When a viral outbreak ravaged the world, the world changed drastically to an ugly shell of its former self. Now, nearly 30 years later, Anarchy and a madman lead the broken city of New Vegas. Crimson, born after the worst of the outbreak had passed, is a lost soul living in an unfair world. As the favorite concubine of the cruel ruler, Crash, she leads a very abusive, solemn life.
After discovering a secret that causes Crash to nearly take her life, she finds escape and barely makes it out of the city alive. She manages to find solace in the peaceful City to the North, where she is given a chance at a new life, surrounded by people who regard her as an equal in a world where the walking dead are nothing compared to the viciousness of human nature.
Crimson was crying again. She did so every time she had to go before the leader. Crash asked for her frequently, and she had no choice but to obey. Her roommate Light helped her adjust the sequined Crimson dress around her bony hips.
“You’ve lost more weight, Crimson.” She said soothingly.
“He feeds us too little. I had to help Nora, too.” She explained. Nora lived a floor below them, and was even more famished than Crimson had become; she was starting to lose hair, and her fingernails were brittle and snapped. She was only thirteen; Crash had bought her from an exotic trader and had begun to train her in the trade of physical companionship. Her growth had been stunted, and she got sick often. Crimson knew what happened when they got unhealthy; they were either sold or cast out. Sometimes they were used for sport if Crash was feeling particularly bored. Crimson had seen him lock a sick girl in a room with rabid dogs before, and knew that he had taken a sick pleasure in her pain.
“You need to protect your own skin, too Crimson.” Light told her, clicking her tongue. Crimson nodded, and let down her bright Crimson curls. They had been Crash’s reason for buying her at the age of fifteen, and that was what he had called her ever since that day, so she was always sure to display them nicely when she went before him. She fiddled with her dress, now self-conscious about how skinny she’d gotten in the past week. But she knew in the end it wouldn’t matter if she performed well; she knew that the dark red dress would be left on the floor within a minute of seeing him anyway.
Crimson nodded and fixed her face. She dabbed some powder around the now yellow bruise he had given her a few days ago. She lined her eyes heavily, and bit her lips to make them Crimson. She remembered the last time she had painted her lips for him; some of the Crimson had gotten onto his skin, and he had beat her furiously, breaking on of her ribs and twisting her wrist so hard that it had snapped. Now she wore only what was necessary. She pouted her lips like he liked her to, and practiced the range of fake emotions that she had in her arsenal. It was how she would survive, if she could call it that.