The rain comes in iron curtains, holding back the night's light. Squealing wipers swipe periodically as they try to see. Crane looks over at his partner. Her eyes crease, like waves held over a spoon. He sees it: complete meltdown, shot to the heart. "So what are you doing this weekend?"
Lips glisten with the beading droplets. "Ya're pers'stent, ya know dat? W'at would yo' do with lil'ole'moi?"
They both laugh. "Well, I'd be reckless if I didn't try. I have a few ideas. Maybe dinner. A movie. Keep it classy."
They pull up to the abandoned factory. Rust lays claim to it. The showers let up, and the sun peeks through the clouds. "You think the killer's really here?"
"W'en am I eva'wrong?" She cocks her pistol, snapping open a hard case. She holsters the standard 9mm Glock on her thigh. Inside this case is her lover: an AIW with an extended clip and dual lasers for hip spread… a lovely toy. It latches onto her arm, and spikes bury themselves inside as she lets out a choked moan. The gun runs on blood.
"Guess that means the shotgun." Crane pops the trunk of the state-issued Crown Vic. Inside is a double-barrel single-shot 12-gauge. One could call him old-school. He fastens a single-lens thermal scanner, an eye patch with a state-of-the-art floor scan.
Activation: Scanning… two heat signatures.
"Looks like we have two inside. One is strapped to a table… looks like they're missing their right arm and left leg. You were right." He puts the thermal scanner in his pouch on his bulletproof vest and grabs the walkie-talkie. "This is Agent Crane. Agent Summers and I are at 555 East Ellington Street. We have what appears to be one person strapped to a table and someone pacing around them. We believe we have located the 'Lighthouse Painter.' I repeat, we believe we have located the 'Lighthouse Painter.' All units be advised, we are going in."
Their feet are fast but silent, honed by years hunting malevolent minds. They push through the first door: silent assassins. As they get closer, music comes into focus: a rave track with dubstep. Their feet reach the threshold. Their eyes meet. She flicks her red dreadlocks to the side. Her arm cannon glows yellow, a stark contrast to her skin. She nods, pupils exsanguinate. He goes in first.
"GET ON THE FUCKING GROUND!"
They enter a nightmare. The victim is still alive, hooked up to some horrific science experiment. Intestines are garlanded across the walls. This victim's face is a mask of complete shock and agony, their eyes hovering, still attached. Mouth stapled shut. Arms and legs crudely severed, lying only inches from their origins. They are on a table in the center of the room. Behind it stands a tall, cult-cloaked figure with their back to them.
Summers takes a step forward. "WE SAID GET ON DA GROUND, RIGHT NOW, MUDDAHFUCKER!" Her gun whirs; she has donated a piece of herself to the cause. It promises a round of oblivion.
The figure chuckles. The victim starts a frantic, muffled whimper. "You found me. I'll open you up, too." Figure turns, their face completely covered in a black leather mask, except for a grille full of gold teeth. They hold a hand out toward Crane's partner. "And when we're done having this fun, I'll stuff your remains into a suitcase-s-s… food to go."
Suddenly, Summers starts turning her gun toward herself.
"Hey! Summers, what the fuck are you doing!?"
"A souvenir from our twisted little adventure," Summers recites in a monotone voice where the masked assailant leaves off, "ravaging flesh with hands and teeth. Ripping into soft, vulnerable places until nothing remains but mangled meat and shattered bone. I'll paint blood across our chests, claiming you as a partner in my crime, my lover in debauchery as we blur lines. Then we'll desecrate their corpses, together. You and me. Touching, violating every orifice with fingers, tongue—"
発射/銃声!
Crane's shells are tiny glass scatter-shot vials, each containing sulfuric acid. The space is so small that the sound of the shotgun makes everything ring. The vials all hit the figure in a puff of smoke. The room grows misty with the miasma of bubbling flesh. Summers collapses. Crane reloads with his souped-up buckshot. The killer starts screaming in multiple distorted voices, melting into a pool of liquid. The person on the table thrashes uncontrollably as they, too, melt into a tar puddle.
Abruptly, Summers starts shrieking. Her cannon glows a red that Crane has never seen before. Neon garnet. Her arm looks like wax in its crimson, pulsing light. He sprints over and, without thinking, jams the shotgun barrel against her elbow and pulls the trigger. Her arm doesn't pop right off on the first shot. A struggling reload, her howls water his eyes and make his hands shake. He pulls the trigger again, and her arm hits the floor. She faints from the shock. He grabs the walkie-talkie. "Need an ambulance! I repeat, need an ambulance!" He hears the cars pulling up outside. Conveniently, always late.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he swears he sees something crawling in Summers' severed arm. Underneath the flesh. The fingers curl.