The window exploded in a shower of glass.

He didn't quite understand it when it came. He didn't realize the severity of what it could have been. Of what it was. He didn't realize that, this one explosion, seemingly no different then any other he saw, would mean the end of any world he'd ever known.

He worked through the decayed, charred renments of whatever the building had been.

He found the room, the floor buried under descarded lumber, splintered and broken. He saw it, at first a meaningless lump. Shards glistened under the overwhelming darkness, reflecting the shimmer of moonlight through the destroyed frame of the window.

Then he saw the blood.

Crimson, bright, even through the dark. Spreading around the red and green fabric, sticking it to his body like a second skin. There was no movement.

"No..." came a whisper. He didn't realize it was him.

His hand shook as he brought it foreward. Horror, fear, hoplessness, for he knew the answer before he got it.

Hand, flat on chest. Still no movement.

A liquad, brighter then even his costume, so simple in genetics. Belongs to me, belongs to you. Yet so fragile, so easy spilled, by even the slightest increase of pressure.

How is it, that something seemingly just as any other, can mean the difference, between life and death?

His hand lay on the unmoving chest.

Colors are as dangerous as what they belong to.

Body pale. Turning white.

Hair matted, still black.

Lips split, turning blue.

Blood spilling, always red.

His body is cold.

Heartbreak, a color in it's own.

Despair.