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[Just in case.]

It couldn't have been a more perfect life.

From the time when Dare took those first fateful steps out of the chaotic Tolcher household and onto the path of a bright and independent future, the teenaged Legend felt a certain degree of relief. He could never place it, but the release of an unbeknownst burden and his first breaths of freedom provided the motivation to rebuild his life the way he had always intended it to be.

At least, as far as he could remember, anyway.

But was that really the problem; memory? Or is it in the remembering that this bliss, this taste of idealistic yet naïve sustenance, he unconsciously buried what did not want to be found?

Could one live the day by day with the constant reminder of a past which one cannot clearly remember, and not suffer to keep composure on one's face to the world?

And yet, it couldn't have been a more perfect life..

The icy blast of water splashed over his face causes Dare to shudder. Hunched over his bathroom sink in his cosy loft apartment he catches one glimpse of his face in the mirror and turns away sharply. Water drips from his unshaven chin onto the tile before he smothers his face with a towel and patting it dry. The water hasn't helped; he still feels as hollow and crummy as he had when he stumbled home. His mind hadn't even been in a right enough state for him to immediately notice that April wasn't there to greet him.

What happened? he asks himself with a frown, straightening the towel on its rack again. Damp crimson hair sticks to his face and neck. He again catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, but this time he hold his ground, looking directly into those olive green eyes staring back at him. One moment he had a job, a steady income, a frivolous lifestyle, and the possibility of a future. He was on stage, singing and performing and making the music that seems to flow through his veins like life itself. And then, everything was gone, stripped away without compassion, and leaving him on the sidelines, broken, bleeding, and defeated.

He miserably returns to the living area of his apartment, collapsing into his second hand couch. The day is barely into its afternoon hours and already Dare feels as if he has taken a week's worth of emotional and physical wear and tear. Stretching out his arms, he half-heartedly glances around the immediate area for anything to keep him occupied. The day's newspaper is neatly compiled on the floor at his foot, and he snatches it up without thinking.

"Might a' s'well getta start on job searching," he mutters lowly to himself, shuffling the sections in search of the advertisements. A folded, crisp white paper flutters out and into Dare's lap, catching his attention. Some sort of flyer, he guesses, but he turns his interest to it anyway. It isn't a flyer, and what is written inside startles him.

Dare Aspére,
We have been informed of your loss of employment and extend condolence to you regarding this misfortune. However, it is our pleasure to offer you the opportunity of a lifetime. As written text is not the most reliable of methods of information exchange, we request your attendance January the first at the tenth hour, at the enclosed address.
We look forward to meeting with you again.

Dare laughs in spite of himself, scanning the letter over again. The building mentioned is one on the outskirts of downtown and is currently abandoned, at least to his knowledge. The handwriting is beautifully crafted, and even his roommate, talented as she is, could not scribe it if she tried.

"What a crock," he chuckles softly, crumpling up the letter and tossing it aside carelessly. "Prolly got m' name off'r the mailing list, or som'thing."

At this, Dare freezes and stares at the newspaper strangely, remembering something. He isn't subscribed to any newspaper, so why is one so perfectly arranged inside his apartment? Jumping to his feet, Dare begins to rub his temples, feeling the onset of a headache.

"Tha's just fekkin' weird," he mumbles, heading to the refrigerator for something to wake up his senses. Giving his head a shake, his crimson hair tossing about and grazing his cheeks, Dare opens the fridge and fishes around for a Coke. He digs out a can and brings it to his chest to open, but drops it when his fingers graze something unusual attached to the can. The can fizzes out of the drink onto the tiled floor on impact, but that isn't his immediate concern; no, the white note bound by an elastic band is what heightens Dare's heart rate.

Chill out, he commands himself. It's prolly.. something from April, about where she's gone off to.

Stepping back, Dare presses his back against the fridge. A chill runs up his spine, and he can't be sure that it wasn't fully caused by the appliance's temperature. Calming his breathing, Dare tries to relax his tense shoulders. It's idiocy to be afraid of a damn note, he assures himself harshly before plucking the can out of the sticky, caffeinated mess. The white paper is only partially damp from the drink, and Dare tugs it free easily, though not without hesitation.

It reads the same as the first note, reminding him kindly of the meeting he never set up. He notices this time the word "again" in particular, and frowns deeply at its implications that he has met these people before in the first place. It could be some elaborate prank staged by his friends, though none of them have a key to his apartment, nor the time to dedicate to this sort of amusement. Crumpling this note, too, Dare throws it in the trash can nervously, treating it like the type of letter spies receive that warn that the note will self destruct within seconds of being read.

He bites down hard on his lip out of nervous habit, and the metallic taste of blood grazes his tongue. A sinking feeling overcomes him, and the sound of his heartbeat fills his ears. Something about this doesn't sit right with him; his instincts scream, "Trap!" while deep within Dare, something else is awakened he never knew existed.

And the entirety scares him senseless.

Just like that, everything is gone. The closet is no more, the light switch is no longer in existence, and Dare can't even see his own hand in front of his face. Everything is encompassed by a thick black emptiness. He stumbles around in his place, surprised, but relieved, to find that the floor under his feet hadn't disappeared, too.

"It is wonderful to finally see you again, Dare," a soft, rich female voice croons at his far left.

Something crackles, and Dare finds himself shielding his eyes from the overpowering spotlight that beams down directly on him. He stumbles blindly around in a retreating circle, the squeaking of his shoes making a loud, echoing noise.

"Who's there?" he inquires fearfully, cowering slightly. He tries his best to make himself sound confident, but instead he his voice cracks, and he gives the impression of an ant frying under a magnifying glass. "I demand t' know what's going on!"

The woman laughs cruelly. "You don't make the demands, child," she states simply.

Though he still cannot see through the blinding light at the source, she sounds.. beautiful, outwardly, at least, and if beauty can make a sound it'd surely disguise itself as her voice. "But come now, must we fight already? We've barely just begun to chat..."

The light dims, lulling Dare into a sense of insecurity, resulting in him dropping the hand that shields his face. This is clearly in vain, however; something suddenly hits the back of his knees and he falls back into it with a yelp of surprise. It's a chair, grey, soft, and luxurious, though he notices none of this, being too preoccupied by his pain, panic, and fear. He clutches the arm rests and suddenly realizes his guitar is missing.

"Where's my guitar?! I wan' my guitar returned t' me!" he demands, eyes darting left and right to search the darkness for anything and anyone to focus on. His crimson hair falls in front of his eyes and over his ears when he jerks his head, giving him more of a wild, unruly look.

"In due time, dear boy," the unseen woman chuckles, seeming to be amused by his torment. "But aren't you the least bit interested in my... proposition? Surely, you received my letters."

Dare glares into the nothingness. "I wouldn' be here if I hadn'," he replies saucily, finally allowing himself to recline slightly in the chair.

This proves to be a mistake; as his shoulders sink into the soft cushion, he is overcome with an uncomfortable, foreign sensation. He cries out as it concentrates in the back of his neck; instinctually he tries to move away, but the musician finds himself immobile. He struggles anyway, his efforts fruitless and only draining his energy faster.

The cruel woman's laugh resounds in the darkness, and suddenly there she is, visible to him. He is forced to stop at the sight of her. An unseen light source illuminates her from below her chin and her stunning, flawless face is made visible. He was right; she is jaw-droppingly gorgeous. Black hair flows like liquid over her shoulders and it would blend with the rest of the pitch black room, had it not a reddish tint to it. Her eyes are dark, festering pools, sharp, intelligent, and powerful.

"You like it?" she asks smugly with a wicked smile, her rouged lips made prominent. "It's a simple trick, really. Any half-brained twit can conjure magic to suppress the magic of another."

She seems to shrug away this fact, treating it like it’s really nothing, though her shoulders aren't yet made visible by the light. However pleasant she is to look at, her personality is obviously anything but.

"Lemme go, witch!" he spits, tugging against the chair to try to resist the invisible forces that bind him to it. Instead, a jolt of pain rips through his neck and he screams in anguish, unable to do anything to stop it from hurting him.

The woman chuckles, amused by his pain. Dare raises his olive green eyes at her, seething with hatred. "Now, now, no need to drain yourself of your precious magic, Dare," she croons, tilting her head back a little. Her cheeks are slightly flushed. "I wouldn't want you to exhaust yourself before the real fun begins."

Someone clears his throat at Dare's right. He strains his neck as best he can without moving enough to shock himself senseless again. But there is no more need to move; spotlights identical to the one illuminating the woman appear all around him in a circle, and eleven new faces are revealed to him. Were they there all along?

"That's quite enough, Pandora," a man says. Dare can barely see him, observing only that he has black hair with silver flecks throughout it, sharp grey eyes, and broad shoulders. He, too, holds an authoritative air about him. He looks to be of Middle Eastern descent. "Do what you have brought us here for, so we may get back to our normal routine."

The woman, Pandora, notably frowns, and her light flickers out. Dare can feel the eleven new sets of eyes on him, and the situation grows increasingly more nerve-wracking. What is it they brought me here for? Why me? Where the hell am I?! Plagued with unanswered questions, Dare's agitation begins to show, especially with the increased amount of confusing secrecy. He doesn't risk another painful ordeal, however, so instead he arches his back and goes rigid, closing his eyes as the bright light prods at him in this uncomfortable state.

"No need to get so... excited," is whispered into his ear. Dare's eyes shoot open in alarm, finding Pandora, fully present, uncomfortably close and hovering over him. She slides her hand down the front of his shirt and flashes him a private smile; up close, he can see that her canine teeth are larger and slightly pointed. He flinches, but the bindings disallow him to pull away entirely. This doesn't discourage her any, but nonetheless she moves out in front of the chair, her Stiletto heeled boots sounding out each step. She wears skin tight red clothing that accentuates every feminine aspect of her body and hardly serves their purpose as clothes. Some sort of charm hangs off a necklace about her neck.

"Tell me this," she announces loud enough for her eleven colleagues to hear, turning her back on him momentarily. His eyes follow the defined groove of her spine, admiring her flawless curves in spite of himself. Her body begs his attention, even if his mind screams curses at his captor. "Have things happened around you that you couldn't explain? Unusual, magical things?"

She spins 180 degrees to shoot him a poisonous smile, her hair flowing across her bare shoulders like a fluid entity. He can see now that the charm on her necklace is no charm at all, but a human tooth.

She's playing with me, Dare resolves, unsettled by this realization. Baiting me for the reaction she wants, and showing off how well she can do it in front of her friends. His mind is unusually quick, as under usual circumstances, he is a much more laid back, inattentive person.

He narrows his eyes at her, glaring wildly at his relentless interrogator. Ignoring the other eleven sets of eyes, he focuses solely on her dark ones, holding his ground against her to let her know he won't be broken down so easily.

"Is that a yes?" she ponders aloud with false patience.

"You're crazier than I thought if y' want me t' agree t' believin' in magic," he snaps, dodging the question. He goes rigid and grinds his teeth as a jolt of numbing pain enters through base of his hands, travelling up his arms. The unpleasant smell of burning flesh floods his senses, his vision fails momentarily, and he coughs out a dry laugh. Some sort of obedience device, he realizes with the bitter taste of blood on his tongue.

Pandora raises her hand simply and effortlessly – Dare guesses with sinking dread that she was the one who initiated the pain – though the smile on her plump lips has mostly faded. "I'd ask again, Dare Aspére, but you're trying my patience with your round about answers. In this court of law, there are no secrets."

Dare barks out another laugh, and he can see that Pandora visibly tenses, her hand prepared to administer another round of "shock therapy". Instead, she stands poised, waiting at least to hear what snide remark he has for her, albeit with terribly evident frustration.

"What kind a' court a' law straps someone to a chair an' fries them fer the answers they want?" His voice leaks his Irish roots out of pure exhaustion. He breathes heavily, taking long, strained gasps of air.

Pandora drops her hand, the amusement factor returning for her. Chuckling softly, her lips parting for a split-second glimpse of her fangs, she walks over to him, heels clicking loudly. She takes his chin in her hand and forces herself very close to his face.

"Darling," she hisses entrancingly, and the teen is suddenly excited with the increased proximity, though he tries his hardest to revolt against this instinctual reaction. "We make the laws here. There is no mercy, no justice for criminals like you, especially not from us, the High Council. Hell, we are the law!" She throws back her head and laughs, joined all around by the eleven onlookers. Dare doesn't see what's so amusing about this, but their laughs melt together and surround him in an uncomfortable, eerie way, and therefore have their intended effect.

Dare shuts his eyes, his head throbbing. "I'm not a criminal!" he shouts desperately over the continuing laughter. Some of it dies down. He shouts again, with more insistence, "I'm not a criminal!"

Pandora's dark laughter is the last to cease. She flashes her dark eyes down at him and forces him to cower under her grasp. "Oh, but you are, dear," she replies without explanation, grazing his soft cheek with her strong fingers. His face grows hot, mostly from the embarrassment of this incessant mockery in front of what she has called the High Council.

He wants to shout, "Under what laws? Your cruel, twisted ones swayed for your own interests?!" but his throat is raw and he is so very exhausted. It is only for being bound upright to the chair that he remains sitting up; he doesn't even own the strength anymore to support himself. Instead, he is forced to stay silent and watch as the sick, authoritative woman again reproaches his torturous chair.

"What of my guitar?" he croaks softly into the prolonged silence. Someone behind him whispers, but he cannot understand the language she is speaking.

Pandora fingers her tooth charm idly with a smirk. "Ahh, yes, what of your music, sweet?" she hisses, turning sharply on her heel. "You have never taken a musical lesson in your life. Correct me if I'm wrong," she continues, wrapping some of her long hair around her pampered fingers, "but you believe this... talent... to be a certain gift?"

Dare glares at her, his breathing laboured. The pain at the base of his neck is now a numbing burn. "Of course," he growls lowly, crimson hair falling in front of his eyes. "I c'n play anything without knowin' t' read music..."

"There you have it!" she cries suddenly, and Dare's attention snaps back to life in a burst of quickly fading energy. A few of the people surrounding him exchange fierce, urgent words. "He just admitted his treachery. The magic that flows in his veins provides for him the illegal opportunity to meddle with the musical talents of the souls of the past!"