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[Victim POV Violet Door]

As Shard left the room with Cousin Cynthia, reality dissolved around her again... Soon the swirling ended and she was faced by three more doors.

One was the Red of Revenge, another was the Yellow of Madness, so she took the Violet door in the center.

As it opened before her, she idly thought “It might be the Violet Door of Violence...”

...too late...

Once again, Shard was assaulted by the mishmash of memories from the White Door and it became, once again the terribly long (and badly edited) movie of her life. “Who gave Oliver Stone the rights to make the movie of my life?” she thought at one point.

However, unlike the previous movie, Shard felt sure she was watching the DVD extras where the director was explaining things about the production. She began to see parts 'behind the scenes' and started to understand that her whole life she had been sort of a 'guardian' for all those around her. She began to see how, without even knowing it, she had been subtly guided and groomed for the role... Everything she had done from the cradle, through her actions since Day Zero had been part of this grand plan.

Shard shuddered at the implications, but the extras weren't over... Apparently Director Stone had handed over the production to Wes Craven and he was determined to make Shard's dream a living hell...

She began to see scenes she didn't want to see... decisions she didn't want to make, or regretted making... Decisions that brought her or others shame and disgrace. Paths that lead down the path of regret and ruination. She saw people who formerly looked to her for protection and hope, now shrinking from her because she didn't understand....

“I didn't know!” she tried to shout at these people: “No one told me! I didn't get an instruction book!” But it didn't matter what she did, or how she did it, or in what spirit she did it... she was finally betrayed. She pondered the uncomfortable thought that she should have paid more attention in church... she should have studied more on things like ethics... morality... right and wrong... “Maybe I should have been...” she thought hundreds of times, each time rejecting the profession as it wouldn't have fixed one specific failure burning in her memory.

Shard then wondered how she had finally decided to join the military. She remembered a vague sense of her decision to “help defend her country” but that wasn't enough for her to latch onto and the scenes before her continued til...

The end of the 'DVD Extras' was brutal, painful, but mercifully short. A memorial service, a (thankfully) closed casket, and a dreary, rainy day in front of an open grave surrounded by people in black rain slickers.

“But,” she said uncomprehendingly, “Now I'll never know what I did wrong.”

 

[ RESCUER POV ]

His eyes slowly awakened, the grogginess that could have only come with sleep accompanying his awakening. When had he fallen asleep? A hunter who was acutely aware of all his actions didn't just fall asleep unless something had happened to force their unconsciousness.

Sin began to realize that another presence was in his mind. It wasn't the light and familiar touch of the Undine. No, it was something far heavier, far more intrusive. When it began to speak, Sin was filled with feelings of confusion and struggle.

"They did not tell you."

What hadn't they told him? That wasn't a surprise, considering the hunter's penchant for secrets.

"I know their secret weapon. I will find it. Even if you do not know, it is a matter of eventuality. My knowledge increases."

He knew? They knew? A secret weapon? Damn, if this mission was all about a secret weapon, Sin was going to have some words with Allan. There was no reason to risk dozens of hunters' and human' lives for a mere weapon. Yet he couldn't also but wonder what their foe had in store for them.

"This is my awakening."

The foreboding tone of that statement made Sin shiver. He had to warn them-- but warn who? He was forced back into the blackness, no matter how much he tried to escape. When he awoke again, this time, it was a conscious sound. He felt himself being dragged. The vines wrapped around his foot and leg, tight enough almost as if it would pierce his limbs. Where was he being taken to? When he tried to look, the throbbing pain in his head worsened. Only the gray tiles of the floor gave him a slight reprieve. "No.." A part of him knew that this was wrong. He couldn't let himself be taken. He wanted so badly to fight.. but his consciousness and strength were already wavering. He couldn't even reach for Undine's earring to attempt to fight.

The things that made up Sin: his memories, emotions, feelings- they were all disappearing. Sin felt them slipping away."I musn't..!" He muttered to himself. The being known as Sin was fading into an understanding, an understanding that he was part of a greater flow.

He struggled, but it was futile. Until he was left with the feeling that he had somebody or something to remember. But why couldn't he recall it?

[Dream Scenario: RED DOOR]

He shed his king-hood like an old skin, running his fingers across the door. Harvard straightened his shoulders and twisted the knob.


--------

They had asked, they had asked and Harvard had given. It was for their own good; it was for her own good. "Shhh, shhh, Caroline. It will be okay." He didn't like the way blood burbled out of her mouth, thick and red and she looked so much better in green. But this way, she couldn't have her numbers, flung out into the air in patterns of escaping, in patterns of repressed memories. Harvard wiped up the blood with one hand. It was time to seal it all. She watched him with green eyes clouded a bit with confusion. She would understand, in time. They always did.

It wasn't really like sewing cloth, he thought. Flesh caught on the needle, pulled at the thick thread.There was no weave in her lips that he could work the needle past. Harvard pressed them closed with gentle fingers, working the needle in and out methodically. He knew it hurt her, but she had strained so little; it was heady. "All done," he murmured, tying a knot in the thread. And he kissed her, feeling the rough stitches press into his lips. It ha been so, so easy, like pulling wings from a butterfly. With this, she would no longer fly.

Every one was different, of course - their wings a different shape, a different type. Harvard would find them all and clip them. For one, he cut gently, deeply, stripping the skin off in bloodied lengths. When he washed the blood away, there would be sebaceous fat, yellow for the briefest of moment before it bloodied again. Another he bound tightly, shoving a rag in his mouth for that inevitable scream. Methodically, he broke the man's legs in three inch intervals, pounding the bones until they pierced the skin, sticking up out of it like strange grass.

"It's for your own good."

And yet another, he killed - cleanly, quickly, knowing she would only harm herself if allowed to live. This was a thankless job now, but later, later they would all see. New things came in the face of destruction. Without this, they would wither into nothing. With their clipped wings came freedom. Harvard knew; it was for their own good.

[ VICTIM POV - White Door ]

His dreams never made sense. He wasn't one of those fancy assholes who could control his dreams, fly around and do whatever the ******** he wanted, so it didn't surprise him when the whirlwind of the dream turned into something a bit more solid. Doors.

He reached out for the white door without thinking, and everything he knew was swept away.

He'd been staring at these blank walls for what felt like years, beating his own head against the wall in hopes of something new. This cage was nothing, and yet, it was everything. It made him want to scream, made him want to give up and huddle in a corner until death could finally claim him.

Then he heard her. "Al? Al, darling, where are you? Al, please, answer me! I came here to save you! I love you... Al..."

Lola continued to call for him, and Al struggled to his feet. He had to find her. The walls of his room suddenly seemed to break away as he searched, and she stood waiting for him, her arms outstretched and her face lit up with the warmth of her love. He caught her up in his arms, and the sweetness of her scent, the color of her clothes, the softness of her skin--it all made him want to weep.

The sun on his skin drew him away for a moment, staring up at the light with a squint. He'd never seen something more beautiful. That was when it turned pale and cold before it shattered, plunging them into darkness. Al spun, unable to understand what had happened, and Lola stared at him with a sad sort of look in her eyes.

"Don't look at that. Look at me."

That was when everything but her began to fall apart. Al stepped back in horror as things began to revert back to that sad, empty state, chilled to the bone with the realization that Lola was causing this. Somehow, this was her doing.

What had happened to the woman he loved?

In the end, he fled like a coward, her heart-wrenching calls following him, begging him, demanding him to stop and come back to her.

[ VICTIM POV -- DREAM SCENARIO: WHITE DOOR]

Tears pricked the corner of her eyes as she sat there on that park bench. The one she and her family claimed every other Saturday at the park, even in the middle of the hottest day of summer. Blue eyes watched serenely as her family, sprawled across a collection of blankets, talked and laughed and lived life. Memories of conversations had in other settings, at different points of time in her life, trickled through.

Conversations before day zero, during and after it. Conversations had with friends and family alike, even people she wasn't a huge fan of. Conversations with her teachers. Her exes. Her dogs…

She knew it was a dream at that point.

But it was a good one, full of jokes and pranks and happy times. It was definitely surreal, and she struggled to let it go. When she did, though, the dream splintered and she felt herself pulled backward, further and further until three doors came into perspective. Each a different color with different markings. She didn't let herself think too hard and turned to the last door, the white one.

She was alone the next instant. Alone, as she'd felt ever since day zero and the days after, but worse if it were possible. She felt profoundly alone, as though she'd not had a conversation in years. As though she'd not physically been in contact with anyone. No hugs. No tackles. No affection of any kind. Not even violence.

She was locked up and she wasn't sure for how long but she felt it. It ran deep and before she knew it she was on her knees, sobbing quietly as tears streamed down her face. It was in the midst of her crying she heard a voice finally call out to her.

"Melo-jello!"

"Mira?" she called back, looked up and saw him. Or at least a whispy version of her, and she got up and wobbled over. "Mira, is that you?"

"Of course, it's me! Come on, let's get you out of here…"

Without looking back she followed. She would have given the world to her sister if she were given the chance. The little girl was her everything, really, and deep down she hoped that Mira knew at least that much. If she ever found her again, if she ever found her family again…

She followed Mira, she followed her baby sister's laugh, and soon the world was before her.

As promised, she saw those words in her smile as she looked toward her. The tears dried as she walked through it, seeing and smelling and tasting and feeling for what felt like the very first time again. For a while she just watched, took it all in and settled with the feeling of happiness once more. She was content to just watch until he brought her to their old house, a quaint little bungalow in a quiet suburb about an hour's drive away from her college.

She followed her inside, the tears welling up in her eyes but never enough to fall. The memories washed over her as she walked through the familiar space, and when her dogs came out to greet her she knelt down and opened her arms wide to give them their long overdue hugs. As soon as they were in her arms however, they shattered and were no more. Confusion filled her eyes and she stood up, knowing this was still a dream. When her father came out she moved to hug him as well, but he too shattered.

As did her mother.

And brother.

And when at last she turned to Mira she could see the anger in her eyes. The betrayal. Mel had no words as she watched Mira start to throw a tantrum.

"Why are you greeting them first? Why not me ? I love you more! I'm the only thing that you need, Melo-jello! But you never understood that! Then you went to college and left me! You left me and I'll never forgive you!"

The tears were falling again and she ran towards her room, the sound of crashing and of things breaking filling her ears as she left her sister behind. Again. But she needed to escape.

So she hid. In her closet. And she cried.

What else could she do?

[DREAM SCENARIO: BLUE DOOR]

Micah dreamed. He was aware, in a way, that he dreamed, and that these were memories. Here was his family, when he was young, and here his father after Mama left; here they were moving into the little house, where he took his things out of cardboard boxes and put them in the closets and on the shelves, where he knew where the creaky boards were so he wouldn't wake Da up when he made breakfast. Here he was at Christmas at Auntie Sarah's, all the cousins with all their presents, and him with two presents; here was summer break, and he mowed lawns to make a few extra dollars; here was high school and being unable to afford the fee for a field trip and being spotted money by his teacher, and here was Da's anger when he learned about it. Here was the day that everything had gone wrong. Here were the days he'd fought and worked to keep going and make a new life. The memories bled into one another, forked, fragmented, became something not quite real.

Here was the house where he'd lived so long, except that it was somehow merged with the apartment building he'd moved into, mixed with his school and with the weird, decayed hospital. Here were three doors, and he stood in front of them, knowing that he had to choose.

White was the color of hospitals, the color of churches, and Micah had never really liked either of those places. Black was night, sleep and shadows, but he'd seen too many shadows and too much lurking in the dark to pick that. He'd always liked the color blue, anyway. He put out his hand and opened the door.

It drew him in, and made him a new dream, a new world.

He'd helped make this world, set it out to have enough for everyone, enough work and good places to live, good food and fair rules in place. It wasn't complicated, not really. It was everything he'd ever wanted, and he wasn't complicated. He'd made it, and given it to them. It was safety.

He watched people work honestly, and he watched people who stole and lied. He saw corruption take root in the hearts of the institutions that should be clean, and he was angry and bewildered; this was his dream, wasn't it? Shouldn't this happen the way he wanted it to? But there were still people who fought back against the selfishness and willful blindness, and he brought his influence to bear on their side, as much as he could. There were still people who wanted to protect what was right, instead of just what was theirs. As long as that was true, it wasn't over yet. He could still hope. He could still help.

[ VICTIM POV - RED DOOR ]

He stumbled from hiding, his eyes roaming and haunted before his palm pressed to the red door and pushed it open.

--

He could not stop.

Their blood stained his hands, because it was best this way. Alone, alive, they suffered. It was not something he had wanted to do, but what other choice did he have? He could not turn a blind eye and allow them to consume themselves. There was a wrongness in what they did unguided, however, and death was not the worst thing this world could hold. He slaughtered them, taking the weak so that they would be forced to grow strong.

At least, that's how it started.

He did not stop when it was his own family underneath the harshness of his hands, choking the life from them no matter how they pleaded and begged for him to stop. He could not. Athena did not beg, merely stared at him with a fiery contempt in her eyes that faded long before her blood began to cool.

Lola was the worst, submitting herself to him without a word of protest, trusting him to know what was best for them all. Her neck broke, a sharp, single crack, and he laid her down gently to rest.

It was simpler this way, lost in the chaos he had created, swallowed up by the need for bloodshed and death.

Al still thought he was doing what was best.

(oops please ignore moved this to my own thread)