Red

I had a moment of inspiration. I have no idea when I'll write more of this (if I ever write more of this). I honestly have no idea where this is going. Tags/rating/almost certainly title will change when and if I write more. :)

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1. Prologue

Prologue

Red.  

He scans the room, his eyes stinging slightly from the overused smoky effect. Why is he here? Where is here?

Blue.

He closes his eyes briefly then opens them again. The room before him does not change. 

He can see a mass of sweaty, brightly-dressed bodies writhing and grinding on the dancefloor, spinning under the pulsating coloured lights. The lights are making his head hurt.

Green. 

There's a line of secluded, vinyl-covered booths to his left, and he collapses gratefully into an unoccupied one. His throat feels dry, probably from the dry ice they must be using to power the smoke machine, and his heart is pounding to the thrumming rhythm of the bass line weaving its way through the room.

He rubs his forehead, and then his eyes, trying to clear some of the acrid smoke from them. Glancing along the row of booths, he can make out various couples talking, drinking, making out. He turns away quickly.

Yellow. 

There's a strange energy flowing through the place, that he can't deny. He can feel it buzzing under his skin, scratching at his brain. It's strangely alluring. 

He pulls at the neck of his t shirt, uncomfortably aware of the trickles of sweat running down his back. Although he's never set foot in one of these places before, he knows enough about them through hearsay to know how the heat builds up, with so many people in such a small space.

Purple. 

He's uneasy, though. He still has no idea where he is, and the strangely dressed people around him have him on-edge, cagey. He needs to leave.

Amber. 

He tries to stand up, but then there's a buzzing in his head, and his legs won't support him. Sinking back down to the seat of the booth, he fumbles around in his pocket and finds his pocket watch, relieved he hasn't managed to lose it. Pulling it out to check the time, the hands seem to pulsate and glow, moving backwards, then forwards, then backwards again. 

He throws the watch to the table, confused and more than a little terrified, before picking it up again rapidly, lest someone should take it. Sliding it into his pocket again, he lets his hands fall to the seat of the booth. If he can't even get up from the booth, there's no way he'll make it out of this place any time soon. 

Red. 

Suddenly, there is a hum, a crackle of energy, so focused he would think that lightning had struck the dancefloor, if he hadn't been watching it. There is a presence, then, something dark, sinister. The room grows cold, the music growing muffled and the smoke thicker. He needs to get out, he needs to, he knows it. He struggles against his sluggish limbs and aching head, trying to get away from whatever just entered the room.

Red. 

Panting from the effort of getting up, he looks up, across the dancefloor, and sees it. A tall, unnatural form, shrouded in black robes with a hood lined in crimson. If it had eyes, he has a feeling he would not be able to look away from them now.

Red.

The presence, whatever it is, is drawing him in, he knows it. He can feel the pull, like strings made of pure, invisible energy, running between him and the presence. But he inherently knows he can't let himself be drawn in, and struggles feebly. Black clouds the edge of his vision. 

The last thing he sees, through the black haze of near-unconsciousness, is a set of white, pointed teeth, bracketed by a crimson, bloodstained smile.

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