Author's Note: This is what I like to refer to as impulse writing. Its where I write on a whim without revising, so there will be grammatical error. Each part will be written in a different point of view; Katie, Hayden, Michael or Randy. This is not 'fanfiction', as it is meant to be to be on this site. Even so, please read & review at your leisure. I would greatly appreciate it. Thank you. :

Katie's POV

There was a stillness to the air so unlike what I was used to as I made my way down the cobbled alley.

There was a stillness to the air so unlike what I was used to as I made my way down the cobbled alley. The only light available was coming from a dimly lit street lamp giving off a dull hum and flickering every now and then as insects partied around it. As unwelcoming as it seemed, especially as it bathed hoards of winged demons in warm light, it was like a beacon of hope in the distance, and I was determined to reach it.

I could feel warmth rolling down my right arm and over my left hand, which was grasping the offending wound as tightly as it could in an effort to stop the flow of blood. The pain radiating from that one point on my body was completely crippling me, so that even my feet were having trouble in keeping a steady pace. My head was throbbing but the migraine felt minimal in comparison to the way my right hand currently felt. Maybe it wasn't the worst agony I could have felt, but it seemed so at the time.

When I stumbled out of the shadow of the alleyway and into the stale light of the street, I had to blink several times to focus my blurring vision. I could see, as well as hear, my breath leaving my parted lips in staggering white puffs. Was it cold? I couldn't feel anything beyond the pain of my arm, which seemed to make my blood run hot in my veins. My only thought was repetitive and determined: Get to the Strawberry Duck.

Something told me that if I could just reach the dilapidated wooden doors of that London pub, I would find some sense of security again. It didn't matter to me how anyone might react when they saw me. All that mattered was that I was hurt and needed to be with someone familiar. I felt frustration at the deserted street as I continued on; wasn't London meant to be some busy hotspot? I felt betrayed by all of my prior expectations of this dream world.

I pushed my left shoulder against the door of the pub, hoping that it might be open so that I could just...fall through. No such luck. I wasn't surprised--this wasn't exactly my lucky day, after all. I rested there for a moment, winded from fear more than exertion. I could hear the muffled banter of people on the other side of the door as my head fell against it, just out of my reach.

"Help me."

While I had clearly meant it to be a cry, it only escaped as a broken whisper. My throat felt dry, hindering my ability to speak for the moment, which was hardly helpful to the situation. I don't know how long I remained that way, helplessly propped up against the door, silently begging for someone to find me. All I know is that the blood was dripping slowly from the tip of my middle finger, rolling down the peeling green paint of the door and finally gathering on the cement just beside my foot.

He'll find me. I'll be okay, it's just a cut and he'll find me and fix it.

I was comforting myself with these thoughts when the door I was using as a prop burst outward, throwing me back forcefully and sending me sprawling on the harsh cement. Now I could feel the cold. It was spreading from the tips of my toes and making a steady journey upwards, and while the offending couple's laughter died and they took in my appearance, I couldn't move. I was paralyzed to the place, perhaps because I was afraid that they might pass me by. I wanted to be seen, even while looking like the unholy mess that I was. I wanted to be saved.

"Shit, are you okay?"

He was leaning over me with this intense furrow to his brow, his eyes not showing compassion but intrigue. This wasn't my savior, but perhaps he could take me there. I opened my mouth, desperate for the strength to simply speak and yet nothing would come to me. He reached out to touch my wound and I cringed so prematurely he never reached his goal and instead retracted his touch. His girlfriend or, to be more accurate, the girl he was taking home, was looking skittish. I could almost feel her discomfort as she hugged herself, her eyes darting up and down the street.

"Let's just get out of here, James." Her voice was uneasy, like she'd done something wrong and was feeling certain that someone was about to find out about it. "Please, I just wanna go."

"Help."

My lips moved. That was at least a start, right? James shook his head at me, looking back to the woman before pushing to his feet once more. I knew at that moment, hope was lost. He wasn't any kind of hero. All he wanted to save tonight was a pair of that girl's panties to prove that he'd scored her to his mates. The click of her heels on the pavement died away a few moments later and the silence returned along with the despair.

I lay there, slightly curled and cradling my injured arm like a baby; moving it hurt so badly that it blinded me. I dared to move my foot once and came inches from allowing darkness to swallow me whole. How could something hurt this much? It was just my arm. I shouldn't feel this ill. My legs should have been fine, and yet I couldn't stand. Something was so wrong with me, I was afraid to explore the options. I watched far too much television, and I would have come up with something far worse than what it probably was.

By this point, I was shivering so badly that my teeth were chattering. If someone else didn't exit the pub soon, I would certainly have to start considering the benefits of welcoming unconsciousness. The only thing saving me from completely blacking out was the paranoia of being found by the wrong person. God knew I couldn't take much more agony. Not tonight, anyway.

Open. Open up, you fucking door. Fucking OPEN!

I growled. The world was failing me! I couldn't understand why no one was coming out or why no one was on the street. Nothing made sense and everything felt thick and strained, including the blood drying on my goose-pimpled arm. How much longer my sanity would last, I didn't know. It was probably already gone and I was too f-cking insane to recognize its absence.

"Please," I managed a whisper for the first time in what felt like ages, "just open."

And it did.

"Fuck."

My eyes were closed but I smiled. It was him, and I could relax now. I just barely felt his arms around me, gently lifting me into safety, before everything went black at last. There was a security in his arms that, even when broken and confused, offered me peace enough to forget the pain and simply sleep.