AN: Just because I haven't mentioned it in a while, I'd like to remind everyone that Bioware owns its intellectual property.

I know this one's short, but I wanted to put something up in case I don't get a chance to update the rest of the weekend (it being finals and all, I SHOULD really study...). I'd like to thank ALL of you for sticking with this. Special shout-outs go to Taffia, for being the first (and most frequent, 3) reviewer, and to Pwny and teviko for adding to the pool.

And to everyone else who's jumped onto the bucking plot-bronco with me, THANK YOU!

It feels as though morning is the only thing that's gone right in a week. I wake gently, naturally, as the sun gradually brightens my east-facing bedroom. I can hear music, a sweet background to dawn; faint aromas of coffee somehow drifts under the door and straight into my olfactory processors, and for about five minutes I enjoy the illusion that all is well, all is as it should be in my tiny slice of the world. I burrow deeper into my nest of mismatched covers and bury my face in my pillow. Maybe if I stay here, I can recapture the floating sensation from last night.

But this is of course impossible. I'm increasingly conscious of the pressing needs of my body, not to mention the three-tier cake of makeup that is undoubtedly smeared all over my face and onward to kingdom come. Before too long, physiology will force me out from my haven and back into the deepening rabbit hole my life has all of a sudden become. Whatever happens, I refuse to face it with smeared makeup and a full bladder.

Lights are on, but nobody's home. The source of the music quickly becomes apparent: Helena's plugged my iPod into my speaker system. There's fresh coffee in the kitchen, food in Scooter's bowl (there should be food in the cats' bowls too but I think Scooter's already taken care of that) but no sign of either Helena or Fenris. I dig a bagel out of the pantry and push it into the toaster; pour myself a cup of coffee. You'd think that after the elevated levels of distilled insanity over the past few days, I'd be grateful for the alone time. But I'm really just bored. I perch on the countertop and bang my heels restlessly on the cabinet doors. Where are they?

There is a salty tang to the stale air as the heater clicks on. I can hear the steady hiss of waves on some distant shore, the shrill cries as gulls scold one another. I let it lull me into a sort of stupor, feel it carry me to places I hold in memory. San Diego's probably gorgeous this time of year—

"Anath ara, spirit."

My cup tumbles from my limp grasp, spilling coffee willy-nilly as it shatters into blue-willow-patterned fragments. Under the salt and sea, there is the unmistakable reek of fresh-spilled blood. I'm afraid to turn my head—oh Jesus Christ please don't let it be another one, please don't let this be getting worse, maybe if I don't look I can pretend I imagined it—but it's unavoidable when the voice repeats the greeting I shouldn't be able to recognize and understand, for FUCK'S SAKE!

She's standing in (no, on, it definitely has to be ON) my coffee table. She's shorter and leaner than even Helena, with brown hair tied into flyaway braids. Her chain shirt jingles unobtrusively as she moves toward me. One end of a long staff sticks out from behind her shoulder, but weirdly, that's not what worries me. I'm more concerned with the dagger she holds in one hand, and the thin ribbon of blood trickling down her other arm much faster than I think is recommended, judging by the thick trail she's leaving behind her. She seems to realize this, because a panic-stricken expression is suddenly stamped on her undeniably elven features. I can only watch in horror as she—wait, what?—opens a fresh cut on the inside of her arm, then another, then another.

I should stop this—she needs help before she bleeds to death, hallucination or not—but she's flickering in and out of my field of vision somehow without moving. "I can't keep it open!" she howls miserably. And then she's gone.

I can feel myself start to fall; I'm powerless to stop myself from ending up exactly like the poor unfortunate coffee cup—

I shoot out from under my covers, tripping on the sheet wrapped around my ankle. And then the shaking starts, and doesn't stop. Not even after Helena strokes my hair and starts running me a bath. The hot water and bubbles (Helena's suggestion) may do wonders for my skin, but they don't chase away the cold fear in the pit of my stomach, or the dawning realization that I am in way over my head.