Disclaimer: I don't own Victorious in any way.
A/N: I meant to post this yesterday but got caught up with other stuff. This is probably going to be one of the darkest fics I have or ever will write. The idea belongs to Invader Johnny. Warning: This story will contain graphic material. If gore upsets you, then you might not want to read this.
Otherwise, enjoy.
Chapter 1
Wasteland, 2022
Her eyes open, a bizarre silence bringing her out of a deep sleep, and she rolls onto her side, her eyes searching the room. When she's sure there's no one in her presence, she sits up and holds her head in one hand. Nightmares once welcomed have become a form of torture, and she knows she must rid herself of that pain. She's become an empty shell, a creature of evil, dictating the balance of life and death, deciding who lives and who dies.
A scream shatters the peace and she hears the familiar footsteps nearby in the hallway. Three knocks on the door and a male voice. "This morning's execution waits for you." He's accepted this fate, being nothing more than a messenger, a pawn in her games. She doesn't know why she keeps him around, his face being a constant reminder of what she's lost, but maybe that's the reason. Besides, she needs someone she trusts, and he's the closest thing to a friend she has since The Day. No one had ever expected this to happen, the transformation caused by a simple snap. "Tori? Are you awake?"
She's irritated that he said her name as he did ten years ago, but she can't be angry with him. "Yeah, Beck, I'm up. Go away." She hears his footsteps as he leaves her alone with her thoughts, and she slips out of bed. She takes note of her appearance in the mirror, her once bright glow a dark outline, her eyes nearly red with bloodlust instead of their former cheerful chocolate brown. Her face bears two scars, memories of before.
Turning away from her reflection, she dresses quickly, the black comfortable and respectable to her demeanor. She felt like a skeleton, the typical picture of death, but she never was one to follow the crowd.
Another scream fills the silence and she leaves her room, going downstairs to find those she once counted on. The now-depressed redhead, deprived of happiness, sits on the couch, jumpy with anxiety, nervous that Death will take her next. Her eyes are fixed on the floor in front of her, her hands folded in her lap. She barely speaks anymore, aside from answering Tori's questions, terrified that if she speaks out of turn, it will be the last thing she does.
Sitting opposite of her is the awkward, curly-haired brunette boy, his hand void of the old, sarcastic puppet and replaced with a stump, courtesy of Tori Vega. He never speaks, and Tori really doesn't know why he's alive anymore. It isn't that she wants him dead, just not in her presence. But the boy does have his uses.
In an individual chair is seated her former best friend, his arms crossed and the distant look in his eyes, hope remaining dim through them. Tori acknowledges it, accepts that he may be looking for a chance to destroy her, and she's prepared for his attack. They've become enemies, but she hasn't found herself able to execute him.
There's a girl in the middle of the living room, her arms tied tightly behind her back, none other than Trina Vega holding her on her feet. Tori approaches her sister and the next victim, reaching toward the girl and touching her face. She has an uncanny resemblance to a dark-haired girl she once knew, but this girl is not her. No, she is never returning to Tori, and the half-Latina knows that. Tori holds her hand out by her side and feels the icy feel of the metal staff materializing in her hand.
"No, please," the girl begs. Tori eyes her, momentarily shocked that the girl dares to speak, her voice familiar. No, this girl can't be. She looks to her sister, who seems to be just as confused, although more toward Tori's behavior than about the girl. Tori shakes her head. She's letting the memories take over, clouding reality. She raises the scythe, feeling the others look away, and smirks as she slices downward toward the girl. There's one final scream before the girl drops to the ground, nothing more than a lifeless corpse.
Trina's eyes meet her sister's before she turns and leaves the house, a false obedience in her. Tori turns to the room's other occupants and silently orders them away, save Robbie, his eyes on his stump of an arm. Cat and Beck leave instantly, Andre lingering behind to make his hatred toward Tori known before he follows.
Tori looks to Robbie, the awkward boy avoiding her gaze at all costs. "I need you to do something for me," she tells him in barely a whisper. He glances up at her, his eyes curious. She has never told him directly to do anything for her, instead sending Beck or Cat to him with the message. "I need you to keep an eye on the others, especially Andre and Trina. Something may be going on and I want you to tell me everything that happens between them. If they speak to one another, if they even come in contact…I want you to tell me." He nods and leaves the room, and she looks around, memories weaved through this house like spider webs, silver threads of the forgotten past tangled in the walls.
She can never forget The Day, that godforsaken day that she never wants to remember, but she can't rid herself of what's been done. She's tried many times, only to receive agony.
The woman crosses to the window and stares out across what used to be Los Angeles, a wasteland now, houses burned to the ground and the earth split open after a series of earthquakes. Tori has no doubt in her mind that there is a resistance, waiting for their chance to strike, possibly led by Andre or Trina.
Today is the tenth anniversary of The Day and Tori Vega has much planned. Her eyes rise to the blackened sky, the blood-red moon the object of her attention. All of this is her doing, her reason to forget, her blood thirst. She's going to make it a Day everyone will remember and fear. And when she's through, there will be no one left to change anything.
She will succeed.