"Dolls ... huh."

Every truly major dream or nightmare had quarters in the palace, where the halls stretched on past mortal comprehension, moving beyond rational explanation and into the unbreachable realm of Endless understanding. Not all were used; many, in fact, went vacant for years at a time, dusty and faded with tatters of energy and presence still lingering, even long after the occupant had been unmade. The idea was merely a formality; most nightmares preferred the wild bareness of their own country to the immaculate, well-kept halls of the great castle.

"Come on, my dolls. It's playtime."

Schuldich smiled into the dimness of his room. There were lights, of course, but he preferred the faded shadows that came without them. It was much easier to work with his dolls, this way.

He wrapped the controlling wires around his fingers, tightening them until he felt skin slice and the damp wetness of blood slicking his skin. His smile sharpened.

"Dance for me," he crooned softly, raising his hands. In the darkness, wooden limbs clacked together restlessly, and when he plucked a stained wire with a red-laced hand, a slender shape rose unsteadily before him, like a zombie from a bad horror movie. Another small tug, and it shuffled forward, its movements stiff and uncertain, before falling to its knees before him.

"My pretty little doll," he told it gently, with the voice of an indulgent father to a wayward child. "Today, I'll finish you up. Will you like that, I wonder?" He tugged on another wire, and the doll shivered at the pressure, its jointed arms flopping listlessly. "Good."

Some nightmares preferred not to use proxies; they claimed that the best results came from working directly with the afflicted human. But they were minor nightmares, representing only a small portion of their kind; it was simply not practical for such a widespread nightmare as the guiltson to work directly with all those he touched.

Thus, the dolls. A thousand attached to a single set of wires, and it only took slight changes in the manipulation of the strings to make one or all move for him. It was so much easier this way - sometimes, there were cases that intrigued him enough to warrant his full, personal attention, but they were rare, and all the more precious for that.

"I think I'll like you," he murmured, tugging lightly, pulling the doll up towards him and cupping the featureless wooden sphere of its head in his hands. "When I'm done with you, I think you'll end up being one of my favorites." His grin widened in anticipation, and a casual gesture with his elbow brought another doll clunking out of the darkness to his right, painted with the thin, pinched features of an elderly woman. In her outstretched hands, she held a tray with paints and a selection of wigs. Schuldich nodded to her, and she set her burden down by his feet before retreating, backwards, into obscuring shadows.

"Where first?" he mused, drumming his right fingers against the doll's cheek, leaving a spattering of partial bloody fingerprints. The doll shuddered again, wooden limbs clacking noisily, as if it wanted to pull away from his touch. "The eyes, I think. They say the eyes are the gateways to the soul, after all ..."

There was silence as he worked, first outlining sleepy feline eyes - like and unlike his own - with thin, fine strokes, and finally reaching for the color. Somewhere in the waking world, the young man this doll was becoming was dreaming, and the deeper he slid into the murky world of sleep, the stronger his image became in the nightmare's mind.

Green eyes, not quite emerald, not quite forest; wavy hair that was some shade between blonde and tawny; a young face that would be handsome by nearly universal standards, though now the smooth brow was pinched and angry, and the wide mouth was twisted into an expression of pain. Schuldich smiled again as the doll twitched, this time on its own power.

It was beginning to reach and connect with its other self. One more brushstroke over the curve of mouth, and suddenly, the doll twisted away from him, clumsy fingers scrabbling over the hard ground, its entire slender frame shaking violently. He stepped back, out of range of the suddenly flailing arms and legs, tightening his hands into fists and feeling dried blood on the back of his hands crack and flake at that motion.

The Merging. The transferal had been a success, and Schuldich allowed himself another wolfish smile at the thought.

Mental images tumbled through the protected space of the dark room; thoughts of anger and hatred and fear, of a young woman ripped through by bullets and falling lifeless to the ground, and of the black, soul-devouring guilt that had given Schuldich his name.

It was sweet, like fine wine, to watch his new human doll acclimate itself to its sudden new life, thrashing in the grip of a power it would never be able to fully comprehend.

And when the frenzy was over, and the doll lay quiet and spent on the floor, he stepped forward again, raising his hands and turning them so they were palm-up to the ceiling. It earned him an exhausted twitch, as if the doll could not bring itself to raise its painted face.

"Saa," he whispered into the silence that followed. "Welcome to my world, Kudou. Let's see how well you dance."

A flick of his fingers, and suddenly the doll surged to its feet, and there was an expression of fear on its face that had not been painted there mere minutes ago. Another pull, and it jerked wildly, twisting like some demented ballet dancer, as if trying to get away from some unspeakable torment.

There was a nasal chuckle as the nightmare flipped a stray lock of red-orange hair from his face. "Nice. I do like you, Kudou. Dance for me a while longer."

A tug, a pluck, a flicker, and the doll moved to obey, helplessly caught in a bloodstained silver net of dreams.

Tonight, he was holding her close, his head bent over hers, her blood staining his pants and shirt and hands as he stroked her hair as comfortingly as he could manage.

"It's okay," he managed to say in a broken voice. "Asuka, it's okay."

She was smiling at him, a dark scarlet trickle seeping from the corner of her mouth, eyes wide and the light in them dimming ominously. "You ... ji ..."

There was a brush of fingertips over his cheek, smelling of perfume and metallic copper, and he gripped it suddenly, holding it to his face as if that action alone could hold her close to him forever. "Asuka. Asuka, don't try to talk. Just rest, and save your strength. We'll get out of here, and get you to a doctor - you'll be fine."

"Youji ..." her voice was reedy. "I hate you."

"Eh?" he could only stare at her, as her fingers spasmed in his grasp. Her expression never changed, though; it was still that same too-sweet, frightening smile that spoke of approaching and accepted death. "Asuka, what are you -"

"I hate you, Youji," she said softly, "because you're alive, and I'm not."

"Asuka - !"

"I wasn't supposed to die, Youji," she continued, and her voice was fading so much that he had to lean forward to hear her better. "I was going to go to my older sister's wedding, and be her bridesmaid. I was supposed to hook up with that blind date she'd arranged for me. Not follow you into some dank, ugly place and die."

"Asuka," he pleaded, barely aware of the tears that burned his eyes. "Asuka, please don't say something like this ..."

"But why not, Youji?" she murmured, and her eyes closed for a moment, before snapping open, suddenly wide and bright and intelligent, with the spark of life that he had so loved in her for all the years they'd known each other. "It's only the truth."

Then suddenly, she was gone, fading from his grasp like the ephemeral dream she had been.

Alone again, Kudou Youji threw back his head and screamed.

And from the shadows behind him, a green-eyed man with flame-orange hair smiled.