[A/N]: Hello, and welcome to the first chapter of Wires, an incredibly long story centered around Ruvik from The Evil Within and an original character. This will span a long length of time, from events before the game to ones after. Obviously, it is going to be AU, as I've changed the ages of Ruvik and Laura at the time of the fire, inserted an OC, and have no idea about the story after the game due to the fact that the DLC has yet to be released. Anyway, the main pairing is Ruvik x OC, though others are explored.

Disclaimer: I own nothing related to The Evil Within, nor do I own the lyrics to any songs that might appear. The name Alice Liddell and her family belong originally to Lewis Carroll, with her appearance drawing heavily from American McGee's Alice: Madness Returns. This is a nonprofit work.


"Mirror on the wall, frame the picture,

reflect this kiss to wish us all goodnight."

- "Goodnight", The Birthday Massacre

Slender digits trail across a faded photograph, leaving clear impressions in the dust that forms from the mindless negligence of grief. A family of four stares from the aging frame – a man, his wife, two daughters – and there is something mischevious about the gleam in the elder girl's eyes, the slight curl to the lips of the younger. All share sleek, dark hair, thick and gleaming in the glare from the camera's flash, yet, where the mother and younger have eyes that are so vividly green that they do not seem real, the father and elder share the same blue hues. Like father, like daughter. Like mother, like daughter. Three of them have one other, simple fact in common.

They are deceased.

Alice Liddell stares at the imprints her fingers have left in the dust, the ones of her idle hand tapping a mindless tune against the file on her desk. It is unbearably hot in the office she shares with her partners, especially for October, and, even with their personal fans on full and the window unit blasting cold air (when it isn't too busy dripping water uselessly; she's lost count of how many times they have complained and been ignored), even though they've shed their coats and loosened their ties, if they have one, sweat still pools in the hollows of their throats, tracks down their spines. The file, itself, is not particularly important. It contains information on a missing person's case she has worked since she was placed into this department, though the leads have long since dried up.

Across from her, Joseph Oda, one year her senior in age and three years in terms of the force, straightens his shoulders and sighs. Their office is small, nearly too small for the three desks they have crammed inside, but it makes it easier to swipe from someone else's desk when necessary. His glasses slip precariously down his nose, only for him to push them back, a gesture as ingrained in him as the almost rhythmical motion of Sebastian Castellanos reaching for his flask. They are scheduled to take a rookie, Juli Kidman, with them to visit a crime scene as soon as they are cleared by the lab techs to do so. Of the three, he was the most accepting of her assignment to them; Alice had been indifferent, Sebastian, irate. A team of three was unlikely enough, a team of four almost always unwieldy.

Sebastian glances up at the sound, eyes refocusing from the haze of whatever thoughts he had been tormenting himself with. Alice knows that, should she feel inclined to peer at the folder on his desk, it would contain all information relating to the death of his daughter and the disappearance of his wife. She has only ever offered her aid once. The hostility of his response had convinced her that to do so again was unwise. He reaches for his flask, scoffs when he finds it empty, and lights a cigarette instead, something that she unconsciously mimics. The two men catch the movement and say nothing. They have learned that she does not mean to do so, that it is as involuntary as the way her speech pattern reflects who she happens to speak to, that sometimes she tries to stop and cannot.

"About time, isn't it?" The words escape the oldest detective on a plume of smoke. Joseph nods, while Alice merely busies herself attempting to blow rings. "What are we looking at, again?"

None of them need a reminder, yet Joseph fills the void easily. "Double homicide, or a murder-suicide. There's not enough evidence to form conclusions yet. The call came in an hour ago when the landlady, who had gone to collect overdue rent, found them in their living room."

Sebastian nods, slants his eyes to the black-haired woman on his right. "Any thoughts, Liddell?"

She shrugs, seems to reconsider. "A murder-suicide seems unlikely, given what we saw earlier." Her fingers slip into her pocket to toy with a small container there, a tic that gives away the depth of her thoughts. "The wounds on the husband were inconsistent with a suicide; the angle was wrong, and the splash pattern, from what I've seen in the photographs, do not match the usual ones."

A shadow at the door alerts them all to the presence of Kidman; tall, even taller in her boots, with a stylish bob and classically pretty face, the woman is studying them in the way she has taken to since she arrived. It as though she is not learning from them, but rather observing them the way a scientist would potential subjects. Alice and Sebastian have confided their unease in each other. Joseph has made no move to do such, and, by the faint coloration that dusts his cheeks whenever the rookie is around, Alice doubts he will. She knows that expression well enough, had seen it on her own face and on the face of . . .

No. There is no time for that. Not now.

Sebastian grunts as he stands, fingers tugging at the knot of his tie until he is able to unbutton the first two clasps of his shirt. "Time to go. We still riding with that officer – what's his name?"

"Connelly," Alice supplies, and he flashes her a grateful look that lasts barely a second.

"Right. Connelly. You got everything you need, Kidman?"

The woman nods, and Alice notices with some irritation that she is shifting, eyes trained on the now-closed file on her desk. She slides it into the top drawer of her desk, slamming it shut and feeling vindicated when Kidman straightens, a scowl on her usually blank features. Joseph, as usual, is going over the points of the case with Kidman, Sebastian trailing after them as they leave the office. He pauses at the door, turns, finds Liddell sliding on the coat he and Joseph had bought her for her birthday last year.

"Coming, Liddell?"

He feels a familiar pang of sadness when her gaze meets his, laden with frustration and sorrow. Like her, he has made no move since their initial meeting to help with her personal case. He knows the pain of losing someone close to you, knows the helplessness that arises when nothing seems to fit together even though the evidence is airtight. Too good, artificial, and almost always a sign of a cover-up of some kind. Sebastian knows that the file contains information relating to a fire that claimed the lives of her childhood friends, just as he knows that she is convinced it was arson, though all evidence points towards an accident. Because there was no funeral, she believes they are alive somewhere, perhaps in a hospital as unknown persons.

The quiet tap-tap of her combat boots on the floor pull him back to the present. The two begin the trek side-by-side, Alice unconsciously lengthening her stride as he simultaneously shortens his, falling into a steady, comfortable pace. Even with the added height of her shoes, Alice, whose lean, slender figure makes her seem taller, is a mere 5'4" to his 6'; he has made a joke of resting his elbow on her head in the past, though now it merely amuses him to think that someone so small could inspire fear in so many of their co-workers. Viridian hues flicker up to his face, noting the amusement tugging at his mouth.

"Something funny, Seb?" The emphasis is drawn out, taunting. They both know that neither will bring harm to the other, no matter how angry they might become.

He glances at her, noting the way her lips, rosy without lipstick and of that shape that is not quite full, but nice all the same, are fighting not to turn up at the corners. "You tell me, Allie," he replies. "Something humorous about this to you?"

Alice checks to ensure that Joseph and Kidman are far enough ahead, pitches her voice low. "I didn't think a fish could live out of water." Beside her, Sebastian covers his laugh with a forced cough. Cold fish, that was how they had taken to referring to Kidman when she wasn't around. Cruel, yes, but their instincts, honed by years of misfortune, were too tuned to trust the rookie.

Other than Joseph's attempts to elicit conversation from Kidman, the remainder of the walk to the cruiser is quiet; each is forming their own conclusions about what the evidence will tell. Connelly, an older man who has never expressed any desire to be anything but a beat cop, is waiting for them in the car, cold air blasting despite the cool rain that falls. Joseph and Kidman slide into the backseat and, after a quick, silent battle of rock-paper-scissors against Sebastian that she loses, Alice joins them, crawling over Joseph to settle in the middle. It is not quite uncomfortable, though it is a little tight, and Alice glares at the back of Sebastian's head as he stretches out and makes a content noise. The bastard.

Connelly begins talking almost as soon as he has pulled out into the light traffic. His topics are broad, ranging from sports to old cases, and he seems content to continue chattering so long as one of them gives occasional acknowledgment. Tuning out the officer, Alice allows her mind to drift to the past, fingers once again stroking the box in her pocket. There had been four of them then, she remembers, three girls and one boy – the eldest two as bright as the sun, the youngest withdrawn, all deeply intelligent in their own ways. Her sister had been clever with people, she mused, able to make them dance how she wanted with a bat of her eyes or a gentle plea. The other had been as warm and kind as the sun. Lizzie had always said that Alice's intelligence was buried in the fact that she was simply good at everything she tried, and had always encouraged her to do her best. And the boy . . .

"Promise me, Allie? Promise?"

The crackle of the radio tugs her back; she shakes her head to clear the cobwebs as the operator announces, "All units, all units; 11-99, expedite cover code 3. Beacon Mental Hospital." Translation: Officer needs help. Extreme emergency at Beacon Mental Hospital. Use lights and flashers to expedite assistance.

Connelly is quick to respond. "184 copy; code 3. ETA 3 minutes." He is already turning on the siren, the flashers, before the operator responds, and is quick to turn down the road that will take them to the hospital rather than the apartment complex.

Another crackle. "Copy 184."

"Sorry, detectives." Connelly glances in the rear-view mirror, expression serious. "I know you're on your way to a case, but we're going to have to make a detour."

On her right, Joseph asks, "Sounds serious. Is it a riot?"

"Call went out just before I picked you up. Said it was 'multiple homicides.' Half a dozen units already on scene." As the operator begins to speak again, Connelly continues, eyes gleaming the way a spinster's would when divulging gossip. "Maybe it's the ghost of that doctor who went schizo and chopped up all those patients."

"That's not what happened." Alice and Sebastian share an amused look as Joseph straightens and leans forward. He has always loathed misinformation of any kind, and probably finds the older cop's conjecture insulting, in his own way. "Some patients disappeared. Some kind of scandal?"

"Still, gives you the creeps, doesn't it?" Connelly is enjoying this a little too much, Alice decides. An avid fan of horror films and novels herself, she nonetheless knows that it's better to keep such things away from the job. While imagination is good – key, in fact, to make some of the jumps that evidence may require – getting carried away can impair one's ability to focus.

At the word 'disappeared', Sebastian turns to face the three unfortunate souls jostling against each other in the back. "Joseph, you think there's a connection?"

"It's a possibility." A gloved hand raises, waves the infamous black notebook in the air. "I believe the records were sealed."

After the operator makes another plea for response from on-scene officers, Sebastian picks up the car's microphone. "Dispatch, this is Detective Castellanos in 184. What's the situation, over?"

"184, be advised. Some problem -" Static begins to corrode the connection. "- at Beacon Memorial - radio."

"Is there any –" He begins, but halts. A moment later, Alice understands why. A high-pitched, pervasive ringing has begun to echo from the radio; similar in pitch to the after-effect of standing too close to an explosion, but much louder, it seems to almost burrow into her ear. Or, perhaps, it is digging out, because, for one implausible second, it feels as though it is originating inside of her head. "God damn it!"

"Jesus!" A snarl from Connelly as the car momentarily swerves before righting itself on the road. Beside Alice, Joseph removes his glasses and shakes his head, yet Kidman shows no response, keeping her gaze trained on the scenery passing by. Alice rubs the bridge of her nose, applying minimal pressure to ease the slight headache that looms threateningly.

Almost as if he is distracting himself, Sebastian turns his attention towards the least experienced in their group. "Junior Detective Kidman, any thoughts?" There is something mildly mocking in his tone. This is a test, not a friendly inquiry.

Unfazed, Kidman meets his eyes in the mirror. "Nothing yet," she utters blandly, "I'm sure we'll know everything once we get there."

As she is finishing, Connelly pulls in front of the mental hospital's gates. Large, and wrought from heavy black iron, they stand as a barrier between the insanity of its inmates and the regular population. The building itself seems more like a manor than a hospital, with columns and large windows decorating the exterior. At the top, a large tower ends in something that almost resembles a lighthouse, from within which a bright beam swivels over the city – the hospital's namesake, it's beacon. Inscribed above the gate, beneath the emblem that marks all stationary and patients' uniforms, is the inscription Spes in Mundo Obscuro Pharus - "a beacon of hope in a dark world." Alice resists the urge to scoff, barely, as she crawls out of the car behind Joseph.

Already she can see the multitude of empty cruisers littering the parking lot in a ring around a central area that houses a stone recreation of the hospital emblem. The downpour makes her glad that she had the urge to tie her hair up that morning; its length would have made it a hindrance otherwise. She and Joseph move to stand closer to Sebastian. Joseph's voice is wary when he speaks.

"What do you make of it?"

Instead of a response, the eldest detective gives Connelly an order. "Connelly, contact Dispatch and let them know what's happening. Joseph, Alice, Kidman, you're with me. We're going to have a look around."

The gates are open enough that there is no need to do anything else with them; the four detectives pass through with ease. Sebastian pauses at the entrance, aware of Alice doing the same, and scans the area. It is unnerving, so many flashing lights and barriers wrapped with yellow tape bearing the words Police Line Do Not Cross, because it seems more as if, rather than being attacked or killed, all responding officers had simply . . . disappeared. There was no blood on the ground (perhaps the rain had washed it away?), no empty shell casings to mark the use of firearms. At his side, Alice sighs, glances heavenward, scuffs the ground with the toe of her shoe.

"Want me to check the cars?"

He nods, and she slinks off, walk graceful and lithe, to begin a quick search of each vehicle. She is puzzled to find that all spare ammo has been left behind. Surely, if responding to a call like "multiple homicides," the officers would have taken it with them? Especially since there was no indication of whether it was a single perpetrator or many working together. Some of the doors on the cruisers have been left open, something she has seen when a cop is forced to fire from the cover the car offers, yet there are no bullet holes in the metal, no indication of any violence in the surrounding areas. Only the oppressive emptiness marks that something has gone gravely wrong.

She rejoins her team just as Sebastian opens the main doors. The smell of blood, coppery and wet, wafts out, strong enough to make all of them pause. Through the crack, she spies outstretched hands and stained scrubs, crimson liquid already beginning to coagulate where it has puddled under the bodies. Sebastian grunts and covers his nose, Joseph halting a few steps behind, face pinched with the start of worry.

"Smells like blood," he says softly, pulling his gun from its holster.

As he goes to enter the building, Alice close behind, hand on the butt of her gun though she leaves it holstered for now, Sebastian nods. "Alright. Stay sharp." He pauses in the threshold, head turned to address Kidman, who is attempting to follow. "We're going to check it out. Don't let anyone else through the door."

Her protest is immediate. "I can be an extra set of eyes."

"We don't know what's happening here." His voice is firm, if not a little irritated. "You're our backup."

Inside, the reason for the odor becomes evident. Blood is splattered across the floor and furniture, spurts of it drying on the walls. Lamps, chairs, and couches have been overturned in a struggle. Some of the deceased were taken by surprise, wide eyes staring at nothing, still in relatively the same position they had been in before their demise. Others had tried to run, or fight, if the sprawl was any indication. Here are the shell casings, she realizes, scattered throughout, bullet holes in the reception desk and some of the walls. What had happened here? Who – or what, since she doubted any one person could have done all of this – had slaughtered these people? Why?

She follows Joseph, aware of the steady tread of Sebastian's shoes as he takes the time to fully explore the room. Alice is curious about the security footage, a notion Joseph shares, if his direction stays true. The door to the security office has been flung open, but the interior is free of the gore that decorates the outside. A man is slumped against the wall (had he run in here, hunting for sanctuary behind the sturdy door?); Joseph is at his side almost instantaneously. Judging by the coat he wears, he is one of the resident doctors. A nameplate on the left breast pocket reads simply, 'M. Jimenez.'

"Someone alive in here!" Joseph calls, and the heavy footfalls increase to a jog until Sebastian appears in the doorway. Alice has joined Joseph on the floor, fingers feeling for a pulse, which she realizes immediately to be foolish, as the man is mumbling fearfully, eyes focused on nothing in his shock. There are no wounds that she can see; a quick glance at Joseph reveals that he, too, sees nothing that would indicate physical trauma. A lucky survivor, then.

Sebastian kneels as Joseph stands, hand coming to rest on the doctor's shoulder. "Are you injured?" His tone is more urgent when he adds, "What happened here?"

" . . . Can't be real . . ." The doctor says, and, from his voice, it is apparent that he believes this to be true. His vocals do what his body is not, shaking, words tumbling in a staccato rhythm. " . . . Impossible . . . Ruvik is . . ."

"I've got him." Joseph is already returning to the man's side, his scanning of the outer room revealing it to be safe enough to ignore for the time being. "The security cameras might tell us something."

Alice follows his gaze to the array of monitors on a nearby desk. She chooses to stay near the doctor and Joseph, leaving Sebastian to peruse the contents himself. There's no true logic to the decision, and she will regret it later, but some inner working of her mind urges her not to move from her place, that it is safer to stay low and unnoticed should anything happen. The 'pop' of gunshots echoes faintly from the screen. A moment later, Sebastian jerks back.

"What the hell?" He mutters.

And that is when the impossible occurs. A man who had been nowhere near them before (they would have heard him approach, despite his lack of shoes, and she would have seen him due to her position facing the door) appears in the room, form wavering for a micro-second as though he has literally teleported there. The odd anomaly reminds her of the way programs had glitched in the film The Matrix, but there is nothing benign about the hostility of his stance, the coldness of his gaze. A warning cry bubbles in her throat; the man, perhaps realizing that she is what can truly give him away, is in front her so suddenly that she has no time to react as the ice pick in his hand flashes towards her face. There is a brief moment of pain, and then . . . Nothing.

Somewhere, Clair de Lune begins to play.