His favorite color was red. He was certain of it. Out of all the uncertainties of life, out of all the colors that vied for the position of someone's favorite color, his was red. It didn't matter if it was a dark red or a vibrant red.

Blood was both of those and each shade in between.

His scalpel gently probed the sedated woman's heart, and he tittered at the varying shades of red that were melding gently together in her ribcage. He imagined that he could see the breathing tube that was inflating and deflating her lungs.

Lungs that were perilously close to his scalpel, and the man growled a bit at their sudden intrusion into his thoughts. Inspiration struck just as suddenly, cruel and deadly.

"They have to go, that's all there is to it," he said cheerfully.

Normally, dear reader, this is where our lovely Stein would grasp ahold of his sanity, and wrest the scalpel from his own hand. He would save our damsel-in-distress, Marie, and they would smile, laughing later of the scar on her chest, though both would remember drastically different versions of this little midnight rendezvous.

This isn't normalcy, dear reader. She is not Marie, and the author affords her no such safety.

And so the scalpel descends.

He giggles as the scalpel traces a delicate line, carefully removing the portions of her lung that attach it to her body. The woman's body quivers slightly as he gingerly lifts the fragile organ up and out, a grin of pure happiness covering his face as he massages it with his fingers. The gloves are an impediment; he can't feel the organ properly with them on.

So he removes them. The blood feels so much more glorious without the latex gloves killing his sense of touch. He breathes deeply even as his eyes drink in the glorious mass of red. He can smell the red; he can smell the unmistakable iron scent of red. Pure, like the color, and it only reaffirms that red is his favorite color.

He looks back into the woman's ribcage, at the lung that is struggling feebly to keep up with her body's demand for air, and wordless giggles slip out, his bare hands sliding into her chest without the want or desire for a scalpel. Already wet fingers wrap around her laboring lung and he pulls, wanting to see if he can remove it without recourse to a cutting tool. His hands slip though, and he winds up with his wrist brushing against the woman's heart.

The source of all the beautiful red that was currently covering her pale skin. He would have it, he knew that then. He would take the source of her red and he would make it his, so that he didn't have to worry about ever running out of the beautiful red again. A sadistic grin crosses his lips as he giggles, his hand wrapping around the woman's beating heart.

It tickles his hands and he laughs, pulling his hand away almost as if he had been burned. The laughter trails into hysterics as he plunges his hand back into her chest, his fingers wrapping tightly around her heart, the aortas slipping perfectly between his fingers.

And he pulls with all his strength, bracing himself on the already bloody and slick floor, laughter flitting from him. There is the sound of suction, a popping noise as arteries and the aortas rip free from the woman's chest. She convulses even through the anesthesia, and the glorious red seeps into the pit of her chest, pooling delicately in it. He laughs maniacally, her heart's last beats sending glorious shivers through his body, his own heart wanting to match its rhythm.

But his heart already has a partner, and that thought pulls him slightly from his mayhem. Before his conscious mind gains total control he drags the scalpel across his arm, wincing at the sting, but tittering at the hue of the red that springs from his arm. A grin on his lips and happy thoughts in his head he wheels the gurney to the incinerator and titters when he realizes that fire is also red.

He comes to himself some time later, Marie knocking on the door to his research lab. His shirt and lab coat are gone, the mess on the floor and gurney also gone. New stitches decorate his arm, and he assumes that he operated on himself, lost in the madness. Another set of knocks draw his attention and he stands, unsteadily, to his feet. His eyes cast about, looking for something to cover himself with, but he doesn't find anything and just shrugs, moving to open the door.

Marie stands on the other side, nervously adjusting her dress. A smirk, unseen to the doctor, pulls at his lips, and he feels the madness flare up. 'It's red. So beautiful… you should tell her,' the voice in his head whispers to him and he giggles slightly.

Marie steps to him, her voice lightly calling out his name, "Franken?"

He smiles at her, wrapping his arms around her suddenly and holding her to his chest. "Red is my favorite color, Marie."

Her cheeks were dusted by the red that was flowing beneath her skin when she pulled back from him and he feels the grin that threatens to break the façade that he hides behind. He smiles as he brushes past her.

"I'll be back shortly, I feel that I should dress for the occasion as well," he says as he climbs the stairs to the room they share, wondering if he owns anything red.

A/N: I spent a great deal of time listening to "There's Blood on My Hands" by The Used, and listened to it while I wrote this. I hope that you enjoyed this; I don't own Soul Eater or the song mentioned.