A/N: Okay.

I lied again.

I'm sorry! Just hear me out.

A few days ago, I did not go to school, because a water pipe burst, flooding the building.

So, sitting at home, I tried to write the next chapter of "Separate Ways".

But I couldn't do it.

So, instead, I decided to use my computer to entertain myself.

I watched "The Blair Witch Project".

I am now terrified of closing my eyes to sleep.

And so, the glow from my computer illuminates the room, chasing the monsters to the far corners that still hold some essence of the shadows, waiting for me to turn out the light, so that they can emerge, full force, and bombard me, imposing on me their awful wrath-

Or something like that.

Now, I am on a horror kick. And this story was born.

This can be taken from anyone's perspective, really. I never specify exactly who this is.

Also, I don't know how many members of the League there are in the show, but I read somewhere that there are about 67 total, so that's the number I'm working with.

The clock on the wall reads 6:30.

I count down the seconds in my head, listening closely to the labored breathing outside my door.

The seconds stretch on endlessly, and I wait, anticipating what could happen in between now, and when the clock changes.

Suddenly, I am jolted by the lack of noise. The breathing has stopped.

In the next instant, the clock changes to 6:31.

Damn.

That son of a bitch actually did it.

It has been exactly a week, and, if the lack of breathing outside my cell is any indication, the last member of the Justice League has died.

The list showed up a week ago. A simple piece of paper, somehow finding its way to the main hall of the Watchtower, listing names and dates, titled: "Let the Games Begin".

No-one knew what the list was, but it was ominous. Without any known indication, everyone realized that it was bad.

We just didn't know how bad.

Everyone in the Justice League and their protégés were on that list. Everyone, that is, except me. So I became the one to blame.

Everyone started interrogating me, asking, no, demanding to know what I knew.

But, the truth was, I knew nothing.

I still know nothing.

Why was I the only one not on the list? Why was I the one to be spared?

The first time I tried explaining, though, we were interrupted. Hawkgirl had sprinted into the room, face pale, eyes wide, the picture of complete horror.

She brought news.

So, then, we found out what the dates were.

I don't remember the first victim. It was some minor member, someone nobody really knew about, or cared about.

Some members tried to brush it off, sure, they weren't that powerful, accidents like that happen to everyone, and they were in over their heads.

And that worked for everyone.

That is, until it happened again.

Two in one day, now, that got people scared.

So imagine how people felt when the first day was over, and the death toll hit twelve.

That night, I was allowed to go home. The League was in too much of a frazzled state to tell me otherwise.

But the second day, no-one let me out of their sight.

And, by the middle of the third day, when the body count (except that you couldn't really call it that, some bodies had never been found.) was at thirty-two, they locked me up.

And there I stayed.

Until now.

No more than a minute had passed since the person outside my door had died when I heard the door click open.

I rushed to the door, hoping to catch a glimpse of the person who had single-handedly taken down the entire Justice League. However, when I got there, the mysterious murderer had disappeared, along with the body outside the door.

The sight outside was gruesome. The blood on the walls and floors acted as shadows for the passed, dancing along, watching and waiting. For what?

For me.

And I swear they moved.

My first step outside was in a pool of partially-dried blood. It pulled at my foot, imploring, wanting me to stay.

You can't leave.

You're a part of this, too.

We're all in the same boat.

Don't jump out. You'll drown.

I walked along the halls, checking every room, opening each of the bland, gray doors, peppered with blood, each one the same as the next, hoping against hope that maybe, maybe someone was still here.

No-one.

Without an idea of what to do next, I returned to my cell, the place that had been my home for the past few days.

I trudged through the hallways until I reached the cells. Like the dorm doors, each of these was bland and gray, and, if it weren't for the fact that there was an abnormally large pool of blood outside mine from the last victim, I probably wouldn't have found it.

I placed my feet in my old footprints, walking back the way I had come. I turned to my door, preparing to return to the only clean place left in this now-ghostlike facility.

I opened the door, but before I went inside, something caught my eye. I looked down the hall, the part of the hall that I hadn't gone down, and saw footprints. Fresh, too.

I was studying these footprints, not wanting to think of how they came here, when something clanged.

I turned around, ready to run into my cell, escape from this awful living nightmare, but instead, I ran into the door.

A message was scrawled in blood, something that had just happened.

I WON.

A/N: I'm not exactly sure how I feel about this story. It went kind of slowly, and sometimes, I couldn't think of the right way to put things.

Review, please!