A/N: Preview - Spiraling down...

*Pain ripped through his mouth, sliding down his scars like on a playground. Heath harshly rose up, the linen next to him wet from sweat. Hesitantly, he brought the hand towards his scars and lowered it down without even reaching them; the pain convulsed him before he could do so. Heath stared into the wall in front of him, gathering his thoughts across the forest of his mind. Pain is just a feeling, a parasite of the mind…. Heath clenched his teeth, grimacing from effort. The pain throbbed and vibrated in his scars, but he forced it to shut down, pushing and pushing, almost self-hypnotizing himself. Slowly, the pain numbed away. Heath sat for awhile in the same position, not wanting to spook away the numbness, then carefully got out. Every movement was robotic, focused on keeping the pain at bay. Heath pulled a shirt over his head. The tunic slid over the face and the scars. Pain flared, and so did Heath's acute brain. For a moment, pain and the senses fought each other. Senses won. Pain, rumbling, rolled back. Heath slowly exhaled through his teeth and glanced at the clock. Four fourteen. Perfect. His work at the gun store didn't start until seven, and he had almost three hours to himself. Heath walked out onto the balcony, feet slightly prickling up from its cold floor. The city's moon were the traffic lights, blinking between red, yellow, and green. What a colorful moon. Not as colorful as Winnifred's eyes when she found out that he was a murderer. Heath sighed. Did she forgive him? He wished he could find out. He feared that he wouldn't.

*Their carousel didn't have those horses that they drew in books. Their carousel was rusty, outward, yet the fastest.

The old, wooden benches quietly creaked. The rusty chains tautly holding up the swings scratched the air with a loud, gritting sound of rust grinding against rust. Winnifred sat on the carousel bench, elbows buried in her knees. The work day at her old company to which she has returned was already over. Her eyes dully took in the sun, blinding the branches and sinking into the horizon. She had no idea why Falcone did not kill her. But he would kill her the next time. It was so strange - the fact that someone could kill you. You don't believe it until the very last second. And then cake turns into acid.

Winnifred sighed and pulled up the bag next to her. With slightly trembling hands, she took out the shivering letters. The cops didn't touch them during the inspection. Winnifred carefully laid them out on her skirt, bringing them up to her eyes one by one.

Our lovely Freddie,

Don't judge. In some aspect, I did lose the bet.

My dear Freddie,

You won't at all like my job. It is, you can say, completely out of your taste. But it's okay.

Your poor disobedient friend Your tired friend

I think they gave his some barely alive mousies at the hospital. Now he's experimenting with them. So which one of us is the sadist, eh Freddie?

Do you like it there?

I find this all very ironic.

More than here?

Your lost friend

Winnifred couldn't finish. Sniffing up the tears, she carefully tucked the letters back into her bag and left the playground. The fields were dry and dim, seeping out life from the sky. Winnifred steadily walked. There was no work, no one to check at the hospital, Johnathan was in Gotham at work, the rest of the gang spread across the town in their own private corners. Nothing to hurry for or worry for. Winnifred passed the scarecrow. It was dark and menacing, the ragged cloth quivering in the wind. Suddenly, her pocket started vibrating. Winnifred startled and hurriedly took out the shaking phone. It was her Aunt's, but occasionally she would allow the girls to take it around. It was her Margaret.

"Margie?" Winnifred frowned, bringing the phone up to her ear.

"Freddie, where are you?" The voice on the other end was strained and nervous. Winnifred's eyes darted back and forth. Fields and forests.

"In the middle of the road, heading home. Why?"

"Well, make it faster." The dial rang in Winnifred's ear. She stared at the phone in frustration, before quickly dialing Margaret's number again. Her ring was answered right away.

"Yes?"

"Damn it Margaret, what's going on?" The sigh was so loud that it became clouded with static.

"Nothing, Winnifred. It's just that Robbie Hales, Lucy's older brother, you know, the one that would always trail behind Heath for magic tricks, has gone missing. He was walking to the mill and - poof."

The wall had a beautiful beige color to it. A bloody bull's eye with its uneven lines ruined the picture. The white paint glistened on the wall. A second later it was torn with an ashy, black hole.

*Heath absently studied the hole in the wall, inches away from the center. He stepped forward and picked up the bullet on the floor. He nimbly recharged the magazine and aimed. The door bell tinkled, and Heath lowered the gun in dissatisfaction. The entire week was one big hangover. He lacked sleep, was irritable, and couldn't shake off unjustified disgustion off his shoulders. His scars itched more than usual, and he developed a habit of chewing on them. Before it was to rip off the dry skin that sometimes piled off of them, but now ...it was just habit. Shooting Robbie created an ache in his fingers, he got over his shudder of guns, and now shot them incessantly, trying to shoot the shadows behind the little boy. But no matter how much he shot, no matter how much transparent blood splashed on the floor, it was never enough. He should've broken the glass from the start. The bullet should've killed him. He should've killed Falcone. He should've killed Robbie from the start. He should answer the doorbell.

"Yes?" He asked in voice louder than usual, coming out of the storage room to the counter, sliding the gun into his back pocket. A burly, tattooed punk with a skulled bandana and metal rings was standing in the door way. His tiny eyes under pierced eyelids looked around the heavy armored walls.

"Hey there, boy," the punk transferred the eyes on the salesman, silently waiting for him to make up his mind. The punk slightly from surprise. Heath wordlessly wiped his mouth, purposefully touching the scars to unnerve the man.

"You were saying?..."

"I need a Winchester, caliber 34," the big punk gruffly said, pinning the dollars down on the counter with his wide hand. Heath silently turned around and took one of the multitude of guns off the wall.

"Have a good hunt." Heath handed over the weapon, placing the dollar into his pocket and without another glance at the man, walked back into the storage room, knocking the door behind him.

The trigger was still warm. Heath slightly squinted, then shot again. This one was a bit farther then the last one. A curse flashed in Heath's mind, but he didn't say anything. Simply reloaded.

The doorbell rattled. Heath grumbled something to himself, before pocketing the gun. He thought for a second. Then, he took the gun out and aimed at the bull's eye.

"Hello? Anyone here?" A young, female voice asked. Heath closed his eyes in slight irritation and lowered his gun on the table.

"Yes?" He inquired, walking out of the storage room. It was Lucy, a fake fox scarf thrust around her neck complete with a hideous beret.

"Hey there, Mister Unknown," she broadly grinned, her plain face veiling up with charm. Heath's shoulder muscles relaxed as he leaned on the counter.

"Well hello dear," he smiled. "How did you find me?"

"Heinrich told me," Lucy chuckled. "Didn't know that you were at that looney's den."

"Did he now?" Heath raised his eyebrows, sitting down at the counter.

"Yeah," Lucy leaned with her elbow on the counter, her face slightly tilted.

"So you're not local?"

"No," Heath absently answered, studying Lucy's face as he gazed down at her. The woman's eyes momentarily flickered up and down as they took in the scars in daylight. Heath quietly laughed and drew back.

"So what brought you here, Lucy? I hope something more important than a simple visit."

"You don't like simplicity?" Lucy raised her elegant eyebrows, teeth glistening from under the cherry lips. Heath sent her a knowing glance.

"I like when people answer my questions. Which is, by the way," he jumped off the counter and began wiping dust off a random pistol just for fun," I like the girl in my local town more than you." Lucy smirked, but Heath saw the insulted coldness shiver in the cheekbones.

"I see. Was she as delicately sliced as you?"

Heath narrowed his eyes, unknowingly cocking the trigger.

"As far as concerning her killing humor, yes."

"What?"

"Never mind." Heath glanced behind Lucy's shoulder. "Is that your friend?" He pointed the gun. Lucy whipped around to see Ramey, politely smiling, hands inside a trench coat, standing in the doorway.

"Good morning, Lucy," Ramey flashed. Lucy was silent. Heath glanced between them.

"Good morning, Mister Ramey," He politely said. Lucy's nails dug into her palm. Romney took a step forward.

"I'm afraid I was rude to you the last time we met," he apologetically smiled, leaning on the counter. His eyes dangerously flashed. Heath shrugged.

"It's okay, I'm not hurt."

"So," Ramey made a barely noticeably emphasis on the word. "Who are you?"

Heath tore his gaze away from the window and looked straight at Ramey.

"A salesclerk. What do I look like someone else?" He sarcastically looked over himself before lifting his eyes up on Ramey. The mafiosi indifferently moved his shoulders, taking out a thick cigar out of his port. The smoke puffed right into Heath's face.

"I'd say a serial killer with that smile of yours," he smirked, looking back at stone faced Lucy.

"Right, Lucy?" Lucy nervously smiled.

"Right." Ramey turned back around to see a gun's barrel pointing right at him.

"The smile did turn out a bit creepy," Heath grinned, the scars raising up into a devilish smirk.

"But I don't think that was the point."