A.N.: The prologue has nothing to do with Johnny C.

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|Prologue|

"Andy? Andy!"

Thick, dark grey smoke billowed through the corridors. Every wall, every ceiling, every cloud of smog was filled with flecks of ash and burning embers. Already, half of the house was consumed by the smoke and fire. It lapped at the walls, peeling wallpaper, burning through paint.

"Where… where are you, Andy?!"

The room was choked with smoke, and the heat was so intense, it began to turn the doorknob red-hot. Somewhere in the house, frantic footfalls rushed up the stairs. In the back of the room, by the bed, fire crept up from the other side. The bed caught aflame, and a lone teddy bear began to blacken, plastic eyes and nose melting.

"Sis! I'm coming, I swear, I'm almost there!"

"Get me out of here! I don't wanna die, Andy!"

The grey smoke turned an extremely dark black. It was greasy, oily, and a sweet smell began to fill the room. As, as if something in the house was being cooked. Or burned.

"I, I can't… I can't breathe, Andy…"

"Shit! The doorknob is too hot! Hold on, sis, I'll try to kick the door open! Get back!"

The door absorbed the shock of the kick. Another kick. It absorbed it again. Yet, as the incessant pounding on the door went on, and the fire began to lick at the wood, it started to give. It weakened, and splintered, and suddenly burst open. Somewhere, part of the house collapsed. The black, oily smoke doubled in intensity, almost blinding.

"Sis, oh God… Sis, breathe! Wake up! Come on, sis!"

The house groaned, its supports becoming weaker by the second. A grunt of effort, and then two figures, large carrying small, flew out the burning room. All around them, the house began to dismantle. The sound of a ceiling caving in echoed in the roar of the flames, and the stairs creaked, almost unable to support the weight climbing down them. Flames leapt up at the figures, singeing hair, burning skin, eating cloth. The heat was so intense; they couldn't sweat. Unbearable pain, pounding at their skulls, feet blistering on the hot floor.

A burst of fresh air, the black, greasy smoke rushing out on either side of them into the sky. Grass collapsed under blackened feet. The larger, having just enough strength, lowers the smaller to the ground. Leans in, listening in vain for breath, the fire still screaming behind them. No breath. No strength to save. To resuscitate.

The cold grass and earth came up to meet the larger's face. Embraced by the cool night air and soft ground. Too tired to move. Too tired to stay awake.

Darkness.