Zac limped to the door of the abandoned store turned lab, and paused. The door was open, but the steel mesh gate was down. He glanced back at Alex.

“If you want me to rescue the boy, you need to open this,” he informed the man.

“How are you going to rescue anybody if you can't even open a gate?” Alex scoffed.

“The slasher isn't made of steel,” Zac pointed out.

“Oh. I thought...” Alex trailed off with a shrug. “Whatever.” He knelt and lifted the gate a couple feet off the ground.

Zac sighed, and crawled under it. “No,” he said when Alex moved to follow. “Stay in there for now.”

“Why?” Alex glanced back at the scientist's corpse.

“It's safer.”

What Zac did not intend to tell him was why it was safer. The slasher would not be stopped by a steel mesh. Zac, however, would be. Zac could not possibly fight the slasher in his current state. Frankly, Zac could not possibly walk across the mall promenade in his current state.

However, there was a way.

None of his captors had bothered to ask why Zac was alone, an exile living among humans rather than safe among his own kind. It was simple. Zac was a Crimson Dancer, a poetic term which in no way expressed the horror of what Zac was. Most of the time Zac was just himself, whatever that was really. But, under the proper conditions, usually on a battlefield, Zac became something other. Something dangerous, deadly. Perhaps Berserker was the best word. He became nothing but a fighter, a merciless killing machine. In the state of the blood trance, Zac would not even recognize his own mother. He would kill anyone, anything, that posed the slightest possibility of a threat. He could not be stopped, except by death, and it took a great deal of damage to kill a Crimson Dancer. There were legends of others like him fighting even with limbs torn off, arrows riddling their torsos. Zac had never been driven so far, but he knew this would be the time. He was not likely to ever look upon the world as himself again. He'd die in the Blood Trance.

But, really, was he ever likely to die any other way?

So it was safest for Alex to stay behind the steel mesh gate. Probably his battle instincts would not bother to attack with that in the way. Hopefully the boy, Jacob, would have the good sense to run. With a target in sight, the slasher, Zac wouldn't bother with the boy. Hopefully. There was no way to be sure. Zac had no control of what he did in that state.

Zac took a deep breath. He'd spent years honing his control, locking away that part of himself that made him a monster. A danger even to his own clan, his own family, his own kind. He had made it so that he could only unlock the Blood Trance after rigorous meditation, or, in the heat of battle, when enough pain and fear wiped out those self imposed bonds. It had been all he could do, not to unleash it upon these humans but he had held it off, fearing to wake to find himself in the center of a slaughter. It had happened before, to men who did not deserve their deaths. Men who had trusted him, had fought beside him.

The Slasher would kill them all if Zac didn't use the Blood Trance, but if he survived the battle he was just as likely to be the one to slaughter them all.

Ah, well. No help for it. He heard the sound of the boy's screams coming closer. He aimed himself in the proper direction, closed his eyes, and let go.

The warrior followed the sounds of screams. The threat was in this direction.

When the warrior reached the source of the screams, there were two targets. One was a human youth, on the floor on his back. The other was a large, humanoid being of paranormal origin. The larger target was the more immediate threat.

The warrior advanced, passing the lesser threat. The youth spoke; his words were inconsequential.

The warrior ran at the body's best speed to meet the greater threat's rush. The warrior raised the knife in the left hand, aimed for the inner bend of the elbow of the greater threat's right arm. The knife struck the planned point; the blade broke free. The warrior dropped the useless knife hilt. The target's right arm fell to its side, momentarily neutralized.

The target moved to slam its fist into the side of the warrior's head. The warrior ducked sideways. The massive fist grazed the warrior's hair. The warrior used the momentum of the dodge to swing into a kick aimed at the side of the target's knee. The kick had no notable effect, beyond making the target laugh.

The warrior spun from the kick to a waiting stance, seeking a viable weak spot on the target.

The target rushed the warrior, shoulder lowered to strike the warrior in the chest. The warrior dropped to the ground in a perfect split, tucking his head to his chest. The target ran directly over him, its coat flapping over his upraised arms. The warrior stood and spun, taking the opportunity to jump onto the target's back while it was still bent forward in its rush.

The warrior raised both arms, fists locked, and brought his elbows down onto the skull of the target. The target paused in its laughter for a moment, so the warrior repeated the attack. The target's skull was thick, the strike jarred both of the warrior's arms up to the shoulder. He tightened his grip with his knees around the target's back.

The target reached up with its functioning arm, and caught the warrior by one shoulder. He lacked the maneuverability to dodge. The target lifted the warrior from its back and slammed him, hard, onto his back. Something cracked.

The target lifted one leg to stomp on the warrior's chest. He rolled out of the way at the last possible moment, taking a glancing blow to one arm that deadened the arm.

The warrior twisted and rolled to his feet. The target kicked him as he did so. The target struck him in the lower leg, and the warrior dropped to one knee. The warrior reached up and punched the protruding knife blade, forcing it deeper into the target's arm. The target roared.

The warrior shuffled back, taking stock of the situation. The warrior's body was damaged; further combat capability was affected.

The warrior ran at the target once more, raining punches at its gut and chest. The target laughed and batted the warrior aside. The warrior struggled to his feet, shook off a momentary flash of vertigo, and stepped back into battle.

The target reached out, faster than it had moved previously, and wrapped a hand around the warrior's throat. The warrior caught the target's wrist and pulled to take some of his own weight off of his throat. At the same time he kicked out at the target's groin. The target grunted but did not loosen its grip.

The target lowered its hand slightly and hurled the warrior across the space into a wall. Something cracked; it was definitely not the wall. The warrior crumpled to the ground and watched, helplessly, as the slasher approached.

The warrior struggled to breathe. Further movement was impossible.

The fight was over.

The target stood over him. Laughing. It raised its hands, linked together overhead.

The blow fell. The warrior crumbled away into nothing, leaving Zac broken, battered, on the ground. All the pain that had been shunted away into the mists of the Blood Trance rushed into Zac's returning awareness. He'd never been forced out of the trance before. It hurt every bit as much as he'd imagined. Usually, it took a death blow to force a Crimson Dancer back to themselves. Then again, from the blood Zac could taste in the back of his throat, and the way the world wavered in his sight, there was a good chance that last hammer blow had been enough to finish him. His body just hadn't quite stopped breathing yet.

The slasher kicked him into the wall again, and stomped on his arm. If it hadn't broken during the fight, it was broken then. Zac screamed, or he thought he did. His ears were ringing too loudly to hear himself.

Yet somehow, he still heard the damn thing's laughter. He thought maybe that sound was burned into his brain.

The slasher toed at his side. Zac spat blood at it.

The slasher raised its foot again. Zac braced himself; this would not be the final blow. The creature wasn't done having fun.

The first stomp took out what few of Zac's ribs hadn't broken.

The second never fell.

Something small, fast, pale and... somehow familiar struck the slasher in the side hard enough to stagger it away from Zac.

That something continued to attack the slasher, swinging up and around the creature's body like it was a jungle gym; kicking, stabbing, punching, swinging and dodging with a speed that defied human physiology.

The unexpected assault continued for several labored breaths. Zac fought to hold on; he wanted to thank who or what ever that was. He was still done for, sure, but at least he got to see a spectacular sight instead of the bottom of a slasher's boot in his final moments.

The tiny form struck the slasher in the forehead with its elbow, then swung from the thing's neck, wrenching its head around. The form stabbed with a small, black knife, taking out both of the slasher's eyes in one strike.

The slasher wasn't laughing any more.

The tiny assailant kneed the slasher between the legs, which apparently did cause it some distress. Another stab from the knife and the slasher went down to one knee.

The slasher shoved its new opponent away and faded into shadow.

Leaving Zac alone with... something capable of forcing a slasher to retreat.

Leaving Zac alone with another Crimson Dancer.

He stared at... at a tiny, human girl child. She barely topped five feet, and if she weighed a full hundred pounds it was only soaking wet. Her hair was a glorious fall of silver white, long and straight to her knees. Not very practical for a fighter but who was he to judge? Her eyes gleamed silver as well, inhuman and yet full of very human emotion as they stared down at him.

He recognized her. She was Professor Rowan's daughter, Skye. He'd seen her on campus, from time to time. When she was a tiny child he would carry her around campus on his shoulders while her father taught. He hadn't recognized anything unusual about her then. But, well, he was no threat to a child so she wouldn't have activated the Trance near him.

She smiled and knelt next to him.

“I... know you,” he said, realizing even as he spoke.

“I know you,” she said.

Something about her presence was wrong. For some reason it was impossible.

Oh, right. She was dead. Murdered, some months ago.

She'd vanished, taken from her home. The news flew through campus. Weeks later her little body was found. Barely fourteen. A tragedy. Zac had been saddened by that. How was she here, now? Of all the dead who'd preceded him, why was this girl the one sent to collect him for the afterlife?

“You're dead,” Zac breathed, baffled.

She shook her head softly. “I'm really not.”

“Oh.” He blinked. “I am, though.” He fought to smile. It hurt, but hey, everything hurt. “I'm glad.”

“You're glad you're dying?” she asked, incredulous.

“That you're not.”

She balanced on her heels, rested one hand on his cheek. Her touch was warm and soft, and somehow chased away a little of the pain.

“You were always kind,” she said. Then. “Do you know who I am? What I am?”

“Crimson Dancer,” he said, then, “Skye. Your name is Skye.”

“I... don't know that first thing,” Skye said. “But, um. No. What I truly am. Beneath Skye. The Aspect I carry. Do you know me?”

Her voice changed, even though he could never have said in what way. He let his head loll back, understanding as a chill filled his veins. He'd seen Her a thousand times; sent enemies into Her arms and watched Her darken the eyes of so many friends. Heard Her voice in the rattle of a final breath.

“Death.”

“Yes.”

“I... I'm ready.”

That at least explained why she was here, not one of his past comrades. She was Death, the Reaper. Strange that the human's Reaper came for an elf, but hey, he'd been an exile from his people all his life. Why not at the end as well? And he knew her, so it wasn't like a stranger was sending him beyond the horizon. Really, this was nice. Better than he expected.

“I'm not,” she said.

He felt a tiny hand on his chest. Another wrapped around his hand. How sweet. He wasn't alone. He wished he could say thank you.

Instead his eyes drifted shut.

He breathed. It hurt. Then it... stopped hurting.

He felt his heart still. He felt cold.

Then...

Nothing.