A/N: I don't know what I'm doing. I...THIS story demanded to be written because I made the mistake of watching YT videos of this game being played. I'm not really sure where this story is going to go. I just had to get it out of my head...I had to, people. Also, this chapter predates the start of the game. By how much? It's insinuated within this chapter. ...Just call me the queen of stories devoted to the random.

He flipped through channel after channel, listening to the thunder echo in the distance as the storm began to ebb away from the town. He listened for snippets, taglines, waiting…

"Tragic loss of life -"

Flip.

"Emergency response teams report - "

Change.

"...a witness reports seeing the car accelerate before allegedly hydroplaning -"

Sigh. Another flick to the channel he preferred anyhow. Only then did he allow himself to recline into the couch and listen to the baritone vocals of Ramon Santiago of WCVB:

"A community is shaken to its core! The town of Maple Bay, a peaceful sea-side town south of Plymouth, mourns the loss of senior Samuel Brightwell. Brightwell was driving home with friend, Felicity Dupree, last evening when his car suddenly spun out of control and crashed into the sea-side town's historic clock tower. Both Brightwell and Dupree – a rising junior and daughter of business tycoon Waylon DuPree – were rushed to Mariner's Memorial Hospital. Brightwell was pronounced dead upon arrival. At this time, DuPree is confirmed to be in intensive care. Representatives of the community – including Brightwell's youth minister, Joseph Christiansen of Bay Side Community Church, and North Ridge High School Principal, Trevor Morris, report a sense of grief and loss among residents – both Brightwell and DuPree known for being upstanding members of the Maple Bay community and leaders among their peers. Details concerning a memorial for Brightwell are forthcoming, but a candlelight vigil for DuPree has been confirmed for this Friday, 5 PM, at First Baptist Church of Maple Bay. Back to you, Monica..."

His fingers massaged his knees, brimming with energy as he rewound the broadcast and listened again...and again...and again. The images of flashing lights, neon 'Police Scene: DO NOT CROSS' tape bobbing in the breeze, EMTs rolling gurneys while hoisting resuscitation equipment, the car crumpled in front like a soda can… It turned his stomach into a circus. Calm down, he told himself, continuing to distract his thrill with the rhythmic squeeze and release of his knees. When they talked of the death of the boy, he found he had unconsciously slid to the literal edge of his seat. The girl. That was different. His chest tightened with a mix of grief, disgust and anger. Confirmed to be in intensive care. The words lumped in his throat, stomach...lower still.

Hearing a creaking echo around the house, he flicked the television off and jumped up from the couch. He had to get rid of this energy. But it was too late to call a babysitter...too sensitive a time to disrupt the neighbors. Moving from the living room at the jolting pace of a race horse held back, he stopped and stood silent in the kitchen, waiting for more creaking but nothing came for a solid fifteen minutes. Somewhat relieved, he retreated to his room to change – deciding upon a nighttime sprint to deplete energy he'd pent up since the fifth observation of the newscast.

Lucien Bloodmarch moved through a haze. So addled was the gray matter of his brain that he had almost left the house with one eye sans heavy liner, a different shoe for each foot and the wrong gauge in his left lobe. The look on his father's face each time he emerged, and subsequently retreated, to his room made his stomach knot. The unspoken, lingering question between father and son: If he couldn't even get out of the house in a semblance of himself – how was he going to get through the day? Damien spared him the torture of riding the bus and drove him. He had murmured an anemic I love you, too before escaping the car to a throng of peers and parents – all of whom seemed to silence their conversations and watch him as he trudged up the front steps.

Now, he cut the meandering crowds of the hallways with bumps of his shoulders and overall jerky motions of his body. He could hear them, saw them clumping together against their lockers and whispering to one another. A thousand, thousand whirring mosquitoes – all abuzz with the same, unbearable noise. It was a shrill chorus of voices entirely out of tune of one another, singing the same song his ears couldn't entertain. It was walking into language he had no tongue for, no conception of how to string together. Clusters of bodies hunkering together, mouths moving with the patois of the truly clueless, the rhetoric of those with half-truths and whole, pompous egos.

"Hey, Stoker..."

Lucien whirled around – the action entirely innate, of his own unconscious doing. He turned into the gaze of a hundred eyes – some judging, others brimming with compassion. There hadn't been anyone there...no voice, at least not one anyone else had heard. His brain was playing an automatic tune, a melody he expected at some point in his daily routine. Grimacing, he jerked back around and made the slow trudge to his first period Math class. He tried to block it out, but the word kept popping up louder, harder, colder… He almost cursed out loud when a hand clapped his shoulder and brought his forward motion to a halt. Mr. Vega's bespectacled face peered down at him with all due sincerity and condolences Lucien hoped he wouldn't say out loud.

He hoped a little too much.

"Lucien, I...wanted to pass along - "

"Thanks," Lucien cut him off hard, "But not necessary, Mr. Vega."

"Lucien..." Vega started again, but the building tension in Lucien's body must have been warning enough.

"Like I said," he answered through gritting teeth, "Appreciated. Not necessary. Now, I best get going before Mrs. McNulty starts my year off with an early demise to my father's confidence in my behavioral constitution."

Vega released his shoulder – probably marveling at the string of words Lucien managed to assemble – and he continued onward. It was as though someone else had captured his vocal chords and composed the lyric because Lucien, while happy to consider himself snarky, caustic and even professionally irascible, could never be counted among the poetic or politely witty. That was all...He winced. It was the domain of others.

He entered the classroom and everyone became aphasic – unison necks whiplashing themselves to peer his way. It made him sick. Movement out of the corner of his eye made him angle his attention and he felt a slight wash of relief. Tony Harrington – fellow goth and friend since sixth grade – bee-lined for him and tossed a lazy arm about his shoulders, nonchalantly leading him to the back of the classroom as their peers eyed them before returning to previously scheduled conversations.

"Man...dude...I'm sorry," Tony whispered.

Uhg...Lucien groaned inwardly but made no alteration to his facial expression as he plunked into his seat and slid his books onto the formica desk top. "Yeah. Y'know...whatever." And he shrugged his shoulders as if to say C'est la vie.

"Yeah. Life's a bitch and all that bull," Tony rambled, showing just how uncomfortable and oblivious he was at expressing emotion and sentiment. Lucien found it more palatable than Mr. Vega's attempts as solace – no offense to the English teacher.

"Mph," Lucien uttered in agreement.

"S-so...I mean," Tony swallowed, tinkered with a pen, "A-any change or news?"

Lucien had been eyeing a worn newspaper clipping he'd taped to the interior of his binder, feeling gravity drag down the corners of his lips while his brows furrowed together. Better Tony than anyone else, if he had his druthers on who would bring it up first. His thumb, with its black lacquered nail, ran around the outline of a picture smack in the middle of the news article. He lifted his gaze to his friend, noticing how quiet the room had once again become and mass curiosity of everyone else encroaching on their private conversation. Before he could answer though – the stout frame of Mrs. McNulty broke into the room, her singsong chortle of a voice welcoming them to the new school year and wonderful world of Mathematics.

"I hope you all had a stellar summer vacation!" She beamed as she popped the top off a dry erase marker and began scrawling some beginning-of-the-year team building exercise across the board. "Who wants to share something exciting that happened?"

There was an automatic, collective sucking of air from the class at her question and Lucien watched the woman's brow quirk when she turned to zero hands raised and averted gazes. He couldn't blame her for not noticing his presence, as his habit was to slump as far into the seat as physically possible and wait out the end of every period he found intolerable – which, based on his academic career, had been nearly every single class to date. When he straightened and lofted his hand into the air, he swore the woman turned green.

There was a natural hesitance in her voice when she recognized him but not his name, "Y-yes, Mr...Mr.."

"Bloodmarch, m'am," Lucien answered for her, with all due respect he promised his father he would attempt to muster, "Lucien Bloodmarch. I would like to share something that happened on my summer vacation."

There was eager creaking from around the room as bodies turned in their seats or craned their necks to give him full, ravenous attention. Mrs. McNulty appeared to gulp before granting him the slow nod to proceed.

"My dad and I visited London because he loves Victorian sh-...I mean, Victorian stuff, my grandparents attempted to lure me into a theme park vacation and..." Lucien had noted the deflated atmosphere when he started speaking, wanting one punch at their disgusting, passive-aggressive prying. "Oh, yeah. And my best friend was in a fucking car accident. I wouldn't call that exciting, but everyone's talking about it so I thought I would just throw that out there."

"O-oh my! I didn't realize...I'm so sorry. Mr. Brightwell, I hear -"

"Not Brightwell," Tony cut her off with sharp criticism.

"Oh! My apologies," the poor woman fumbled.

"Felicity...DuPree," a girl from the front of the class – a bookwormish type – uttered.

Lucien nodded his head. "She's in a coma."

Joseph stared at the screen of his laptop, chin resting on interlocking fingers – the perfect picture of concentration and frustration. He had been asked by the lead pastor and elders to give the sermon for Samuel's memorial service scheduled for later that evening – but the words were hard coming. And not for lack of trying or knowledge. Beside the computer rested a notebook scribbled with verse after verse of Scripture traditionally utilized for funerary purposes. He had even gone so far as to organize them in the order by which he wanted them delivered, noted particularly brilliant or poignant personal statements with red asterisks. But the words weren't coming. Nothing slid off his fingertips. In the three days since being asked to draw something up, all Joseph had was the ink-riddled paper to his right.

Groaning, he leaned back in his chair and felt it tilt backward. He rubbed his face with his hand, felt the stubble on his chin tickle his palm and reminded himself he needed to shave before he left the house.

Brightwell had been a good kid, a solid member of the youth group – passionate about all things maritime, sports and cars. However, Joseph could count on one hand the number of personal conversations he and Sam had in the ten years he had been serving Bay Side Community Church. The boy came from a good family – working mom and dad, two younger siblings Joseph couldn't recall at the moment, good morals, ethics...all the components for the quintessential American, nuclear family. He'd been a star athlete – baseball, if Joseph remembered right because he knew it wasn't football – good student and even gone on a few mission trips. Christiansen supposed he could hem and haw about that – part and parceling the Scripture in where it fit, emphasizing his own sense of loss and grief.

He glanced at the ornate, nautical clock on the opposite wall and frowned. He had four hours to figure this out. Enough time to take a constructive break and check on the state of affairs with his own home. Before retreating into his office, the house had resounded with a chorus of sniffles, whimpers and childish sobs sometimes countered by the bite and bark of his eldest, who had taken to finding objection in every little thing asked of him.

"Chris, eat your cereal."

"But I hate this kind!"

"Chris, brush your hair...it's become a rat's nest."

"So?! I like it that way!"

"Chris, don't talk to your brother and sister that way..."

"Why not?! They're stupid!"

Everything with him had become stupid, hateful, lame or pointless. Joseph attempted to be patient with the eight-year old, though Mary had surrendered quickly to her temper – easily expressing and giving into her frustration on more than one occasion. When she wasn't blustering around the house, snaking jabbing criticisms at anyone within earshot, she was zealously driven to her volunteerism or drinking or both. Joseph had heard word from other parents at the playground that Mary had gone above and beyond the adoption quota at the animal shelter – practically forcing animals on people by playing the grief card. Hearing that, then listening to her callously justify the action as saving other lives, had tightened his stomach with anger.

"Daddy..." came the soft voice of his daughter from beside him.

Joseph uncovered his face, surprised by the moisture on his skin. He wiped his face one more time to be on the safe side before righting his chair and looking down at Christie with a soft smile. "What is it, sweetie?"

"Um...When is sissy going to wake up?" The four and half year old looked him full in the face with huge, gray eyes – inherited from him – full of optimism.

"Oh, sweetheart, I..." Joseph felt his throat tighten. He noted shadowy movement behind his daughter and lifted his eyes to the doorway where her brothers stood, one uncharacteristically sheepish and the other resentful but just as hopeful as his sister. The quiet around them all meant the baby was sleeping and he was grateful for that. The quiet lasted a long moment as he fought for an explanation that would make sense to them, that would do no more harm than had already been dealt.

"I heard Jared's mom tell another mom she isn't ever going to wake up..." Chris's voice – usually prickly – broke the silence as a soft, choking whisper. His bitterness seemed to melt for the topic at hand.

That seemed to shock his sister, as Christie whipped her head toward her older brother and shrieked, "That's a lie! She's going to wake up! Daddy, tell him to stop lying!"

"I'm not lying, stupid!" Chris shot back.

Joseph sighed heavily, "Kids...please."

"You shut up! Daddy, he called me stupid!" The little girl's eyes were filled with equal parts rage and sorrow.

Joseph stood and collected his daughter with one arm – ending he argument between siblings with a single gesture. Chris said nothing more, just crossed his arms and huffed though his father could see the glint of stubborn tears in his eyes when he turned his head a little. Christian rocked from one foot to the other in a self-soothing rhythm, glancing slowly between elder brother and twin. Unless speaking in unnerving unison with Christie, Christian was their quietest child. He let his mischievous actions speak on his behalf more than words but both Mary and Joseph had found when he chose to speak, and independently at that, there was a depth to his words that belied his years.

"Margot's big sister said it's called a coma. She said it's like a big, long nap people take when their head gets hurt," his voice lilted as his stare landed on his father. "Is that right, dad?"

Joseph nodded solemnly. "Yes, that's about right."

"So...sissy hurt her head?" he asked, a little more hesitation in his voice this time.

"Yes, she did," Joseph answered before leading his children out into the living room, which looked like a nuclear war of juvenile proportions. Toys exploding over couch cushions, puzzle pieces scattered over table tops and spilling onto the floor, Legos the shrapnel of battles between siblings, and aggressively scribbled pictures torn to agitated shreds littered the floor like mourning confetti. Joseph brushed mess out of the way and took a seat, moving Christie to his lap before taking a deep breath in. He hated having to say it all again...remember it all again. But as he looked into his childrens' pleading eyes, he could not help but remember that night.

Five nights ago, the peace of their home had been abruptly disturbed by the intrusion of sharp knocks on the front door. That woke the baby up, after Mary had spent an hour coaxing him to sleep – something she had not done since he was six weeks old. The infantile screams had woken the twins up, and their subsequent, vocal curiosity had dragged Chris from his room with an irritated, sleepy snort. And all before Joseph had the opportunity to open the door. He had expected a neighbor, perhaps even a drunk and beligerant Robert Small, but not the police. It still sent a shiver down his spine when he thought of it.

"Sir, are you Joseph Christiansen?" they had asked and he had nodded, stupefied by their presence. Then they had asked if they could speak with he and his wife alone. Joseph recalled his stomach freezing then falling into a cavern within himself as he called his wife onto the front porch with the officers. He had closed the door to keep the children inside. The baby had been subdued to a fatigued, annoyed grumbling.

"I'm sorry, but what is all this about? Why are you knocking on our door? We haven't done anything," Mary's anxiety came out as nothing less than raised hackles.

"No m'am, you haven't. We're here because..." one officer had started then looked to his partner, as if unsure whether or not to proceed.

"Because…?" Mary had snapped.

"Mary," he had said, "Let the men do their job. I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation."

"Sure there is, dear," she had jabbed angrily, "And I'm waiting for it."

"Mr. and Mrs. Christiansen, you were listed as emergency contacts for one," the other officer paused to glance at his pocket-sized notepad, "Felicity DuPree. Is this correct?"

There was a mutual sentiment of shock between he and his wife as they had looked at one another with confusion and immediate concern. Not trusting his wife's tongue, Joseph had both answered and asked a question, "We know Felicity. She's been our babysitter for years...practically a member of the family. I don't think we were made aware we were her emergency contacts. Is something the matter?"

"W-what's this all about? Has she done something? Have you contacted her parents?" Mary asked, more subdued and mindful.

"No, m'am – Ms. DuPree has not done anything warranting police involvement. Yes, we have attempted to reach Mr. and Mrs. DuPree with no success."

"Somehow that doesn't surprise me," his wife muttered, another edge building to her voice.

"Is Felicity okay?" Joseph had asked to keep the conversation on what was important.

The officers shared another glance between one another before the first officer spoke once more, "Unfortunately, sir, there's been an accident."

Professionally, deftly, the police officer explained how there had been a car accident. How Felicity had been riding in the passenger's seat, how she had been rushed to the hospital, how they had no more information at this time other than doctor's were doing their best to save her life. When they suggested one of them go to the hospital, to wait in the stead of parents who should have answered their phones by this point, Joseph had jumped at the obligation – not that Mary would have done it. Hospitals brought out the worst in her.

He and his wife – well, actually he more than he and Mary, who had been unable to keep her composure once the police officers left– had done their best to explain to their three older children what they had been told, why their sleep had been disturbed. Not that it did much good. They heard what they heard and it had been nothing but tears and tantrums since. He had stayed long enough to get the twins calmed down and in bed. Chris, whom they had both expected to simply slide back into his room, turned out to be the worst. He had started crying, refusing comfort and though he did go to his room – it was soon followed by the sound of wrathful destruction and angry sobs.

By the time he arrived at the hospital, it was well after midnight and there were no updates available to him. Though he was sure the police were continuing to try, he took it upon himself to call Felicity's parents. Or, rather, parent. Joseph didn't know Waylon – had met the man all of twice and neither occasion was a pleasant one. Audrey DuPree was another matter. Not that she and the Christiansens were close, but Joseph had more interaction with Audrey because of the nature of Felicity's relationship to them – and due to the fact that Audrey was the parent Felicity lived with. Audrey was a woman of industry and, like his own wife, a lush with a penchant for drinking heavily after sealing corporate deals for the company run by her ex-husband and his family. Audrey's parents lived in town, were long-standing members of the Maple Bay community, and had VIP seating at Maple Bay First Baptist. Joseph wondered, while listening to repetitious dial tones, why they had not been listed as emergency contacts.

He left Audrey a vehement message, instructing her to first call the police officers – whose cell numbers he recited from a business card he had to fish out of a back pocket – then immediately call him. Somewhere within the message, Joseph made the suggestion that informing Felicity's father could be of some benefit. Locking his phone, he replaced it and the business card to his back pocket and proceeded to casually stroll the waiting room. There were few others inhabiting the place; a testament to how little the emergency department was required by the population of Maple Bay. Those that were sharing Joseph's company tonight were either slumbering in various uncomfortable, body-slouching positions or distracted by media of differing taste. Interested in neither social media nor news broadcast, Joseph awaited a buzzing from his britches, some blood relative of Felicity, or news from the doctors to relieve him of his tentative post.

After striding the space enough times to make himself sick, Joseph determined it would be better to go with the herd and plunk himself into a chair for the time being. He occupied a space away from the scant few littered about the room, cell phone on thigh and eyes alternating between its screen, the television and the door separating the hale from the infirm and injured. Everything around him resounded with the sound of sterile, oppressive silence. It was lulling in a humdrum way and the next thing he knew, someone was shaking his shoulder. He must have dozed off because there was a kink in his neck and when he checked his phone, it was shy of three in the morning. Yawning, Joseph turned bleary attention to the woman who had disturbed his rest. Dressed in surgical scrubs, there was no doubt who had come to speak with him and that realization jolted him alert like a fresh shot of adrenaline.

"Are you Mr. DuPree?" the doctor asked tentatively.

Joseph realized there was no one else in the waiting area. Made her question pretty moot had he really been Felicity's father. He shook his head, his voice coming out hoarse from fatigue, "No. I'm Joseph Christiansen. I was listed as an emergency contact." He lifted his cell phone, as if offering proof of his past endeavors, "I tried calling Felicity's mother. Left a voice message but I haven't heard back from her." He double-checked to make sure, in his slumber, Audrey had not called him or texted or otherwise attempted to get his attention.

"Oh...Well. Um. This is certainly unheard of," the doctor said, sliding a hand over her surgical scrub cap and removing it. It was decorated with hearts and the alternating flat lining and spiking of EKG monitors. "You see – we don't have a consent for you. Status as an emergency contact allows for notification purposes only. If we don't have the consent, then..." she sighed and scrunched the cap between nervous fingers, "I can't share protected health information without either written or verbal consent from a parent."

Joseph frowned. He understood. The man had four kids. He was not unaccustomed to the multitude of HIPAA consent forms parents signed off on for their children to receive medical care. He had just never considered he'd ever be in a position where he wished he had been an identified party with whom a doctor could share information. "I see. So...you can't tell me how she's doing?"

The doctor shook her head. "Legally, no I cannot." There was a silence between them as the doctor looked around the room. Now she frowned, excused herself and strode to the nurses station for a brief conversation with the nurse before disappearing into the small office behind the station.

Joseph saw the doctor borrow the phone beside the nurse manning the station, but had no clue as to whom she could be calling. Sighing, he tried to avoid the feeling that he had wasted hours of his life and forced himself to become both anxious and uncomfortable for no reason. He rubbed his eyes, muffled another yawn with a fist and distracted himself with his phone. The doctor returned about five minutes later with a marginally more satisfied expression than when she departed. Joseph adjusted himself in his seat and slid his phone away. Regardless of what the woman was about to tell him, he expected he would be leaving the hospital. Though he was eager for news concerning Felicity, part of him was desperate for the comfort of his bed.

"So, I spoke with the police officers," the doctor started, "To confirm if they had been in touch with the parents. Seems they were finally able to reach the father and he is en route as we speak. From the sound of it, they were satisfied to reach one parent and left it up to Mr. DuPree to inform her mother at this point in time."

Joseph winced a bit at the thought of Waylon DuPree striding through those doors any minute. If Waylon had it his way, Joseph would be barred from the situation and have to scrap for news the same way any stranger might. "Well, that is certainly an improvement from five minutes ago," he responded.

"Vastly," the doctor said.

"But you still can't tell me anything, can you?"

"No, sir. But I will say this… If a patient dies, we are no longer bound by firm bonds of confidentiality. Obviously, we wouldn't shout it from the rooftops, but in situations like these – rare as they are – if an emergency contact was the only person available, they would be told the patient had died so that individual could inform the parents, family members, etc… In the event the surgeon does what surgeons do and cannot be available for the family, you see," she explained. Saying everything without saying anything in particular at all.

The great knot in Joseph's chest relaxed and he breathed a sigh of relief. He nodded, stood and thanked the doctor with a firm shake of the hand. They parted ways – she retreating back to the ICU or wherever her next patient was, if she wasn't returning to Felicity, and he to his car, to his home.

It was the next evening, after getting less than six hours of sleep, learning of Sam Brightwell's death in the same car accident and attempting to distract three anxious and upset children when Audrey DuPree called him. He was in the midst of forcing himself to lose at Sorry with his kids when the cellphone blared off – startling all of them. To keep from waking Crish, Joseph had all but pounced the phone. Audrey's sobbing voice was the first thing he heard and all his hopes from the pre-dawn hours vanished.

"S-she's in a coma! Th-th-they don't know if she'll ever wake up!"

A/N Pt. 2 - So...yeah, that just happened. Parts of this, like Joseph's paternal side, were not easy to write and just because there are gaps, chinks and areas of insinuation (particularly with that character) with how some of these people operate. Also, the concept of medical confidentiality is more foreign to me. As a therapist, I know the limitations of my brand of confidentiality and supposed what they could be within a medical emergency situation. And, for those who have played or watched the game, realize some things are vague. I hate vague. Like...where the heck is Maple Bay supposed to be located?! How old are all these kids?! BAH. After much scrutiny...And I FINALLY figured out this all takes place in Massachusetts.