The smell of blood was thick, choking every breath. It coated almost every inch of the asphalt around, dyeing the black bitumen a hideous red. A steady breeze blew in from the ocean, carrying the scent of sweat with it, almost invisible under the mélange of spilled gore and emptied bowels. There wasn't a sound to be heard, save the far off noises of ever-screaming sirens.

  “What?” A choked, pathetic mewl broke the stillness.

  “Well, that all depends on whether you pass, of course.” A murderer of planetary scale smiled down from on high. “But yes, I've decided to give you the chance. Oh originally I wanted to pick on a real killer but, well, I'm surrounded by people like that all the time.” The murderer reached down and patted the head of a Mengele in miniature. “And they do beautiful work, but I believe it's time for some...fresh blood, hm?” A dark, sonorous chuckle echoed up the blood-soaked street. “But before that, I want to hear what sounds so crazy.”

  Vomit spilled onto the street from freshly unmasked lips. The dark red of slowly congealing blood was muddied by sickly browns and greens of earlier lunch. More came, puddling under Miss Militia's cooling body. Calloused fingers gripped a dripping chin and changed the world. A billion-body count killer stared down, eyes glittering darkly. He needed an answer, demanded it.

  “Mannequin,” a choked, burbling gasp. “He uh...n-- going to nominate Armsmaster.” A wicked grin shone out.

  “So you did know.” Fingers snapped and cackling laughter echoed out. “Oh I definitely chose right. Now I'm sure backup is on its way to try and apprehend or kill me, to no avail of course, so we need to speed things up a little.” Knees popped as the murderer lowered himself. “You're new to all this, a fresh-baked hero; probably not even done yet. So, you haven't had time to get all that nasty nonsense they like to talk about cooked into that little head of yours.”

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  “I'm going to make sure it never does.” If confidence had mass, the killer would be a singularity. “Let's start slow: you didn't tell the heroes about us, did you?” The world shook. “Good, a surprise visit is always more fun. Now, have you ever killed anyone?” The world shook again. “A shame we can't start here, but that's my fault. We'll start slow then; let it never be said I can't delay my gratification.” Another chuckle, then a change in the world. A glittering knife in a blood-soaked hand, held above Miss Militia's corpse.

  “She's already dead, sure, but we'll call it practice. All you need to do, little hero, is put the point of that knife in your hands into her eye. No pussyfooting around, get it in there, the same way if you were trying to scrape her brain. Here, I'll demonstrate.” One of the corpse's eyes burst into red-pink jellied gore that flowed like tears down her cheeks. “Now, your turn.”

  The world shuddered and blurred. A buzzing noise pierced the stillness, choppy, loud, obnoxious, deafening, and kept demanding a status report. The blade of the knife shook as if it were in an earthquake, and tears joined the mixing pool of blood and vomit. Despite trembling like a leaf in a gale, the knife didn't move an inch towards the corpse.

  “Don't get shy on me now.” The world bumped as the killer struck out. “I know hidden in those guts of yours is a true artist waiting for her time to shine. Come on, it's easy, she's not even white!” The knife moved closer at the killer's prompting. “That's it, not far at all, but hurry it up would you?” The knife, the sole promise of survival, of living, moved closer. “There you go now push.” A noise that was far too wet. “Congratulations, little hero, you're one step closer to being one of us. We'll let you go home, but don't get too comfortable; you've got a busy few days ahead of you.”

  Cackling laughter faded away, slowly replaced by sirens getting louder and louder. Miss Militia stared eyelessly up at a darkening sky, surrounded by the corpses of her PRT backup and the living body of her killer. The knife slid from her empty socket and sat at the center of the world, gleaming with gore. Its point turned, angling backward as the screech of tires echoed down the street.

  “Amaranth!” The point was stopped after travelling barely half an inch. The world blurred and dimmed as a weight bore down. “I'm sorry Amaranth, I'm so, so sorry.”