Vector pulled away his bloodied hand from the shards of glass. He looked around his room. Every frame was destroyed. Unique differences here and there were trivial to him. They were all the same. His father, himself, smiles, shards, and blood. All fit that description, but one; the one being a picture set on the back right corner of his desk. It was a picture of his supposed-enemy Gru, Gru's daughters Margo and Edith and Agnes, and himself. No, it wasn't real. Who would be stupid enough to believe or even hope that that photo was real? Shortly after the moon incident, Vector had spent hours on that one little rectangle so that it would come out just right.
Vector went to his escritoire, pulling out a gold key from his pocket with a handle shaped like a heart. He removed his desk chair from its rightful place and pushed it to the right. He then opened the lowest drawer on the left side, "Coconutties taste horrible," and a false bottom slid open silently. Vector placed his hand on the revealed scanner which beeped and glowed green. He closed the drawer and kneeled before the desk so the drawers almost left him claustrophobic on either side even though the small space between them was 6 inches away from himself. "Videogames are a stupid waste of time," he said, and in the area between the drawers, within holographic lines materialized a small wooden box with variously detailed carvings that was obviously cared for, looking almost new, though ancient. "Thank you," Vector, now quite notably out of character, whispered to no one in particular. Removing the box that fit lightly in his palm, he placed it on top of the davenport, pulling the aforementioned chair behind him so that he could sit. The key still in his shaking hand, he lifted it to the gold keyhole, stopping when he was about to turn it. He always treated the various objects inside with great care, and quaking, bloody hands, as well as left-over bits of clinging glass were no means with which to handle such precious items, especially the delicate ones. Blinking his realization, he looked behind him at his once white room, now painted with a red trail that told the story of the last few minutes from the first picture frame he destroyed all the way to the box he chose to not open. Vector stood up, his chair rolling back behind him, only to brace himself on unstable hands that clung to his desk. He felt in his head that he had time to utter either, "Box, return," or "Computer, emergency." Choosing the former, he felt the dizziness pool behind his droopy eyes that barely saw as his precious box sunk slowly through the top of the desk which immediately rematerialized in the momentarily empty space. His last thoughts before smacking the indestructible fortress of a desk and landing unceremoniously on the floor in front of it were of his beautiful family: a father and four beautiful girls, including himse- herself.
...
"What is this? Where am I?" thought a person with no name. His short hair that would otherwise hang in a bowl cut around his head was now strewn this way and that as he lay on the floor, coming to. The boy's throbbing head lead him to lift his hand to investigate. "Mmph!" the disoriented person groaned softly as he flinched. The slightest feather of a touch to the wound on his head hurt maliciously and the miniscule vibrations it sent through his hand were worse. Lifting his right hand against the blinding ceiling light above him he pulled it right in front of his face, squinted, and was taken aback at the torn flesh and caked blood littering his knuckles, one of which was almost completely bare, white bone, spots of blood being the only cover. "D... D-d-deeea-ear, god," he forced out, being perfectly capable of speaking, but suddenly having to think hard about words. The only digit spared of severe damage was his thumb which had some almost scabbed over cuts. Lifting his left hand next to his right, he found he could not decide which was in worse condition.
Understanding how grave this was, the boy lay his hands next to him again and used all his strength to lift as much of himself as he could off the ground, ignoring his disgust at his obvious lack in figure and fashion -Dear god. What was that... thing around his waist?!-, and brought back his elbows to brace his upper weight on his forearms. Realizing the necessity of his hands to push himself forward so he could stand, he then lifted his hips and turned so only the right one was on the ground and brought his left forearm to his right side, proceeding to shift around feebly until he lie on his stomach. Feeling pain, lack in air, and exhaustion the orange clad being forced himself onto his knees. "Okay. O-onnne... mo-o-ore." Bracing his wrists, the boy with no name pushed off and stood shakily on his feet, his lack in strength almost getting the better of him, so he put his wrists on his knees, panting heavily as his body crawled with sweat. Lifting his head and looking around, squinting, he slowly lifted himself straight, not moving too quickly lest one of his knees give in. Carefully taking his first step... he immediately slipped on something, just barely catching himself on the desk that he had apparently been next too all along.
No longer willing to be cautious with his hands, since, judging by their intense throbbing, it was too late for that, the boy scrambled his feet back under him, clinging to the desk with all the power in his arms, hands, and, yes, knuckles. Regaining what little composure he had, he turned to look at what he'd slipped on. "G... glasses? Glasses." he confirmed the word, then realized, "Glasses!" Stopping himself half way as he eagerly reached down, almost falling, the boy slowly bent down, one mangled hand still on the table he assumed was his, he finally reached them. Pulling back immediately he put the spectacles on his nose, locking his elbows as he let his weight go on his numb hands that in turn pressed against the once white surface of his table. His head hung while his hands and everything else was clear as day. ... The boy found his glasses fogged at the heat his eyes radiated then sprinkled with tears. Finally finding some strength within himself, the boy took a closer look at his desk and found that there were older, bloodier prints of fingers and palms. They were part of a trail that twisted from the desk around the room to various picture frames and some furniture. A glimpse of something he felt was very important slipped away from his thoughts, but somehow left him with the impulse to look at a certain part of the davenport. ...the back right corner. "..." He choked briefly on a gasp, slowly grasping his mouth with both hands in awe. ... "Gru," he thought. "... Margo. ... Edith. ... Agnes. ..." Eyes widening, h- she remembered. "VICTORIA!"