A/N: Whew! I hope everyone had a great time over the holidays! Unfortunately, I was burned by a Roman candle, shot in the face with glass, broke my phone, and lost my internet connection for quite a while, which is why this chapter is so delayed. This chapter was remarkably hard to write. Whether the difficulty comes from my own inexperience when it comes to writing scenes that involve any sort of action or the fact that my intention was to not copy the methodology of the fight with Laura, I'm not sure.

Warnings: Violence and foul language.

Disclaimer: I own nothing related to The Evil Within, nor do I own the lyrics to any songs that might appear. The name Alice Liddell and her family belong originally to Lewis Carroll, with her appearance drawing heavily from American McGee's Alice: Madness Returns. This is a nonprofit work.

"You don't want to hurt me, but see how deep the bullet lies?
You're unware that I'm tearing you asunder; there is thunder
in our hearts, baby. So much hate for the ones we love…
Tell me, we both matter, don't we?"
— "Running Up That Hill," Placebo

I have turned . . .

Plaster rains as the monstrous form barrels through the walls, shrieking deranged gibberish as it chases its prey. The dust settles in her hair and on her clothes, a reminder that while her pursuer gains ground, she continues to lose it, yet there is no time to check its progress, nor an opportunity to even attempt some sort of retribution. The hallway is longer than it should be (the upper floor of her home contained only four rooms) and the décor slowly morphs the farther she goes, until she is loping through the gutted structure of a law office. This place is as familiar as the last—only blocks away from the K.C.P.D. building—J.R. Patterson & Associates had been a familiar haunt during her teenage years, as her social worker occupied a large space on the top floor. He fought bitterly for her to become emancipated, citing her inheritance and independence, and the two of them had shared a cigarette and what she pretended was her first beer when he won the case.

Alice wracks her brain for any place she can go that might be open enough for her to stand her ground. The parking garage on the lowest level seems appealing, but something tells her that it would be too cramped and far too easy to become cornered there, so she breaks left, heading for the stairs that will take her to the roof.

. . . into the one thing . . .

Adrenaline courses, pulling her lips into a smile that she cannot stop, and a laugh tears from her when she hears the beast howl its fury when it gets stuck in the narrow space. It is not slowed for long, but the delay buys her enough time to slam the door behind her and duck around a nearby air-conditioning unit. There are a few supplies behind it, and the silver case at her feet turns out to hold a shotgun and a box that contains six shells. The glint of steel and glass alerts her to more items scattered around on the concrete, but her adversary has finally caught up, so she settles for loading the gun. The abrasive weapon has never been one of her favorites (once, when given the option between it and a sniper rifle, she had claimed the rifle so quickly that Sebastian had teased her for weeks afterwards), but she knows how to use it correctly, and it is all she has. Bracing it against her shoulder, she takes aim and fires. A chunk of flesh blows from the creature's shoulder, exploding into red mist under the force of the shot, and it screams in a combination of pain and hatred. The white and gray skin of its face ripples, constantly swirling between the faces of her family, grotesque limbs and claws flailing as it turns to get her in its sights.

. . . I never wanted to be.

The two of them stare at each other. Now that they are in the weak daylight, Alice can better make it out, and it makes her stomach churn. Though humanoid in appearance, it stands an easy seven feet, arms so long that they act as a second set of legs. Each appendage ends in hideously long prehensile hands, and the coloration of the skin fades from white to black. It seems to be made of clay with how the form bulges and settles almost constantly, and what could be either coagulated blood or tar runs over it in rivers, sizzling where it drips onto the stone beneath their feet. It reeks, even from here, the scent of dead and decaying things making her eyes water. The temporary peace ends when it lunges at her, and she barely scrambles out of the way before it crashes into the space she had been only seconds before. Sebastian would have been proud of the litany of curses she releases, firing even as she moves, and, though this shot slams into the center of its chest, all it does is stagger. However slight, the interruption of its movement gives her just enough time to line up the sights of the gun with its skull.

It shrieks when blood and bone splatter on its shoulders, brain matter leaking from the hole in its head to ooze down its face. A hand darts out, faster than she can catch, and sends her skidding across the rooftop. Winded, it is all she can do to roll away before it crushes her beneath pummeling fists. A swatch of red catches her attention, and her desperate gaze lands on a drum marked 'flammable.' The first shot misses, but the second hits home, and the barrel explodes, dousing the creature in flame. It howls as it writhes, twisting futilely to put the fire consuming it out. Another barrel is settled to her left—how many are there that she hasn't noticed?—and one slender leg knocks it onto its side and kicks it towards the creature. It, too, is set alight just as the previous barrel runs out of fuel. The monster stumbles, reaching for her even as its legs give out, and it crumples to the ground. The sickly form dissolves, achingly slow, into ash, leaving behind the immobile body of Lizzie, head turned so blue eyes stare sightlessly at Alice.

"I'm so sorry, Lizzie," she wheezes, doubling over to clutch at her side. "I never wanted any of this. It—" should have been me " —was never supposed to turn out this way."

The strength leaves her legs. Still, she forces herself to walk over to the corpse, and she lays next to it, curling on her side and reaching out to touch its face. Tears cut paths through the grime on her face, trailing over her nose towards her ear, yet she makes no move to wipe them away. Shock had kept her from mourning properly as a child, and she had always kept herself so busy that grief could never truly take hold. Joseph had told her once that she was always running, because to stop would mean facing a truth she didn't want to see, and she had almost slapped him for it. ("With him, it's sinking quietly into the bottle. I'd know what to do if that's how you dealt with it, but… you don't. You never do.") Now there is nowhere left to run and, with nothing to keep it at bay, sorrow suffocates her. The sobs rip from her with a startling violence, and she squeezes into the smallest ball she can manage, arms curling around her heaving chest as if to hold herself together.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." It becomes a mantra that she cannot stop repeating, tumbling from her lips—

"It isn't as high as it looks, Alice." Lizzie's hands are on her hips, a firm frown on her pretty face as she blows locks of hair out of her eyes. Alice had made it to the top of the slide's ladder before fear froze her in place. It is much taller than the one on the toddler's playground, but she is no longer a child and it is time, in Lizzie's eyes, for her to conquer it. Lizzie had done it at five, and Alice is six now, so there should be no issues, but Alice remains rooted firmly to the top rung. Adults nearby chatter sympathetically and that only serves to heighten Lizzie's ire. Her father had been kind and encouraging, she remembers, but they were due home soon, and if Alice didn't do it now, she never would.

"Well?" Impatience reigns in Lizzie's voice. "Are you going to do it or not?"

Alice shoots her a frightened glance, and then, so timidly that Lizzie doubts she will go anywhere, she sits on the cold metal and pushes off. A short scream leaves her as she slides, but Lizzie is there to catch her at the bottom, and pulls her to her feet. "There. That wasn't so bad, was it?"

—as if the mere repetition—

"What are you doing?" Alice looks up from the mirror, eyes wide and framed by a raccoon's worth of eye makeup. Her sister is peering around the door, one brow cocked in a remarkable imitation of their mother, lips twitching as she tries not to laugh. From the way various containers are scattered along the vanity's surface, and the photo, cut delicately from the latest fashion magazine, is taped to the glass, she knows that Alice is attempting to emulate what she sees, but the heavy application technique she has used, though meticulous, is more reminiscent of a clown than a model.

"I only wanted to look nice," Alice says meekly.

Lizzie steps into the room, head cocked. "Why?" A shrug is the only response she receives, and she huffs, well aware that there is a function at the church that they, along with the Victoriano family, are required to attend in two days. Finally, she sighs. "Here. Let me help."

—will undo all that has been done—

The dress is nice. Stiff, as it is new, but the fabric is soft and it is nowhere near as bulky as the ones she has seen on some of the other girls her age. Her mother had been insistent that she wear something other than her usual Sunday clothing to the party, and a trip to a local tailor had been arranged. The fabric is black silk, tight on her torso with a skirt that flares at her hips and brushes the tops of her knees. As it is summer, the sleeves are short, and are neither puffed nor adorned with ribbons, though there is one tied in a bow around her neck, a gift from Lizzie. Alice had been forced to sit through a torturous session while her mother combed her hair and braided the front into two strands that wrapped around her head, but it had been made better when Lizzie had snuck into her room to apply the faintest bits of mascara to her lashes and color to her lips. She looks oddly adult for a girl of almost seven and the effect it has is obvious. Ruben has been stealing glances at her all night, though his father's demand that he greet all business associates has kept him from greeting her properly, and each glance brings a flush to her cheeks that Lizzie is keen to tease her on.

—bring back what can never be replaced—

The smoke is choking, burning her throat with every panicked gasp that contracts her lungs. Heat blisters her palms when she tries to twist the knob, and fear nearly freezes her in place when she finds it locked. She never locks her door, never ever, because Lizzie says that it means she is keeping secrets, and she hides nothing from her sister. The dim sounds of her parents pounding on a door and shouting for Lizzie reach her through the quiet roar of the fire, and she cries out to them, unsure of what to do. There are seconds of silence, and then her father's rough voice penetrates the wood of the door. "Open the door, Alice!"

"I can't," she sobs, "it's locked and I don't have the key!"

It is the first and last time she ever hears Augustus Liddell swear in her presence, and then he says, in a voice that is terrifyingly calm, "Go out the window. Your mother, sister, and I will meet you outside in a moment. Go now, girl." She is deathly afraid of heights, but her father has spoken, and she is duty-bound to obey. The pane lifts easily, despite the way her arms tremble, and she wriggles through the gap. The one thing she forgets to account for is the light frost coating the shingles, and her feet slide under her until she topples from the roof. Her scream is cut short by impact with the thankfully-soft straw (weren't they going to make a scarecrow soon?) below, and the pain sends her spinning into quiet darkness.

—turn back the clock and return to her the family she craves.

There is the vague notion that she must move at some point, for to stay in one place is to surely invite misfortune, but her limbs are heavy, and she is far too numb to truly care if anything should find her. Heavy steps crunch across the rubble, halting a few feet away from her prone form, and the faint scents of cigarette smoke and gunpowder reach her on the soft breeze. Sebastian, she thinks, head turning, body following suit, until she is on her back, looking up into concerned hazel eyes. His gaze flicks between her and what is left of her sister, her Elizabeth, and he sighs through his nose. Though he has never laid eyes on the eldest Liddell child, he has seen her photograph on Alice's desk enough times to recognize her, even though this place has twisted her visage into something haunting. There is something he does not recognize nor care for in his partner's eyes, so he reaches down, hauling her unceremoniously to her feet.

"Come on, Liddell." When she continues to stare blandly at him, he gives her a rough shake. "Time to go."

He will not voice it, but after Joseph's little stunt with the gun on the cliffs, he is wary that she is on a similar path, and she disappears so often that the fear that she will be dead the next time he manages to find her is pervasive. Relief floods him when her lips quirk (not truly a smile, but he will take it over the blank, dead gaze), slender fingers lifting to straighten the crooked knot of his tie. From there, they smooth over the lapels of his vest, removing wrinkles and dust as best as they can. He reciprocates by plucking bits of concrete and plaster out of her hair, combing the soft locks over her shoulders. It has grown in her years with the K.C.P.D. When she had joined, one of many rookies, she had worn it in a short, choppy bob, but, due to her self-professed dislike of hair salons, it now grazes the top of her breasts, waved due to the bun it had been it hours before. She huffs at him when he gives the ends a gentle tug, brow furrowing in mock irritation. He cannot piece her back together, but maybe, just maybe, he can keep her from falling apart completely.

"Where should we go from here?" he asks.

Alice regards him curiously. "The hospital, I think. I've seen it in the distance no matter where I've ended up, and everything started there… Didn't it?"

Sebastian nods in agreement, staring over her shoulder to study the beacon blazing over the ruins of the city. It is almost as if the ground underneath the institution had risen into a mountain, and it perches at the peak, the light a baleful eye tracking their progress. Not even aware that he is doing it, he weaves his fingers into her hair, cradling the back of her head, thumb stroking the curve of her cheek. Not everything, he muses, returning his attention to her, taking note of the way her eyes flutter under the gentle touch, humming contentedly as his fingers massage the nape of her neck. He should have told her, he realizes belatedly, when she asked him so long ago. Propriety be damned, he should have manned up and told her how much she means to him, that, yes, he does want her, but not just for what she accused him of.

Instead, he says, "Yes," and steps away, pretending that he is searching for something in his pockets to ignore the obvious confusion on her face. When his hand closes around one of the two syringes that he carries, it is all he can do to hide his relief. The instrument is held out to her, and a gruff here indicates that she should take it, which she does.

As she rolls up her sleeve, obviously displeased but resolute all the same, she asks, "Where's Joseph?"

Silence makes her lift her head, and the frustrated scowl that greets her makes the air stale in her lungs. She knows that Oda is not dead—Sebastian would be far more distraught if he were—but the easy way they continue to lose track of him worries her greatly. Of the three of them, his mind is the most orderly, and his grasp of the world is built on solid fact with little room for superstitious wanderings. To be thrust into this world, where little makes sense and the past and present overlap like a twice-recorded tape leaves no doubt in regard to his growing instability. But something is obviously bothering Castellanos, and she wonders what it is.

She wonders if she wants to know.