What the hell are you? Margo thought, her arms shaking as the Multi Man's knife moved closer.

"Why didn't you just shoot me?" he said. "You had nothing to lose by doing so. Nothing but lost knowledge that probably won't be lost forever, even when I'm gone."

"I can't be like the rest of Psychwatch," Margo said. "I can't kill people just because I don't understand them."

"So that's it? Once you've gotten the explanation you want for my behavior, you'll finally be ready to pull the trigger?"

The knife was almost there. Margo's arms shook, and her face burned red. Her muscles grew sore, as if wearing away like thread.

"You're only setting yourself up for disappointment," said the Multi Man.

The tip of the blade finally made contact, burying into Margo's cheek. Blood seeped out of the new incision as the young officer winced, gritting her teeth.

"Malcolm Slater once told me something back in the Rabbit Hole," the Man continued. "He pondered the reason why people go back to the source to understand why things are the way they are. Why people are the way they are. But the past is so irrelevant these days. We all have foundations, but we're never built the way we were intended to be built."

Margo screamed as the blade cut further across her cheek.

"Your father beat you since you were a child, Margo. Your mother hates herself too much to care about anyone else. And on top of that, you hear voices and see people that aren't really there. You really think you were meant to last long in this world?"

"Fuck you!"

"But you did. You're here! Twenty-three years on this earth. You have friends, a family, a job, and an education. You overcame the cracks in your foundation. At least until today."

The knife swiftly retreated from Margo's face, leaving her cheek oily with blood. She felt a drop streak down her face like a tear, pausing at her chin before resuming its descent down to her neck.

"Psychwatch's foundation was a little more humble," he continued. "They wanted to confront the mental illness epidemic. Obliterate the stigma. Retake control of the human mind. They wanted to play God. But even the foundation of a god cannot support man. Flawed, blind, egocentric mankind that breaks down the moment it comes across something it has yet to control or understand. So just like you, Margo, Psychwatch subverted their own foundation and gave it the cracks we all see today. The violence. The invasion of individuals' minds. Their display of intrigue and curiosity toward our madness rather than sympathy. And all of the lies they tell us."

The Man leaned in closer. "I kill people, too, Margo. I have that in common with Psychwatch. But unlike them, I don't go out of my way to call it anything else."

"Then why are you doing this?" she screamed.

"Because I like hearing people ask why. Hear them try to make sense of it. It's incredibly amusing."

What do I even want to hear from him? Margo thought.

The two of them remained still. Too still. Margo pondered if "human" was the right description for the Man.

"Do you..." she said. "Do you feel...anything? Like pain?"

"What answer do you want to hear?" asked the Multi Man.

She'd only prolong the game he was playing, Margo thought. She decided, Nothing. I don't want to hear from you ever again.

Margo collided her head with the Man's nose, forcing him back. Her skull pounded, and she felt a new cut on her forehead from the mask's rigid surface, but she was free. Free and now aware that the enemy was still human enough to lose in the end.

She charged in and punched him. First, the face. Then the gut. You don't need to hurt, she thought. You just need to learn that I'm stronger than you think I am.

The Multi Man retaliated, coming at her with his knife. New gashes crossed her arms the few times she couldn't dodge, but the adrenaline saved her. A swift, stinging slash across her skin then on to another, only for the next blow from her fist to make up for everything. To hear the Man stumble back, grunt, choke, made the cuts easier to bear.

Get your gun, she thought. Knock him around all you want, he'll still keep getting up until you use your Fatemaker.

She waited for an opening, for the right moment to incapacitate the Man. Leave him in a daze, grab her gun, and improvise from there. Stun? Kill? Both would render him motionless, but one for good. No more use for him. All the mysteries go to Hell with him, and the truth behind the mask would come out butchered and ambiguous, the information gathered from the few lackeys he'd have left alive by the end of everything.

"You officers are spoiled with those Fatemakers," said the Multi Man, his bloody knife at the ready. "Although, you've all come a long way from pinning people down on the sidewalk and choking them to death."

Then he charged. Margo froze for a second too long, and when she evaded, the knife grazed the side of her bicep. Every move after that stung and burned, and her Blur mocked her again, blinking to life for three seconds before vanishing once again. But she had a goal, and she would get it done.

Her goal, the Multi Man's defeat, would've been accomplished faster by an officer with better stamina, however. And stronger flesh. And zero doubts or disbeliefs. One who didn't grow lightheaded at the sight of her blood on the floor or the dawning realization of all the new incisions on her arms. Her legs wobbled, and the world swayed side to side, apathetic to her descent.

"You're pushing your limits," said the Man. "They're there for a reason."

"You have them, too," she said, but her words slurred into a jumbled mess.

The Multi Man shrugged. "Maybe. But in spite of your display of physical power a moment ago, I can confidently say you haven't pushed me anywhere near them."

Margo fell toward the wall behind her, gasping for air. Her cuts pulsated like her own heart, and sweat layered her brow. The doubts came back, and she pondered whether the longer she fought, the more gruesome her eventual demise.

* * *

Whitey had Carl pinned to the floor without even moving a limb, his deathly red eyes increasing gravity upon him. Though Carl refused to fear the young psychopath, he was well aware of the boy's deadlier connections. His Fatemaker felt fused to his hand.

Kid, Carl thought, aware he couldn't reach out to Whitey, you don't have to do this. You look young. We can say that you had no choice, that you and your sister were held captive and gaslit into doing things no other kid should ever have to do. Just don't rat us out. Don't hurt anymore people.

Neither one of them blinked at first, even with the dust drifting through the air. Whitey was the first to crack, and only until then was Carl able to read the message in the boy's eyes clearly. I know what I'm doing. I could've stopped a long time ago, but that's not going to happen.

"One of them is moving," he said.

Crimson moved away from Royce, blood dripping from her hands and dagger. She stood next to her brother and tilted her head, catching Carl's eyes and smiling.

"Is that the man from Wayne Junction?" she said, and she waved her bloodied hand at him. "Hello, Officer! How's it going down there? You feel nice and comfortable laying amongst your dead coworkers?"

Carl quietly sat up, finger hovering above the trigger.

"Y'know, I'm glad I met you that night in the Psycho Slums," Crimson said. "That Tulio guy just made me dumber and dumber every time he opened his mouth. Never would've thought of killing him had you not showed up."

Still nothing from Carl.

Crimson's eyes widened, and she continued forcing herself to grin. "See? Even right now, I can tell you're really hard to piss off. Let me just say that is a terrible fucking idea, trying to keep a straight face because now we gotta test your limits!"

Whitey unveiled a machete from behind his back.

"Although, we can tell you're genuinely a good person," said Crimson. "Because you're a terrible liar. First with the schizophrenic girl and now with all these people. I mean, look at them! They're not dead! I've spent most of my life around dead people. You don't think I'd fucking know what dead people look like?"

"I'm sorry you've had to live like that," Carl said. He kept his Fatemaker low to control the tension.

Crimson forced herself to laugh. "You're sorry? Why? I love what I do! It's all I've ever known and all I'll ever want to know! Isn't that right, Whitey?"

Carl glanced at the boy and saw the machete trembling in his hands. Even Crimson shook where she stood.

"You're kids," Carl said. "You still have a chance to do the right thing. You've hurt a lot of people, many of whom didn't deserve it, but you can let us go." He looked down at his nephew. "These are good people. Please don't hurt them."

Crimson stopped smiling. "You just don't get it, do you?" she said. "I like hurting good people. They suffer more than the others."

Carl caught Jack rising his Fatemaker to the back of one of the masked men, even while he remained on the floor, planted against the wall. It's really come to this, Carl thought.

"Well," he said, "if that's what you like, and why you like it...then I can't help you. I can only stop you. NOW!"

Within the span of thirty seconds, the dust in the air went dark red.

Three of the masked men were reduced to gibs by Jack's Fatemaker in its Subjugate mode. Andrade leaped from the floor and opened fire on as many masked men as she could, only to take two shots to her gut. Holden and Nikki shrieked and shriveled on the floor, attempting to crawl away while doused in blood and entrails. Whitey charged toward Carl through the cascade of red mist, but Carl fired a shot into his ribs and thrusted him away with his free hand, sending him tumbling towards his sister as she screamed an unholy scream. The boy wasn't dead, but Carl wondered what the best fate was for him and his sister.

"HOLDEN!" screamed Carl, but his eyes burned. Ash, soot, blood, everything wanted him blind.

He heard figures jump around the hallway, attacking him and his colleagues, and he ensured that none of them would ever touch him. He lit up the hall with orange light from his Fatemaker, hoping to take down anyone whose face hid behind a mask, and he mostly succeeded. But with the air filled with dust and haze once again, Whitey and Crimson slipped away, leaving only bloodied footprints on the floor.

Hands tugged on Carl's arm, and when he turned, he saw Holden grabbing him, fear in his eyes, confusion leaving his tongue. There was blood on his face and his clothes, none of it his own. He saw Nikki holding Andrade up by her real arm, shaking relentlessly, trying to find a clean seat for her superior officer.

Vince, thought Carl. I'm not sure if you or any of the others can hear me...but I need your help. Holden, Margo, Nikki, they need your help. Too much is happening, and I'm weak. I'll be like Royce by the end of the day. Dead. Inside and out.

Carl proved himself wrong after getting a glimpse of Royce, bloodied and shivering, who held his right hand to the laceration on his neck. His left hand wielded a modified handgun.

Jack lay motionlessly by the entrance into the surveillance room where Psychwatch officers once observed him from behind the safety of holographic screens. Like everyone else, he was bathed in blood that didn't belong to him, yet he rested more peacefully than ever before, and the room next to him, a pitch-black void shaped like a doorway, didn't intrigue him in the slightest.

"Uncle Carl," said Holden. "Uncle Carl, what do we do? Where's Margo?"

Margo...thought Carl, but he struggled to think of her while standing before Holden, his own flesh and blood.

"I don't know," he said, and Holden moved away, stepping into the surveillance room with his ThoughtControl lens on. The darkness swallowed him and the glow of his lens.

* * *

Margo didn't want sleep, but sleep wanted her. Gravity wanted her on the floor, with her lacerated cheek against its cool gray surface, her eyelids fluttering as they fought to stay up before slamming down forever. Her skin screamed, and her throat burned, but in the end, she wanted to see the Multi Man at his lowest point before she'd lay her head down to sleep that night.

"It was a pleasure," he said, "finally having the opportunity to take the life of someone willing to fight for what little they have left. I thought I'd be playing around with another empty shell, but for a moment, I saw you cling onto hope, even if it wasn't really there."

"Shut up," hissed Margo. Nausea boiled in her stomach, and she felt what little color she had in her face drain away.

"You don't have much time left. I respect you enough to make sure you don't waste that time like you've wasted your life before that. And even then, I realize you had those years yanked away from you by your mother and Psychwatch, so I'll make sure your final act is an impactful one. Grab your Fatemaker off the floor."

There's a catch, Margo thought. Look at him. He wants to keep playing the game. Fuck that. He can have my gun.

"Come on. Get your gun."

Do whatever you want now. You've beaten me. You can pretend you've beaten Psychwatch, but you haven't. Just focus on killing me to buy Carl and the others time. So they can run back in here, see me dead on the floor with my blood on your hands, and shoot you until you're less recognizable than you already are.

Margo collapsed to her knees. She felt her breathing slow down, and her head weighed as much as a cinder block. She looked at the slashes on her arms and winced, but a droll remark passing through her head brought a smirk to her face. How do I explain to people that these weren't self-inflicted?

"Grab your gun," he said, "or I'll make sure you outlive everyone you've ever cared about."

"That's how things were supposed to be," Margo muttered, and her smile faded when she realized she believed herself.

"What did you just say?"

Her eyelids were heavier than ever. The floor called for her, invited her to lay down and never get back up. Wake up somewhere safer with people who cared, people who wouldn't hurt or belittle her.

Suddenly, she wanted her Fatemaker back.

She looked at the Multi Man and, with a deep breath, said, "Nobody's going to remember you."

She dove for her gun, and the Multi Man dashed toward her. Her left hand grasped around the barrel, but the Multi Man raised his leg and stomped down on her free hand. With her fingers smashed to pieces and an explosive sensation rippling through her hand, all she could do was scream away the pain and attempt firing a shot.

All she managed was a single shot through his torso before he buried his dagger in the crease in her left elbow. She screamed some more as the limb went motionless, slamming down into the floor with the rest of her, and the gun was out of her hands once more.

The Multi Man's blood felt cold as drops of it caught her cheek and eye. He held a glove to the wound in his torso as he knelt down to take her Fatemaker, and when he returned to his feet, Margo witnessed his potential vulnerability reveal itself. He grunted and swore on his way back up, and he stumbled back, nearly tripping to the floor like Margo before him.

He studied the Fatemaker as if it were an artifact from a long-forgotten culture or a relic from a past life. When the reminiscence ended, he switched it to its Incapacitate Mode and aimed it down at Margo.

"You think you're doing people a favor," he rasped, "putting people to sleep with this fucking thing?"

Margo remained silent, resting her head on the floor, closing her eyes, praying her colleagues would fare better than her.

The Multi Man hovered the gun above the crippled officer. "Well...welcome to the other side of the barrel. You're going to wish I'd put you down like the rest of them."

He pulled the trigger then lobbed the gun into the dark. He sat down by Margo's unconscious body and waited, brushing his blood-soaked hand over her face and through her hair.

He pondered the outcomes had she encountered one of his decoys first.

* * *

"Holden," said Carl. "Holden?"

"I'm fine," said Holden from inside the pitch-black surveillance room. "I'm just scared. I need a minute."

"What is he doing in there?" asked Andrade, planted in a seat with her arm on her wounds and her Fatemaker trained on Royce.

"Holden!" Carl said again, and with a shake of his head, he marched toward the entrance to the room.

He froze once he heard Holden crying inside.

"Holden," Carl said, "we need to get out of here. You have to stay strong just a little longer. I'll get you to your mom and dad and then...then...you're never coming back here. It's not safe. Neither for you or Nikki."

Holden cried harder. His faith was gone. Nikki took a step beside Carl, and the two exchanged worried glances.

"H-H-Holden?" Nikki said. "We...we believe in you. B-B-But we need to go."

The two stood before the entrance, twiddling their fingers and wishing the best for their young colleague. Holden's cries subsided into sniffling and the occasional clearing of his throat. Relief washed over Carl and Nikki as they heard him rise to his feet, taking two steps toward the exit.

Then the footsteps stopped.

"Holden?" Carl asked.

The darkness engulfing the room that ate almost all light it came across turned out to be a sadistic creature. When Carl activated his ThoughtControl lens, it allowed its glow to tear through and expose the room's contents. With the light now entering the room, Carl saw the Multi Man with his arms around Holden, his hands positioned on his chin and the nape of his neck.

"Take a few steps back," said the Multi Man. "Now."

Have mercy, Carl thought, jaw agape and hands trembling. Please.

"Help me," whispered Holden, his face still wet with tears.

Carl did as instructed. He heard the loud smack of his feet unsticking from the blood on the floor. His pulse was a thundering engine overloaded with fuel.

"Oh shit!" Andrade said, and when she aimed her Fatemaker at the Multi Man, she screamed in pain. Holding the gun up wore her out like an endless pursuit.

"Make no mistake," the Multi Man continued. "No one will survive what's coming. But if you do as I say, you'll have the privilege of leaving this earth together rather than one by one. The first thing you have to do is holster your weapon."

"Do what he says," Royce said, his voice too weak and shaky.

"You hurt him," Carl said, "and I will not hesitate to kill you."

"Killing me won't save him," said the Multi Man. "It won't save any of you. It would only buy you a little more time before you meet an even worse fate."

"Carl," whispered Holden again, tears streaming down his face, "I'm sorry about our family."

Carl expected dissociation but felt nothing. Everything before him was real. Everything that happened after that was his doing. His alienation from his family. Psychwatch's undoing. Everything.

"I'm sorry," Holden said again.

The Multi Man's breathing grew heavier. "Didn't you hear him?" he said. "The boy says he's sorry. What do any of you have to say about that?"

"Let him go," hissed Andrade.