The Color of Death is Blue

Prolouge: The Son of Death

The small boy sat on the space-themed bed, hugging his knees and chewing on the tips of his bloody fingers. His whole body violently shook as his lungs struggled for breath. His eyes stared at the wall in shock as his head faded in and out of consciousness. He was both aware and unaware of his own existence. The sheer curtain swayed into the room under the moonlight as the open window let cool, summer wind ventilate the iron smell in the air. Bodies dressed in black littered the floor of his bedroom; their hands gripped on their weapons. Blood freckled his gentle, tan skin and decorated the dull cream walls and shelves of various figurines and trophies. His body convulsed and his head jerked slightly along with the rough movement of his spine. Footsteps carefully approached his door and it slowly creaked open, causing a ray of light to flood into the dark room. His gaze was suddenly broken when a voice sounded from the doorframe.

"Lance?"

A woman with a British accent and beautiful pale white hair cautiously leaned against the doorframe as her fingertips reached for the wood of the plain door, pushing it open. In the light that shone behind her, the boy could make out the graceful tan skin of her thin arm and slim cheek. She wore high waisted shorts and a baggy pink t-shirt. Her big, sparkly blue eyes scanned the bloody scene in the cold space of a classic little boy's room.

The boy watched her intently through his shaking and struggling lungs. She let out a sorrowful sigh and took a step into the room, being deliberate with her placement to avoid getting any blood on her white sandals. When she reached the bed, she knelt down to face the child and shushed him.

"Shh...you're alright now." She reached for his red-covered hand, taking it and brushing the back of it as a motherly comfort. "I'm right here. You're safe."

The boy grabbed her hand hard as he let his panic attack fade, clinging to the only person that could calm him. He opened his mouth and spoke to her in a frightened, shaky breath. "Allura," he slowly turned his jerking head toward her, "I think they're dead."

She swallowed in disappointment and glanced around the room again, "Yes, they are."

He returned his scared gaze to the wall as a tear fell down his blood-splattered cheek, "I killed them."

Allura kept her head straight as she raised her eyes to him, "This isn't your fault, Lance."

Lance took a few wobbly deep breaths, keeping his small hand on hers.

She gave his hands a squeeze and shot him a forced smile, "Are you able to walk out of here?"

Lance shook his head, eyes shut tightly. His legs felt cramped and weak, and he knew they were unable to hold his weight.

Allura dropped her gaze, reaching back to pull something out of her back pocket. "Then," she held up black fabric, "Would you like to put this on so I can carry you out?"

Lance's eyes darted to her hand, knowing exactly what she was holding. He breathed a sigh of relief and snatched the pile of black, bringing it to his chest with a relaxed smile. He took a few quick breaths, then held it up to find the nose piece.

Allura patted his leg to console him as she watched him put the black mask over his face.

He placed the nose and jaw piece over his mouth and throat, then wrapped it around the nape of his neck, clipping it with metal buttons. Then, he lifted the hanging strip of black up to lie over the bridge of his nose and wrap around his forehead, connecting it to the other piece tangled in his hair. After a few slight adjustments, he looked down to Allura and opened his arms.

She gave him a sweet smile and laced one arm under his knees and one behind his back, lifting up the frail boy easily. The two exited the room and Allura shut the door behind her, leaving the room bathed in darkness once more.