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[Lou - Gold Door - Loyal to Self - Ancient of Narcissism]

Lou had somehow managed to make it through all the loopy rooms, only to be met with a choice.

In the same Lou fashion, he whistled as his long legs ascended the stairs into darkness, until seven doors came into view.

It felt ominous, he realized. The vampire had never really been familiar with such a feeling, but understood the implications, and it was nobody's mystery as to which door he would choose.

The boil shuffled ever closer towards the yellow door, it's calling so much stronger than the rest to his ears. After only a moment of reluctance, the boil turned the handle and walked inside.

-----

Lou's spiral eyes focused on the emblem, reflecting the burning gold like little mirrors. His hand reached out for it, longed to touch it. Even if he had wanted to, the vampire couldn't resist the urge. As his long spindly fingers grasped at the light, Lou felt as if his very soul had been touched in much the same way.

Greatness.

That was all one could see when looking upon the very essence of his person. Women swooned over him, men praised his efforts and fortune of being so damn good. Not a one didn't lust for the advice (and other such things...) Of one Lou C. Ferre. They laughed at his jokes, they appreciated his brutal honestly, but there was something far more important he had discovered.

Lou was completely satisfied in everything that he was. There was no longer an incomplete feeling that would dwell at the back of his mind. No confusion as to why he did the things he did or if his actions and thoughts were merely an empty husk from past ventures.

He loved himself.

And people loved him for that fact.

A mirror, a reflection, was all he truly needed to be happy now.

Narcissism.

Molly / Blue door of Protection / Loyal to Deus Ex / Ancient of Maternity

How did she get separated from Dakota again!?

Though it was in no way her fault, she couldn’t help but feel like it was. Hopefully he wouldn’t be upset with her! Oh no…

Her orders too…eliminate any horsemen….she hadn’t seen any so was that a good or a bad thing…

Molly didn’t get much time to fret about that, as the room she had been standing in shifted and faded away, leaving only a staircase. The trainee scrambled for the stairs, skittering up them at a hurried pace and holding onto hope that she might find Dakota, or any other hunter at this point, at the top. She didn’t. Instead she was greeted by doors, and each were met with confusion until the very last one. A blue one. Molly stepped towards it, but then hesitated. Where did it go? Would she find anyone beyond it? She didn’t have anywhere else to go, and the longer she stared at it the more it did call to her…

She stepped towards the door, hesitated with her hand on the handle for a moment, and then finally mustered the courage to move forward.

Beyond the door she heeded the call of the emblem above the altar and reached out to gently grasp it—

Molly never thought about death too hard. She had other things that occupied her worries. Was Jeremy eating more than just candy? Did he remember to brush his hair? Was Otto’s room clean? He wasn’t sad, was he? Was Rep staying out of trouble? Was he okay? Was Obadiah eating well? He wasn’t cold? He was always so thin…Was Dakota doing okay? Was Miss Candace still smiling? Was it time to bathe Mark again? Was she making her division lead, Lance, proud? Was Robert eating breakfast? Was everyone eating breakfast? Were the Canon Cats happy? Were—

So when it happened…she still wasn’t worried about herself. She wanted to make sure everyone else was okay. Would they be okay? What would happen if she…

No, she wasn’t that important. They didn’t need her to function, much less at all, she knew that, but she still worried about them all. She just wanted to keep them all safe, healthy, and maybe if she could help…happy. She just wanted everyone functioning and getting along. The latter might have been a stretch, but maybe it wasn’t too much to hope for…

Molly felt a warmth consume her being, as quickly as the worry about everyone else over came her, it went away. No. She could continue to look out for everyone. She would. She had to. She didn’t continue on for anything else other to be look over and care for. If she didn’t have that…then she wouldn’t be anything.

It's just like Wonderland, you know, full of strangers and tasks and obligatory actions to complete. It's just like Wonderland, because you want to go home. The island isn't a pleasant place, but it puts a roof over your head and food on your plate and gives a paycheck that's steady, and that automatically puts it two pegs higher in your book, if not three.

But you don't have much of a choice, do you? Like everything else in your life, the doors shut behind you without a sound until it's too late, and there's nowhere to go but forwards.

So you do.

Taking the steps two at a time, you steel your resolve, because you may be a pawn but you can at least choose to move. And, so, you are determined: to do what is demanded of you and get out. Once is a coincidence and twice starts a pattern, and from everything you've heard, this s**t is a longstanding pattern indeed.

The stairs dissolve below you, fading back into the dark, like will-o-wisps descending back into the dredges of a swamp, their task done. You run for what feels like miles, and come to the top with a stitch in your side and no breath at all.

And there are doors, seven of them, and bless your heart but you don't understand the meaning. When the legacies awoke you were asleep, trapped in a dream in a pod a long way from home, and thanks to Wonderland you understand a little. They all want to give you something, bartering and begging in hopes you'll get closer, like trapdoor spiders luring out their prey.

Red and black bleed in a way you find appealing, promising darkness and shadows both, revenge and horror but you recoil because you've seen what the world would come to with power in your hands, and it's too much to think about. You don't know what you want but you know it's not that, the way the power leeches from the world around you, fixating on the past and how it's hurt you.

So you ignore them.

Green and yellow are equally unappealing, because your pride is a shell and your thirst for knowledge is nonexistent: you are not so complicated that they appeal to you. You have no desire to rule and the idea turns your stomach, playing politics and politeness, biting back your vicious so it fits behind a smile. Book smarts, too, send you scurrying away as if burnt, the idea of expanding your worldview except by force an absolute terror.

Violet and blue, too, sing their siren song with little avail. Blue is warm and comforting, like being cradled from head to toe, but it's not enough to sway you: all good things come to an end and false promises from doors are sure to end first. Violet sings a song of a future that can change, as long as you abandon the hands that feed you. Once upon a time-- perhaps a time not so long ago-- you would have jumped at the chance, drowning in a misery of your own design.

But like black and red, you've seen the end that comes with that.

It only leaves the one.

White is hopeless, white is the end of a movie before the credits roll, white is the conclusion, white is the only choice for you and yours. White is grief, eternal and unyielding. White is sorrow unmatched, and white is the door you choose.

The insignia on the alter is familiar, and you think of Wonderland and the queens pitted against each other, you think of cages and you think of all the shades of your futures that you once saw, and what happens at the end of them. Everything ends, and in a half-step from one vision to the next, you are alone. Again, you've got the tattoos of friends inked against your skin like etchings of the past: an American flag, a Nabokov quote, a Harry Potter insignia, some video game s**t you don't understand, a cowboy's brand, the red-cross of aid, the sprawling branches of Life division-- one after another after another, they're a patchwork of history told in pictograms and words.

You know, too, that they're gone. Over time, and now here on the battlefield, presented against a unified front of defectors and enemies and rivals, who banded together under the ideal of 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend.'

And you know, too, that you will die here, on this futile warground of loss and sorrow. In the distance, the lighthouse crumbles, toppling over into the ocean. Overhead, the sirens blare, a woman's voice stating that every area of Deus Ex has been compromised, please evacuate. Please evacuate. Please evacuate. Please evacuate--

But you aren't ready to let go of the mortal coil that has wounded you, aren't ready to spare the lives of the ones who have wrenched away every friend and ally you've struggled to meet, aren't ready yet to abandon the warring conflict inside of you that is nothing but woe.

So you are reborn, a beacon of white light cascading upwards and outwards as you change, your body disassembling and reforming into something better-- something eternal. You are Woe and they will fear you, the patron saint of suffering and sorrow, of bitterness and guilt, of loss and distress. The graveyard that is Deus becomes your home, empty wreckage from a battle gone. Every enemy you've ever had will eventually find their way there, suspended in the place between life and death, to stare into your eyes that are white from lid to lid, weeping eternally.

(It rains there, forever: your tears the rain that burn the ground and destroy anything that dared to grow there.)

You are Ancient, you are eternal, you will always be here to contaminate the minds of those who have suffered, and--

--

You startle out of the vision and look down at your hands, shaking. Even in sorrow you cannot contain your desires, even in grief you do nothing but entrap and ruin and destroy all that you might touch. Your skin is poison, your presence is a toxin, your hopes and desires a horror show.

Now there is only a chain heavy on your neck, at its center a clock that refuses to tick. You rub your eyes, pressing your palms against them, and do not weep.

But you want to. Oh, how you want to.

(Grief was the only possibility for someone like you.)

Stairs, huh? Alex blinked a few times and started the trek up them. His wings flapped lazily. After each stair was passed, it faded silently away, like a giant hand was just erasing it out of existence. Not that Alex minded. It was just a stair. Though, by the time the trek was halfway over, and some more sense was starting to raddle the harpy's brain, he wondered if there was a way to get down now.

Then there was a platform. Ringed in a semi-circle were doors of varying colors, that whispered in the mind different promises. Alex shuddered at some. Destruction. Vengeance, Pride... Things that tugged at all beings, but for him, he felt inexplicably drawn towards the blue door.

It was the color of the sky, and it whispered softly for protection. Protection... Yes. As if in a trance, the harpy pushed through the door.

Everything after that was like whiplash. Thunder striking twice to the ground, it rocked him to the core. A vision came first, very abruptly. Lying on the battle field, barely breathing. His friends around him, crying. Saying wonderful things about love, and happiness, and protection. Thanking him for the protection. Ulka held his hands as the vision faded. A whispered thanks coming next.

Even though he protected them, and saved them. Even though he had given to the world a legacy of protection, of doing the best for others, the fear of failure, of letting other down... It became stronger. Memories of how many times Alex let him down continued to play. As the fear grew, so did he, until he...

Awoke. No longer himself. No longer anything. Not the legacy. Not the harpy. An Ancient. Powerful, terrible, evil, good. A monster in every sense. Protection was still a powerful force, but now as an ancient he spread Fear of Failure. The Ancient of Failure reminded those to be stronger. To keep being the strongest, the best, and to never falter.

Lest they wish to be consumed by him. By the insanity.

Alex stepped from the door and stared at himself. He was an odd... shape. His wings larger, but broken in places, with feathers missing. His form was twisted and strange, but not bad. around him was the heavy chains of death, and the clock that stuck on a time. Never moving back and forth.

The magic number here was seven, though he was much fonder of three. He had counted the steps leading him up in threes, favoring the left foot, then the right, moving like a well oiled machine and without tiring. Seven would have been just strange--well, unless he chose to do it by mashing 3/4 and 4/4 meters. Why was music entering his head again?

Ah, yes. The room seemed to be humming to him. Seven doors, seven colors, and one suddenly energized giant in his head.

(( The green one, dear one, Creation! )) Owain was almost frantic in his need to get them there, a feeling he couldn't describe starting to leak into their bond: anticipation, fear, joy, caution, curiosity. (( We must go, it will give us the answers we desire! I must understand! ))

And yet Jack remained immobile, his slanted eyes moving from one door to the next in a slow, methodical sweep of the room. Owain, typically patient and jovial, began to growl irritably as the silence went on.

(( Dear one--Jack, are you listening to me? This choice is quite obvious, )) he said, and it was a smiling anger starting to bubble within, something they both shared. (( My memories call us towards Creation. Surely you feel something from it too? ))

No, actually. Not quite. A small tug, yes, but all of the doors enticed him equally for one reason or another. It was partially why Jack was taking his time to decide what to examine; something told him this would be a one-way street.

But his partner wouldn't have it. The giant grew increasingly annoyed and noisy, butting into the hunter's thoughts with blunt force.

(( What is keeping you so long? ))

If this was a test of judgment, what would each door say of him? He could only say the best of himself of course

(( Jack, standing here will change nothing. I am not asking you -- ))

only the best would do, and though this was nothing he could organize properly, he understood that the decision was important, I am not begging you I that it spoke of his character, the kind that was very little seen even with assumptions made about him, about his demeanor, his attitude, his incessant am demanding that for once need to drive things away and keep them a specific distance, each person categorized and broken down until the data made sense because people were all just cliches of different names, tropes and stereotypes and card-carrying copies that reproduced and died for once listen to me--

Or what? Jack suddenly snarled, his teeth shining like fangs as their minds burned another's, imposing his sovereignty. Or what, Owain? You are not in control. You are not my friend. You are a tool, and that is exactly how I will treat you.

And then the strangest thing happened. He heard a door close behind him and quickly looked back to see its purple trim. And then he faced forward again.

Before Jack were those he had frequently associated with (associated, not befriended), all gathered together in such a way that he could barely differentiate them from one another physically. But he could name them all: Lina's unreadable eyes, Chel's puppy-eyed sadness, Finn's knew it smirk, Ripley's stoic disappointment, Abbi's grim reluctance, Ian's uneasy sigh, Shiloh's bleak sympathy, even Hanna's blank stare. But Owain towered over them all, a broken, hunched figure whose eyes penetrated him with a deep sorrow.

This wasn't right. Jack stepped back warily, raising his hands. This wasn't right. "You can't--"

They could, though. Their weapons raised and flared in colorful ruins readied to destroy him. His words did not work, nor his hands, nor his mind, nothing. He could not stop them.

"You can't," he insisted, and his voice was strained for a reason he didn't understand. The door refused to be opened. Nothing was under his control all of a sudden, nothing made sense as they drove their weapons into him again and again and again. They had betrayed him first, it didn't make sense, and he could not stop them, could not make them turn and see the error of their ways, could not make them understand.

He died, and yet he did not. He lived in a state of complete unrest until he learned. Until he understood.

And then there was nothing he couldn't control.

The world worked better that way. Everything had a place, and there was a place for everything. There were no quarrels, no competitions, no rebellions, no coups, no wars. The land laid in a state of complete, mechanical peace. He was the clockwork god, the one who knew everything at once down to the minutiae. And in that lied the key to his continued success: the fear of breaking the pattern sustained him, but the true power came in knowing he could never be betrayed. No-one would ever question his ways ever again.

And when Jack woke up, he was in a small state of euphoria. His form had changed, but it did not matter to him what it was; it was fleeting. He was in control of himself and his partner, who was oddly quiet if not utterly cowed (as was right). They had both gotten what they wanted: Jack had seen his eutopia, and Owain felt something slowly crack in the seal on his memories.

Longing. He wanted something deeply and fervently, but for the life of him did not know its name. And that was something, too, that they could share as they moved forward.

violet door - ancient of control - loyal to self - locked memories

[Arland - Blue Door - Loyal to Deus Ex - Ancient of Quarantine]

It was the only way to protect them. The words echoed throughout his mind as his fingers brushed against the emblem, burning bright. The heat spread through his fingertips, consuming him in a searing blue glow; runic flame purifying him as he was drawn into it.

Within seconds he was no longer at the Alter of Protection. He was on the Island; his Island... Home. He had risen up through the ranks to become one of the great Moon Defenders. They were his trainees now, his responsibility, and the plague was spreading. The infestation would see to their collective end if he didn't keep it from spreading. He had to. He...

His hand slammed down on the large, red button. Red for fear, red for danger, red for destruction. He could hear the screams. He could hear the tears.

Quarantine Program Initiated... Total Quarantine in Three Minutes...

It had been five the first time. Five had been too much. Three was a better number anyways. Good things happened in threes and this would be a good thing, even if it was the last good thing he was able to do.


Quarantine Program Initiated... Total Quarantine in Two Minutes...

"Sir, we have to go. Sir..."

He waved the initiate off, eventually getting stern enough to cast the young man away. "You go. This time... This time, I think I will stay." And stay he did as he was old and had lived his life. He would perish with those too young to know what was happening, and live long enough to see the fear of their death sink in along with the relief of knowing that in keeping the infection from spreading they would be saving so many others.

Quarantine Program Initiated... Total Quarantine in Three... Two... One...

In the last moment he felt only the warmth of protection surrounding him, pulsing through him with a pale, blue glow, filling him, molding him, making him one with it. Each time the story was told he found himself growing just a little more with it, letting it mold him into something new... Something more.

To those who understood he was salvation. To those who did not he was a nightmare; a stark white, lonely room. Isolated... Quarantined. It was his Fear.

It was his Legacy.