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Vintage still remembered the day they died. How could they forget?
They had been fighting against a pack of galaxy werewolves, in a village they had left long ago. With a group that had split up long ago as well—it consisted of them, their sibling Omega, Aviators…and Skull.
That traitor.
Skull hadn't bothered to save Vintage when they were surrounded. They had been torn apart, and as they lay dying, their last sight was Skull shooting arrows at werewolves, completely disregarding them—
—and then being tackled by one, its teeth sinking into his arm.
Maybe that's why Skull never saved Vintage.
Because the next time Vintage saw him, he was a galaxy werewolf himself.
And Vintage was a vampire. They still didn't know how it had happened, but at first, they were grateful that they had a second chance of life.
But that gratitude didn't last long.
Wonder how I didn't die
This is not my life, I'm no survivor
I only happened to survive
Because Vintage blew that chance. They threw it away when they bit Omega and turned them into a vampire as well. They threw it away when they bit two criminals on the run—Double Egg and Red Sole—and made them join that group called the X-Blood.
Vintage had been too reckless. They had tried to kill Emperor and take over the kingdom, for crying out loud.
After that final battle with Xelroran—one that they were too weak to participate in—Vintage had asked Skull to kill them. Their time on the Material Plane was over, after all, their death was long overdue.
And they had gotten that peace of the void…but even that didn't last long.
By some cruel twist of fate, Vintage had been brought to life by Xelroran itself, infused with its demonic energy.
They were back on the Material Plane, so now they had to deal with the full consequences of their actions.
Well I count pink elephants, blessings and skeletons
Down the days I have left, with one eye open
During the final battle against Xelroran, the rest of the X-Blood had been killed. Literally disintegrated by the radiant light from Emperor's scepter.
The funny thing was, they wouldn't have been vulnerable to radiant damage if they weren't vampires.
And it was Vintage's fault that they were.
It was Vintage who turned them into vampires. Vintage who dragged them into this ridiculous plan, Vintage who made them go into the castle and try to kill Emperor.
It was Vintage's fault their friends were dead.
That was me screaming, "Bitch, I am reality"
And stumbling off to lose myself in a brown paper bag cause me and
Sweet Evan Williams got a date down on Avenue
A staving shakes scraping change 'til daybreak
Turns out anyone can eat out the trash
Then wake up on the freeway mid-crash
Vintage was the only one who had survived Emperor's attack, of course. Of course.
And even after being shot by Skull's arrow, they were still here.
Why did they still deserve to be alive?
—
Vintage was in Splatsville now. With nothing else to do, they had traveled across Corokina to this desert town.
They sighed, pushing their red and blue hair out of their face—the gradient opposite to what it was in their previous lives.
They looked up at the tavern in front of them.
Whatever. Vintage reluctantly entered and took a seat.
Everything seemed distant as Vintage asked the bartender for something—they barely remembered what. The bartender seemed slightly scared of them—probably because of their black scleras and generally scary vibe.
Minutes later, Vintage was given their drink, some kind of cheap beer or mead. They took a sip, the bitter taste making them grimace as the liquid slid down their throat.
But it didn't matter. Vintage was only having this so that they could forget about their problems, even if just for a second.
'Cause I was drunk when I made my bed
Now with a half-decade hangover I lay down in it
Vintage took more gulps of the alcoholic beverage, their eyes becoming droopier with each one. Soon enough, the glass was finished, and Vintage lay their head down on the bar table.
They couldn't stop the tears from flowing out of their eyes.
They missed Omega. They missed Double Egg. Hell, they even missed Red Sole.
They wished they had people to care about.
But now they had nobody.
Vintage was all alone, and it was all their fault.
Gods above, they were stupid.
What have I done? Don't know what I've said
It's a half-decade hangover, either this, in jail, or dead
After a few minutes—or was it a few hours?—of crying with their head on the table, Vintage heard a voice in their head.
You're pathetic.
"Of course I am," they muttered, barely audible even to themself.
But you don't have to be.
"You don't know what you're talking about."
I can offer you a way out.
Vintage sighed. They knew who the echoing voice belonged to—Xelroran, Almighty Demon Lord of Darkness, Chainer of Angels. They had been hearing that voice ever since they had been revived.
And any deal it made was not to be trusted. Vintage knew that because Mask, one of the Heroes, had foolishly made a deal with it long ago.
I can bring your friends back for you, Vintage.
Vintage blinked, slightly lifting their head from the table.
"Really?" they whispered.
Of course. Even in this form, I'm powerful. All it takes is a deal.
Vintage scowled. "And what is this deal?"
You're going to help bring me back.
—
The sound of shattering glass rang through Vintage's ears.
Screams echoed all throughout the tavern. Blood was splattered onto the floor.
Ten dead bodies lay in front of Vintage. Nine guests, and the bartender who had given Vintage that drink.
There was a blood-covered scythe in Vintage's hands.
They blinked. The sight of bloody corpses was gross, but they found they were barely fazed beyond that.
It barely mattered to them that they had just murdered ten people.
See? It's that easy. Ninety more kills, and Omega, Double, and Red will all be back.
Do we have a deal?
Vintage sighed.
"Yes. Yes we do."
And with that, Vintage walked out of the tavern, and towards a place they knew could help them.
A certain cult—a Hierarchy—dedicated to Xelroran.
It's a half-decade hangover, Jesus Christ my aching head