Disclaimer/Warnings: I do not own Heavy Rain or its characters. That's all Quantic Dream, baby. This story is rated M for harsh language, detailed drug use, depictions of mental breakdowns, brutal violence, and Boston accents.

Notes: A random oneshot that appeared out of nowhere and kind of grew into its own. Fans of the X-Files will recognize a little inspiration drawn from the episode "Blood". Hope you enjoy!

Blake's lungs sucked in heavy gulps of air before exhaling through his nose, a technique learned from his high school football coach, as he bounded down the dark and narrow hallway. He looked like a raging bull as he ran; nostrils flaring with determination and hostility. The bastard was only a few yards ahead of him; the trim of a black coat flowing behind as the man made his desperate escape. Yes, only a few yards. A few yards on a dead straight hallway made for a tempting chance to take a shot. However the lieutenant knew there was a good chance he'd lose sight of the fucker in those split seconds to stop and take aim.

He'd have to gain on the other man a little more if he wanted to stop him with hot lead.

Carter's body pushed itself into a sprint. His arms and legs pumped furiously as the stale air of the old office building flowed against his running form.

His target suddenly disappeared around the corner of a sharp turn in the hallway. Blake pushed himself even harder to get there.

The soles of the black wingtips slid on the slick tile floor; the policeman's body moving into the motion of the hard left turn in direction. On slight instinct and a whim he raised his weapon with his right hand at a low angle and steadied it with the other as he continued to slide. His finger squeezed the trigger in one fluid gesture; and the shot rang out with thundering clarity in the cramped corridor.

A yellow spark and a tiny ping emanated from a small area on the floor; the bullet only a few milliseconds late of hitting the fleeing man in the foot.

Blake groaned as his shoulder hit the wall hard but didn't bother to acknowledge it any further as he continued the chase down the hallway. Broken windows let in the dim light of the sky even more in this section; the cold blue of dusk was the only thing that watched the game of cat and mouse.

As he ran, the lieutenant thought he heard the sound of heavy gunfire coming from somewhere below; but the sound was too faint for him to be sure and he was too focused on the man he wanted to catch.

It wasn't long before he spied the fleeting silhouette of the runner just ahead of him; still running, but definitely seemed to be slowing down. With each step Blake was gaining on him little by little as he ran through the darkening, monotonous halls.

In the bleak light, Carter could see a pair of heavy red double doors just beyond the running man. It would take a moment to open them if they weren't locked.

His target threw himself against the left door, slowly him down briefly and causing him to loose balance.

"Well I guess it ain't gettin' any more perfect than that."

Once again he raised his handgun and fired; he heard the man cry out as he began to fall forward just before the door closed.

The police lieutenant wanted to congratulate himself right then and there, but was more eager to see the look on the bastard's face before he did so. He jogged to the red doors and forced them open with both hands, immediately aiming for the figure on the ground.

The man reached for his injured leg as he whined, which prompted Blake to say, "Freeze, asshole! Don't you dare make another fuckin' move or I'll be puttin' another one in that whiny mouth of yours!"

Brown eyes were encircled by a red face; glaring at his shooter as he spat, "You fucking prick! You goddamn son-of-a-bitch!"

"Aw I'm sorry. I guess I didn't warn you." The lieutenant's tone shifted to a gruff yet sarcastic bark, "'Stop or I'll shoot!' There, that better?", Blake snickered as he walked closer to the downed runner. He pulled the handcuffs off of his belt with one hand, and then shouted, "Put your hands on your head!"

"I didn't kill anybody, I swear! I just did what they told me to do! I just held a fucking camera, goddammit!", he protested.

Blake was in no mood for excuses, he hadn't even read him his rights yet and he was getting irritated, "Just shut your mouth and put your hands on your head!"

The fugitive did as he was told. Blake went for the man's wrists, but suddenly he turned himself over and tried to reach for the gun. The policeman had had enough; he tossed the restraints and plucked the heavy duty flashlight from his utility belt. In one single horizontal swipe the broad back end of the flashlight struck the man on the side of his head; knocking him unconscious almost instantly. Blake checked his pulse; he'd wake up with a nasty headache but would be otherwise fine. He was thankful to have a reason to bludgeon the shithead to a blackout.

After he cuffed both of the man's hands he stood over him with a smile.

"Gotcha, you slippery little fucker!"

Blake's eyes glanced briefly around the large chamber. It seemed to be some kind of sitting room near a pair of elevators that went to the various floors of the building, though they obviously looked to be out of commission. There was little reason to think that his catch could escape in this state and he could probably leave him here unattended for a while; he'd let some rookies handle the job of dragging his sorry ass down all those steps. For the moment everything seemed to be going rather well despite the unanticipated investigation. Carter was almost happy that they'd accidently stumbled upon this lead. If there wasn't any major upsets with their current progress things would be wrapped up within a matter of an hour.

"Now…where the hell is Jayden?"

Norman pressed himself against the wall in a panic. He knew they'd found him, and there were too many for him to take on alone. The FBI agent didn't even have Blake for support at this point. No doubt they'd surely kill him once they walked into the storage room he'd ducked into. Perhaps they'd even torture him before ending his life. Jayden knew well enough how much criminals like these had a great distaste for government authority, especially that of the FBI.

"Only branch that's hated more is tha fuckin' CEE-EYE-AYE. None'ah those creeps would evah be in'ah situation like this. Too busy screwin' around fah somethin' like this."

Humorous as the thought was, it didn't help him laugh at his current situation. After all that he'd done, and all he was meant to accomplish – it would all end here in a crummy storeroom of some run down building. His only cover was a couple of large wooden crates, that and the ugly gray walls that surrounded him.

A voice murmured to another on the other side of the door, but he couldn't hear what was being said.

There was a rapping on the metal green door; dangerous knuckles eager to get things started.

Jayden swallowed bile as he crouched into the corner. The Beretta 92FS shook in his hands, though it wasn't necessarily from fear. Beads of sweat were dripping down his body in droves. Norman knew fully where this was heading. In all of the worst case scenarios, this was the worst time for him to be experiencing withdraw symptoms; but there was no denying it was happening.

He heard the door open and suddenly the sound of a pistol going off enveloped the tiny room. A few shots dotted the wall beside him, a few damaged the crates. The federal agent reacted by firing back instantly, not being fully able to see as his vision continued to blur, and therefore his own shots were random and hasty. No amount of training would help him with the triptocaine addiction at the moment. His attackers ceased fire as they shouted in surprise. Norman watched the hand that slipped into the room slide back out quickly as the door closed again on its own.

Now the dreaded, head-splitting migraines began to manifest; it was like a million railroad spikes were being hammered into his skull at various intervals mercilessly.

Norman doubled over as his body lay almost flat against the cool concrete.

He looked in front of him; through the blurry world he saw something on the floor in front of him. It was a tiny oblong shape; mostly blue but black at one end. Upon further examination he saw there were many of them. They'd rolled out of the damaged wooden boxes. His hand grabbed it, the familiar feeling of plastic in his palm. His vision cleared for a split second – it was an ampule of sorts.

Though it was a wild coincidence to be sure, there was a possibility that the strange substance inside was his drug of choice. However, its coloration and consistency was not altogether the same as triptocaine; it was whiter than normal and the individual grains seemed smaller than usual. Norman had ingested enough of the phosphorus anti-psychotic to know something was definitely off about it, but didn't care. He had a small group of armed men hunting him down like a rat; an overdose on an unknown drug was the least of his worries. At least he might make some kind of progress with the withdraw symptoms.

Popping the cap off, he let the pale white-blue powder trickle down onto the dirty concrete where it sprawled out in a thick line. Upon seeing the dazzling granules, he shoved his face into the tiny pile; particularly where his nose could easily snort it in deep. Instantly, his nasal cavity felt like someone shoved a lit match up inside it. His eyes teared up before blinking rapidly. There was still a thin trail of the drug left on the ground, but his nose was too sensitive to have another go at taking it in. Jayden hesitated only briefly at his next move and after that split second hesitation his tongue languidly lapped up the remaining substance. The FBI agent's mind was so ablaze that he couldn't even tell what it tasted like, all he could feel was the chalkiness of the powder and the grit of the concrete dust laying on his taste buds. He felt disgusted with himself; how pathetic the act was. However he wasn't allowed to be concerned with the humiliating notion much longer as his head began to feel as if it were about to explode like TNT inside a mine, his heart was racing even faster now; in fact all of the general symptoms were worsening.

Then there was nothing…

All feeling had ceased, he could feel absolutely nothing at all; not the pain of the withdrawals, not the solidness of the ground, nor even the stir of the motions of his limbs. It was a godsend considering what he was just experiencing.

His inquisitive mind was already curious about the situation, "Has it set in already? Gee it usually doesn't happen that fast. Wondah what this is. If I'd known ehnee bettah I'd think I was dead."

"No, Nahman. Yah naht dead, but if yah naht careful you will be."

Fear. That cold and slimy twinge of panic shot through his stomach at the sound of his own voice coming from behind him. That was the first feeling that broke through the wonderful numbness.

"This isn't happening. This is just being scared. Everything is gonna be okay.", he told himself.

"Sure it's gonna be okay, jus' as long as yah listen tah me."

Suddenly he found himself staring at a pair of designer men's shoes, much like the ones he had on right now, of which the tops were being touched by the ends of black slacks, also what he was currently wearing; though both were in much more pristine condition than his own at the moment. His eyes traveled upward, where he looked into the eyes of – himself.

There Agent Norman Jayden stood in the shining light of the naked bulb hanging overhead looking as calm and reassuring as he did when questioning a murder victim's grieving family member. Except there was no light bulb in the room at all, it was doubtful if there was still working electricity in this place; there had only been a dim haze coming from the setting sunlight peaking in from the windows out in the hallway before this.

Stumbling upon his words, Norman spoke to 'himself', "Y-You can't be here. I don't have…"

"–ARI. I left ARI in Blake's car."

With a condescending smile 'Norman' said, "Shame, shame, Nahman. Yah ruh'membah in trainin' they said yah need tuh keep 'em with yah at all times. 'Specially on an investigation. Yah can't be slippin' on me now. It's okay though. Everybody makes mistakes now an' then right? Besides I gaht an extra pair just fah you!"

Unfolding his hands, there was a pair of the black sunglasses and the glove lying in his palms. 'Norman' set the glasses on Norman's face, and grabbed his right hand to slip the input glove on for him. When his hand touched Norman's, it was the most chilling sensation he'd ever experienced in his life. It was something of an unnatural state; cold and without humanity. It frightened him.

His terror was only heightened when his vision was warped by "ARI" – he looked at the world through a grimy and green digital haze, which was not uncommon in certain environments, but there was something about it that unsettled him. Nothing had changed about the store room other than the color at which his eyes took it in, but yet it disturbed him. Something wasn't right, something felt different. He began to sense things that he shouldn't. He could hear all the life that was left in this forgotten structure; the little pitter-patter of rats scurrying in the walls, the swaying of weeds in the wind where they had broken through the concrete, the flapping wings of birds returning to their nests, the unwholesome conversations of the group of criminals in rooms on the other side of the complex, and Blake's footsteps far away from him. How was it possible that his mind could detect and pinpoint each sound to its origin, especially ones that were carried out over extreme distances?

The hair on his arms began to stand up as his skin began to feel the light prick of tiny specks of dust brushing against his face and hands, and the way the air shifted inside the closed off room. He was feeling it in a way that he couldn't have only a moment ago.

He was even viewing the two men waiting outside the door in a new way. They were glowing in hot waves of red through the walls like thermal vision; and when they made the slightest bit of movement something stirred in the atmosphere around them. Whenever their hand clutched their gun or even shifted a leg from remaining still so long the wisp of a bleak cloud emanated. In an inexplicable way these clouds terrified Norman more than anything else. Every time they'd appear he'd experience something that wasn't there. A scream. A pain. A feeling of vehemence. Those singular sensations would then come together like a puzzle to weave a picture in his mind – for a moment he saw himself on his knees with the muzzle of a gun grinding into his skull before it was burst open by a bullet, then it changed to fists beating him until his face was bruised and bloodied, and when the fists were satisfied they wrapped around his throat so that he would never breathe even a single breath again. Each of these horrific fantasies seemed to be tied to a particular individual. They were things they wanted to do to him.

Norman's breathing became erratic, all these things were beyond the capabilities of ARI, though it was a remarkable device; this was something hellish and disturbing. He couldn't stand one more second of looking at the world through these brutal, omniscient eyes. Immediately the federal agent reached for the rim of the sunglasses around his right eye but then realized something just as frightening as looking at the world in this way – he didn't feel the glasses. They weren't there at all.

Wildly he began pawing at his face, hoping that he'd somehow knock off the phantom shades.

He screamed, "Why can't I get it off?! What's goin' on?!"

Unperturbed by his fearful insanity, 'Norman' winked at him, "ARI's in here, Nahman…", tapping the sides of his temples with his fingers, "Yah nevah haftah worry about loosin' it again now."

Tears of anxiety and frustration poured down Jayden's cheeks. He was panicking.

"I don't wanna see this anymore! I want this tuh stop! How do I make it stop?!"

'Norman' shook his head, "Oh I dunno if you can stop it, Nahman. Do yah really wanna make it stop?"

Jayden nodded like a timid sheep, "Yes! Please…tell me…"

"Okay, there's jus' one thing yah gottah do. It's really simple…"

Without warning, Agent Jayden began to hear a tiny ringing in the back of his eardrums; small at first, but then grew to be as loud a siren. He was stricken by another onslaught of skull-splitting headaches. The false light fixture overhead started to swing back and forth, causing the room to be doused in an unnerving flash of darkness and then blinding light. For a moment all he could see was the silhouette of his virtual replicant. The light shined over his face again, those pale lips spoke firmly as the words rolled off the Boston accented tongue, "…Kill 'em."

Scared out of his mind, Jayden shut his eyes so tight he could see spots from the retina burn, yet even there the little squiggles and odd shapes formed to spell out the horrifying phrase, "KILL 'EM ALL."

A sickness built up within his stomach, from the intense pain in his head and the awful reality of what was happening.

He pleaded with the digital ghost, "No! No, I can't do that! You know I can't do that! I…I couldn't… I nevah…killed…anyone…"

Jayden recalled the few instances in his career where he had to draw his weapon; especially here in Philadelphia. Yes, he had no qualms about pointing a loaded gun at someone, but that's all it was – a scare tactic; a ruse to hopefully save lives and bring a little more justice into the world without actually crossing that line.

Though he always expected to get involved in potentially dangerous situations, he never imagined it would come down to something like this. He didn't want to admit it to anyone, not even himself, but the truth of the matter was that Norman was still relatively inexperienced and impulsive. He didn't like letting people know that he'd only successfully solved a mere four cases, sure it wasn't bad considering he'd only been a fully-fledged agent for barely a year. It didn't help his already compromised ego that he enjoyed how what little family and friends he had would treat him like he was an American James Bond just because the words 'FBI' and 'federal agent' were involved in his profession, on top of the recent triumph of cracking the Origami Killer case. In a way Norman felt he had to keep an aloof, hot-shot attitude just enough to be taken seriously due to his rather uncommon younger age when compared to other members of his field. Deep down it was all an effort so no one else had to die, and that people would pay for the atrocities they committed through a court of law. After all, a methodical judicial system was one of the few things that separated humans from animals; and it was important to uphold such a system.

Despite his previous accomplishments, the only case he'd really taken on by himself was the unfortunate murders of young boys in this city, and even though he could chalk half of it up to his intellect; the other half was pure luck that he didn't die in the middle of the investigation, and even more so that he didn't have to kill anyone during it. He arrested a vulgar junkyard criminal, was able to keep a delusional God-fearing man from killing a belligerent police lieutenant, and finally could keep the real perpetrator busy long enough until said belligerent police lieutenant would arrive with support to detain him where afterward he would face trial within another few weeks; all of which were flawless accomplishments for the young man and a good mark on his career.

Regardless of that, Agent Norman Jayden was not a soldier of war trained to kill multiple hostiles; Agent Norman Jayden was essentially a low-grade psychoanalyst with a license to carry a loaded gun. There was no way he could have ever prepared himself for a situation like this, not that he should have been daring enough to put himself in it. If his mind had the space for such thoughts he would be cursing himself endlessly.

'Norman' continued to press the issue as the white beam went sideways, "So what's it gonna be, Nahman? Yah gonna let 'em jus' kill yah here 'cause yah too ah'fraid tah pull a little triggah? 'Cause yah wanna have 'em waste time in a courtroom? Have yah evah wondah'ed what it'd be like tah delivah some justice yah'self? Remember, there ain't nothin' to it – just a little bit of…"

"…self-defense.", Jayden said quietly; finishing the familiar sentence for his digital phantom.

"What is it again, Nahman?"

Agent Jayden spoke louder this time, "Ain't nothin' to it…just a little bit of self-defense. Page one of the police manual…kill…or be killed…"

Those were the exact words he'd used to intimidate Mad Jack at that warehouse in the junkyard; though they seemed to hold a more lethal weight upon his tongue now.

'Norman' nodded his head, "That's it. Yah gaht the idea now. I think they're ready fah yah."

His observation seemed to ring true; even Jayden could feel their anxiousness and excitement getting ready to burst on the other side of the wall. Quickly he got up from his position on the floor while picking up his handgun, trying to steady himself as best as he could through the intense pain that still haunted him.

The federal agent repeated those grim words in an emotionless and monotone whisper like a gruesome mantra, "Just a little bit of self-defense… Kill or be killed… Just a little bit of self-defense… Kill or be killed…"

Norman pressed himself against the right side of the doorway as much as he could; gripping his firearm till his hands turned red. He knew they were going to come in any second now. Beads of sweat were trickling down his face. Yet still he repeated the phrases in hush tones until they'd be whittled down to, "Self-defense… Kill… Self-defense… Kill… Kill… Kill…"

Just as the last 'kill' escaped his mouth, the weathered gray metal door of the small room was forced open. The door handle slammed against the concrete wall and created a dull thud that rang greatly in Norman's ears. Time seemed to slow down as he watched the two men slide into the storeroom. Nothing was particularly striking about their appearance; both were Caucasian males in their mid-to-late twenties wearing plain clothes that any average citizen might wear on a cool night. By now ARI usually would pull up at least a minor status report of their identity and their criminal record, yet all the virtual interface seemed to do was pixelate their faces as if they were everyday offenders on an episode of COPS. In their over zealousness to eliminate their prey, they had passed by his current position against the wall as he somehow anticipated. Their focus was the back of the room where he'd formerly inhabited near the crates. Both men fired a single shot, perhaps to draw him out of hiding from that spot.

Suddenly ARI began to change how Jayden observed them once again – bold orange lines began running over their bodies in various circular patterns with small numbers along them. When the imaging was complete he realized they were disturbingly similar to scoring lines on a human-shaped target at a shooting range; his attackers were now 3D targets packed full of new places to hit.

Then a small orange crosshair began blinking fiercely at the back of the leg on the man closest to him.

"KILL 'EM ALL!", the grisly words flashed near it.

The longer the federal agent stared at it, the more he became entranced, and the more that agonizing head-splitting siren echoed in his mind.

Norman couldn't hold back any longer.

Pushing himself off the wall he immediately made his first move by kicking his first target hard in the leg right behind his kneecap. The target fell to kneel on the ground as he yelped in surprise and pain. As Jayden looked at his head another crosshair appeared in a particular spot upon his cranium; showing the precise spot where a bullet would do the most effective damage.

It took less than a second for Norman to react; pressing the muzzle of his Beretta firmly into the exact point of the crosshair against the delinquent's skull.

"KILL 'EM ALL!"

His index finger pulled the trigger; for a brief moment there was no understanding of the gravity of what he was doing as the silver plated gun fired off one single bullet. The explosion that erupted from its tip was like a firecracker lighting up into hot yellow then melded with tiny splashes of red. It seemed to take forever for the criminal's body to collapse to the floor where a few more drops of blood sloshed down near him. The thunderous beating of his heart had ceased, and the bloodthirsty sights and sounds of his mind that ARI picked up had dissipated. The bright orange crosshairs dimmed and faded.

Just before his mind readjusted itself to the grave nature of the situation, he recalled the other man out of the corner of his eye where the crosshairs appeared demandingly again.

"KILL 'EM ALL!"

He wasted no time in responding to the order as adrenaline elevated him once again.

The federal agent threw himself at his new attacker, who was slightly taller and more fit than the former one. His second target seemed to be momentarily taken off guard by his burst of strength and Norman was able to shove him against the wall. As Jayden pinned him there he began to notice a certain glow around his right arm as the nerves in it began firing up. By some chilling instinct, the profiler tilted his upper body backwards slightly as he felt the wind of a hard fist flying past his face; dodging it completely. In retaliation Jayden raised his own hand that still clutched the Beretta and slammed the butt of the gun on his target's forehead. Though he was dazed by the force of the pistolwhip the man tried lashing at him again; which was met with another blow from the bottom of the firearm streaming across his face. Norman felt his target's body weaken from the strikes and instantly he realized he'd dropped his gun so that his own hands were wrapping around the other man's throat. He registered the sound of the weapon hitting the concrete, but the sound of his fingers forcing a harsh grip on rough skin was so subtle it somehow made it even louder than the gun in his mind; he could hear the many ridges in his fingerprints grinding over the rough, stubble-laced skin. Of course this wasn't a sound anyone would normally hear, which made it even harder for him to completely describe and understand. Norman recalled taking a rock to the wood of his grandfather's old barn in Westchester, New York when he was 10 years old and scratched the white paint off the planks, hitting a patch of old vines that grew on them every so often as well – those were the sounds it resembled.

He could feel the man's jugular vein pulsing with wild fury beneath the skin; the beating of his heart was almost maddening now. It was obvious he was desperate for survival, and out of that desperation the near-death killer thrashed his upper body sideways in order to throw off Jayden's grip, but the FBI agent held firm.

Even through the blur of ARI's censorship, Norman could still almost make out the terror and the anger on that unknown face. Perhaps it was the same look that he might have seen through the eyes of those he'd killed.

As he flailed arms, his gagging was intensified; the struggle to live was about to come to a close.

Norman's fingers clenched mercilessly and held steady.

Then there was nothing.

No pulse. No breathing. No thrashing. Even the violent airwaves that ARI picked up had dissipated like the crosshairs that marked the man. Oddly enough, the naked lightbulb stopped jostling back and forth as well.

The sudden silence and disturbing lack of motion made it evident of what he'd just done. Norman Jayden had killed not just one but two men; one in cool and collected callousness and the other in extreme malevolence.

His mind was wrestling with that notion as his hands gently released the deceased criminal from his gasp. Drifting from his fingers; the body fell haphazardly like a flimsy mannequin on the floor. Norman stared into the pixelated face, even through the electronic grime he could see the whites of the dead man's eyes, and even the protruding tongue that was left dangling just slightly from the half-obscured lips.

Perhaps the most disturbing thing was that at that very moment, he didn't feel as bad as he should have. Even someone with the average understanding of the human psyche would have known that something was wrong with this absence of remorse. The FBI agent tried his best to figure out why.

His mind didn't get to work with the puzzle for long, for as his brain recalled all the various intricacies of the gruesome situation that agonizing ringing in his ears overtook his thoughts. He'd never known such a sound in all his life, and the pain it caused him was beyond a typical migraine. He could scarcely even put together basic thoughts, and the only one that made any sense was how to make it stop. The lightbulb started to swing again; exacerbating his current condition even further. Yet a singular thought cut through the aching mass his mind had become – the image and the feeling of the gun he held in his hand.

In a brief moment of clarity, the light stopped swinging once again. Though it was a small consolation at first, it became another horror; the small light source was defying gravity by hanging almost parallel to the ceiling as if some invisible force were holding it there. Another paradox was that despite the fact that it was completely exposed its light was being thrown around the room in odd ways; the room wasn't being illuminated as it should have been. Now it was cast in an array of light and dark triangles, with the exception of one corner of the storeroom which was occluded by hazy shadows; and that was where 'Norman' was standing.

The half-exposed replicant noted, "Yah naht done yet, Nahman. There's still a few friends of theirs that are lookin' fah yah. You know what yah gotta do."

Jayden swallowed bile and whispered with great determination, "Kill 'em all…"

His words were almost alien to him, but they definitely came from his own mouth.

"That's it! See? There really is nothin' to it!"

Agent Norman Jayden gripped his gun tighter; feeling the call of the aching siren in his head again. The sweat began pouring from his brow as his heart raced as his blood was charged not just the will to survive, but with the unspeakable understanding of going beyond the social norms of American justice.

He listened to the four voices of those who he had to kill in order for this to end. They were discussing the matter of the intruding officers and how it was taking so long for their three other compatriots to return. It wouldn't be long before they'd come looking for their partners, but Jayden wasn't going to wait for them to come to him.

Silently he bolted out of the open door of the storeroom; the light swinging back and forth like a pendulum behind him.

He was flying through the dark, with only the center of the building where the threats were located as his destination.

When he reached them, the screams of anguish were as deafening as the gunshots that echoed into the empty hallways…

"Put the goddamn gun down, Norman!"

"I can't do that, Blake! Everything's wrong! I dunno what's even happenin' ehne more!"

"Well you can start making things right by putting that gun on the ground!"

"No! No! It's done now! They're all dead! Every one of 'em! I killed them, Blake! I killed them! I'm cove'ahd thuh blood of six fuckin' people!"

"…It's your first time. Isn't it? That's why you did what you did at Nathaniel's. You couldn't shoot him. You hadn't killed anyone before."

"I-I-I nevah had to. It wasn't right then….but somehow it was thuh right thing tuh do here… It is but it isn't… God I don't even know what I'm sayin'! I jus' can't fucking stand it!"

"Listen, Jayden, you did what you had to do. This was a bad situation and you reacted in a way that you thought was appropriate. I mean the FBI had to have trained you to prepare for this kind of thing, didn't they?"

"Yeah that's real easy comin' from you, Blake! I bet you couldah killed them without'ah second thought! Yah probably have had this kinda thing happen tuh you plenty'ah times!"

"Jesus, Norman, I'm not the fuckin' anti-Christ! Ask anybody in law enforcement who deals with hard crime and they'll tell you they've all been pushed to do things so that it doesn't come down to the worst for innocent people! And you know what? You're right, I wouldn't have a problem killing these fuckers, especially if they were trying to kill me!"

"Oh but you know, Cartah… You know it wasn't about that anymore. You saw it. I went…beyond that. I… I did more than just that… Now you gaht me cornered here like an animal. Now you'll have an excuse fah killin' me since I gaht thuh job done fah yah an' then you'll be the hero! You always wanted to kill me evah since we started on that goddamn case that brought me tuh this shithole of a city!"

"Kill you?! Norman I may have threatened you and yeah I don't like you but do really think I'd want to kill you?! How about you put yourself in my shoes, pal? That investigation was the worst one of my entire career as a police officer. I spent two long, fuckin' years staring at dead kids piling up on wastelands and street corners while their parents berated me because I couldn't give them the justice they wanted! Then I had an entire city in an uproar as my incompetent asshole of a boss did very little to ease the situation! And I was getting absolutely nowhere with it! Then all of a sudden I had some FBI agent from D.C. march in with a lukewarm, douchebag attitude thinking he knew it all! Then what happened? That FBI agent solved the whole thing in a matter of a few days! And worse yet I nearly had an innocent man take the blame for it all! How do you think I felt, Norman?! Do you even know what that feels like? I got over it though, because I had to. It was a part of my job to suck it up and move on…and because even though you are a snotty little shit I respect you. We may do our jobs differently but our goal is still the same, and I have to give credit to anyone who works for the same thing I do."

"I… I jus' can't believe it… I dunno what to even say to that. I dunno what to say about any of this. I dunno if this is real eithah. I want this to be somethin' ARI made up… I wish it was…but it's not. What I did was real and terrifying, but yet I don't feel afraid of it. I don't feel like I don't have the right to kill you anymore, Blake. I should but I don't. There's something wrong, maybe somethin' ARI did or what I had taken… I wish could just get myself to shut up. I don't want to listen tah me anymore, the things I'm telling myself right now. It's me but it isn't. I'm feelin' all this pain and it hurts so fuckin' bad. I just want to make things right, I jus' want this all to be over."

"It's alright, Jayden. I know whatever's going on has put you in a bad place. You don't have to take it any further than you already have. You can start making things right by putting that gun down….and will all be over…"

"I don't think it'll ever be over…"

"Jayden listen to me! This is the right thing to do! I know it's not easy hearing this from the bad cop but you have to trust me!"

"I'm sorry, Blake… I'm sorry I couldn't shoot Nathaniel. I knew I could keep him from doin' it, but even if I knew that I couldn't I still wouldn't have shot him. I'm sorry fah that…"

"Wait, Norman–!"

Lieutenant Blake could still recall the shot being fired while sat in the practical broom closet of the office that wasn't technically his; out of all the gunfire he'd heard in his life that particular one would be the most memorable. That wasn't a necessary detail that was needed in the report he'd given, but it was certainly haunting him.

In fact it was still so fresh and so real in his mind that he flinched just slightly as the memory replayed itself for what seemed to be the millionth time that night.

A cold chill ran up his spine as he sat at the very desk that Jayden had sat in only a few hours before; it was the first taste of solitude he'd had for the entire evening. It was a much needed comfort at 3 AM, he needed to be away from above average level chaos brought on by the outcome of the case that was going on in the homicide department outside. He'd wanted nothing more after working with the S.W.A.T. and Narcotics units in searching the complex in order to get a better understanding of what happened. They found nothing of course, except for the bodies of the other two men in a storage room a few yards away from where the main group had been. They even questioned Wade Garner, the man Blake had captured at the scene; and he revealed that no drugs except for the occasional line of coke beforehand had been involved in any of their activities and neither did they ever give anything to their victims in order to put them at ease.

Carter had skimmed the main details of his own report almost three times – there were seven men involved in the group that was dubbed by the media as "The Red Square Slashers"; named after the popular internet forum aimed at the local communities of Philadelphia in which they'd came into contact with most of their victims by. The Red Square website was also where all of the men had met and discussed their violent urges among one another. Six of them actually committed the homicides, while Mr. Garner on the other hand filmed their activities extensively with his digital camcorder and maintained the fact that he "never laid a finger on anyone". From his questioning Garner revealed that anywhere from 24-38 people had been brutally murdered in various fashions both on and off the grounds of a dilapidated office building which was also where they were keeping a number of the bodies as trophies from their thrill kills.

After much investigation he and Agent Jayden decided to check on the particular abandoned office building that wasn't too far from a few of the victims' respective residencies. When they entered the building they first ran into Mr. Garner who was just leaving to go home. Wade Garner yelled and alerted two of the perpetrators, Simon Young and Derik Alton, as they were just heading back to the rest of the group. Young and Alton pulled their handguns on Agent Jayden and himself. In the midst of the gunfire and confusion, he had gotten separated from Agent Jayden. While searching for Agent Jayden, he'd run into Wade Garner again as he'd attempted to escape during the chaos. After pursuing and eventually apprehending Wade Garner on one of the upper floors of the complex, he'd headed back down to the ground level and heard multiple shots being fired not far off. Subsequently he had headed into a large interior room where he found Agent Jayden beating Adam McCullen savagely with a steel pipe until he'd recovered his handgun and fired a bullet into McCullen's torso as he laid on the ground. McCullen was still alive when he had approached the two men. When he confronted him about the situation Agent Jayden pointed his gun at him. They had been at a standstill for some time before Adam McCullen eventually bled to death. After a lengthy negotiation Agent Jayden had buckled under the pressure of a severe breakdown and attempted to kill himself with his own gun. However, it seemed he was beginning to black out during the suicide attempt; causing his aim and the position of his head to change dramatically. The trajectory of the bullet ended in grazing the right side of his scalp but it wasn't an outright fatal wound.

After checking Agent Jayden's and Adam McCullen's pulse, he called for backup. Upon the backup squad's arrival a medical team prepared Agent Jayden for transportation to Temple University Hospital. With the help of the team he launched the full investigation of the abandoned office. They found the bodies of five of the perpetrators in and around the interior room; all had suffered various severe injuries that killed them. They also recovered the bodies of sixteen of other individuals in a room next door, most of whom had been on a missing persons list for some time. While exploring the other wings of the building they discovered the other two bodies in the storeroom; one Liam Vederberg had been shot in the head and the other, Thomas Matthews, had been strangled to death while suffering intense brain hemorrhaging.

Given the circumstances it seemed that these two had chased Agent Jayden down into the storeroom where he retaliated and killed them first. From his behavior it was assumed that some unknown element had caused Agent Jayden to then hunt down and kill the other five men; since nothing drug related was found at the scene he could only assume for the moment that Agent Jayden's brutal act was motivated by an intense psychological trauma brought on by the instinct of survival and self-defense.

For all intents and purposes the case was essentially closed now that the perpetrators were dead, and the rest of the victims would eventually be retrieved with the help of Wade Garner's confessions.

Yet for Blake it still didn't feel over. He couldn't help but think of Norman in the last moments that he saw him. It was like seeing a man possessed. He recalled the shock white pallor of his skin as sweat gleaned off of it, and what part of his skin that wasn't terrifyingly pale was covered in the deep crimson of blood; both fresh and dry. It was as if most of his flesh and clothes had always been the color red they were soaked so bad with it. What single detail his mind evoked most deeply was the vision of his eyes; Carter almost didn't want to remember it but it stayed with him mercilessly. Of course it had been greatly disturbing in that he could have sworn he was bleeding from his eyes like the nose bleed he also had, but there was something else amongst the red of the blood. It was almost as if there was no conscience behind those blue-green irises; no sense of right and wrong. Though Blake had seen a degree of these eyes in the faces of others during his career, it was hard to accept the fact that those eyes were different in that they once held the humanity of a man who was a testament to the devotion of law and proper justice. Lieutenant Blake hadn't been exhausted by the emotional weight of an investigation since his days as a rookie.

Though he'd known of the gruesome possibility since his training days it still wasn't easy to swallow the fact that even good, well-adjusted people could be overtaken by the insanity of others in this line of work until they became something equally deranged as well.

As he traced the edges of the paper with his fingers he remembered the last conversation he had with Norman before he shot himself; strangely enough he had meant them. Despite Jayden's arrogant deposition, he was a respectable member of the FBI for the work he had done.

Was it his fault that Norman–

A knock on the door of his temporary office tore him away from his thoughts. He looked up from the surface of the desk to find Captain Perry standing in the doorway, "It's just me, Blake. I know you're probably worn out but I need to have a word with you."

Blake sat up a little straighter, "Uh, anything wrong, Captain?"

Carter didn't exactly like Leighton Perry, in fact he'd rather avoid the cretin at all costs but he was his boss none the less and if hadn't been for him he might have never reached the position of Lieutenant; so he had to show him a degree of respect.

"Oh I just wanted to congratulate you on the success of the case, Lieutenant. This is just what the department needed to start looking good to the public again."

The policeman grew a little uneasy at the word 'success', "Thank you, sir, but I don't think–"

"Don't start that modesty bullshit, Lieutenant Blake. You found out who the killers were and where they were keeping the bodies. Nobody cares if they're not wasting taxpayer dollars rotting in prison. In fact I'm sure the public prefers them dead as a doornail. Everybody's happy…well as happy as they can be, I suppose. Why don't you stop worrying about the little details. I think a vacation is in order."

"Yeah I think I need a few days off. Do we have any word on Agent Jayden's condition?"

Blake felt the room the air in the room shift with an unsettling quiet tension. Perry's expression changed only subtly but he could tell he'd touched upon a subject obstructed by department red-tape. He said nothing for a moment but then shrugged with a response, "I don't know the details but a few representatives from the FBI said that he was stable. I'm sure you're glad to be done with that little shit. Now let me take that report off your hands so you can go home."

"Captain Perry, don't you think we should wait to close the case until we've questioned Agent Jayden?"

Leighton's eyebrows arched with annoyance, "I think the FBI can take care of their own, Lieutenant. If you're needed for any further involvement on the matter you'll be notified. You do not need to concern yourself with the case or Agent Jayden any longer. Now give me that damn report."

Carter said nothing; trying his best not to give Perry a dirty look as he handed him the hard-copy report. Upon snatching it out of his hand, Perry began looking the report over and started walking out the door. Yet another individual dodged him with a polite, "Excuse me, Captain Perry.", and then leaned into the room after getting out of his way.

It was Officer Platski, a guy who'd recently transferred to the Philadelphia Homicide department. Blake hadn't got acquainted with him much but he seemed nice enough. He made eye contact with Blake and quickly said, "Hey, Blake, congratulations on the case. I think you left your car door open down in the parking lot. The lights are on and everything. Just thought I'd let you know."

The lieutenant was immediately confused, he definitely recalled shutting his door when he arrived back at the police station.

"Thanks, Platski.", he briefly said as he got up to leave the tiny room.

The fellow officer then nodded and walked out the door with him only to break away to go over the water-cooler.

When Blake finally made the small trip to his car inside the station's garage, he found that indeed the driver's side door was open and the inside of the car was lit up by the overhead light. There was no possibility that he was the one who left it that way.

Quickly he ran over to the mid-sized sedan and ducked inside the car. Though he didn't have much in the way of valuables stored in the vehicle expert hands had definitely broken into it. The glovebox was hanging wide open but all of his belongings – the car owner's manual, some random bills, a spare clip for his gun, and a wrinkled old pack of gum amongst a sea of scrap paper were still there. The rest of the car still had the same mundane items that he'd left sitting on the backseats, but they'd been strewn about all over. He couldn't understand why anyone would break into a police station garage, and go through his car, only to take nothing. It was rare for him to even take case documents home unless it was extremely necessary.

He stepped out of the car and looked around the darkness of the garage; there was no else in there with him. Whoever had rummaged through his things was long gone.

When he shifted his right foot he heard the sound of tiny metal scrapping the pavement underneath the sole of his shoe. He lifted his foot and picked up the source of the sound – it was a temple arm to a pair of glasses. He stared at it for a moment before realizing it was the same prong that belonged to the left side of Norman's sunglasses; somehow it'd broken off. He searched the ground around his car to see if he could locate the very shades that Norman was so particular about having on him almost constantly, but they weren't anywhere to be found.

He twirled the long metal strip between his forefinger and thumb for a moment as he again stared into the loneliness of the garage.

Carter would never know what happened to Agent Norman Jayden.