You walk through the deserted halls, your shadow cast long over the ground. The fluorescent lighting flickers, leaving everything in darkness, just for a few moments. You're fine with that, though. You're fine with a lot of things.

What you aren't fine with are the sinners that this building is full of. You want to kill them. You want to watch their blood run through your hands, and you want to laugh. Laugh at how ignorant they are. Don't they know who you are? Don't they know that they're all going to die anyway?

They don't.

And so, you must kill them. Every last one of them.

You've already killed a couple so far. You can still remember all the pretty colors of their blood as it spilled onto the floor. Green. Blue. That orange-ish brown that the Tealblood says smells like chocolate. You didn't kill that one, but you had a bit of fun painting pictures all over the walls with the blood. You're not sure who did; but you're a little miffed that it wasn't you.

You stop moving, your ears perking. You just heard a noise. It was far-off, but to you the sound is very clear.

It's the sound of someone dragging a body. They're heading deeper into the lab.

"heh heh…" You just keep going, searching for stragglers. You know they're here somewhere. Though it seems that everybody is heading to the roof, in their own random, roundabout way. "…i'll get him later."

You could care less where you kill them. It's an odd, feral feeling, wanting so badly to pummel them to a bloody pulp.

But you like that feeling.

At least, one part of you does.

The other part, the one trapped in the back of your head, hates that feeling, It scares him. He doesn't want to hurt his friends. He would never do something like that.

But you; you would. You would love to hurt them. Kill them. You don't care what this other guy thinks; who the hell is he, anyway? Certainly not you.

You've been screaming for awhile, now. You've been screaming since you lost control, found that you couldn't make your arms or legs move. You could still think, of course. But someone else was in control now.

You can hear him—no, not him, the other one, from a long, long time ago, you think—laughing. It's chilling, and the sound won't go away. He says he finally got you. That you're his, now. That you're powerless.

You beat at the walls of your inner prison, shouting for him—the "him" controlling you—to stop, stop hurting your friends. You don't like it. You don't want to hurt them.

But he doesn't listen. He doesn't care. You've had to watch two of your friends get clubbed to death already, and you feel horrible about it.

Why did this happen? You wonder again, again, again. Why can't I control myself?

But as you hear his voice—the one coming out of your own mouth—you realize something. The world seems to stop, and your hands remain balled into fists, your mouth drops open, your eyes go wide. You begin to shiver, and you sit with your back against the wall, your knees tucked up to your chin.

Why do you do this?

Because you just realized…

…that the person hurting your friends…

…is you.

I listened to "Blackest Heart (With Honks)" and "Midnight Calliope" while writing this. I've felt the need to write something like this for awhile, but never really got around to it.

Well: one need is now fulfilled! Yay!

Also: when he's talking, the reason the "I'll" and the beginnings of sentences aren't capitalized is because of his quirk and all. Just to clarify.

R&R, please! Constructive criticism is appreciated! ("Trollian Standoff" just came on. I'll probably write something about that next!)