Disclaimer: Body of work will contain strong language and (eventually) sexually graphic adult themes between characters (hint: MikexChris ship, choo-choo!) so reader discretion is advised. In addition, all characters and events from the video game Until Dawn, which are mentioned and/or represented in this work are property of Supermassive Games and Sony Entertainment, and in no way does the author claim any rights to their entities forthwith. Further more, blah-blah-blah, blah-blah-blah, please don't sue me.
Prologue
Mike Munroe was a failure. Last year he failed to save his friends during the terrible tragedy at Blackwood Pines. Each friend, each of their deaths, played in his mind on repeat – their horrible conclusions becoming the scaffold of his ignominy that proved the fault of his attributes. He wasn't intelligent or persuasive. And neither was he determined or brave, not any more.
And he toyed with the questions, the possibilities, each one cannibalizing his mind. What if he had said something different, done something different one year ago? Would Jessica still be alive? What about Sam? Ashley and Matt?
Would he mind seeing Emily again? A bitch, yes, but she owned it, and he wouldn't mind resurrecting a shared squabble from long ago.
And Josh… Broken as his friend was, Mike finally empathized with him through a shared sense of loss, albeit all too late.
And what if he did something different for Hannah? And by proxy, Beth?
Then there was Chris who sat in the center of this maelstrom, as much a survivor as he was. After everything they went through together, what did Chris really think of Mike? Would he cast judgement on his distorted afterimage? Or would he nurture and protect what remained of Mike's vitreous existence that stood at the edge of the abyss?
What if? What if? On and on, forever and ever. All the combinations and possible choices and macabre thoughts that danced in his tumultuous head lead to the horrible truth of it all: Mike Munroe couldn't save anyone because he was a failure.
And so every morning, since that tragic dawn of last year, Mike ran. Geared up in his Nikes and a headband, blasting music through his Bluetooth earphones, he ran. It was a monotonous, mundane and predictable endeavor, but at least it was consistent. No choice had to be exercised, no possibilities had to be selected. It was just him running through the city streets, running away from the rising sun, from the terrible dawn. It was just the music and Mike Munroe.
O' Death, O' Death, O' Death,
Won't you spare me over til' another year?