Peter was moving again. He was terrified of being here forever. He decided walking might get him somewhere. He couldn't figure out how long he'd been walking. With every texture of air he felt like he was getting nowhere. Drifting, running blindly, or standing still. He blinked, hoping every moment to see something - anything. It didn't have to be familiar, but he was feeling so lonely. He kept scanning the invisible horizon. Then, maybe a hundred yards to his left, a door appeared. He stopped. Why hadn't he seen that earlier? He changed direction and kept his gaze fixed steadily on it, afraid it would leave if he looked away. It was wood, a very normal door. But it only looked normal. As he drew closer, the dizzy sluggishness settled deeply in. He tried hard and pushed it away so he could reach that door. It took a very long time, but he was able to drag his limbs and finally make it.

He couldn't open it. There was nothing on the other side. It was almost as if, when he reached to touch it, it evaded him, though it didn't seem to move. Peter tried a few more times. Then he noticed a peephole. Maybe if he didn't touch it, he'd be able to see something through it. As if through molasses, he leaned forward, standing on tiptoes to get a good view.

He blinked and saw a dark room on the other side. There was a lump on the bed, small and human-shaped. Peter finally picked out Davy's face from the form, gaunt and listless. His eyes were closed. Peter didn't like the feeling coming from the room, and he didn't like that Davy was in there. Why was Davy all alone? He looked so awful.

Why were they doing this?

~M~

"Why are you doing this?" Micky barely kept it from a screech. His strength wasn't back - he couldn't move much still - and now Mike had him pinned to the floor, the way someone had earlier. Attempting to kick was futile, just as it had been. His heart was racing in the same fear.

"Because this is how it goes, Micky," Mike explained in contempt. "Now hold still." He let go and kicked Micky over, then thrust the heel of his boot into Micky's stomach.

Micky cried out, and Mike pressed harder. Micky writhed in pain, little though he could. The expression on Mike's face was narrow. "Do you get it now?" Why was Mike doing this? He pressed harder still. He pressed till he squeezed tears out. That was when the words started pouring out of Micky like a purge. "Someone was shot! Hurt! I- it was- I tried to stop them but they held me down and I couldn't move. It was terrible, and then I was here. And, and you've got to help because- because I can't! That's the problem, Mike! I can't help!"

He sucked in another breath, but besides that, all was now silent in the pad.

"There we are," Mike said in finality. Micky looked frantically into his eyes and saw no resonance. Nothing but disgust at a long-buried pain. "You can't help? Well neither can I. I've just had longer to come to terms with it," he spat. He picked up his foot. Micky lay back flat on the floor, gaining his breath and reeling from the pain. The fear was gone, though. Gone, even if someone was still hurt out there. It had moved somewhere else and was replaced with a narrow focus. Eventually, he rolled his head to the side and could see more of the room.

Mike had retreated. He was looking out the window, as if Micky weren't there, a vacant look as if he were still waiting for Micky to walk in the door in just a minute. It gave an impression he must have been trying to avoid earlier. He was uncaring. But not just that. He was lonely. No. He was separate. Micky knew he wouldn't have listened to Mike if he'd known. Why? People were separate all the time. There were lots who hated others.

Why? He looked over at Mike, who looked, for anything, normal. He could be normal, but he wasn't. Mike had done this to himself.

Micky was left merely with the company of his breathing to listen to. He felt immobile even though he was sure he had the ability to move all of his limbs again. He felt very insignificant and singular and suddenly everything was in the past, and it was just him in the room. It was a long time before Mike mumbled, "There. You get it now."

Those words struck Micky hard. Got it? He got it, but... but it didn't make any sense. Why would you stop caring? But- but of course, it had been long enough, and...

With much more effort than it took to try and struggle in the grip of whoever was holding him down earlier, he asked, "What happened to you?" On saying these words, he thought he caught a glimpse of movement, white and blond, at the base of the stairs.

~M~

Peter, looking through the gap at the base of the stairs that had appeared, wondered what had happened.

Before he'd been able to do anything to help Davy, the Panic wind had pulled him away. It tugged at his clothes frantically and he was barely able to keep his feet under him. The only direction he could tell that they went was away from the door, away from something familiar. His loneliness was keener than ever, and the quick quality of the air did nothing to assure him. If it helped at all, it was a distraction, but it gave him a deep-seated fear that blocked his mind like the whiteness in front of his face blocked his sight.

The air didn't slow, but deposited Peter at the center of its own tornado, twisting sporadically about him in similar shape to a set of spiral stairs in front of him. That was where the wind was coming from. Near his feet, the strongest, sustained gust was coming from a gap between treads. Taking care not to be tripped by the gale and pushing away the instinct telling him to run, he got on his knees and peered at the image that had appeared where the wind was coming from. And his heart only dropped further.

Micky was on the floor with a scratched face, catching his breath and looking about wildly. Peter couldn't hear the words that seemed to be coming out. He tried to press closer, to comfort Micky, but the wind increased and a clench in his gut told him he shouldn't be here anymore. He stopped moving forward and tried just to watch, to make sure Micky was okay. No one else was.

Then he saw a foot step into view across the room and Lifeless air dropped on him, crushing the stairs into oblivion.

~M~

Davy felt anger, building up as it pressed against the motionless air around him. He couldn't find anyone. He couldn't go to anyone, make sense of anything. He felt a hand on his back, pushing him, pushing him somewhere. He always ended up back where he started. He saw a curtain of beads and the movement from one to the next, to the next, color after color, shape after shape, was driving him crazy. There were so many of them. His brain was littered with impressions.

The voices had stopped. That's when things had gone pear-shaped. The door, the bed frame, the ceiling, all warped. His anger had started to form. The only problem was how vague it was and how often it mixed with the lights. Then, it had nowhere to go. It ran up against his surroundings, which were like a vacuum. A vacuum born of tragedy. The only problem was the fact that there was no one there. As much as there was in here, the room was empty. He was alone. He was mad because he was stuck. He didn't care what the vacuum was keeping him from. If it hurt, so be it, but at least it would hurt with someone else there. He just wanted to scream, but couldn't open his mouth. His head felt like it was expanding, like he was filling up the space that was unoccupied. He knew he would burst if he couldn't get out.

Then, coming from some directionless place, he thought he heard something, some voice, and flinched. It hurt.

~M~

The question should have hurt. It hurt Micky. Micky looked intently at this foreign version of Mike, but it didn't touch him. He didn't bother to move a muscle in his face. "I couldn't help," he said, with the resignation Micky was beginning to feel. "And no one came to help me," he said in a quiet, higher-pitched voice, looking with raised eyebrows at Micky. The voice lowered, back to habit again. "So here I am."

Micky swallowed and put all of his effort into pulling his arms up under him to prop himself up. When he finally got up, Mike held his gaze for a moment, then seemed to decide something and walked around the couch and to the kitchen, past Micky. A bit of his trepidation came back, causing a slight fluttering in his stomach. He got to standing with difficulty, straining even as he kept an eye on Mike and the key he had gotten from a drawer. His fear was there, but it was as if it was stuck behind foggy glass.

Mike's boots struck the floor sharply as he strolled over. "The sooner you learn that you can't help and just go back to normal, the better."

The fear couldn't get through. This was irresistible. This was how it was. It made too much sense. He couldn't help. When Mike unsnapped those cuffs, he would be released into this world of Mike's. A world free of worry. A world free of care. A world free of caring. Mike stepped behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. He could feel the vice closing even as he was lulled into it, and if it weren't for the sound, it would have. He heard a small, pitiful cry from another room. His wrists jerked away from the key. He pulled his head up.

"Where's Davy?"