Creativity is overrated. You can create, yes, but wouldn't it be so much more fun to crush what is created? Wouldn't it be much more fun to know that you have control? Wouldn't it be so much more exciting? Wouldn't it be so amazing, simply because you can get your hands dirty but keep them clean at the same time?

The taste of blood is a beautiful, sharp taste. It gets in his mouth sometimes, but he doesn't mind it. It stains his teeth. Toothpaste can't really scrub off that stain. It's a cold, dark stain, on cold dark teeth. It makes for a sloppy smile, and terror when people see his happy face. They run for the hills because of the blood in his teeth. That bloody smile. The way he squints makes his eyes look about as red as his grin. It's such a satisfying feeling. The pure terror in people's eyes when they see him. Even the police are terrified. Almost purposefully on his tail because they never really wanted to catch him in the first place. He is a dangerous criminal, and he'd like to keep it that way. No family, no friends, no love. Just him and his pistol forever. Just he and his pretty little gun until his little heart beats no more.

After all, nothing says Red like his pretty little pistol.

It's his trademark. It's his life. He's fired more bullets out of that thing than he can count. His bullets are his gun. His gun is Red. Red is him.

--

He strolls down the street, his pistol tucked in the back of his pants, covered by a dark hoodie. He's waiting for the dead of night, when the alleycats roam the streets and the Smaug of Los Angeles gives way into a beautiful, starry night sky. When the street lights flicker, making most people believe that they are probably going to give way to death, soon. Midnight, 1AM, 2AM, where the sounds of the city turn to nothing but running air conditioners and dogs barking at the imaginary silhouette of a bird flying against the stars. He's waiting for the cold, the end of the cigarette, the melted ash tray. He's waiting for the perfect moment, unsuspecting, when he finally chooses his next victim, and fires a round into their skull.

But he never gets there.

Because some stupid person much have the same idea.

He feels an arm wrap around his neck, putting him in a head lock. He groans, finding it no use to struggle against the stranger. "Who are you?" The boy asks, tightening his grip around his neck. His arm is muscular, and he could barely make out the silhouette of a tree tattoo. It was familiar, almost.

"Who are you?" He juts an elbow into his stomach, causing the stranger to pull back. He grabs his pistol, turning around and pointing it at the other person.

His heart nearly melted.

"I asked you first." The stranger had a gun pulled on him. His hair was a pastel blue, almost like the evening sky near the sunset. He had tattoos down one arm, and a stupid grin in his face. Their pistols were identical. The only difference is that his hands shook when he held his. He wore the same attire as Red, which made him cock an eyebrow. His shoes were dirty and tattered high tops, with the word pastel written on them with black sharpie. His chocolate eyes amused Red. He had the right material, but his technique was a bit sloppy. He was charming. His facial features carved him into a beautiful young man. He can't be older than Red, and, as said before, he looks like an amateur.

"Drop the gun and I'll tell you." Red held a steady gaze, showing off those bloodstained teeth.

"You drop it."

"I asked you, first."

"With me." The boy took one hand away.

Hesitantly, Red did the same, staring up at him, still, as he stuck the pistol in his back pocket. "The name's Red." He said, bluntly.

Blue dropped his gun, a gigantic smile crossing his face after a look of surprise. "The Red?"

"What?"

"63 murders in a month Red? Suicide scam Red?" Blue gaped, his face gleaming.

"What, you've heard of me?" He pulled his hood off, looking up at the blue haired boy. He flashed that red smile again, staring at him with wild eyes.

"Heard of you? Oh my gosh, I aspire to be you." He practically jumps out of his skin.

"Hm," he tilts his head a little bit. "No one aspires to be me." He takes a step forward, then another, then another, until he's face to face with him.  He smiles, almost hoping to intimidate him. He drags his finger up from the base of the hood, slowly pulling it up his neck and landing it on the base of his chin. He grins wildly. "So, why do you?"

Blue takes a step back, his eyes falling on his shoes. They stay fixated in one little patch of fabric until red clears his throat. Blue looks up, sad. "I'm a mercenary," he sighs. "They call me Pastel.  I'm one of the more well known ones around here. I'm always stuck with the easy cases. That's why I get more done," he pauses. "I want to do more than this, though." He looks up at Red, eyes gleaming. "You should come meet my boss," he chirps. "You'd get along."

"What, and do work for someone else that I could easily be doing for myself? No, thanks." Red easily dismisses him.

"But if I brought you to him, he would, so, promote me. I'd be able to do more than just threaten people." Pastel looked down.

"Then quit." Red tiltshis head. "It's a lot more fun as a solo act. Take it from me."

"I can't just quit."

Red looks up, his eyes flashing with anger. "So you can't, now? Why not?" He growls, stepping toward Pastel.

"My boss. He wouldn't let me."

"Hello! Have you forgotten who you're talking to here?" Red raises his voice slightly, checking him over. "Come here."

"Why?"

"Because I need to know you're not a spy." Red signals with one finger, and Pastel hesitantly obliges. Red checked him over, patting him up and down looking for any wires or coms. Nothing. He sighs, leaning over to Pastel, his lips almost touching his ear. "I don't like mercenaries," he whispers, "but I like you." He smiled as he could feel him tense. He backed away, smiling that smile. "Here's the deal. I'll help you fake your death, but you need to trust me with your name."

"Uhm.... I..." he pauses, "I'm Josh. Joshua Dun."

"Well, Josh. I'm Tyler. Now, let's fake your death."

--a/n--

GOTTA WRITE A QUICK AUTHORS NOTE BC CLASS IS ALMOST OVER

BOOK DEDICATED TO XnaomiskyX BECAUSE SHE LOVES JOSHLER

I love you my Carcrashovercastyoungbloods

-Emily aka Foblvr