Chapter 1
Meet Crimson

Eight forty-six PM .

The ever-growing essence of purely white moonlight loomed over the hillside the Bethrayl Manor sat upon. There wasn’t a star in the sky on this warm and humid midsummer night.

The green hillside stood a few feet higher than the building it sheltered. The manor looked like a grey-bricked castle. On opposites sides of the wide manor were empty sentry towers; fourteen windows were divided on the front of the house into two floors; the tall double doors in front were made of a thick wood; above each side of the door were gigantic lamps, illuminating everything. The lawn was perfectly and freshly cut. The grass made the hillside seem distasteful to walk upon. The superior lawn was divided evenly between the brick sidewalk that formed a tee leading to the door. The curb met the circular driveway that made a loop from the one-way street and back. However, the driver would have to gain access through the six-foot metal gates that wrapped itself around the entire mansion. In the middle of the circle was a display that pretty much showed onlookers that the owner was a fanciful person. An inner circle made of the same grey brick held six large ceramic bowls that formed a circle. Each bowl had its inside lit with flames. Each flame embraced a different hue: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and indigo.

This house was truly magnificent. The only thing that made this house intimidating was the security. Multiple cameras hung down from every corner of the house; from the ceiling, in the lawn, in the windows, from the sentry towers, on the display, and the gates.

Inside was no different. The polished floorboards creaked constantly as the guards roamed the house. Each one of them wore the same turquoise uniform, with the same navy blue berets, brandishing the same type of rifle. One stood nearest to the doors, looking around suspiciously in the dimly lit room. The chandelier shone a dark orange illumination over the two banisters that formed a circle around the room to the upper level where two more guards stood. Below them, in the center of the room was a freshly polished door.

The guard below looked to his left to face a hallway that lead to the back of the house as another guard stomped his way over to him. The guard that approached was an older, stocky man. One could barely look pass his thick brown moustache to look him in the eyes. His eyebrows were just as thick. His fingers were laced tightly around his gun as he wore a face of concern.

“Fuller,” he called to the door guard, “have you seen Bielecieski?”

“He told us he was taking a bathroom break,” Fuller scoffed. “You should listen to your walkie-talkie more.”

“Hey, jackass,” the man growled, “how long ago was that?”

Fuller looked the man in the eyes for a second. Letting the feeling of his foolishness get to him, he proceeded to look down at the floor.

Hey guys,” Fuller called to the men upstairs, “how long ago did Bielecieski say he went to the bathroom?”

“About an hour and a half ago,” the man on the right confirmed, looking at his watch. “Why?”

“How peculiar,” a thick accented voice chimed in. “There’s no one in the bathroom.”

Fuller jumped and turned to see a tall, slender man in a butler’s attire. He was quite young. His age seemed too questionable to be in a butler outfit. His face didn’t have a single blemish, and not a single hair seemed out of place amongst the blonde spikes. His gloved hands held a tray holding a teapot, sugar, teabags and an empty cup up to his chest.

“Have you seen him?” Fuller asked.

“Can’t say I have,” the butler retorted. “I wish I could help, but Sir Blanchè’s water is getting cold.”

The butler proceeded towards the door that was placed in the middle of the room. After he opened it, he proceeded to disappear as he descended into the darkness.

The guards began to fidget. It was their duty to protect the owner of the mansion, but the case of the missing guard was an issue. Fuller began to look around the room as if the absent guard was hiding somewhere inside. The stocky guard began to pace back and forth. He whipped out his walkie-talkie and began to speak into it.

“Bielecieski, this is Matthews, do you hear me?” he inquired. “Bielecieski, where are you? If you can hear me, report back! Make a sound, anything!”

The message was played out repetitively. Fuller began to get nervous. He began to fiddle with his neck that, on cue, began to itch. The guards upstairs looked over the entire scene. They could tell that Matthews was becoming more and more enraged as time went by. The message got played louder and more rambunctiously each time. The guards above looked at each other, making snide remarks. That was until Matthews’s walkie-talkie came close to walloping the one on the right’s head. It hit the ceiling and small chunks scattered off of it.

“Screw this,” Matthews snarled. “Fuller, you stand by the basement door. I’m going to make a search. You two! Check the upstairs, and check every nook and cranny for him. I’m not getting fired because a man’s dead body was found under a...”

“Testing…”

The remaining radios began to go off. A long fit of static echoed through all three of them. Finally, it stopped as a chuckle was heard.

“Wow,” a young male’s voice ushered through. “I must say, the security in here is absolutely terrible. I’ve been to grocery stores with better security than this pathetic mansion. Come on, guys! I think the first mistake you nimrods made was leaving the living room window open. You have all those cameras outside, and not a single one looks towards the living room window! What’s the point of that? It doesn’t make sense to be rich and stupid. And shame on that moustache midget for leaving to eat about an hour and a half ago; how else do you guys think I got in? As for Biel …Beelzebub or whatever, have fun finding his body. If you had upped your security around here, this could have been avoided. Morons…”

Static ripped through once more for a few seconds and came to a complete halt.

Without a word, Matthews stormed out of the room quickly. Fuller, still rubbing his neck, rushed to the position assigned to him. The guards upstairs split up instantly, whispering to each other to hurry up. The room emptied pretty quickly. From where Fuller stood, he could hear the sound of rushing footsteps multiplying. Slowly, they all began to fade.

Fuller stopped rubbing his neck and grimaced. He took his index finger and poked himself in the stomach. At his waist, white lights began to spark. The sparks flew around to the base of his feet. It continued to spark until a ring of light formed around his waist. The ring split into two. One moved upwards, and the other vice versa. Fuller’s appearance began to change drastically as though he were shape-shifting.

The blue short-sleeved polo changed into a fitted black t-shirt; the muscular arms of the guard instantly shifted into lanky, slender ones; upon the shifter’s shoulders were metallic epaulets that dangled a rather large red cape that seemed tattered on the bottom edges; the face changed into that of a younger boy whose hair was black and slicked into spikes with an amount of gel that was obviously gratuitous; his eyes glowed a bright green; the blue jeans turned black as the brown utility belt turned black as well; the brown boots vanished and changed into black sneakers. The rifle he once wielded materialized itself into a knife.

“Fuller” turned around and entered the room he was supposed to guard. He stared into the dark abyss as he entered. The man let his fingers rub against the white walls, grinning widely. His cape fluttered over the spiraling stairs as the coldness rubbed against his bare arms. As he progressed, he heard the voice of the butler and another man.

“Did Count Duke ever call back, Francis?” the new voice, assumed to be Blanché, inquired.

“No, sir,” Francis the butler replied. “He hasn’t called since this morning.”

“Hmm,” Blanché sighed. “I wish he would call back. Not nice to keep me so anxious.”

“Indeed. He may be young, but that’s no way to treat a man.”

The imposter began to slow down on his footsteps. He took a few more feet before he came to a complete halt. He peeked around the pillar the twirled the staircase to find the butler standing merely inches away from a very tall pink chair with floral designs embedded into it.

The room the imposter peered into was extravagant. It was quite wide, fitting in two large bookcases on both sides of the wall. They were both filled to the brim with books. Some books lied on the floor beside their respective cases. On the floor sat a large red and white rug being illuminated by the bright fire in the miniature fireplace the chair sat in front of. On the left of the chair was a small table, where the tray from before sat.

A hand, holding a teacup, placed the dish onto the tray. On its fourth finger was a small ring. The metal was purely gold, glistening so beautifully in the firelight. There wasn’t a single scuff on this fine piece of jewelry. Especially not on the bright yellow gem that sat on it. The gem suddenly had a tint of green in it as well. That was when the imposter realized the jewel could change color. He eyed the jewel intensely, taken back by its beauty.

“Look at my ring,” the man demanded gaily. “Isn’t it pretty? I found the stone outside in my garden one day. I didn’t think it was a Mei Stone until I touched it. That’s when I found out what it could do. It was so nice and beautiful; I had it made into a ring and I just had to wear it out to one of my fashion shows. Even the paparazzi couldn’t keep their eyes off of it. Sadly, that’s when I had to up the security around here. You know Thieves: they’re getting reckless everyday looking for these things. Isn’t that right, Mr. Eavesdrop on the stairs?”

The imposter was caught. There wasn’t anything he could do to hide the fact either. He stepped into the open, still grinning, especially when he saw the appalled look on Francis’s face. He kept his fingertips loose and his arms to his sides. His legs, however, stayed closely together.

The man in the chair stood up. He wasn’t much taller than the chair, nor Francis or the impersonator. He was a tanned man, whose smiling face expelled the assumption him being in early thirties. The top layer of his brunette hair was brushed together to form a Mohawk of some sort. It was in the same condition as his butler’s: perfect. His eye color was feigned to be an icy blue hue. His face was clean shaven, although looking close enough, one could spot whiskers. He stood with his arms crossed in his oversized red bathrobe. The robe had a spiral pattern imprinted in it, the same as the matching pants. The slippers on his feet were black and fuzzy. There wasn’t a doubt in the world that this man was comfortable and snug in his home, regardless of the height in security.

“Why, Francis, look,” Blanché chuckled, “it’s that Crimson Thief. I’ve heard much about you.”

“Well, a man who stands so low to the ground should hear a lot of things,” Crimson exerted.

“Just as I’ve said before, Francis,” the haughty Blanché chuckled once more, “terribly reckless.”

“My dear sir,” Crimson shrugged, “if I’m so reckless, how come you didn’t notice that I have been here the entire time? I’ve been here the entire time Mr. Fuller was supposed to be here. It’s not hard to ambush a drunk security guard at the bar he likes to visit after work when he’s blabbering out loud about his ‘girly employer finding a Mei Stone.’ I promised to drive him home as he lied unconscious at the bar. That’s when I was able to scan his body with my favorite invention, The DoppleGanger.”

Crimson pulled out a small black device that looked like a remote with a light blue tip from his belt. It only had three yellow buttons on it. He pressed the button in the middle and the device projected a two dimensional hologram of the real Fuller. Crimson dropped it onto the floor carelessly, destroying the image of the guard.

“I took his wallet, his radio, and his shift. Sadly, I can only use the image once. About an hour and a half ago, I was walking around the house aimlessly when Biel -whatever announced he was going to use the bathroom. I followed him and knocked him out. Where I hid the body is for you guys to find out. I planted a self-invented remote-controlled tape recorder on him near his walkie-talkie. I stood near the front door and let the guards’ suspicion grow. Then I cued the message. They’re all distracted now, but if I keep this short, it’ll be enough time to take that stone on your finger,” he admitted, stroking the knife in his hand.

“You sure seem to like explaining yourself a lot,” Blanché pointed out, “but you seem to know how to plan accordingly. Please, tell us, what are you planning on doing next?”

“Wait a minute,” Crimson ignored, looking at Francis. “Didn’t you have a mole on your left cheek earlier? I swear, some time before dinner, you had a mole.”

Blanché’s smile vanished when he looked at the butler. He squinted his eyes at Francis until he took a deep breath in shock. Francis’s eyes began to shift nervously between the two as Blanché then began to laugh.

“Touché, Crimson,” he sighed. “I guess no one down here is real, huh? Who are you?”

Francis hung his head low. His neck began to writhe until he stopped it suddenly to crack it. He lifted his head again with a glare on his face. His once blue eyes now grey with heavy bags underneath them. His hair began to shine a little more near the bright fire. His gloves ripped at the fingertips; his nails began to elongate and sharpen. They also began to shine, nearly being reflective. The fourth fingernail on his right hand, however, was a bit shorter than the rest.

“My name is Gerard Smith,” the fake butler introduced, “but you may call me Metallus.”

“While we’re on subject, explain how you got in,” Crimson insisted.

“If you must know, I broke in through the living room window and hid in the pantry. The only person who went in there was that butler. When he entered, I dealt with him swiftly,” he explained. When he spoke, his teeth would flash by his lips. Just like his fingertips, his teeth sharpened and shone. However, they shortened, and could be compared to the teeth of a piranha. He looked at his short fingernail and grimaced. “You see, metals can be mended into a lot of things. I took the form of the butler, and it took a while to get everything right.”

“And you missed the mole?” Crimson chuckled. “Amateur move; and let me guess: you were going to kill him down here, take the stone, and walk out as though nothing happened?”

“You’re pretty clever, Crimson,” Metallus growled. “But for a Thief with no powers, you really have no right to judge who’s an amateur.”

“Just because I wasn’t caught in the freak accident doesn’t mean I can’t compare,” Crimson stated.

A silence fell between the two. Crimson wore the biggest grin out of the three. Blanché’s grin began to fade as his eyes began to shift nervously. Metallus took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Blanché reached for his teacup and took one last swig.

Metallus's eyes flipped open abruptly as he whipped his hands in the air towards the owner of the mansion. Crimson couldn’t keep up with how fast everything happened. All he heard was glass shattering and a loud thud. On the ground was Blanché covered in white glass. In his chest and his throat were small metal blades; three to count in total. Crimson stepped closer to take a look. The blades were Metallus’s fingernails. He was more than accurate on his strike. The fiend ignored Crimson and drew near the body.

When he touched the Blanché’s arm, a hissing noise roamed the air. Metallus looked at the clueless Crimson Thief. He looked back at Blanché, appalled at what he saw. The body was disintegrating into a mist of some sort. Even the ring began to fade away.

“What the hell is this?” the metal Thief snarled. “What’s going on?”

“‘No one down here is real,’” Crimson quoted. “Damn! No wonder he was smiling so much. It started to make me feel uncomfortable.”

"Is that the Stone’s power, to make clones?”

“What do you think? I’m outta here”

Crimson turned around, balling his fists. He pushed the curtain of a cape away from his foot path. He began his march up the stairs until he heard a loud creaking sound from above.

“I apologize for being such a terrible host,” Blanché’s voice echo down the dark spiraling corridor, “but I just can’t deal with two murderous Thieves in my house. The Special Forces have been contacted, so you two just sit tight, okay?”

A loud, slamming thud followed the announcement. Crimson didn’t dare continue his trip upstairs. He didn’t want to guess what could be at the very top, and he opposed being shot on cue. He turned around to see his current rival still bent over where the corpse was.

“Did he say…,” Metallus gulped, “Special Forces, as in The Yang Corps.?”

“Yes,” Crimson sighed, rolling his eyes. “Why? Do you have any special ideas on how to get us out of this?”

Silence fell between the two again. That was until Metallus's frown twisted into a sinister grin.

“The Yang Corps. only deals with Thieves like me, right?” he asked.

“Yes,” Crimson reassured. “Me, they’ll turn over to the police. Oh joy. I think I'd be more pleased to be in your position than to go to prison. I wouldn't last the first 2 minutes.”

“Well, I know what to do now.”

Metallus flicked his wrist again and struck Crimson in the throat. Crimson stepped back, and fell over his cape onto the stone steps holding his neck. Blood gushed over his fingers lusciously for Metallus’s taste. Crimson’s eyes stared towards the ceiling in utter shock. Metallus stood over his body.

“Now stay still,” he smiled. “Cloning takes some time.”