Chapter 4: The Red Ribbon Gambit - Blood, Vice, and the Iron Fist of Power
Area 11: Midnight on the Docks
Salt and decay rode the midnight wind through skeletal shipping containers, their rusted hulks casting jagged shadows under sickly yellow floodlights. The harbor stretched empty and desolate—save for two weary dock workers wrestling with heavy crates and a single guard whose paranoid eyes swept the darkness.
The first worker leaned close to his companion, breath reeking of cheap alcohol as he muttered a racial slur about the Elevens. Both men erupted in cruel laughter, their voices echoing off metal walls like the cawing of carrion birds. They remained oblivious to the death already stalking through the shadows.
Clang.
The sound split the night like a funeral bell. One worker's laughter died mid-breath as something metallic scraped across steel with deliberate menace. There—embedded in the container's corrugated surface—a gleaming throwing star dripped crimson tears onto the concrete below.
"What the hell was—" The words transformed into a wet gurgle. His companion's eyes bulged in primal terror as arterial blood erupted from his severed throat in rhythmic fountains. Fingers clawed desperately at the gaping wound, but life poured out between his trembling hands. He crashed to the dock like a sack of meat, crimson spreading beneath him in an ever-widening pool.
"Jesus Christ... Tony!" The surviving worker stumbled backward, but a gloved hand materialized from the darkness, clamping over his mouth with crushing force. A single, vicious twist—bone snapped like dry kindling. His neck twisted at an impossible angle before his corpse crumpled into the shadows.
The guard patrolled the shipping lanes with mechanical precision, rifle clutched in white-knuckled hands. He failed to notice the small canister that rolled to his feet until sulfurous smoke erupted around him like the breath of hell itself. The chemical fog burned his lungs, blinded his eyes, sent him staggering in helpless circles.
"What's happening? I can't—" A blade punched through his sternum with surgical precision, the tip emerging between his ribs in a spray of blood. His scream died stillborn as a second gloved hand sealed his lips forever.
Emergency lights blazed to life. Another guard burst from his booth, rifle shaking in adrenaline-fueled panic.
"WHO'S OUT THERE?" His voice cracked with terror as his flashlight beam swept across the killing ground in wild, desperate arcs. Shadows danced just beyond the light's reach—human shapes that dissolved the instant illumination touched them. "This is impossible... this can't be happening..."
His breathing came in ragged gasps. Fear crawled up his spine like ice water.
Then steel whispered through flesh.
His throat opened in a crimson smile. Blood painted an arc through the air as his eyes rolled back in shock. From the darkness emerged figures in blood-red tactical gear—silent killers who moved with inhuman grace. At their head stood two beings that made hardened soldiers weep: one with raven hair and cruel blue eyes, the other blonde and beautiful as a fallen angel.
The dark-haired killer wiped blood from his energy-charged blade with casual indifference. Without a word, they scaled the shipping containers like ghosts, vanishing onto rooftops with predatory silence.
Only death remained behind.
Babel Tower: The Devil's Bargain
Babel Tower throbbed with neon excess and human vice. Slot machines screamed their electronic hymns while poker chips clinked like coins on a dead man's eyes. In the underground fighting pits, roars echoed as enhanced warriors—"Elevens" pumped full of combat stimulants—tore each other apart for the crowd's bloodthirsty entertainment.
At a private table shrouded in cigarette smoke and shadows, a diminutive figure sat with military bearing despite his deceptively small stature. His pristine Red Ribbon Army uniform—deep crimson with gold braiding—remained immaculate even in this den of filth. The red cap sat perfectly straight on his head, its golden insignia catching the lamplight like a predator's eyes.
Commander Red. To the criminal underworld, he masqueraded as The Crimson General—a mysterious arms dealer whose Napoleon complex was matched only by his ruthless efficiency.
Cards slid across blood-red felt as the dealer completed another hand. Red's small fingers—manicured to perfection—closed around a royal flush with the confidence of a man who never left anything to chance. His dark eyes surveyed the room with calculating precision.
"Crimson General," began a crime boss whose expensive suit couldn't hide his nervousness, "your request for passage into the underground sectors is... unusual. What business could someone of your stature possibly have in those wretched slums?"
Red straightened his cap with mechanical precision—a nervous tic that those who knew him had learned to fear. When the cap was perfectly aligned, death usually followed.
"Height is irrelevant when you possess superior firepower," he stated in his crisp, military cadence. "I have resources. You have access. Mathematics suggests a mutually beneficial arrangement."
Another boss leaned forward with predatory interest. "Resources can be... negotiated. But we need assurance this won't bring unwanted attention from the Britannians."
Red's patience flickered like a dying candle flame. He snapped his fingers—a sound sharp as breaking bones.
From the shadows glided a woman whose beauty was matched only by her lethality. Dr. Gero's assistant materialized beside Red's chair with fluid grace, her laboratory coat replaced by a form-fitting red dress that hugged every dangerous curve. Her scientific precision had been weaponized into seductive deadliness.
"Your prize, General," she purred, pressing a steel briefcase into his diminutive hands before planting a kiss on his cheek that burned like acid. With a predatory smile, she melted back into the darkness.
Red opened the case with ceremonial deliberation. Inside, nestled in custom foam, lay a single vial of luminescent blue liquid that seemed to pulse with its own malevolent life.
"Refrain."
The word hit the room like a physical blow. Conversations died. Hearts stopped beating.
"What manner of devil's brew is that?" whispered a boss, his voice barely audible above the distant screams from the fighting pits.
Red's lips curved in something that might have been a smile on a more human face. "Pharmaceutical perfection. One injection grants the user complete immersion in their happiest memory. The addiction rate approaches mathematical certainty—99.7% after a single dose."
Greedy eyes fixated on the vial like moths drawn to flame. "And you're offering us distribution rights?"
"I am offering you domination," Red corrected with military precision. "Conventional narcotics are known quantities. Law enforcement possesses countermeasures. This represents an evolutionary advancement in chemical control. You shall be the distributors. Even when it becomes illegal—which it will—you will already control the supply chain."
The criminal masterminds exchanged glances heavy with avarice. Cards slid across the table as deals were struck with handshakes that sealed fates.
Red revealed his royal flush with surgical timing. "Checkmate is achieved not through single moves, but systematic domination of the board."
Behind the Velvet Curtain
In a secluded alcove draped with crimson curtains, Red stood at attention while his female operative approached—her evening gown replaced by tactical black that transformed her from seductress to weapon.
"Trading silk for Kevlar, Doctor?" Red's voice carried the clipped formality of military protocol even in private moments.
"Function supersedes form in combat scenarios," she replied with scientific detachment. "Though I confess the evening wear served its purpose in obtaining target compliance."
A shadow passed across Red's face—an emotion quickly suppressed. "While Cornelius manages European operations and government infiltration, your presence here remains... essential to mission parameters."
Her voice softened almost imperceptibly. "Commander... you understand what Refrain does to human subjects. The psychological devastation, particularly among trauma survivors and the economically displaced..."
Red's posture stiffened as he adjusted his cap with mathematical precision. "Addiction creates dependency. Dependency generates blame toward governmental authorities. Blame creates demand for alternative solutions."
"Which you will provide," she concluded with clinical accuracy. "Like a savior offering salvation from the very hell you created."
Their eyes met in the dim light. For a moment, the military facade cracked, revealing something almost human beneath.
"Moral considerations are luxuries in warfare, Doctor. Victory requires calculated sacrifice of enemy populations."
She placed a gloved hand on his shoulder—a gesture of comfort that felt more like a final goodbye. "Understanding your logic doesn't constitute approval, Cornelius. This crosses lines that shouldn't exist."
Red's jaw tightened with visible strain. "Pride is another luxury I cannot afford. Wars are won through superior strategy, not noble intentions."
Heavy footsteps shattered their moment of vulnerability. Armed enforcers parted like a crimson sea as a towering figure emerged from the shadows—The Black King, casino owner and flesh peddler extraordinaire.
The Devil's Due
"Well, well... the Crimson General graces my establishment." The Black King's voice dripped with theatrical menace as he adjusted his obsidian coat, flanked by enough firepower to level city blocks. "Though I must confess disappointment regarding our previous arrangement."
Red maintained perfect military bearing despite being outnumbered fifty to one. His dark eyes assessed threats with computer-like efficiency. "Your Majesty's concerns are noted. However, I suspect this conversation extends beyond mere social pleasantries."
King's theatrical smile transformed into something genuinely predatory. "Indeed. You see, I was expecting a shipment of fresh bunny girls from the slums—beautiful young women to entertain my more... discerning clientele. Yet somehow, my inventory remains tragically empty."
Red's gloved hands clenched into fists behind his back—a gesture that preceded tactical nuclear deployment.
He remembered now. King had demanded human trafficking—specifically young women to be degraded as costumed playthings for his wealthy perverts. Red had feigned agreement to gain casino access... but had no intention of honoring such depravity.
"I deal in superior firepower and chemical warfare," Red stated with icy precision. "Human trafficking falls outside my operational parameters."
The metallic chorus of cocking weapons filled the air like deadly percussion. Laser sights painted crimson dots across Red's pristine uniform.
King's theatrical sigh carried genuine disappointment. "Such a shame. After providing you with hospitality, connections, and access to my exclusive establishment, this betrayal wounds me deeply. I'm afraid, Crimson General, your diminutive reign ends here. In chess terms..." He drew an ornate pistol, its barrel gleaming like a cobra's fang. "Checkmate."
Silence stretched taut as piano wire.
Then Red... laughed. A sound like grinding gears, mechanical and devoid of human warmth.
"Chess analogies appear endemic among megalomaniacs of your caliber. My father. My rivals. Now you. All obsessing over medieval board games. But I've never played chess, Your Majesty."
The lights died.
Babel Tower plunged into absolute darkness—music choking off mid-note, neon signs dying like closing eyes. Panic rippled through the crowd like wildfire. Even in the emergency lighting's hellish red glow, King could see Red standing motionless—a crimson statue radiating lethal calm.
"My preference lies with strategic board games," Red continued in the darkness, his voice carrying the authority of a general addressing troops before battle. "Specifically, I favor Risk—where victory comes not from individual moves, but from total world domination."
Outside – The Storm Breaks
High above the city, figures crouched on rooftops like gargoyles awaiting judgment day. Power cables had been severed with surgical precision—not cut, but vaporized by energy blasts that left molten metal in their wake. On building ledges, Red Ribbon Army commandos held position with inhuman stillness.
Leading them were nightmares given human form.
Android 17 perched on a water tower, his long black hair whipping in the night wind. His blue eyes glowed with artificial light as he surveyed the target through enhanced optical sensors. Beside him, Android 18 adjusted her blonde hair with casual indifference, her beautiful face betraying no emotion as she calculated optimal kill trajectories.
Energy beams lanced through the darkness.
Grappling lines weren't deployed—they were unnecessary. The androids simply flew, their forms cutting through the air with supernatural grace. Windows didn't shatter—they melted under focused energy blasts. Within seconds, the Red Ribbon Army had infiltrated Babel Tower like antibodies entering a diseased organ.
Death had come to collect its due.
Security Room – Digital Apocalypse
In the fortified security center, technicians scrambled over control panels in mounting panic. Monitor screens flickered between static and emergency feeds, showing impossible devastation throughout the building.
"We've lost power to sectors seven through fifteen! Get me a line to headquarters, NOW!"
Their desperate commands died in their throats as something impossible materialized before them—not footsteps, not door sounds, but the simple, terrifying reality of inhuman presence.
Android 17 stood among them like death incarnate—tall, elegant, and utterly without mercy. His enhanced senses had detected their elevated heart rates from three floors away. His artificial intelligence had already calculated seventeen different ways to kill every person in the room.
"An Eleven terrorist!" one security chief screamed, fumbling for his sidearm with hands slick with terror-sweat.
17's glowing eyes narrowed with something approaching offense.
"I'm artificial," he corrected with mechanical precision.
Then he moved.
Not with human speed—with the fluid lethality of a machine designed for genocide. His hand passed through the first guard's chest like paper, energy crackling around his fingers as he vaporized heart, lungs, and spine in a single motion. The corpse had barely begun falling before 17 spun, his leg sweeping through two more guards at waist level—cutting them literally in half with raw kinetic force.
Gunshots erupted in desperate staccato—muzzle flashes strobing like lightning. Bullets struck 17's form and simply... stopped. Flattened against artificial skin that could withstand nuclear detonation.
His energy beam swept the room like a scythe through wheat. Bodies exploded into component atoms. Blood vaporized before it could spill. In less than three seconds, twenty-seven security personnel had been reduced to scattered molecular debris.
17 stepped through the carnage without disturbing a single drop of blood—there was none left to disturb. His boots clicked against the pristine floor as he moved into the corridor, leaving behind only the faint scent of ozone and absolute silence.
The Reckoning – Main Floor
Back in the casino's heart, Red had been forced to his knees by King's enforcers. The crime boss pressed his golden pistol against Red's temple with theatrical satisfaction.
"You orchestrated this chaos, you miniature Napoleon! Your delusions of grandeur end—"
VAPORIZATION.
King's hand simply ceased to exist—not blown off, but reduced to constituent atoms by a precision energy beam. His scream shattered champagne glasses three tables away as he staggered backward, clutching a cauterized stump that leaked superheated plasma instead of blood.
18 materialized behind him like a blonde specter of destruction, her fingertip still glowing with residual energy. Her beautiful face wore the expression of someone commenting on weather patterns.
"Careful where you point that," Red said as he rose to his full, unimpressive height. "Damage to Red Ribbon Army personnel incurs severe penalties."
King's remaining hand clawed for his backup weapon. "KILL THEM ALL!"
Before his guards could draw breath to comply, something whistled through the air with supersonic velocity—a ki blast that punched through King's shoulder and embedded itself in the reinforced concrete wall behind him.
Then someone descended from above with the grace of a falling star.
Android 17.
He landed between Red and the crime syndicate with liquid fluidity, his long coat billowing dramatically. Without ceremony, he raised both hands.
The casino froze in terror.
A guard's nerve finally snapped. He raised his automatic weapon.
17 moved like digitized lightning.
His energy beam bisected the gunman from skull to pelvis in a shower of vaporized tissue. Before the two halves could separate, 17 was already among the remaining guards—a blur of synthetic death that left molecular destruction in its wake. One guard's chest exploded outward as an energy blast punched through his ribcage. Another's head simply disappeared in a flash of blue light.
Three more tried to flank him from behind—tactical error. 17 spun with balletic grace, his energy aura expanding outward in a sphere of annihilation that reduced them to drifting ash.
The criminal elite fled toward exits like rats from a burning ship.
But the doors exploded inward, not blown open, but atomized by concentrated energy bombardment. Through the smoking ruins poured the Red Ribbon Army in full military formation. Not ninjas in masks, but soldiers in crisp red uniforms bearing the insignia of technological supremacy.
Every escape route was sealed by superior firepower.
King crawled across blood-slick marble, leaving a trail of plasma behind his ruined arm. But someone blocked his path with military boots polished to mirror brightness.
Android 18.
She looked down at him with the clinical detachment of a scientist observing bacteria. Then, with casual indifference, she placed her palm against his forehead.
The energy beam lasted exactly 0.3 seconds. When it ended, King's head had been replaced by a smoking crater that bored clean through to the floor beneath.
Victory Protocol
Androids 17 and 18 approached Red with synchronized precision—artificial beings acknowledging their superior officer. Despite their godlike power, they maintained perfect military deportment in his presence.
"Mission parameters achieved," 17 reported with mechanical formality. "Structural integrity maintained. Civilian casualties... extensive."
Red straightened his cap with satisfied precision. "Performance exceeded expectations, as always."
Both androids executed perfect salutes—a gesture of genuine respect from weapons of mass destruction toward their diminutive commander.
"Commander Red," 18 stated with programmed reverence.
The announcement hit the room like a nuclear shockwave. Gasps erupted from surviving witnesses. Whispered prayers to various deities began immediately. Commander Red? The military genius who had waged war against entire governments? The strategist whose Red Ribbon Army had nearly conquered half the world before vanishing into legend?
Red turned to address his artificial lieutenants with crisp authority.
"Operational security demands sterilization."
18 raised her hand in acknowledgment. Instantly, Red Ribbon Army soldiers moved with mechanical precision throughout the casino.
The Purge Protocol
What followed transcended mere execution—it was systematic extermination performed with scientific efficiency.
A blonde cocktail waitress attempted to escape through the kitchen—her scream cut short as an energy beam reduced her to molecular vapor mid-stride. A businessman cowered beneath a poker table—the furniture exploded in superheated fragments before a second blast atomized him completely.
Two bunny-costumed entertainers huddled together in terror—their final embrace ended when an energy sweep bisected both simultaneously. A high-roller who'd tried to hide behind slot machines found the metal barriers melting like butter before the heat reached him.
The Red Ribbon Army moved through the massacre with clinical detachment. Some victims were vaporized instantly by energy weapons. Others were eliminated through more conventional military ordnance that painted abstract art across marble walls.
Red walked through the carnage with his hands clasped behind his back—a general inspecting a conquered battlefield. One surviving bunny girl, her costume torn and bloodied, crawled toward him on ruined legs.
"Please... why are you doing this? We're just trying to survive..."
Red paused in his inspection, looking down at her with the expression of a man studying an insect. His hand moved to his sidearm with mechanical precision.
Bang.
She collapsed into the growing pool of blood beneath her, silenced forever.
Red holstered his weapon with military efficiency. "Acceptable losses are calculated components of strategic victory. A perfect world requires the elimination of imperfect elements."
Around them, Red Ribbon soldiers continued their systematic cleansing. Energy weapons hummed. Bodies fell. The scent of vaporized tissue filled the air like incense in a temple of destruction.
A soldier approached with a blood-soaked brush, painting the Red Ribbon Army insignia across one wall—a crimson ribbon wrapped around a metallic fist. The symbol of technological supremacy is achieved through superior firepower.
Hours Later - Aftermath Protocol
Reinforced doors exploded inward under Britannian military charges. Armed officers flooded the casino like antibodies responding to an infection. At their head marched Princess Cornelia, a military commander whose reputation for ruthlessness was matched only by her tactical brilliance.
She stopped dead on the threshold. Her steel-gray eyes widened in shock that quickly transformed into rage that could melt armor plating.
"Holy God in heaven..."
The casino had been transformed into a technological demonstration of applied warfare. Bodies lay in geometric patterns—some reduced to ash, still others bearing the precise wounds of military-grade ammunition. Blood had been vaporized so efficiently that only scorch marks remained on marble floors.
One of her officers doubled over, retching violently into his helmet before collapsing in shock.
"What kind of monsters could do this?" Cornelia demanded, her voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to commanding armies. "This isn't terrorism—it's a demonstration."
No survivors remained.
Only a single symbol dominated the far wall, painted in what appeared to be atomically restructured carbon—the Red Ribbon Army insignia, perfectly rendered despite being created from human remains.
The message was clear: superior technology had returned to reclaim the world.
Shipping Docks - Operation: Dependency
Fog rolled off the harbor like the breath of dying gods, swirling around massive shipping containers that stood like technological monuments in the darkness. The air carried more than salt and rust now—there was something chemical, synthetic, promising artificial paradise to those desperate enough to pay its price.
A crowd had gathered at the docks like moths drawn to flame. Their voices carried the hollow desperation of the truly broken—people who had nothing left to lose except the pain that defined their existence. One by one, they approached crude tables guarded by Red Ribbon Army operatives in civilian clothes, exchanging crumpled bills for vials of shimmering blue liquid.
Refrain. Pharmaceutical salvation in crystalline form.
Some couldn't wait to reach privacy. They collapsed onto concrete stained with decades of industrial runoff, injecting themselves with hands that shook from withdrawal and hope in equal measure. Moments later, their eyes rolled back in chemical ecstasy. Their breathing slowed to barely perceptible rhythms. And then the screaming stopped, replaced by smiles, laughter, and vacant stares filled with artificial memories that felt more real than reality itself.
On a rooftop overlooking the distribution center, Commander Red stood at perfect attention despite the late hour. His Red Ribbon Army dress uniform—complete with medals for campaigns that had nearly toppled governments—remained immaculate in the harbor's humid air. To his left, Android 17 maintained overwatch with arms crossed, his enhanced sensors monitoring for Britannian interference. To his right, Android 18 checked her energy levels with the casual indifference of someone cleaning a weapon.
Red observed the scene below with the satisfaction of a chess master viewing checkmate in twelve moves.
"Operation: Dependency proceeds within acceptable parameters," he stated with military precision. "Psychological conditioning of target demographics approaches optimal efficiency. They purchase the illusion of happiness while we construct the architecture of their dependence."
In the Crowd Below
Among the desperate souls gathered at fate's marketplace stood a single woman whose tragedy would echo through the lives of others.
A housemaid—her uniform was clean but faded from countless washings, her dark brown hair bound in a practical ponytail that spoke of years spent in service to others. Her name meant nothing to the dealers, the addicts, the Red Ribbon Army operatives monitoring the crowd. But to one girl, in a world far from these docks, she had once been a protector, a source of warmth in a cold universe.
Kallen's mother.
She approached the dealing table with a purse clutched in her hands that had once baked bread and bandaged scraped knees. The Red Ribbon operative—young, efficient, utterly without conscience—accepted her money with the mechanical precision of a vending machine dispensing death.
In exchange: one vial of luminescent Refrain that pulsed with its own malevolent heartbeat.
She held it like a relic, this small container of liquid forgetting. Her footsteps echoed hollow against wet concrete as she wandered aimlessly through the industrial maze.
"I'm sorry, Kallen..." The words escaped her lips like prayers in an empty cathedral. "Your mother really is weak. Really is pathetic. Really, is everything you deserve better than?"
Her wandering brought her to a shipping container larger than most—its corrugated steel surface bearing a symbol painted in red so vibrant it seemed to glow in the darkness. The Red Ribbon Army insignia—technological supremacy wrapped in crimson military precision.
She leaned against the container and slowly slid down its surface until she sat in the shadow of that symbol. Tears carved tracks through the grime on her cheeks as she stared at the vial in her trembling hands.
Then, without ceremony, without final words, she plunged the needle into her arm.
Hiss. The sound of compressed air escaping. Sting. Pain that lasted exactly 1.3 seconds. Warmth. Chemical salvation flooding her nervous system.
Her body relaxed against cold steel. Her breathing settled into the rhythm of artificial peace. And suddenly, her expression transformed completely.
The hollow desperation vanished. The broken sorrow disappeared. The crushing weight of reality simply... lifted.
Now she smiled—not with her mouth alone, but with her entire being. Soft laughter bubbled from her lips like mountain springs. Her eyes, glassy and distant, reflected light that wasn't there.
In her mind, she was no longer sitting in an industrial filth beneath the symbol of a military organization built on conquest and control.
She was home.
In a kitchen filled with sunlight and the scent of fresh bread. Kallen was eight years old again, flour in her hair, giggling as they shaped dough into impossible sculptures. Her daughter's laughter filled her ears—pure, innocent, infinite.
She slumped sideways against the container, that massive Red Ribbon Army symbol looming above her like a technological deity watching over its newest convert. The insignia cast shadows across her peaceful face—shadows that looked remarkably like bars.
And there she remained in her chemical paradise.
Euphoric. Lost. Enslaved.
The perfect citizen of Commander Red's brave new world.