Really Dead

The cool night air was a welcome change of pace. Above the colored spotlights, the cheering crowds, and the smell of booze and cigarette smoke, a lone figure stood in a balcony, white robes sharp against the dark walls of the resort. Here, it was quiet enough to listen to the crickets in between the rush of traffic below and the bass-boosted music.

*”It’ll be good for your psyche!”*

He still didn’t know how Zenic had convinced him to come here, to take some time off. It was likely due to his increasingly neurotic worrying and paranoia, but he didn’t think that could be helped by parties and loud noise. At least coming up here was a breath—a draught of relief in between the chaos. For once, he thought maybe…just maybe it was calm. Maybe nothing was wrong. Maybe he really *could* take a break from the endless paperwork and meetings, just to relax here and catch a break.

A thump jolted him out of his reverie.

He whirled around, catching a glimpse of the dark figure in the doorway of his suite. Immediately his paranoia spiked, like a sharp stake driven into his heart. He said nothing, but he backed up against the balcony, his hand going to the folds in his belt where kept a certain needle…a needle that would spell death for either himself or this dangerous intruder. The pink lights flickered on, revealing a Cheshire grin and an intimidating physique. In the blink of an eye, Headmaster dove for the carpet inside, trying to distract and confuse the figure to get around them, to make it to the door. Despite his hope, a pair of rough hands caught his shoulders, and he was thrown back onto the floor. He choked on his spit, fire jolting through his limbs. He found himself mask to mask with his intruder for a moment, as they barely hovered above him, as if checking to see if he was still breathing.

He gave a sharp yell when he suddenly remembered to exhale, attempting to drive his fist into their head. They only shrugged off the blow and grabbed his struggling body, throwing him against the wall. The needle flew from his hands—leaving him disarmed. Before he could react, the figure had grabbed one of the expensive vases on a table nearby and cracked it against his head. Colors and spots danced in his vision, and he heard his own mask crack from the blow as he went toppling forward stupidly onto the carpet again. Everything swam around him, spinning like a top as his shaky, desperate hands grasped onto the fallen needle again.

Once more to finish the job.

Another swift blow cracked against the back of his head, and he went limp.

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Whether Cheshire was too drunk that day to double check if the body really was dead or not will never be certain. But he felt the cold as he was placed in the icy holding cell. He felt the frost curl around his fingers as he gripped the needle tightly. He felt the rime overtake his senses and he planned, slowly, one day…to wake up again.