"Well, that worked out a lot better than I'd intended," Cotton quipped, still grinning. He started walking closer, and Sydney instinctively backed up. "Mickey was a good guy, but that insanity defense was just ridiculous. No one would have believed that. Besides, I don't want to be infamous. I want to be famous—a good guy, a survivor, a hero."

"Why on earth would anyone look at you like a hero?" Sydney demanded, backing up until she hit the wall. Despite her best resolve, she was shaking. "You killed all those people!"

"No, Mickey killed all those people," Cotton corrected her cheerfully. "Just like, ultimately, he killed you. I tried to save you, but I couldn't. All I could do was finish him off… leaving me the sole survivor. Everyone loves the sole survivor, Sid."

"You're crazy," Sydney breathed.

Cotton's grin disappeared, his eyes darkening. "Crazy?" he repeated, his voice rising. "Crazy? Is it crazy to want some sympathy, some attention after being locked up on bogus charges for a year? Is it crazy to be resentful that everyone believed sweet little Sydney Prescott over me, even though there was NO REASONABLE EVIDENCE? Is it crazy to want to be the hero for once?" He was shouting now, still coming closer, and it took all of Sydney's willpower not to crumble against the wall.

"Cotton, please, let's talk about—"

"SHUT UP!" Cotton roared, pointing the gun at her threateningly, and the blood froze in Sydney's veins. "You've said your piece for a year. Now it's my turn. Okay? Is that okay with you?"

Sydney nodded quickly.

That seemed to appease him a little, and he relaxed, the grin coming back. "Now, the way I see it, this is going to be a tragedy with a little redemption thrown in," he explained, leaning one hand against the wall next to her as he continued to gesture with the gun. "After a year of fighting to clear my good name, I'll finally do it—even going as far as to try to save the woman who accused me." His eyes flicked to her eagerly. "That'd be you, Sid. Who could resist that narrative? I'll be on Oprah next week."

"No one will believe you," Sydney said quietly, desperately hoping to reason with him.

Cotton laughed shortly. "There will be no one else to believe," he replied. "There will be no other witnesses. And, you know, it's kind of fitting, really," he added, tracing her jaw with the gun. "I mean, you called me a murderer when I wasn't. And after I murder you, everyone will call me a hero."

"Please don't do this."

"I like it when you plead, Sydney," Cotton said. He rested the gun against her collarbone, pinning her to the wall. "It's kind of a turn on." He ran his eyes down her body, then leaned forward to whisper in her ear. "I fantasized a lot about you in prison, you know. What I wanted to do to you when I got out, what you looked like naked, all that jazz." Sydney felt his fingers slide up her hip and over her waist, slipping underneath her shirt, and she tried not to shudder. "You kept me company a lot during those long, lonely nights. I wonder if the reality is as good as the fantasy."

Sydney bit her lip, trying to block out his groping fingers. She had to come up with something fast. Suddenly, it came to her—a crazy idea, but better than nothing.

"You know, Cotton," she started hesitantly, "fifteen minutes of fame doesn't last very long."

"Yeah, well, it's lasted pretty long for you," Cotton snapped back.

"Nobody remembers the survivors from massacres of disasters," Sydney pressed on. "The sympathy dries up really quick when another juicy story comes up. But people remember the heroes, if they're smart. You're not a hero if you just survived."

"So what are you saying?" Cotton demanded. "There's not really a way to be a hero here, Sid. Everyone else is dead."

"They don't have to be," Sydney replied. "What if… what if you saved me from Mickey? Huh? Imagine the news coverage we'd get. A man who was wrongly accused and thrown in prison ends up saving the girl who accused him from a real murderer. That's gold."

Cotton seemed to seriously consider it. "It does have a certain ring to it," he admitted. "But I'm not stupid enough to think you'd go along with it when there isn't a gun to your throat."

"You're the one who's stupid if you give up this perfect P.R. opportunity," Sydney answered, her fear making her bold. "This is Hollywood blockbuster movie material. It'll star Tom Cruise and Julia Roberts. We'll be on every talk show on television. We'll be on the cover of People."

"So, maybe you like that spotlight after all, huh, Sydney?" Cotton asked, his grin slowly returning. "I knew you did." A glint started to shine in his eye, a glint that made Sydney suddenly even more uncomfortable than before. "But why stop there?" he continued. "It could get even better. We could fall in love. We'd be the next Richard Gere and Cindy Crawford. When the publicity finally died out, we could have a big heartbreaking divorce."

Sydney's breath caught in her throat. Things were snowballing a little too far. But if that's what it took to walk out alive, so be it.

"That's a great idea," she replied, forcing herself to sound excited.

Cotton looked a little taken aback that she had actually agreed. "What? Really?"

"You're right, that'll get us way more press," she said. "We can ride that wave forever."

Cotton studied her warily. "Prove it."

Now Sydney was confused. "Prove it?"

"Show me that you'll stick to your end of the narrative. Show me that we'll be partners."

Realization dawned on Sydney, and with it a sick feeling deep within her gut. She knew what he was asking, and her innermost being rebelled from giving it. Not to him. Not to the man who had murdered Derek and all her other friends. It would be a disgrace to them. But what would be gained from her dying on that hill?

So she put a hand on Cotton's hip to brace herself, stood up on tiptoe and kissed him. Feeling his lips against hers made her skin crawl, and she pulled back after only a few seconds.

"Now that was nice," Cotton said, cupping her chin and running a thumb across her lips, "but I didn't really buy it, you know? I mean, if we're going to be America's newest sweethearts, we've got to sell it. And that was like a kiss you'd see at junior prom. Come on, Sydney," he taunted, leaning closer until his lips were almost brushing hers, "I know you can do better."

It was then that Sydney noticed Cotton had let his gun slide off her collarbone. He'd been distracted by the kiss. She could use this.

You want better, she thought determinedly, you've got it.

She kissed him again, this time more fervently, pulling him closer until their bodies were flushed against each other's. This time, she opened her mouth, letting him slide his tongue inside. She felt him relax, felt his defenses go down, as she ran her hands along his body. He kissed his way along her jaw and down her neck, impatiently pawing at her shirt and pulling her more tightly against him. Meanwhile, the hand that held the gun dropped lower and lower. With one hand, Sydney began playing with Cotton's belt buckle, as she ran her other hand down his arm, inching closer to the gun. She had almost reached it when—

"Nice try, Sydney," Cotton chastised, jerking his head up with a proud grin. "You almost—"

That's when she kneed him hard in the groin. Cotton crumbled to one side, dropping the gun, which bounced away from him. Sydney dove, grabbing for it frantically. She managed to snatch it, but Cotton kicked her hard in the ribs, flipping her onto her back. Instinctively, she lashed out with her own leg, catching him in the knee and knocking him to the ground too. Sydney crawled farther away from him, scrambling to her feet. But even as she stood up, Cotton tackled her, and the two of them went sprawling as the gun skittered from her hand. She twisted underneath him, grabbing for the gun, but he latched onto her leg and pulled her back towards him. Frantically, she swung back an elbow, catching him in the jaw, and he let go with a muffled curse. She managed to jerk free, pulling herself to her feet—only to realize that Cotton had reached the gun after all.