A Desire for Red

Being a Psycho for as long as he had had drained Simba of all his memories. All thoughts of his prior life had been washed away by the euphoria of his drug of choice, leaving him a blank slate and also more than slightly insane. All that Simba could remember before he had woken up in a puddle of piss ten years ago was that he had been some sort of criminal who had been somehow fixated on the color red. Afterward, he had been left in a criminal prison imposed by the Dahl corporation as a lowly mine worker. Simba had been part of the breakout, and he had been part of this little gang ever since.

Most of the bandits ignored him as he sat down upon his usual crate every day, clutching his buzz axe in his sinewy hand, muttering curses under his breath. Whether it was out of fear or caution, the Psycho didn't know, nor care. Slowly, Simba pressed the axe to his palm and sliced a large gash across the skin, causing maroon blood to bubble up and spill out over his hand. It was a fascinating sight, the red liquid slowly tainting his pale skin. The first thing he thought of when he had woken up with his memories wiped away, was the color red. Curiously, Simba put down his axe and drew a symbol through liquid, muddling the pool of blood cupped in his palm.

He shifted his mask to the side slightly, revealing his chapped and gray lips. He dipped a finger into the blood and pressed it experimentally to his tongue, savoring the salty flavor that ignited his taste buds. Simba mumbled in pleasure at the outlandish sensation before he spilled his blood onto the ground and watched the red liquid fuse with the dirt and become a dark stain. It almost seemed to be an addiction to the color, a way for him to grasp at what little shards of his former self he could remember through the constant high he constantly imposed on himself. Or perhaps it was because he was simply insane. Did it really matter? Simba shook his head and dipped his head to his palm as fresh blood filled his palm. He lapped it up like a Skag lapped up milk. Bandits regarded him with a look of disgust, groping at their weapons protectively.

The Psycho gave no attention to them as he splayed the blood across his chest, smiling wryly as he watched it simply drip down his chest and stain his orange prison pants. He reached up and moved his mask back to its original position, just in time to close his eyes as an explosion completely warped the main gate into a twisted structure of metal. Bandits went flying in every direction; some dead while others lay on the ground writhing. Four people stormed through the smoke, blasting weaponry. Flashes of light illuminated their silhouettes, and Bandits all around them fell and collapsed with screams as bullets tore into their bodies and ripped of limbs.

Simba felt a rising bloodlust tear through his being with every flash of red that exploded with every bullet wound, and his hand tightened around his buzz axe, a primal and feral scream tearing its way from his throat. He sprinted forward, but stopped in his tracks as the smoke cleared and he caught sight of the four attackers. Three men and a woman, but the woman was the one who truly caught his eyes.

Red hair . . . the color of blood . . . the one thing in his carnal heart that he still cared about.

Red . . .

Simba bellowed and broke into a fast sprint, covering the distance between him and the woman in only seconds while the others were occupied by the other Bandits. The red head saw him approaching and raised her pistol unflinchingly, firing a single shot right at him. The bullet barely registered as it scythed its way into his skin, and it only egged him on. Another lusty snarl left his mouth, and he threw his buzz saw right at the woman. It cut into her shoulder and caused her to drop her pistol in shock. Simba bellowed in rage and tackled her, straddling her hips and leering over the woman like a hungry beast. That hair, he wanted it.

No, he didn't want it. He needed it.

Simba lowered his head and sniffed her hair lovingly, allowing the perfect smell to rise up into his nose. It was like he was injecting a drug into his wrist again, but a thousand times better. Her blood seeped from her shoulder and stained his hand. Her blood seemed almost sacred to him, and he raised the hand up to his mask and smeared it over the white surface. A fist slammed into his jaw, knocking off his mask and throwing him backwards onto the ground. He whimpered, reaching desperately for his mask, trying to snag just a bit of her beautifully red blood into his mouth. Her boot cracked down onto his gut and her pistol was suddenly shoved into his face. The last thing he saw was her beautiful hair falling down her shoulders. He smiled a little even as the bullet seared into his brain.