Red Right Hand (Ch.01)
Author: @deadbranch Pairing: Simon âGhostâ Riley x f!demon!Reader Summary: Youâre a soldier of a different sort, performing duties as a remnant from an ancient conflict, attending to a post with unclear purpose, drifting among the creatures known as humanity. Ghost is something else entirely, an abomination intended for execution, but can you follow through? Word Count:  1.6k Warnings: 18+ MDNI suggestive content later, demonic AU, interdimensional AU, mention of violence, tense conversation, conflicted emotions, eventual smut. A/N: I didnât follow a specific prompt, but I wrote this for @glitterypirateduckâs Ghost writing challenge. The title is a Paradise Lost (John Milton, 1667) reference but most of you will know it from the eponymous song by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds (1994). The Red Right Hand is symbolic of the vengeful hand of God, of divine vengeance. I didnât begin writing this with the intention to make it a series, but I find thereâs more story to tell.
SERIES MASTERLIST
RED RIGHT HAND (CH.01)
Itâs been too long since last you felt a clear sense of purpose.
Youâre not quite sure why youâre still here. Waiting.
Previously, there was some natural directive woven into every thought, action, and cataclysm. The same appeared to be true up and down your rank, while the will of the file disappears into the figurative mist of a crystalline system of power throughout the dominions. Patrolling the Earth without further guidance, coaxing these unnatural creatures to draw out a terrifyingly regressive war upon themselves, to some unknown end, and perhaps one that may never come.
The directives felt more distant with time. Faded. Flat. You donât recall what it felt likeâtasted likeâto breathe the air of your home dominion. Without a physical body you canât even taste the air of this one.Â
Time slowed to a fluidic crawl the day you encountered Simon Riley.
You recognized him immediately as a half-breed, an abomination that must have escaped the attention of local patrols for the decades he managed to exist thus far.
Abominations are to be destroyed on sight, burned from within with the same energy as the Rift, to erase them completely.
The creatures have recently secured the power of resurrection. Though still in its infancy, it will be a matter of years before they create legions of new soldiers from the flesh of their dead, grown anew in sterile conditions, as though that would absolve them of their crimes.
He has a subtle glow to him in low light. Not luminescent so much as everything else seems dull in comparison.
Itâs been a long time since youâve had any fun, so you decide to follow him rather than dispatch him properly. You could always argue that you were unsure of his true nature, that you needed time to be certain.
The last patrol with which you crossed paths appeared shortly after the creatures discovered atomic energy. You seemed mutually relieved that the end was near, that you could finally be freed of your obligations. You parted ways with the other patrol, a cautious smile trembling on your lips and tears distorting your vision. You wonder if the other patrol is still alive, waiting patiently as you do.
You decide not to worry about what another patrol would think. Thereâs no one left in charge of this dominion anyway. Idly, you wonder if the war is over back home.
The people closest to him call him Ghost. He wears a costume, it seems.  A walking memento mori.
Heâs adept at using the various tools and technology of his time to take the lives of others. It doesnât take long for you to assume he doesnât know what he is.
You wonder which of his parents was from among your ranks. It is a crime, punishable by destruction, for siring abominations among the creatures.
This became less of a problem as the patrols thinned out and the ability to substantiate faded, becoming weaker with time.  Rumors circulated that High Command removed most of the beacons. It would make sense ifâŠ
Nausea awakens you from thought as his large frame passes through you. More specifically, Ghost walked through the space occupied by your unsubstantiated conscious focal point.
This is what it feels like when a half-breedâs matter moves through yours. Youâd forgotten. The last time you experienced this was in combat, when the creatures still wore pieces of shaped metal to protect their soft areas.
The feeling of mild vertigo lingers in your head and belly as he turns around, looking from left to right, as though searching for the source of a sound he didnât quite catch.
You hold your breath as his eyes settle on yours briefly. He continues looking about, eyes searching. You let go of the breath. He didnât see you. Itâs your paranoia.
Out of nostalgic self-preservation, you depart. As interesting as he is, the half-breed they call Ghost is not worth the wrath of High Command.
As you melt into the churning bustle of the creatures of London, you turn just long enough to watch Ghost disappear into the crowd, but you could swear you still feel him.
Unfortunately, you know where heâs going. You wish you didnât.
The next few days pass with obsessive, deliberate care. The overwhelming sense of obligation weighs on you like a lead shroud.
Heâs out there, still drawing breath, occupying your thoughts, continuing to exist despite having been positively identified by a patrol. By you.
You must destroy him.
In passing, you wonder how difficult this will be since the last time you opened the Rift was before you lost the ability to substantiate. Youâve heard tales of patrols using the creaturesâ own weapons against themârather than using the Riftâthen finding creative ways to eliminate their remains.
Nodding to yourself, you decide tomorrowâs the day.
Youâll open the Rift inside Ghostâs chest and let his corporeal matter incinerate as itâs pulled backward into the next dominion.
You close your eyes with the peace that such resolve always brings, only rivaled by the satisfaction of performing your duty.
You mull over what to do. Where to do it.
In case you fail to open the Rift, the attempt should be made in a secured area, one from which he cannot escape.
As he slumbers in his flat, six levels above the street, you decide to stop complicating things.
This morning, you successfully substantiated for a short time, able to pick up objects and throw them, to tie knots in rope, until your matter phased abruptly, and the rope fell to the floor, straight through your hands, and coiled into a pathetic heap.
Itâs the Rift or nothing.
As though remembering the chill of the evening air before going to war, you shiver. The temperature has no physical effect on you, but time and distance have no bearing on the persistence of memory.
Taking the main staircase, you feel weightless in the high of your pursuit.
This is the most sense of purpose youâve felt since before they harnessed the electron to light their homes in place of fire.
You pass through his front door with no problem, only enduring the annoying drag of subatomic friction of its metal components as they shear past the metallic matter woven into all living things, despite your ephemeral lack of physicality.
The half-breed is lying on his back, blanket and sheet pulled down in his unconscious state, likely with the unsettling humidity of the night air.
For an abomination, heâs beautiful.
Built like the Gods of old, the forgotten time before the dominions, when all that existed was the Rift and the Gods.
For one tortuous, destructive moment, you wonder what it would be like to not be alone anymore. To have his rumbling, booming voice giving you purpose in the moment while his teeth and lips tease at your neck, his hands wandering elsewhere yet keeping you so unbearably close that your heart might burst.
Such foolish thoughts.
You climb up the long mass of his body, desperately ignoring the electricity of the contact in your limbs and inside surfaces of your thighs before sitting astride the thickest part of his chest. Â Â As you place both palms just above his sternum, the static of the Rift prickles at the outer edges of your ears and down your back.
In a startled rush of physics, you suddenly find yourself on your back, the painful grip of Ghostâs hands around your upper arms, pinning you to the bed beneath him.
Itâs been ages since youâve substantiated beyond the ability to grasp and manipulate objects. Youâd forgotten what it feels like to experience temperature, texture, and pain. The smells of the room overwhelm you, but not in an unpleasant way. His hands are sweaty and his eyes full of rage. Heâs hurting you. You cry out as your eyelids close.
âAnd just what do you think youâre doing?â His hands tighten all the more, shocking you into reopening your eyes.
Pain is jarring when youâve been denied its simple clarity for centuries.
Youâre unsure how heâs done this. Your last full substantiation ended before High Command closed the primary Rift, leaving only the beacons behind.
Your mind scrambles for options. You quickly settle on the truth.
âIâm here toâŠkill you,â you manage to rasp. âPlease. The painââ
âKill me? Without any clothes on?â
He loosens his grip, giving your upper arms a glance as he does so, sitting back on his heels, his massive weight still pinning you in place at the hips. You gather that he didnât realize the strength of his own grip in the feverish struggle for survival as he emerged from unconsciousness. His gaze strays downward toward your chest.
âIâŠnormally have no use for garments.  Or protection of any kind,â you add grudgingly, rubbing the feeling back into your arms. You attempt to move your lower half but give up when he doesnât seem motivated to move.
His eyes travel over you in the dark, taking you in slowly.
âWhat are you?â
Time for truth is done. Back to the script used when caught.
âA woman.â
âYou know what Iâm talkinâ about. Donât be daft.â
Giving the situation some thought, you hastily decide to strike a deal with the half-breed.
âIf youâll explain how you captured me, Iâll confirm what I am.â
âOnly confirm?â
âIâm not volunteering information, if thatâs what you mean.â
He shifts his weight, observing you wince as he does so.
âThatâs alright, sweetheart. Weâve got all night.â
Next Chapter
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