Author's notes: I've been really bad with this one. It's character torture at its worst. The idea for this fic-ette came to me late one night, and it kept me awake a good hour longer than necessary thinking about it. This is told by Hobbes' point of view. It's freaky. Very freaky. But enough of that. On with the story...

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Everything's gray now. Gray walls, gray ceiling, gray everything. There's no color anymore. Not even black or white. Just countless shades of gray.

I can remember back when it was color, when everything wasn't the same. I miss those days. There are so many times I've wished it had stayed like that, bright and colorful. I'd welcome it all, even the meds. I used to hate 'em, but they weren't nearly as bad as what I have to live with now.

I remember the day everything changed.

They came after me. You know who they are, Christmas... crystal-this... chrysanthemum... the bug guys. They came after me and they knocked me out and when I woke up I was in this gray room, all gray. And they stuck a needle in my arm and started asking me questions.

At first I was fine. Bobby Hobbes doesn't break that easy, you know? But then they stuck another needle in my arm, and another, and another. They waited a little while, and then they started asking questions again. And after that every time I didn't answer their questions I could see myself killing someone.

It was Fawkes, mostly. They tried me out on the Official and Alex a couple of times, but that didn't work very well. And Eberts didn't work too well either, although I did feel kind of sorry for the guy. Certainly sorrier than I felt for the Official when I killed him. But they made me kill Claire a lot, at least twenty or thirty times. And Fawkes... I killed him so many times I lost count.

It was the usual stuff at first, guns and knives. But then I started to get more... creative. At one point I killed someone- probably Fawkes, but I'm not sure- with a pencil stub and some paper clips. And I kept yelling to myself to stop, but I didn't listen. I just kept killing them.

I broke eventually. I told them everything I knew about everything they asked me about. I don't remember very clearly but I know I did. It was the only way I could think of to make them stop forcing me to kill people. But they wouldn't stop. Even after I told them everything I knew they still kept asking questions about Fawkes and the gland, and when I told them I didn't know they made me kill him again.

And then they finally stopped, and they left me alone in the gray room. And I looked down, and there was blood on my hands. Fawkes' blood, mostly. But it wasn't red, it was gray. That was when everything turned gray.

And then the door opened and Fawkes walked in, but it wasn't Fawkes. It looked like him, it walked like him, it talked like him, but it wasn't him. It couldn't be, because he was dead. I'd killed him too many times for him to still be alive.

I wouldn't let him near me. I was too afraid I'd kill him again, and I wouldn't be able to stop myself. He looked so sad and worried, but I wouldn't let him near me.

And then they came back, and they tried to get Fawkes. Even though he was dead they tried to catch him. But I couldn't let them, I wouldn't let them. I didn't want to see Fawkes die again. I don't think they expected me to jump at them. I don't think they thought I could even walk. But I showed them. I bashed their brains out for making me hurt Fawkes and Claire, for making me kill them over and over again.

Everything after that was a blur for a long time. One big, gray blur. It was a long time before I began to remember anything but vague impressions of things.

I'm a little better now. I can remember things right, and I'm not afraid of needles anymore. After what happened I was afraid of them for a long time.

Sometimes people come to visit me. The Fawkes who can't be Fawkes, and the Claire who can't be Claire. They'll talk to me. Sometimes I talk back. It's hard, though. I know it can't be real. That can't really be them sitting there, talking to me. But I miss them so badly I'll talk to them sometimes, even though they're not real.

They say they're real, that I never really killed them. That the whole thing was just a big hallucination, a result of whatever the bug people did to me. But I still can't believe them. Fawkes died that day. Claire died that day. I died that day. And now all that's left of the world is the same colorless shade of gray.

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Okay, so who besides me is filled with an overpowering urge to hug poor Hobbesy? *sniffles* I can't believe I did that to him. I let Chrysalis drive him completely insane! Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to hide from the evil glares and death threats I'm sure to get from this little fic-ette.