*It goes without saying that The Originals and every other film, book or franchise that will be mentioned in this fanfiction belong to their respectful owners. I claim no ownership or association to any of the many "universes" that will be visited in this fanfiction.*

A QUICK WORD FROM DAYSTORM: Hello, everyone. This is my second The Originals fanfic and because of that I felt it important to take a moment and explain that the similarities between both stories will be minor. I started writing 'Edge of Tomorrow' months ago when I hit a small snag in 'A Red Sun Rises', just to get my mind off the problem for a while.

That said, 'Edge of Tomorrow' will not run parallel to 'A Red Sun Rises'. This story will be written completely independently of what's happening in ARSR. The character Rachel, and Elijah's soul-bond to her, do not exist in this story.

Also, where ARSR features Elijah as my chosen Original protagonist, this story will star Niklaus. I find that people in general have a very difficult time figuring out the Klaus-character and thus stick him in the extremes of his personality without ever finding that balance. So this here is my chance to show Klaus the way I see him – an incredibly complex, layered character. Nothing is as black-and-white as we would like to believe, and for all his faults two things can be said about Klaus: He is sane (end of season 2 notwithstanding), and he would move heaven and earth to protect those who matter to him.

Cheers!

DayStorm

Prologue

THE BLACK CUBE

If you're reading this . . . congratulations, you're alive.

If that's not something to smile about, then I don't know what is.

– Chad Snugg

My name is Amanda Warren and this is my story.

What I have to say is not something anybody will believe. That . . . that needed to be said. No one with even a lick of sense would take what I write here as truth, but that doesn't make me any less honest. I lived it. I was there. And as bad as things got, as bad as they could have been, I find that I can't bring myself to regret what happened to me.

There is so much I wish I could change. I was so scared and yeah, there were lots of things to be afraid of in this crazy, chaotic adventure I never asked for. So much of what came next happened only because I got swept up. But even thinking back on the worst of it, I don't think I would have changed anything. If I could have, I mean. If I were given a second chance. Because I wasn't alone. Through all of it, I had someone there with me. And really, that's what made the difference. I was not by myself.

The journey would have been intolerable without him. I don't think I would have even survived. Though to be fair, the journey was sometimes intolerable with him, too.

Niklaus Mikaelson.

But it doesn't start there. No. My story begins more than a week prior to meeting him. The Original fictional character with which I would share a journey.

It began, for me at least, in a banquet hall.

It was late. Past midnight. I knew it would be dark outside, but there were no windows in the wide room. Why should there be with crystal chandeliers to bathe the entire elegant space in a pale golden light? Music hummed from the speakers, having replaced the live musicians hired for the event. I could see them from my table. Four twenty-something men and a younger woman carefully packing away instruments and extension cords.

Most of the guests had left at this point, though a few lingered at their tables or by the buffet picking at the leftovers. Finger sandwiches and candies and little cakes. I was the youngest person still there, though there had been others my own age around earlier. People I recognized from school. Some I recognized from the dozens of other fundraiser-parties I'd attended this past year. I behaved myself, smiling and making conversation with those others sharing our table and clapping politely during the speeches.

The endless speeches, where I sat up straight in my chair and pretended to be paying attention while in my head I was already planning my dinner from what I'd seen the caterers setting up at the back of the room.

I did feel very much like a performing monkey in heels.

Admittedly, that's what I was. The only reason my parents brought me to these functions was to look pretty and make them proud. The perfect daughter.

Right. As soon as the fundraiser was officially ended – and I was sure I wouldn't get in trouble – I'd gone to the woman's washroom and changed out of my lovely blue-gray evening gown and too tall heels. I'd brought regular clothes with me, all neatly folded at the bottom of my school book bag and left it in the backseat of the car while I was busy making my parents look good at the party.

So now I was wearing comfortable ankle boots, which felt cool and soft against my feet after the rough straps of my heels. Skinny jeans. A soft cotton top and – just to annoy my parents – a green windbreaker jacket. Of course my mom and dad spotted me sneaking back into the banquet hall and both felt the need to give me separate but identical disproving frowns. They couldn't do more, though, as they were both busy. Speaking with a man in an expensive suit and shiny gold watch. He looked important. So I just smiled like I didn't know what I'd done wrong, and wandered back to our table to sit and wait.

I didn't know how much longer we were going to stay, and I was tired.

A votive candle floated in a crystal bowl full of water and translucent rocks. My hand hovered over the single flickering flame. Every white-cloth-covered table contained one of those centerpieces. I wondered how close my hand could get to the flame before getting burned.

"You look lovely. Didn't know they celebrated casual-Fridays at these things," a voice broke through my numbness. It wasn't so much the sarcasm in the tone that made me turn, but that the voice itself was achingly familiar. It was one I hadn't heard in ages, but I would know it anywhere.

"Ethan," I breathe in disbelief.

I turn my head, hardly daring to hope and there he was. Tall with a shock of dark hair and eyes so blue they were like a piece of the sky broke off and landed there. Coloring his irises. Dressed in a pair of faded black jeans and a v-neck sweater, he looked good. Better than the primped and polished socialites I'd spent the evening trying not to embarrass myself in front of.

Ethan Warren. My brother.

Two years older than me, Ethan had successfully escaped our parents' unwavering drive to make us conform. To mold us into what we were expected to be. Disgusted by their unabashed attempt at social climbing, Ethan had himself emancipated when he was my age – seventeen – and moved out of the house. From there, my brother was unofficially disowned. Our parents had wanted nothing more to do with him.

It had been more than a year since I'd seen him. My beloved big brother.

When I was little, he was my hero. Now that I was older, things were different. I just wished I had Ethan's courage. I never could have done what he did. Break free from our parents' snare and find my own way. I wanted it to be okay to be who I was instead of the girl I was expected to be. But seeing what they did to Ethan – completely shutting him out – had scared me into submission. So it was ballrooms and glittery dresses and canapés. My life.

Although since Ethan's emancipation I was also of the opinion that my brother was an idiot. Who emancipates themselves at seventeen? One more year and he would have been free, anyway. Recognized by law as an adult. But then, that was Ethan. Fearless. Impulsive.

He'd had enough. It was time to get out.

My arms went around Ethan's neck before I was even aware of coming off my chair. I threw myself into his arms, and he caught me. Strong and warm and familiar. His shirt smelled of smoke and the night, making my heart clench with longing. I wanted out of this quiet banquet hall with its artificial lights and warm air, only slightly stirred by the ventilation humming from discrete vents in the ceiling. The delicate clink of champagne glasses from the few still-occupied tables.

Oh, no.

I pulled out of my brother's arms, eyes widening. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Some might think so," Ethan said with a tilted smile. He nodded towards the podium, where our father stood talking with the event coordinator.

"They'll lose their minds if they see you crashed the party," I told him, as if that was something that even needed to be said.

Ethan's response to that was to tuck a trailing curl of hair behind my ears and say, "Party is over. Who cares?"

Who cares? They did. I closed my eyes, inwardly cringing as I imagined the scene. Our parents were not above calling the police on their own son to report a trespasser. Especially since Ethan was no longer considered family. At home, World War III would erupt at the dinner table if my brother's name was mentioned even in passing. I learned very quickly to only ever remember him in the privacy of my own thoughts. Never out loud.

"I wanted to see you," Ethan said, after a few seconds of tense silence. "How're you doing?"

"I . . ." I fumbled, my mind churning for an appropriate response.

Ethan nodded, once. He knew.

I swallowed hard and blurted, "I've missed you!"

I did. I really did. I missed him so, so badly this past year but the words nearly caught in my throat. As if I were confessing to something no one was supposed to know. I guess I sort of was.

A slow smile twisted Ethan's expression. I thought I saw regret, there, but Ethan just took my hand and tugged. Drawing me closer. I went willingly, standing toe-to-toe with my brother. Having to tilt my head to look up at him. Without needed to saw a word, he turned my attention to the mirror-panel set into the wall beside us. A large pane of reflective glass.

Ethan and I had always been close. It surprised me to see how much we'd both changed in that year apart. He'd filled out. Shoulders widening. Jaw squarer than I remembered, though he seemed leaner. Thinner than in my memory. There was a hardness in his gaze that wasn't there before. The look of someone who was used to taking care of himself.

I changed too. Maybe it was only because of the man standing next to me but I thought I looked softer. Medium-tall. Lean but not skinny. Pale, with only the slightest flush remaining from a daytrip to the beach weeks ago. I never could figure out why I didn't tan. I burned. I healed. I stayed pale.

But seeing the both of us, Ethan and I together like this, was a shock after so long apart. Nobody could tell just by looking at us that we were even related, never mind that we were siblings. It was like we didn't share any blood at all. Ethan was dark, azure eyes. I was light. A slender blond with eyes that were a smoky sort of blue that sometimes turned gray in the sunlight.

"Family matters," I said, quietly. To myself. To him. I don't know. The words slipped out without my permission and Ethan just smiled. Our parents might have thrown him away. But we still had each other.

"I can't stay for very long," Ethan said, ending our moment.

Of course he couldn't. I offered a hesitant smile and told him, "I'm fine. Really."

"No, you are not," he ground out, startling me and sounding far more frustrated than I think he intended. He waved a hand, encompassing the huge banquet hall around us and the white-cloth tables and the stupid champagne fountain I'd snuck a drink from earlier in the evening . . . solely because I wasn't allowed. "You're as strangled here as I was. God, Amanda. How can you breathe?"

Strangled.

Perfect word for it, but of course Ethan understood.

"One breath at a time, Ethan," I said softly. "I endure."

"You deserve better than that," he told me. "You shouldn't have to just sit pretty and endure."

Temper snapping, I lowered my voice and shot back, "What exactly do you expect me to do? Ethan. Just up and leave?"

Like you did.

I wasn't quite angry enough to say it, but it was implied. And Ethan heard me, loud and clear. The wall came down, shadowing his eyes and I was truly afraid that I might have pushed too far. Actually, I was sure I had. Ethan shifted his body away, putting distance between us.

"I might not have had the courage to stay, Amanda," he said coolly. "But at least I had the courage to leave."

Tears stung sharply, tightening in my throat. Shame. I shouldn't have implied . . . Ethan was braver. He always had been. Of the two of us, Ethan was the one who deserved better. He was right. He'd had the courage to leave, to break free. What was I doing?

"I only came to give you this," Ethan added, taking my hand and crushing a folded piece of paper against my palm. He sounded so angry, so hurt, but his touch hadn't been rough. "It's my address. Phone number."

His phone number? I looked curiously up at him. Ethan's eyes were hard. "I never abandoned you, Amanda. If you need me, I'm here. Call. Come over. Do whatever you want. But know that I'm here."

Gratitude swelled inside. I could have cried. Thrown myself back into Ethan's arms and laughed and thanked him and welcomed my big brother back into my life. I wanted to beg him to take me away with him right then. But of course, I didn't do any of that. I smiled up at Ethan, hoping he could tell how much it meant to me that, even though he was angry and hurt by my carelessness, he still gave me this little slip of paper.

And, just like with my careless, unspoken accusation he heard me. He heard what I didn't say.

Like when we were little, he released his temper on a heavy sigh. We were good.

"I've got something else for you, if you want it," he said. "Found it in the parking lot, on the ground like someone put it there."

"Wonderful," I quipped. "So when whoever comes back for it . . ."

"I didn't steal it," Ethan was quick to insist. I smiled and he shook his head, pulling the thing he'd found from his coat pocket and holding it out for me to see. I expected Ethan to have found some little trinket. A nothing object, like an earring someone lost or a kid's toy.

I did not expect a cube.

It was very simple. Just a black cube, about the size of one of those square alarm clocks. But right away I saw what had drawn Ethan's attention. This, whatever it was, was not just a block left in a parking lot. It looked important. Valuable, even.

Intrigued, I took the cube from my brother without even asking if I could see. He let it go, and stuffed both hands in his pockets. Watching me with a small smirk, like he knew this would interest me.

The cube was heavy.

Much heavier than its size accounted for. I ran my hands over the six smooth sides, fascinated by the texture. It was like glass against my skin. Except that the cube was black-on-black. Jet. Onyx. Obsidian. I didn't know what to call it. It was the sort of dark I would imagine from a cosmic black hole. Light could not escape it. The color was unsettling, actually. I felt my eyes straining, trying to work out what they were seeing but it really was like I had a chunk of a void in my hands.

The sensation was so strong that it actually threw my perspective for a second. I had to look away to find my balance again.

"What is this?" I asked.

Ethan shrugged. "No clue. But look what happens if you press on the sides."

"Which sides?"

"Doesn't matter," he said. "Just put your hands on either side of the box and hold onto it for a sec."

I did, feeling a flicker of surprise at the immediate humming that moved from the box into my hands. I stared down at the depthless black surface of the box and there, right before my eyes, a burst of silver lights sprayed out from the exact centre. It was beautiful. Like stars. The humming quickened, vibrating to where I thought maybe I was being lightly electrocuted. My pulse skipped.

Then, as if rising to the surface from the bottom of a deep well white lines appeared. They rippled a little, as if they really were floating on water. It was eerie but so, so cool. I kept looking, unable to bring myself to look away. Every second that passed, the little white lines would change. Ticking to a new pattern. But as I watched, the lines twisted, changing shape altogether to become squiggles. I frowned, the idea that these lines might have been some sort of writing having just occurred to me. And the squiggles – which were completely different from the lines – were some other form of writing. Another language?

The squiggled became pixels. The pixels trembled and, as I watched, they became numbers.

I blinked.

0-0-15

I glanced quickly up at Ethan. He was looking, too. Interested. Uneasy. "It didn't do that before."

"Do what?" I asked.

He said, "Count down."

Wait. What?

I turned my attention back to the glowing white numbers floating in a sea of silver stars and saw he was right.

0-0-12

0-0-11

0-0-10 . . .

"Ethan," I said, very quietly. "Say you didn't bring me a bomb."

"It's not a bomb," he said, just as quietly. Not wanting to be overheard. I noticed he didn't sound one-hundred-percent sure.

Not a bomb. The box was heavy. It hummed. Did bombs hum? I didn't know. I didn't think so but what do I know of explosives?

The numbers kept ticking.

0-0-4

0-0-3

By every right, I should have let go of the box. Put it on a table or on the floor. I might never know why I held on to it. My eyes fixed on those numbers. Heart hammering with trepidation as I watched what I thought was a bomb counting down to detonation.

To this day, I don't know why I did it.

0-0-2

0-0-1 . . .