Ah, the new year... I'm now technically in college, so yeah! :D

Sorry for the delay, guys. This is ANOTHER chapter that went longer than expected. In many cases, it would have been the longest chapter if I continued and ended at my desired point. For now, I'm only going this far. The next chapter'll wrap up the entire thing.

Hope you enjoy this chapter! Please review. Like, REALLY REVIEW. Look at the freaking definition in the internet, and then come back. Constructive criticism is welcomed.


Self upon self.

A pile of selves.

Good selves.

Bad selves.

Honest selves.

Questionable selves.

The underlining self.

The interior self.

The exterior self.

So many selves.

But who is the real self?

Confusing? That would be akin to calling one's self confusing. But is that not correct? One must be more a puzzle than a complete slate, with all the choices and decisions they make?

So who is the real self?

Well, what is the use of preaching the fundamentals, without teaching of the processes? One word is all any man needs to understand the basics:

Memory.

Memory makes the stairs.

Simple, yes?

Not really.

This is just a tip of the iceberg of however one can explain anything. Because this is just an interpretation from whoever wishes to grasp the concept of the body, mind and soul- a Trinity above all Trinities, effortless to grasp, mind-numbing to truly understand and apply.

A philosophical entity can only come to comprehend little of how its processes turn. Try: meditate till the balance of these three elements are in balance. It may be a success, but there is one thing all these monks do not take into account this control of our inner workings.

Can a body, mind and soul, take control of another set?

If so, how?

What is the battle between lives like? A belligerent struggle? A contemplative verbal debate? Or truly despicable insidiousness? Is there even a battle?

Who knows, but those that experience it?

Right?

FILIA?


She awoke.

This... seemed familiar.

The girl turned to her left, then rotated to her right.

A wasteland?

Where was this?

Why could she not remember anything?

She began to move; pushed herself off the floor to her feet. As she straightened, she began to observe her surrounding. White, ghostly sand as far as the eye can see. Granular bits of the same size, each, with no impurity in sight. A flowing, thin mist seeped through the grains, bringing with it a scent she found herself surprisingly accustomed to. The sky- no, the atmosphere itself was dark, like a blanket of black. What is this place, she asked herself. As she did, the sands began to move, and the ground seemed to sink as if it were a wave, gently letting the girl ride the torrent of the wind.

The sands began to mold in front of her. A great hill grew into being, and she watched in awe as the sand began to blow away from the top, revealing what seemed to be a colored statue beneath; well, that was what she thought, before it began to move.

And speak.

"Ugh, there's so much sand here!" the person cried in a voice bordering femininity's annoyance. Coughing a few times, she finally noticed the girl beneath, and, with a rather snarky like snicker, began to wave down at her.

"Yoo-hoo, Filia~! Up here! Nice seeing you again!"

Filia? That was her name? Other than it being odd, how would a stranger know her name? Who was this person. She, mustering her courage, asked the mysterious person, "Uh, who are you?"

"Tsk, how could you forget," she gave a pout, and crossed her arms, "I'm your great... 'fren'- or something like that. Fukua, remember?"

She- I mean Filia, began to delve into her memories for such a person's name. Quickly, she found no luck reminiscing of such a person. Well, now that she thought of it, she did not remember anything.

"What?" cried Fukua from above, "You can't remember? The miniskirt don't remind you of anything?"

Filia shook her head, much to the disappointment of the other.

"Well, judging by the fact that this entire phase of your memory is covered, I'd guess you forgot everything."

What?

She found confusion in her words, and so asked, "Where are we?"

Fukua rolled her eyes, and sat down comfortably on the sand, before replying, "I don't know; use your head or something. Think."

Filia only stared, confused. She just could not make sense of what she uttered at all. In the midst of this puzzling predicament, she noticed the annoyance incited in the stranger from her stare, so, from her courteous attitude, she stopped and turned away, though even that caused more irritation in Fukua.

"YOUR MIND!" she screamed, "We're in your mind! Or body, or soul, or something like that."

Her mind? Even with her memory loss, she found skepticism in trying to believe this outrageous claim. "That... sounds weird."

"What's so weird about that? This entire place is weird! What's with this sudden 'memory loss-phase'? Did you get hit on the head too hard?"

"I-I don't know. Can you help me?"

"What?" Fukua raised an eyebrow, "'Help' you? Maybe this will help?" Snapping her fingers together, the sand mound began to dissipate into the gale. The strong wind had begun to move the floors as well, and Filia began to lose balance and fall on her backside. She covered her eyes in an instinctual attempt to barricade them from any of the dust. Her body smoothened in all the uncomfortably, eroding sand. Before long, it too dissipated, and she found herself obliged to open her eyes.

What she saw was not to her expectation. Filia gave a grave start at what the sand had hidden from her. A great hill laid in front of her, but it was no hill of rocks, it was a hill of hers. So many bodies piled together that it seemed more like a throne to any that sat beneath. They were unscathed, but the morbid nature of it all struck her down, and she could not get back up. Was this a nightmare? Perhaps a godly punishment?

Sliding down the bumpy hill without effort, Fukua began to walk closer to the girl on the floor. And, after licking her lips, she began to... sing?

I'm a proud warrior,

Strong without a doubt.

The closer she got, the darker her voice. Filia was then stunned with a fear she could not explain. It was not the great hill of bodies, it was Fukua herself, because now that she could see her through the mist, she learned of one horrifying fact.

Here is my fist,

Fukua held up her balled knuckle.

Inside your face.

She did exactly that, and the windows began to smash.

Windows?

Smash?

Ignore the redness of her face. Ignore the bleeding nose she now bore. She was falling, far, into a cavernous, black abyss of nothing. And, above her, Fukua peeked through the cracks and gave one more farewell.

"Do you remember now?"

And, with that, the crack ceased to exist, and she was plunged into a darkness she could not comprehend.

As the air caressed her falling body, and the blood droplets began to buzz like mosquitoes around her, her memories began to return, to her surprise. Perhaps it was a temporary handicap, but it would have helped her against her attacker, at the least. That woman, she came in from nowhere, took her by surprise and began beating her in everything. Who was she, technically? Her alter-ego? An invader from foreign soil? She did not know, and she could not combat her without her parasite.

She was alone in her own head.

She blinked once, and suddenly she was on her feet in a new surrounding. Her bleeding nose was cured, and there was no pain emanating through the nerves of her face. But where was she now?

A void of idle emptiness surrounded her, but then how was she standing? She peeked down to learn that she had been standing on a bundle of tied, tendril-like, grey strands, as if a floating carpet had caught her in her fall. That new knowledge did not aid her in her other questions, though. Where was she to go on this small platform of what felt like hay beneath her feet? Where was Fukua?

Where was Samson?

At the moment in which those thoughts entered her mind, a light 'swoosh' entered her ears, and she looked up to see an ethereal crossing grow outward to the horizon. She was lightly surprised by this, though her curiosity had not dispelled, nor did her caution. Fukua could be anywhere.

She took her first step. Nothing happened. Then she began to pace slowly through the bridge to the darkness, without any trouble whatsoever. Though the atmosphere began to lighten, she herself was beginning to panic.

Below the calm was a thundering cloud. Something was very wrong.

Then, her world turned red.

The sight of magmatic blood, and it's contrast to the dark, almost blinded her, and she stumbled nearly to the edge. After she regained her balance, she began to sweat cold drops of fluid.

She never wanted the darkness back as much as this.

Then the ground began to quake, and a great crash resonated from behind her. Filia, feet frozen to the spot, turned around.

"HELLO, FILIA~" the great monstrosity that blanketed the skies, shook the world saw all roared as its hungering eyes laid on the child, "IS YOUR MIND'S READY TO BE MINE, YET?"

Filia gasped. Her heart began to pump adrenaline through her, and, without any thought of where she could go, she began to run. The titanic figure began to follow, destroying the carpet she had stood on. The girl's path was riddled with random excuses for roads; floating stones that immediately crawl to her feet once she came close to the edge, a phantasmic tunnel of dangling hair, and floating islands she had to jump to reach. The demonic sky tore as the monstrous woman slashed into the walls with her nails as it journeyed down to the feeble inconveniences below.

It was not long before she found herself blocked by a dead end. She stopped in her path, unsure of her next move.

"FILIA~" the blast of her voice blew through the curves of the addressed's body, "YOUR MIND! GIVE IT TO ME!"

Filia shuddered under the tremendous monster. The sheer power she felt emitting from this invading force frightened her every being.

It was then that a strange box-shaped room floated up, creating a new path for her to take. Quickly, she charged forward, hoping for protective sanctuary, but, as she took her first look inside, she noticed a spiraling stairwell, extending down into what seemed like an eternity of torch sconces and steps. But there was no time to ask common sense, and so she quickly closed the door behind her and began her descent.

"HEY!" the door began to bang profusely, "LET ME IN!"

Of course, there was no time to ponder of the door's magical properties. Filia had to flee, to find refuge somewhere to gain her bearings and formulate plans and tactics against her. Fukua had grown too strong for her to handle- it was not brawn that would win, it was brain, and she knew that terribly well.

It was then that the roof began to tear away with a stomach-wrenching crumble. Her imagination ran wild with how her foe did so, but, stumbling under her steps, the thought were quickly swept away in favor for panic, caution and reflexive actions.

The slapping of her feet on the stone, her hoarse breath, the wind fleeing through the fleeting girl; they deafened her to such extents, that her hearing numbed. Her whole body seemed numb. She had never felt so much fear in her life- or what she remembered.

But that numbness brought misfortune upon her: She never noticed the audacious statues conniving beside her.

"Am I winning yet?" The sudden inquiry of a thousand shocked the girl till she began to slip.

She started to fall down the middle of the well.

Of course she screamed a bloody screech, as if it were the soul squeezing through the contracting body. The stairs around her began to speed through her vision, till they were so fast that they felt more like a complete structure. But then it began to pigment itself transparent, and then the sweet scent of rose filled her nose. Then she splashed into scented water, emerging moments later to find herself entombed in a sky and horizon of glass. But the smell, it brought an odd familiarity to her senses that she unconsciously began to calm in the wake of the floral amenity, though not so much as to bring down all her defenses. It also seemed that Fukua was gone, and, with that revelation in him, she was overwhelmed with relief, but, as stated before, she kept a firm caution with her environment.

Scooping a bit of water, she brought it near her nostril, and began to sniff it. "Is this perfume?" she asked, and, sure enough, after further inspection- tasting, observing and the likes- she recognized the water as a beauty product, and halted any more lickings for further confirmation.

Then, as she began to expect nothing from what was to come, a light shadow began to loom over her, and, turning to see what it was, she realized it to be a giant pillar falling ever so close to her. Almost instantly, she began to swim away from its trajectory, only to be caught in its tidal blast, which lifted her high with its waving water hand, before dropping her down into the water. Submerged, she opened her eyes to see, at the bed of this sea of cosmetic, a grand mountain of gold and riches, of sunken ships still flying their flags, of skeletons still adorned with their corundum jewelry and sharks biting off the bony hands, ingesting the gold and precious stones to a void never seen under the flesh. Perhaps there was some deeper meaning to this, but for now, she did not delve into it. Quickly, she swam to the surface, and took her first gasp for air.

Her eyes quickly fixated themselves on the great pillar which fell, and, to her surprise, she found it to be an elevator, with its doors open. It was as large as a wide room, of glistening gold floors and furnishing, as if large groups would have used it to move around. Again, it felt so familiar to her, that she felt compelled to enter.

And so she did.

Climbing aboard, she, without hesitation, instinctively approached the elevator's button pad, and, with a knowledge she could not grasp, dialed a specific combination. The mechanism quickly revved to life, closing its doors and beginning its ascent to heaven, with Filia comfortably inside. Her body magically cleansed itself dry, and simple jazz from the lift's speaker's soothed her shaking bones. She felt, surprisingly, right at home in this place. Could this environment be a forgotten memory come back to her? If so, then does it all mean that she was in the deepest reaches of her mind? A barrier of uncertainty stood in her way of a conclusive answer, though, prompting her to abandon the thought and resume her idle wait.

It was some time later before the elevator gave its pleasant ping and stopped. It was strange, because there was no floor to be seen. Then, at the distance, a figure began to appear. Filia began to tense herself stiff.

Fukua.

There she was, walking on air as if a floor had existed there. But this time it was different. She looked more like a transparent silhouette than a real person. While she mesmerized over the fact, she then noticed a strange clicking sound above her.

Fukua.

Her counterpart was descending from a chain from the roof. This one was also of a phantasmagoric nature. Filia took one step back. Then, out of the corner of her eye, on the wall adjacent to the door:

Fukua.

Three? This one seemed to be more a reflection on the wall, still a phantom in its coloration; that did not stop her from shivering in fear's freezing grasp.

As the door opened, and Fukua 1 strutted in, 2 stopped her descent, right before she landed, and 3 began to emerge into existence. She positioned herself some distance beside the frightened girl, allowing the one above her to jump down and, with green spark, join with her, creating a fuller color. The last one marched into her, also seamlessly slipping into her body, finally producing the shine of her dark skin.

After that, she stood still. She whistled.

Whistled.

The elevator was stuck in place high in heaven. She could not escape. True, even if she fell high from the sky, it was still a world in her-

"Trying to run?" Fukua questioned with her snake's tongue, "You're so scared of lil' old me?"

Filia stuttered in whatever reply she could exhale from her mouth.

Her counterpart snickered, amused by such an extreme reaction.

"So..." she turned her attention away to the elevator itself, "What does this all mean?"

"Huh?"

"This symbolism? Or maybe they're parts of your memory?"

Filia blinked. What was she trying to imply?

"You don't walk memory lane, do you? Well, seeing how you forgot, let me explain to you: everything here is something you've forgotten. They're still in your head, but you just can't get it. Amnesia or something."

At this point, Filia began to let down her cautious guard, and listen, earnest for answers.

"An elevator that seems to go on forever? Gold and other rich stuff?" Fukua's eyes trailed to her's, and, with eyes of a curious felid, she asked in carefree graveness:

"What happened?"

Filia shook at the thought, and she was unable to give any semblance of an answer.

"Oh, there's one last thing."

She explained as she paced to the button pad, "Something must be done to finish the entire story."

"I-it's not done?"

"Oh please," as she reached the buttons, she suddenly grasped the metal plating, and tore off the covers to reveal a hidden mechanism beneath, "It's never done till I do it."

That was when she pressed it.

Immediately, the entire elevator began to descend in a speed almost uncontrollable by human standards. The scraping of metal ringed in Filia's ears as Fukua approached her and backed her into the corner.

"Yes...!" she hissed seconds before the elevator plunged into the dark water, "You always held yourself high, but something went horribly wrong, didn't it? You went down, DOWN, DOWN!"

Filia swore that she began to well up with tears. The darkness encroaching him, the monster of her mirroring; what corruption would do this to her? She shuddered under her enemy's shadow, quivering against the immenseness she felt watching her.

"HAHA!" Fukua cackled in ecstasy, "I love it when people get scared!" Clutching Filia's neck, she pushed her to the wall and held her a head higher with her strength.

"Back when I was alive, nobody left my reach intact! Once a dead Warrior Queen, now here doing what I do best! The epitome of Sadism- congratulations to me- is looking for a new makeover, and you're the base!"

Filia's choking state panicked. Her legs thrashed in the pivot of her floating legs, and her arms clawed wildly at her attackers. This futile attempt entertained the sadist, but, perhaps from the thoughts of stained nails, instead of breaking her succulent neck, she instead plunged her through the glass, and into the water. She went through, as if the window had never existed, and now floated beneath the perfume waves in dark, rosy water. Her first action was to bang on the glass- to reenter the air- but, as she did so with both arms, Fukua, behind the opaque glass, flattened her face on the window, right where her reflection had been, before cackling, "I WIN, AGAIN!"

And at that moment, a gaping shark jaw reflected through the glass.

Crack!


A chessboard. Two parasites. What poetry, hmm?

Keep quiet! I hate this game, anyway.

But aren't we in your mind? Why is this in your head?

I dunno!

Do you have some form of patience? Well, judging by all that we have done, I would have seen you an impatient rusher. Maybe that's why you lost all your battles. You don't think-?

Oh, shut up! I'll beat ya' one day-

Check.

Oh crap! Wait... Hah! My King's safe now.

Oh, I didn't see that bishop there. But then, again, you didn't see my Queen here. Check.

Gah...

Maybe this chessboard represents a hidden part of you? Maybe your patience with that girl.

Don't talk about her like that. She's my host.

You have some sort of desire, do you?

That... sounded weird. Just shut up and let me think.

Stubborn. What desire I'm saying is... Hmm... You want to be the dominant one, hmm?

Shut up.

You are sick of being the weapon. You want to be the independent one.

Shut up!

You want things to be in your own hands. You don't want the host doing everything. You don't want her stopping you.

I said SHUT UP!

His eyes shot open, greeted warmly by a dark sky.

Of course, he did it again. Lunged at him when- he guessed- the time wasn't right; didn't wait for the game to end. His anger, once boiling but now cooled to a silent volcano, had gotten the best of him. If Filia was here, she would have kept him in check, told him off and all that stuff- or at least try to. What was this uncontrollable beast doing?

Those words of haunt that that... imposter said: were they true. Was some inner emotion fueling his desire to do more than he had believed. The thought concerned him, to say the least. He never thought that way to her, or his previous host, so what was this selfish wish even he himself saw as extreme compared to most of his own desires. There was no time to rest, though. He needed to at least grasp the lay of the land here. That... other him would appear anytime, and there was a waning necessity to be ready.

He started to crawl on the ground in a puddle-like form, slithering with a slug's dexterity as he hid in corners and observed this new world. It was a dark maze of alleyways. The lone puddles were scattered through each path, unable to move to seek company in others. Walls of sullen bricks, sullied with drapes of moist moss and patchwork of wear and tear, compacted an odor into narrow corridors, as if strengthening the smell to a concentration almost drinkable. That did not bother the parasite, though, as he continued to comfortably slither through the dirty ground.

Unbeknownst to the black blob, a schizophrenic sense of danger subtly rooted itself within his mind. He began to perspire, eyes slowly increasing in haste and wildness as he hurried through the garden of hanging greenery. The franticness of escaping the claustrophobia began to strain within him.

It felt so familiar.

Frighteningly so, as he himself could not remember whatever this place was. There seemed no end to it, no clear goal in sight. He was lost, but why so? Was it the maze, or was it himself? It was his inner conscience, so what was all this about?

He could not remember.

Was this a memory lost in the unknown reaches of himself? Perhaps so. Was this a past life he had lead, a lost soul in a nightly society of confusion? Eh, that sounded stupid. But it did question to him where it led to, and he was eager to exit this location.

He turned around a corner.

Ah, light! A street lamp, in the distance, as if greeting him with some shining cylinder of gold. Quickly, he rushed to this exit, but, to his growing puzzlement, he never got any closer to it.

It was then that the entire place began to morph. The ground shook in his wake, and a great crack began to appear. But this crack seemed non-existent, as he found himself slithering above it like a puddle of water.

The street lamp began to bend.

The crack began to grow larger.

Then, as the great nonexistent fissure touched the walls, he plunged into dark water.

Confused he was. What dreamy illusion was he battling against? Why?

There was little time to think of an answer, though, as a great current suddenly pulled him away deeper into the water. Waves of iridescent blue streamed around him, slowly increasing in numbers. His entire vision bean to cloud with the pleasant flowing strands, as they caressed and held him with a gentleness of heavenly feathers. One limped down into his mouth, but, instead of spitting it out in disgust, he found it surprisingly pleasant, though he refrained himself from trying to ingest it.

Then, he felt himself land in a field of grass.

Or was it grass? No, it felt more like strands of hair. He reared his head upward, and found himself surrounded by light blue, almost white, strings. They flowed with a northern wind, blowing to one direction while uncovering another at the opposite end.

He didn't want to move.

The smell, the texture; it reminded him of soft down stuffed into pillows. But how? He never slept on one before when he was with his present host.

Forcing himself to begin exploring, he began to move where the wind blew, under the white sky and blue sheets. The climb was subtly, though lightly, steep, and he himself felt little in the wake of a rising hill. Reaching the peak, he found himself witnessing a great expanse of nothing. Not snow, but white blankness. A scent of hair conditioner- his favorite brand- entered his nose.

He turned down, and saw, to his awestruck shock, that he was standing atop a great statue of a woman, high above the plateau of white. He could see, from where he stood, that there were cracks on her forehead, and a great fissure on her chest.

Oh, wait, never mind that.

The one thing that came into his head was to descend the statue. Slowly, he slid down the clean forehead of the statue, his individual strands grasping on to each crack, mentioned before. As he reached the bridge of the nose, he realized that the statue's eyes were watering. Fluffy mist surrounded the eyes, and a waterfall streamed down onto the far ground, where a puddle had begun to expand.

The moment he reached down innocently onto the tip of the nose, the statue began to shake. The crying stopped. The mists dissipated, and the eyelids parted. He found himself staring into one large, colorless grey eyes.

Its hand, once clapped together, praying for whatever wishes it would dare ask Providence, departed from their position, and one swept him off her nose. As he fell, he, with panicked reflexes, molded himself into a parachute; a breeze blew him back up- conveniently- to the statue's cute nose. Though disoriented, he faced the stone giant, and began to scold it with his spiteful tongue. He did not know why, but his body had swayed to the odd irritation within him. There was no skipping of a heartbeat, but instead a simple habit of normal emotions.

And now, he must be one brave son of a gun trying to stare down a towering sentinel.

The moment he finished his barrage of complaints, he shuddered under the statue's increasingly escalating stare. An uncouth nervousness began to linger within him. What was it going to do next? Squash him?

Instead of attacking, the statue began to giggle; there was no audible noise, but it did seem to brighten in complexion, and its head shook in the obnoxious fashion of the snickering man in the corner of every bar.

Then, it began to shrink, till it became nothing but a few meagre feet taller than him, a familiar size comparable to his host. The stone's mouth began to move, and she mouthed without a word.

What's your name?

He raised an eyebrow, furrowed his face and stared bewildered at the inanimate carving of minerals. There was a short debate within him scaling his further decision, but, under an odd state of appreciation with the woman, he spoke in his gruffest, though most suppressed voice.

"Samson."

She gave a nod to the parasite. Reaching a hand out, she offered an open palm to him, to his slight surprise.

Wanna be friends?

Samson turned stiff. She had forgiven his scoldings rather quickly, and now she was ready to ease a request of friendship to him? Whatever this symbolized, it was just corny for his taste. A pleasant type of corniness, might I add.

"Y-yeah. Sounds good," replied the meek Samson, before he placed a tentacle on her hand. The statue smiled at his hesitant willingness before pulling him up, harmlessly whipping him on to her head as if a cloth from a turban. Undoubtedly, he latched on to her head, and, in an astounding twist from his attitude, snuggled comfortably on the statue's bed of silken hair. He felt, for once, untroubled. There was still that doppelgänger to deal with, but oh the heavenly atmosphere just numbed him to nothingness. He felt rightfully at home, on this person's head, his own strands connecting harmoniously with the follicles.

In that instance, the world began to erupt a rainbow. Around him, he could see the spreading of colors. The ground began to grow luscious with grass and assorted flowery. The statue began to shine, and, in childish grandeur, she skipped around the field of greens.

Samson laughed.

The joyous times were just too much for him to handle.

But at the end of the rainbow, Samson found himself stiff by whatever he saw. The statue gave a flinch.

A ring.

Placed beneath a standing stone of plain grains: a diamond ring.

She stood still, stunned by its everlasting shine. Taking a step, she began to reach out.

As she did so, a skeletal hand began to rise from the earth. She retracted, frightened by the sudden morbidity of the visitor. Samson extended his hair-like hands in response, and prepared for battle. But, instead of a monstrous skeletal demon, a morose-looking caricature rose, eye holes droopy and drenched in a tear-like composition.

It was then that Samson sensed a startling new mood in the woman. A passive pity, a sympathy of a pained level.

His surroundings also began to change. The earth they stood on began to break away, and everything else began to fall. Not that the ground was rising, no- the entire plane of existence dropped into the black hole of nothingness. Petals swirled through the air, clouding the sky and sprinkling down yellow pollen in snow clumps.

He turned his attention back to the skeleton and the ring. Its eyes had began to look up, pleading for her to take it. To accept it. It was then that Samson asked:

"You're gonna do it?"

There was a silence for some time, before she nodded, adamant. Taking the ring, she fitted it into her ring finger, and displayed it proudly to the skeleton. Bones became stone, and, in an instance, the decayed bits of calcium became a statue of its own, and began to gleam a radiance akin to hers. This man-statue rose, and, perhaps from a courtship standard even Samson found gross, he held her hands, and they both laid their foreheads together- noses touching; mouth grinning. The menhir began to wear itself into a pillar of gold and revelry, and a mythical gleam began to emanate from within. The ground they once stood on returned, only now it was a brick road, and, in the distance, a beautiful urban house. In a dream-like sequence, the house moved, consuming the three into its interior. Furniture began to materialize, of a grade beyond comparable. The stairs came into being from the planks on the ground, lights began to flicker themselves awake, and a television in the corner began to play a beautiful, though soft, opera. Everything decorated everywhere, but, after it all settled, a crib appeared in the distance. The two approached the little wooden rocker, and Samson peered into what was within.

A child.

A miracle.

His eyes widened, though he found himself not too excited to the point of intoxicated grinning. Instead, he gave a weak smile, and chuckled. He did not care for it all anymore. It felt too good- too good for any bit of him to even see the caution he lacked.

As he laughed, he closed his eyes. But, as they opened again, he was horrified by the sight.

His host, broken, demolished on the ground. He was off her head, and now stared into her dying eyes. Her blue hair, now white, begged for mercy. Her eyes showed the noticeable signs of eye bags developing.

She had grown old.

How much time had passed?

He gave a cry. Samson began to plead for her survival, began to repeat whatever he said for emphasis, but, under all the pain of half a missing body, the woman mouthed, weakly, her last words to her friend of so many years.

Run.

Then, his eyes came upon something terrifying, and he, stricken with fear, fled, unable to get a clear view of the monster that slaughtered her. The sky was dark. The ground was all muddy with solemn memories. Some hops later, the house materialized into view, and he, without care, barged in.

And came face to face with the man.

At first, he could not speak, could not tell him of the dreadful news. But he could see that the man saw everything in his eyes.

"They're coming," he said.

Wait, 'they'? Who was 'they'?

But even then, the man only could clench his teeth and tighten his fist. The house began to spout fire as he lashed out with his voiceless mouth.

Get out.

We don't need a useless ass like you.

I'll protect her myself.

"No, wait-"

Get out.

Don't come back.

It was then that, by the power of dreams, he found himself outside the house, faced by a closed door. Samson gulped down the shame he felt. The guilt that gnawed at his neck only grew larger as a result. A pouring rain began to buffer the comfort of the cold night air. Lightning gave the only illumination he could get, and even then, the slivers of light were but flashing hopes that what he had heard was wrong. All wrong.

He did not want to leave the haven he created.

But, swayed by an instinctual change of heart, his sadness mutated gruesomely into seething anger. All those years he wasted away, and the reward of gratitude was thrown down the drain. He turned, and began to hop away in his puddle-like blob form.

It would only be a few hops away before he turned back.

Because a gunshot echoed into his ears.

That was when he realized his mistake, for the house was beginning to be raided by hooded men in black, come from an ornate car parked next to the door. A rattle of gunshots began to ring out. The man must be dead. But something bugged him within his head. Why would he return? They were both dead, so what was the use?

Wait, the child!

"Oh nonononono!" he screamed in an abnormal horror, and sprinted down the road. Around him, his world began to fall apart. The sky began to tear, revealing a great thunderstorm of foreboding clouds. The ground began to crack and break off, flying in a swirl as a tornado gale began to blow.

Utter chaos was happening, and he knew something was going to happen. It was ending. It was all ending.

Hopping onto floating ground, he neared the vicinity of the house. The car, blown by the winds, began to topple on top of him. Fueled by the adrenaline, he smashed it aside, and, with elastic hands, began to climb up, to the uppermost window of the house.

Into the child's room.

It was a frantic race, but he made it in time. Crashing through the glass, he, with a quick recovery, found the child on her bed. Instead of a child, she was now a teenage girl, well developed, in some sense of the word. She was still, in an absurd manner of speaking, miraculously asleep. But now was not the time to observe new sights. Quickly, he climbed the bed, under the music of stomping boots, and faced the head of the child.

Another host. Another life.

His life was really that complicated, huh?

He knew full well who this was, and he was ready for it.

"Don't worry," he began to monologue, "I'll protect you better than I did your mom. If you die, then I'm coming with you!"

The door blasted itself off its sockets, and armed men entered.

"LET'S GO, FILIA!"

He latched himself on her head, and, instances before the enemy fired his gun, he pushed her off the bed, and, extending his appendages, he grew legs to move, and attacked. His moves were swift, devastating, and relentless. One by one, they fell, perhaps incapacitated. Maybe dead. Who cares. This was his repentance. This was his plea for forgiveness.

Filia snored.

As he swiped his last foe, ready to end the battle, his attack was deflected. It shocked him momentarily, but, under the anger of his mistakes, he attacked with more furor, but, even then, he could not get a solid hit on his trespassing foe.

"You piece of-!" he swiped at his face.

And the mask fell off.

"Hello, Samson."

And in that instance, a dark green force jumped out of the man, and his world turned black.

He found himself on his knees.

"Wha-? Huh?" He turned from side to side, disoriented by the sudden transportation.

Then, he saw it. His doppelgänger. The enemy he nearly ironically forgot.

"Shamone."

"You remember," Shamone said, "But that would be silly if you didn't."

"What are you-"

"Something's off."

Samson froze in place by those words.

"How did you forget?"

Samson flinched.

"I-I don't-"

"You do. Or did. Let me tell you what happened, from what I see." Pacing around the grounded parasite, the intruder began to speak, "After you fought off the Medici-"

Medici? They did this?

"You went back to bed, just so she could be a little comfortable. But you did something you should not have done: you burrowed deeper into her head. All because you wanted to stay with her- to die with her... Something went wrong. You went too deep. I'm not a doctor, but your interference made her into this. A lost sheep, locked behind a barn. You had the same treatment, too, for some reason."

"Wait..." Samson spoke up, "Then... who was he?"

"Hmm? Who?"

"Him. The dad. I can't remember him..."

"What's so interesting about him?"

"Why'd the Medici take him?!" Samson burst out, teeth exposed, but, as he continued, he calmed and retracted away from the anger, "Filia... She's Medici. I know that. Why did they kill one of them?"

"Oh boy, this is going to get non-canon."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Then answer me: who was he?"

"The second son of Lorenzo Medici: head of the Mafia."

He froze in place, utter disbelief clogging every vessel within him.

"A nobody. From what I remember, no one wanted him. Lorenzo's first son was going to succeed him, anyway, and this man was just a throwaway. Weak, having no authority. One thing is for certain: he loved your previous host. They bored a daughter, and he found himself in favor of his father for the first time: the only son to be married to one of incomparable beauty, and the only son with a heir."

Pacing closer to Samson, the green faker reared his head lower, to his level, and hissed, "But, like any other part of your life: something went wrong."

Rising back up, Shamone stared down with a pressing contemplation, and continued, "The first son wanted your family dead. Seeing how Lorenzo was getting old and senile, and that the second son had slowly slipped out of favor, anything went. But they knew you were the biggest threat; they knew you would protect the family with your life, so they sent someone they never thought they would depend on, a vampire under their oversight..."

"Eliza..."

Shamone gave a deep chuckle, "Least you remember. They did send her, and it worked. She died, and you ran like a baby- left her to die. The husband never did forgive you- maybe even after death- and because of this, he was blind. Blind of your heed. The story... Well, it unfolds there."

"So I... I made Filia like this?"

"From what I know, yes."

...

A deafening silence started to blare.

"At least I'm..." Samson hesitated.

"I'm still with her."

"Silly that you would continue your defiance," Shamone grumbled, "But no matter. Because I win. All that's left is your soul. Then we'll wrap it up."

Crack!