coats him, just as it clung to the mercenaries who trained him, permeates the air after a battle, rising above the smell of gunpowder and death. He can never wash it off. He can scrub until his flesh is red and raw, but the smell will never vanish. It never will.

Trowa reaches out to steady himself on the wall, dizzy with memories. His hand meets with warm slickness, sliding between his fingers, coating his palm. He yanks his hand away as if stung by a hornet, stares at it in the silvered light. His breath catches in his throat. Drops of congealing blood fall from his fingers, plopping into the thinner blood at his feet. Drops stain his legs, the liquid slowly drying.

A drop falls on his bowed head. Out of habit Trowa looks up, a hand twitching as if to smooth back hair. The boy's eyes open wide, horror echoing in their emerald depths.

Blood drips from the ceiling, the once flat surface now spotted with lumps at irregular intervals. It slides down the walls, falls with soft splashing noises to the floor, drops onto the bed and small table. The useless lamp is now stained red, the table a dark mahogany below it. The bed appears almost black, sheets and pillows heavy with blood.

Red.

It covers every available surface, even Trowa himself as he stands frozen by unexplainable terror. The color is brighter than anything has a right to be in the moonlight. And yet there it is, vivid as in the light of day. Trowa's world awash in shades of blood, intense in the red-tinted light of the moon.

The falling drops tap out a musical tune, chorus repeating in a never-ending refrain.