His bullet flew through the case, shattering it to chunks of solid light. The inky redness shot from it’s old case, gliding through the air and forming saw blades. It then severed the heads off of two wound-walkers only to form into a row of spikes to impale another. By then, the other five wound-walkers took notice of the boy. But they had no time to react. The ink moved like an organ might, undulating and pumping as it thrust its many polymorphing tendrils toward the once-men. The tendrils each formed a different blade, one a katana, one a machete, one a french bastard sword, one a joust, and one a shortsword. Each blade was red entirely, much like the ink itself, and coated the room a like colour. Then, swooping back, it lunged for the boy. He jumped but had no time to react, the ink swarming around him.

 What he, foolishly, thought would be painful and his end, instead gave him the opposite sensation. He was surrounded by a bubble of red, streams of which flowed into him through his skin. It felt like a soft fabric brushing up against him while at the same time feeling pleasantly warm and somewhat enjoyable. He looked at his arms, red tattoos forming into intricate patterns that seemed fluidic. Small tendrils of red removed his mask, allowing him to breathe more easily. Red ink then came around him to prop him up off the ground, taking the texture of fine sand, soft and warm.

“Reunited… it’s been too long.” she said, the red ink around him moving as if affected by speech. “I’d forgotten how much I loved this.”

“I didn’t know you were gone.” he whispered back, his voice soft. “But I sort of felt how much I’d need you back.”

“I’ll never let them take you away again, I promise.” she spoke with all the affection he could remember from his shattered memory. “I’ll help you remember, we’ve been away from each other for almost too long. I’m just lucky you saved me when you did, I don’t live for more than a year without my host.”

“And it has almost been a year, hasn’t it?”

“Yes, but never again.”

 There was a pause as the ink finished reconnecting, its conscience now re-implanted within the boy. Then, in a surge of tendrils into one spot, the figure of a woman appeared. She was entirely red, skin, hair, features, even the entirety of her eyes. She seemed almost like a statue of some kind, but she moved like any human. He stood up straight, the bed-like structure once supporting him disappearing. The woman smiled, embracing him like he now remembered they had before.

“I love you.” he told her, though he knew he had before.

 With that, the figure melted away, the red, protective bubble following suit. He breathed in deeply, the foggy gas not affecting him in slightest. To his left, he heard a noise. He turned, laying eyes upon a wound-walker who had apparently climbed the staircase.

“Ready for some fun?” he asked.

“Always.” she answered, her voice light with amusement.

 With a raise of his fist, he punched toward it, a row of spikes doing the same.

The End

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