raven's wings, a bird's call -

"You knew this might happen." An accusatory voice, raised and sharp.

"A possibility."

"These are all possibilities," a feral hiss.

"Then you knew this might happen." A parroted voice.

Two figures, standing in a dark room, lined with old machinery. A broadcast from a security camera, showing the staircase lobby. A scoreboard of sorts; numbers and names. An array of devices similar in construction to the verification devices for numbered doors.

it's like hansel and gretel, but with corpses instead of breadcrumbs!

"Are you ready?" Her voice is solemn, slow, and shaky. Her hands are clasped tightly in front of her, and her dark eyes never leave his calm face.

"For fifteen years," he replies, shoving both of his hands into his pockets. "I've been ready."

She nods her head, as if that is reason enough, although her knuckles are turning white and her face is equally pale. He smiles, a wistful smile that she thinks is meant to be calming, but no matter how calm she is, nothing will change.

She doesn't think it matters.

"Are you ready?" This time, he is the one who is asking her and she hesitates for a moment, before crossing her arms and nodding her head.

"It's been a long time coming," she says, taking one step forward. He shrugs his shoulders in response, turning away from her to face the door.

"Is this all of us?"

She hesitates for a second time.

"I see." He pauses. "...Will she be joining me?"

She nods her head, but he has turned away and he cannot see.

"So long." The doors slide open, and he takes a step forward.

"Happy birthday," he says to the darkness ahead of him, voice soft, "little lady who was n--"

"You've killed someone," he says, his voice grave.

"Maybe she was never anyone," she replies, although her voice is shaken and she's wringing her hands to the point where it seems as if her joints might pop out of her skin at any second. "Maybe someone is someone else," she adds, and he takes a moment before he can respond.

"She was someone, but now somebody else will have to be someone."

"Who's to say she was never somebody?" The girl sighs and shakes her head, more to cut off any further interruptions than to express any sort of regret. "It's done."

"Do you think you've made a mistake?" Curiosity.

"Yes. Maybe. I don't know." Indecision. Another pause. "...But this wasn't one of them."

He nods, his face impassive. She turns away from him, her heels clicking once more. It's a familiar sound, and it serves to soothe her a bit.

"How much further are we going to go?"

"We're going as far as you'll take me." Click. Click. "...and then I'll go even further."

"They say they're calling him a God."

"Real or not real?"

"Not fake," she replies, placing both hands on her hips. "But real enough." The woman pauses to purse her lips. "Is today the best day?"

"Today might be the worst day. But it has to be today. He's even brought in a reporter." As if that was reason enough. The man stops as a small child comes up to the woman, tugging at the corners of her coat. He smiles, kneeling down so he is closer to her height.

"Hello, little girl."

"Not her," the woman's voice is sharp as she pulls the small girl close to her.

"Bringing your child to work on a day like today. In a few years, you might regret this. ...But then again, perhaps this will be remembered

"You can't play a Nonary Game," she says, running one hand through her hair, "without nine people."

Click. Clack. Click, clack, clickclackclacklclakcclkacklclack. The sound of heels on cold floors, hollow and ringing. Mustn't be found, mustn't be caught, must succeed.

Soft footsteps, hard heels, corpses; a funeral march.

electric sounds, music, or cacophony?

Go not into the coffin, where your sister weeps, eyes crying blood-tears. Yet steps through he does, carrying her. Dead? Alive? Somewhere in-between?

Goodbye to something.

Goodbye to you? To me? To whom, we ask --

the door claims its two victims. swing open, swing shut, too long, too short --