The Sin Hunter: Double or Nothing

Irredeemable to Ribbons

The Plateau de Fiermat, a hotel tower and thriving casino established in the early 1980's of Hell, located in a beautifully floral tower in downtown Pride, with flowers and precious blossoms flaking into the breeze beyond the ocean shores of Sloth, yet someone was upset with the development of Hell's new situation. Sure, the drinks were marvelous, especially by Hell's standards, and the food was nothing to scoff at, boasting delicious platters of appetizers and meals, yet Seraphis felt distraught, unsettled as he rested a burnt black pincer on the railing overlooking the twinkling lights of Lust.

Upon the balcony, a fellow demoness joined the scipioric Overlord by the railing, her long, twisting head of hair billowing in the salty breeze from Sloth. "What's bothering you? It's not like your Wrathful kin to pick at food and fine drink." Seraphis clicked his jaws, eyes slanting into small curves beneath his horns. "I...I apologize, Coriya. But this revelation with the Stripe has left me dwindled." Coriya shifted over on the balcony, letting the bosom of her pale silver dress allure the darker scorpion demon. "I understand your worries, scipior. The Crimson Stripe is plotting something to destroy these Overlords and Ladies.

"I have spoken to others here at tonight's party," Coriya motioned with a gloved hand to the other partygoers indoors, enjoying themselves around tables of cards and drinks. "Coriya, you're smart enough to understand how risky this business is. Do you realize what the Stripe can do to those he presses beneath his scissor blades?" Coriya nodded, then moved her hand beneath the scorpion's neck, her eyes sparkling like the shimmering champagne in her glass. "Just enjoy yourself for now. There's no need to brood over this decision now, forget the pain and just let go for a night. We can discuss this another time, okay?"

Seraphis closed his eyes, nodding. "I...I suppose so, then. Where's Doiliatus when you need him?" Coriya chuckled, wrapping her arm through with the scorpion's own. "I'm sure he'll be somewhere in here, gambling away all his life's savings." Seraphis laughed, patting his childhood friend on the shoulder. "Oh, please, my dear. We're Overlords. We don't gamble on money, we wager souls and all the finest collectibles of slave trade."

Further toward the entrance to Sloth, two more Overlords slid in casual stride across the walkways of skyscraper tunnels, admiring the view from far above. Rather than enjoying themselves in regards to the festivities with all of the other Sinners and demonkind, these Overlords preferred their own form of entertainment: street fights. "Sometimes I like to admire the scenery around Sloth, and envision a brittle duel between two clashing samurai," the first Overlord, a Sinner clad in muddied, seaweed-frosted armor with a chopped and shattered katana blade, spoke.

The second Overlord, a taller, wider figure with sharpened blue eyes beneath a tattered, billowing black cloak, nodded in appreciation. "In Hell, anything can be whatever you desire. Such is the makings of humanity." As the Overlords crossed the street into a small pub off of the street, shadows pooled beside a garbage can by the entrance as a shadowy figure slid into view. Upon entering the narrow staircase into the hallway, the Sinner and demon approached a guard at the end of the hall, arms clasped in front of their suit. "Can I help you, gentlemen?" The guard asked. The Sinner stepped forward, extending a pale, bloated fold of skin forward to reveal a shining silver card.

"Of course, sir. Just two Overlords here to admire a proper show." The guard took the card slowly, inspecting the face with a small lens from their shades before opening the door. "Of course, Misters Shiriketsake and Pembrose. Welcome to the Club." The Overlords stepped through the door, Pembrose tipping his hat before the door closed behind them with droning club music shaking the walls in reverberating waves. As the guard fixed his tie, grinning to have met two of Hell's elite Overlords, another figure stepped through the hall, this one shadowed and quiet. A piercing white mask covered half of their scarred and ghastly face.

The guard stepped forward, holding out his hand. "Excuse me, sir. I'll need to see some-" As the guard spoke out to the shadowed man, a slicing motion pierced the air, and the guard staggered, eyes wide with immovable, unwavering fear, and then the head fell. The whole body fell into ribbons of scarlet red and deep, matted black, sparkling with the marrow of bones as the demented Overlord entered the club, bladed hand crossed firm behind his suit as the club opened into a wide room with lots of faces and even more fighting in a pit below. The club was awash with Sinners, demons, fighters, steel girders and pillars supporting the structure.

The pale white mask, jaded, foggy eyeball rolling in the socket of the void-like eye, traced across the room, inspecting the scene with intense care and uncontrollably immense intrigue. At last, the eyeball shook and swirled, resting on a pair of unlikely demons entering a door just off of the right hall of the large fighting arena. Moving through the crowd with utmost care, although slicing through a Sinner or two every so often, reducing the once thriving, intoxicated members of Hell's populace to ribbons of red and stained, bloody scarlet, the masked man slipped past into the door as something exploded in the chamber below, and the people screamed and cheered as the man closed the door behind himself.

The hallway through which lay his suspects was narrow, hardly a corridor, with a lonely fish tank in the left wall and a stool that looked too uncomfortable by itself in such a narrow cavity of living. The man moved through the hall slowly, the gears and tubes locking and clicking in his mechanical wrist as something caught the slow attention of his eye. The sound of a blade gracing the air. It was a sound that, when performed correctly, could be untraceable to the ordinary ear or eye, negating any and all sense of the term. The half-masked phantom, however, was a serial killer by trade. He knew the sound of a finely tuned, eight millimeter blade from a Niten Ryu slicing his way. And only one waterboarded, precautious demon could wield a sword like this.

As the Crimson Stripe slashed through the air, his coat swirling in a spray of deep, bloody reds and golds, his scissor hand snagged the katana blade, and apprehended the owner of the polished leather grip. The decayed samurai warrior rested in the hallway in front of the narrow, thin Overlord as the Stripe let out a low, rumbling chuckle. "Ah, Shiriketsake. How nice of you to JOIN ME!" As the samurai ducked a swift strike to the helm, the Crimson Stripe flung overhead while the samurai aimed upward, successfully tearing a lip of the finely tuned black suit to shreds. The Crimson Stripe rolled, clutching his bleeding side. Even more blood oozed onto the floor now. The samurai landed atop the stool in the hall, boots planted in direct approach as the katana sheathed itself, a trail of tassels following.

"The Stripe. I knew something smelled foul when I entered this club." The Stripe lifted his ragged, patchwork body from the wreckage of the hall, wiping scars and bile from his curling mouth as blood poured in generosity from his pale white mask's eye and mouth holes. "Heh heh. And please forgive me, O' Bladeguarded One, if I should have expected you to stoop so low." "He did not make this choice by himself," another voice boomed in the hallway. The Crimson Stripe tilted his mask higher, laughing now as the second Sinner's Advocate stepped forward, a plasma pistol raised over Shiriketsake's pauldron. "We arrived at an accord, Stripe. You've driven the purpose of an Overlord too far to continue your work."

As the Crimson Stripe rose from the floor, swirling his good hand to patch the sewing problems in his suit, a sharpened smile pierced the edges of his absent lips. "Resistance will be encountered no matter where you go. It does not matter to me if one or two Overlords distrust my words. I will deal with you in due time." As Shiriketsake and Pembrose raised their weapons, Ketsake snapping the katana blade from his sheath while Pembrose revealed a dual plasma pistol, pulsing with neon battery, the Crimson Stripe leveled his scissor-bladed limb, scraping the bloody pincers across his mask in circular motion. "Tick, tock, gentlemen," his voice cackled in the narrow hallway as the opponents charged forward.