Through Darkest Unknown
By: SurreptitiousFox245

Disclaimer: I don't own DGM or the song 'Never Alone' - all rights go to their respective peoples. I'm just borrowing for creativity. And because the cliffhanger DGM left off on is driving me batty. And because I like psychology and wanted to explore a bit.

Quick Author's Note: I'm mildly experimenting with this. The premise is different from what I've seen in terms of an OC in DGM, so I'd really appreciate feedback on if y'all like it or not.

Again. Experimenting. I'm also forewarning, I'm taking a few creative liberties in terms of DGM timeline. This story starts three weeks after Cross' meeting with Allen and telling him about the 14th, and his subsequent "death". I'm assuming that since, per the anime, the exorcists had been on non-stop missions while the new HQ was being constructed, they've been given some time off. So I'm allowing for a few months' gap between Cross' death and the Phantom Thief G debacle.

Enjoy!

Chapter 1: A Childish Dream

"When your hope has been broken, and the fear is unspoken but true—
you're never alone.
Like a dream in a child, or a childish dream in you…"

-Jesse Bonanno, "Never Alone"

Plunk, plunk, plunk! Tuneless notes ring out through the cavernous hall of the piano room, somehow carrying on their backs a hint of melancholy that can't quite be put into words. This only serves to make the white-haired teenager tapping on the keys to the grand instrument angrier, and the scowl etched onto a scarred face deepens as the reddened fingers of his left hand continue to pick at the ivories. Three weeks since the revelation, and Allen still admits to himself that he hasn't come to terms with it. Not like he shows everyone. Perhaps he's resigned to the present, to the fact that there's some element of the 14th Noah within his mind, but if there's one thing Allen Walker is not resigned to, it's the future that realization entails. He will kill someone he loves—Cross' words etch into his mind, but instead of making him sad, they make him angry. Perhaps it's a good thing, he thinks. He can use anger, probably. He can use it better than sadness, anyway, or despair. Those have their places. He recognizes and accepts this fact. But in this, this situation, he feels as if they are better set aside in favor of fury. Being angry, it keeps him focused. Focused Allen means Allen stays, right? Focused Allen means that the 14th has less room to grip and claw.

Or so he likes to think. Who knows? Maybe he's just using the "anger is useful" excuse as simply that—an excuse. An excuse to question, to be livid (at a lot of people, that list including but not limited to himself, Cross, and Mana), to feel something other than fear. Because, and he has to be honest again, he's terrified. Seeing that shadow in the mirror just beyond the piano, grinning sadistically and inhumanly wide solidifies everything. Solidifies that what Cross said—that he's the host to a Noah's memories, that he will lose his humanity to…to that thing and hurt someone he loves, that Mana knew—solidifies that it's all real and true and terrifying in scope.

He's never realized anything that shattered his foundations before, that shook him to his core. Not until now. Mana dying came close, and indeed, until now, he thought that the death of his adopted father was the most life-altering thing to have ever happened to him. But this? To find out that his entire life, or most of it anyway, has been a lie? That doesn't just cut, it mutilates. Like someone took Crown Clown's claws and sliced him into ribbons before putting the remains in a blender for a year.

Plunk, plunk! Silver-grey eyes glower uncharacteristically down at the inverted board as his fingers cease arbitrarily pressing keys. Appropriately, he ends on a sharp, sour note that reverberates through the room like some sort of auditory personification of the turmoil in his mind. He's not like this. He's not this bitter, not this angry, not this troubled. If one were to ask him, Allen would retort that he's content to leave all the brooding to Kanda, thank you very much—he'd rather be ready with a grin and a kind word than a frown and an insult. Life's so much more than sitting, glaring at everything that moves and scowling at everything that doesn't. Keep walking, Mana told him, and it's a dying wish he intends to keep to his own grave, however close or far that may be. But in that little nugget of advice, he likes to infer that Mana meant to keep walking with a smile (or as much of one as he can muster) because what's the damn point if he can't?

But…how much of what Mana said was meant for Allen, and how much of it was meant for the dead brother of whom Allen is apparently the reincarnation? He ducks his head again so he doesn't accidentally glance at the omnipresent shadow in the mirror, doesn't accidentally rub salt in the raw, festering wound that is doubt. He doesn't like doubt. It tugs at his sanity and makes him ask questions that would have horrified him to even fleetingly think a year ago. Such an identity crisis this is turning out to be, and he laughs bitterly at his own unintentional joke.

Who is he, after all? Allen Walker or the 14th? Who was Mana, really? And what is the God forsaken point to this war? Some familial spat blown out of proportion? A grudge? No matter how it's sliced, it's sickening and senseless. He's seen the souls of the akuma—this level of suffering has no place, war or not, soul or not, human or Noah.

Plunk, plunk! Another sigh. The quiet of the abandoned city engulfs him, tries to chase away his thoughts while also somehow amplifying them. As if in response to his distress, the birds that rhythmically flock around Noah's ark have disappeared to…wherever it is they disappear to here. He doesn't know. Actually, it's possible, all things considered, that his turmoil is the reason why the silence is so much more pressing than it usually is. It responds to him, to the will of the 14th's successor. Allen normally feels at home in the ark, comforted, but he's not really in the mood for that right now.

"I wish…I…" He sighs. He wishes for a lot of things. Cross' words ring again. He wishes there was a way, any way, to end all of this.

Just one way.

Timcanpy flutters in from outside and perches on his shoulder, a familiar weight. A weight Cross left him, with that recorded message that sounds far too much like a will for his liking. A shake of his head to dislodge the thoughts. Rain, he thinks. Some rain would be appropriate right now, wouldn't it? He wonders if it even can rain in the ark with a bitter chuckle that's more of a sharp exhalation than an actual laugh. The ark responds to his will, after all. To the Musician. With a grin full of self-loathing and desperation, he presses one more, solitary key. He's pleased to hear the thunder rumble immediately, to hear rain pelting the walkway outside the door, and then a screech—

…wait…

Allen's up and off the piano bench in a flurry of motion, wrenching the door open. Feeling the golden golem split his little "face" into a grin is not something he's expecting, nor is he anticipating the image that greets him. A girl, young, shorter than him and absolutely drenched from the torrents of water he just caused to be unleashed from the sky. He fights a wince at that, suddenly feeling a bit guilty. Her dark blue eyes are wide in something that's a mix between shock and utter terror, though he's not sure exactly what is causing both emotions—the snap weather change or him opening the door. Strands of coppery hair are darkened from the water and are gathered in damp ringlets at the nape of her neck, bangs plastered to her forehead. She's wearing a pair of black pants and a lime green shirt about three sizes too big, and it clings to her form instead of hanging limply off of it like he theorizes it should.

"Who are y—," he starts. He cuts himself off quickly, though, realizing there's a much more pressing and important question he needs to ask. This girl's identity can wait. Narrowing his eyes, he almost hisses, "How did you get in here?"

To her credit, she looks like she wants to reply. But she's frozen in place, looking all the part of a drowned rat. Her mouth opens and closes slowly a few times, sluggishly, like she knows the words but can't actually say them. She manages to rasp one syllable, and her voice is almost that of someone who hasn't spoken in weeks. Whether it's from disuse or a side effect of her shock, Allen doesn't know.

"I—"

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! It's faint, but an unholy screeching sound, an alarm almost, rings out. He doesn't think her eyes can get any bigger, but they do…

…and then she's gone.

Timcanpy flutters out into the rain, circling where the redhead had been. He wonders if he's imagining things, because the way the golem is holding himself seems almost triumphant. He also wonders if he's seeing things because a girl just vanished in front of him.

Drop! Drop! Drop-drop! Rain continues to pelt the abandoned city. Allen keeps staring at that one spot on stone where she'd been standing, that was drier than the rest but is quickly darkening with water.

What the hell was that?!

She feels like all she did was blink, and she's staring up at a cloudless blue sky that should not be there.

Let her elaborate a bit—she was going to bed. It's cliché, probably, all things considered. But that's that. She was going to bed. She has class the next morning, and it was actually a reasonable hour for once! Tired enough that she was out the second her head hit the pillow. Or, rather, she should have been. She's not. And she doesn't get it.

"The hell…?" Emily Huntington jolts herself into a sitting position. Her back vaguely aches in protest as she finds herself lying on a rather uncomfortable wooden bench, but it doesn't hurt like she's been there long. Not in the least. Her hair stands on end, particularly on the back of her neck, because she's not where she ought to be. Frowning, she pinches herself and jolts because it hurts. Dreaming? She can remember having lucid dreams before, but this…

The first thought that flies through her frazzled mind is "Greece", because the tile-like streets and white buildings are quaint and remind her of pictures of seaside Grecian towns she's seen during late-night, boredom-induced Google searches. Maybe it's not an apt comparison, but it's all she gets. The street she's on is abandoned, and there's an eerie silence. Too quiet, she thinks, shaking her head. There aren't even any birds. None that she can hear, anyway. That's supposed to be ominous, right? No wildlife? Emily gives a scratch to the back of her head as she twists herself to sit properly on the bench, glancing up and down the empty street. She humorously wonders if she's too stunned for the panic to set in, or if that part of her that tends to collapse into jelly in unexplainable situations is still convinced this is all a dream because she's supposed to be asleep, dammit.

Sleep… a glance down at herself reveals she's still in the yoga pants and t-shirt that she tends to use for pajamas. Bare feet, she also notes with a grimace, feeling the roughness of the brick-like tile under them when she stands up. This is going to be a bitch to walk on. She can already feel an uneven corner cutting into the arch on her left foot. Ow. Whoever came up with the rule that one can't feel pain in a dream was a liar, Emily grumbles.

Heaving a sigh, she looks up at the sky, turns around in a circle, looks left and right and left again, and basically tries to figure out where in the hell she ought to go. Sleep…well, Emily shrugs, if this is a dream, then she supposes she can go anywhere. So she picks the left, in the direction of some impressive tower, and starts (carefully) shuffling her way along. This whole place is actually kind of amazing. She finds herself proud of her imagination for thinking this one up. The town is beautiful, the buildings perfectly hewn out of stone, the sky just the right shade of blue, vibrant and gleaming. Gorgeous is an understatement.

The teenager takes a few twists and turns, just to see if anything about her surroundings really changes. Minor things—a potted plant on a stoop that wasn't there, a tower she hadn't seen on the previous street—but things for the most part are uniform in structure and aesthetic. It doesn't change the beauty, the girl thinks. Rather, it makes it more appealing in a way. Deliberate. And there is wonder to be found in purpose.

Shaking her head, she reaches her arms behind her neck to tangle fingers aimlessly in her messy ponytail as she walks. Random thoughts fly through her mind, if only to pass the time. Did she study for her AP psych exam like she meant to? She thinks she did. Halfway. She'll have to finish that tomorrow, maybe go over it again just to be sure. The library database updated, so there might be new articles to read. Speaking of articles, can she find that Durkheim excerpt again? There were points on it she was fuzzy about. A reread might help with that. What was it titled again? It was…was from The Division of Labor in Society, she remembers. Her school counselor had recommended it, preparation for the girl who intended on going into social sciences but is undecided on exactly which science.

Plop!

"Eh?!" She leaps probably about three feet in the air when something solid decides to land on her head. Hands catch in hair, and in flying up to feel what landed on her, rip out a few copper strands. Emily hears fluttering and the weight disappears, only for a flash of gold to shine in her peripherals and something spherical is suddenly in her face.

She blinks. It looks suspiciously like the Snitch from Harry Potter, except it's larger, has a long tail ending with a fluffy spiral, something like horns on the top of it, and there's a cross embossed on the front. It's…kind of cute, she thinks as her arms slowly lower. Definitely something her mind would dream up. Probably harmless. She hopes.

"And who are you now?" The girl doesn't really know what she was expecting the response to that question to be, but she does know for a fact that the thing suddenly gaining a body-splitting grin (complete with extra sharp teeth) was not it. Another blink, and she draws her hands closer to her body. Those teeth really look quite pointy. She's not keen on losing a finger or two, not that she feels the pseudo-Snitch would (deliberately) take a chunk out of her. Not unless she were to do something to deserve it. She's not quite sure how she knows that, actually—she just does.

Still, the redhead gulps, "You're…something else, aren't you?" The thing gives an experimental bob in the air, as if it was nodding, before it flutters off down a side street, doubles back, and then flutters in the same direction again. It takes a few repetitions before she comprehends the message it is apparently attempting to convey.

"You want me to follow you?" Another bob-nod…thing. She pauses to weigh her options. Yes or no. She must take a second too long—Psuedo-Snitch, as she decides to call it, suddenly breaks out in another grin displaying frighteningly sharp teeth, right in front of her face, and the decision is magically made for her.

Nodding almost frantically, dark blue eyes blown comically wide, she yelps, "O-okay! Okay! I'll follow! Just put those away, please!" Widening its grin for a fraction of a second, it complies and closes its mouth, leaving not even a seam behind. An energetic bounce and Psuedo-Snitch is zipping down the street again. Emily is quick to follow. Does her mind hate her, she wonders? Probably. Those teeth are going to haunt her nightmares.

"W-wait up!"

She still doesn't think it slows, but what it matters is probably very little. The thing doesn't go far, about three streets over and a block ahead, flapping in a circle in front of a wooden door that's been left ajar before slipping inside. She creeps silently up to it, wondering what the trick is that her subconscious is trying to play on her. Surely, that has to be what this is, right?

Plunk, plunk!

Tuneless, sour notes softly resonate from behind the door. A pale hand freezes where it had been reaching for the handle.

"…Piano…?" Murmuring, she can recognize that much. Not out of tune, but whoever is playing it isn't doing a very good job. Or, well, maybe it's just a side effect of her being tone-deaf. Dream, after all. A few more keys are pressed before she hears someone heave a heavy sigh. It elicits a wince from her, not because someone is sighing, but because of the weight behind it. That sigh sounds like it carries the burdens of a hundred worlds.

She deadpans. How depressing…

Another, final key is pressed. She's not expecting it, but practically milliseconds after the resolute chime resonates, the sky rapidly darkens, unnaturally quick. Emily manages to blink, missing the telltale flash before….

BOOM!

"EEP!" The shriek tears itself from her before she can even think to stop it, and she's suddenly being drenched in a torrential downpour that should not be possible. More thunder rumbles overhead, trying to mask the clattering from beyond the door in front of her. She barely notices it. Her limbs are trembling, eyes watery with adrenaline. Why, why, why would her dream make it storm?

And why is she not able to stop it?!

She can barely process that thought when the door is wrenched open and she's met with the most startling pair of silver eyes she's ever seen. It's a boy, around her age she'd guess. Taller than Emily by a handful of inches, though that's not much of a feat considering she inherited the short genes. His shock of white hair makes him seem older, as does the bright, vivid red mark running through his left eye.

It looks like a scar, but it's the oddest shaped scar if that's the case. A perfect, five-pointed star above the eye, a jagged line down his cheek, intersected by another line just under the lower lid. She shudders. If that cross line were just a tad higher…this boy's lucky he still has that eye, if a scar is truly what it is.

Psuedo-Snitch is perched quite happily on the boy's shoulder, grinning again. Sneaky little bastard, she wants to say, but the red-haired girl is chagrinned to find that she can't move. She's paralyzed, being soaked by the sudden thunderstorm. She finds herself unable to look away, unable to blink, barely able breathe. It's not shock—something else, but she can't name it. Another ominous flash and rumble before the boy's eyes, wide as her's, seem to clear a little.

"Who are y—," he starts, but clearly thinks better of the question and amends with narrowed eyes, "How did you get in here?"

But she can't speak. She tries, definitely; tries to protest that she doesn't know where here is, and this is her dream, dammit! She should be the one asking what he's doing here, what fucked up corner of her mind decided to place another person in this abandoned city that's chummy with Demon-Snitch over there. But she can't.

Because she can't move.

"I—"

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

She flies awake with a terrified screech. The alarm clock's loud, incessant beeping ringing, echoing in her ears is the first thing that Emily Huntington registers. Then the rain pounding against the glass of her window, low thunder rumbling in the distance. A passing storm.

Her hand fumbles with the button to switch off the clock. 6:00 am. She's breathing hard and heavy as she stares at the neon numbers with wide eyes.

What the hell was that?!

A dream, she's quick to think. Just a dream. Swinging her legs out from under the toasty warmth of the mussed blankets, she rises to her feet.

Only to freeze when something stings on her left foot. A groan is pulled from her. Did she step on a wood shard again? Sometimes she hates having a fireplace. Falling back to sit on the bed, a leg is propped onto the other to look at the offending appendage. She freezes again and stares in shock. No. That's not…

On the arch of her left foot lay a small scrape from a brick-like tile that is supposed to be a dream.

What the hell is going on?!

Final Words: Badum-tsssss!

I'm tired. Ignore me.

R&R!

~SurreptitiousFox