“Why do you look so sad?”

The man on the bridge asked Jackson. She had been crying, the day had been long and painful, like most days, and she wanted to get away. His ginger hair was mattered with what she believed blood, and his golden eyes looked so happy. His clothing, simple traveling gear, were shredded and several battle wounds could be seen marking his flesh. Even in his dying state, he looked so happy. Jackson didn’t answer, just felt the tears running down her cheek. Her ginger hair was slightly covering her eyes as she tried to look strong.

“Don’t be sad little one. This is a fantastic day.”

“No its not!”

Jackson spoke, but her voice sounded wrong. It was familiar but not her own.

“Why so sad? Why are you so sad?”

“They, they, they… Mister? Mister?”

Jackson moved, getting caught in her own dirty dress as the man collapsed to the side. She cradled the man, whimpering.

“Don’t be… sad… I finally got… got to… to see you. You look so much… so much… like your… m-mo-mother.”

Jackson was shaking as she cradled the man. For some reason, it hurt so much to see him dying. With him, a part of her died as well. In that moment, something started to change. Jackson hadn’t realized she cut herself while scrabbling to his aid. The blood was leaking down from her leg, however it was also moving up. She felt the cold on her neck, and something was forming on her chin. Fear turned to rage, and a numbness overcame her.

“How… dare… they… hurt… us!”

The voice of death spoke, louder than ever before. Jackson looked back to the man and jumped back. He was in the black armor of the Berserker, his red eye glowing brightly. The bridge was a battlefield, and Jackson watched as his younger self did battle with the black knight.

He had already lost his leg, and the lightning flashed brightly in the sky. The Berserker’s helmet had been removed, and the unnamed Barbara laughed in her madness as her blade struck Jackson’s. It looked so painful from the side lines, him jumping around on a nub of a leg while the Berserker tried so hard to finish him. His younger self got in close, ramming his head into hers. In the stagger that followed, Jackson’s younger self prevented the helmet from reforming and drove his blade into her right arm. The Berserker just laughed, moving the arm to choke him. The armor was already reforming on the arm, despite the impalement. The young Jackson twisted the blade, snapping her arm to a funny angle before he released the blade and tried to rip the armor off.

“YES!”

The younger self screamed as he removed the armor before being kicked off the monster. She didn’t care that some of her armor was gone, nor that the arm was broken. She simply charged again, cutting deep into the young Jackson stomach. His body strengthening worked over time, trying hard to heal the wound. It was a last-ditch effort, one kept him in the fight as he grabbed her chest plate. The struggle continued, the young Jackson working as hard as he could to weaken his enemy. He escaped near death several more times, grabbing a new sword several times. Slowly he chipped the armor down, cutting deep into her flesh.

The young Berserker pinned the young Jackson to the ground, straggling him while smiling brightly. This was right before he passed out, but not before he made a final push. And that push came in the form of a sword. It was broken, rusting in its owner blood, and Jackson last hope. He took the blade, driving it through her chest. He struggled to push her off with one hand and fought to kill the Berserker. The Berserker slipped in the rain and mud, falling onto her back as the blade dug deeper. But this was not enough. She swung at the young Jackson, loosening his jaw. He roared like a monster, while the Berserker screamed at him. He jerked the blade, ripping more into the armor. The Berserker knocked him off her and gripped the blade. She ripped it from herself, causing more damage. Blood was the Berserker’s ally the older Jackson thought as his younger self believed her an idiot.

Like a wild dog, the young Jackson tackled her to the ground, his teeth tearing into her neck. His one arm found the hole he had made, and he pulled as hard as he could. He ripped it from her, revealing her breasts. The beast just laughed as the armor reformed. The young Jackson sunk his teeth in deeper, and the older one remembered how metal her blood tasted. He dug his fingers into the sword wound, digging into her flesh and making them wider. The Berserker laughed loudly and started pounding his face with her fist. The armor had reformed on her fist, making each hit count. Jackson face changed to purple, and his grip was loosening. He made his final push, his hand breaking though most of her body and grabbing her heart. He squeezed as the fist knocked him off. He lost his grip, but the jerk did internal damage to the monster. She screamed in pain. As the rain thickened, both combatants started to blackout. The Berserker wouldn’t give up however, and even after the young Jackson lost consciences, she struggled over to him. The armor wasn’t forming any longer, but the crazed look remained.

“Mine!”

The Berserker said, planting her lips on his. A moment later, she collapsed.

The older Jackson was frozen, watching the events that happened after he passed out. He never even knew. A cold hand wrapped around his neck, another around his right arm. Someone was hanging onto his back, and the cold helmet rubbed against the side of his face.

“You… are… ours…”

The voice of death spoke using the maddened Barbara. It swayed, like it was dancing with him. Spinning around, keeping him pulled tight to it.

“Ours… forever… and… ever… another… link… in… the… chain!”

Jackson once more jumped up. Four days had passed, and every night he had weird dreams. Barbara was awoken by his sudden movement and went for her blade. Jackson stopped her, shaking his head. They were in their normal sleeping positions, Gypsy on his left, Barbara on his right, and Angela taking the foot of the bed. The other two didn’t seem to notice and slumbered on. Jackson held his forehead, thinking through everything he had seen that night, wishing he had a journal to write it down in. Barbara placed a hand on his shoulder, and Jackson had to stop himself from retreating from her. He was growing tired of these dreams; of the fear he always woke up to. They were making him relive painful memories. Two night ago, he relived the death of his parents. The night after, he battled the Berserker again, and lost. This night he dreamed he was Barbara and saw the fight from what she remembered. Jackson wished he could speak to someone about what he was seeing, but to do so would endanger Barbara. Even Gypsy couldn’t be trusted with this, as she’d just worry. She might out Barbara while trying to protect Jackson. Would that be truly wrong?

“No!”

Jackson snapped at himself, scaring Barbara. He’d made the decision to stay by her side, to be a monster with her. To out her, to betray her was out of the question.

“If you can talk, why don’t you?”

Jackson asked her, remembering that in her youth, Barbara could speak normally. Barbara however gave him a funny look, like the gears weren’t lining up. That told him enough, that told him she couldn’t speak. At least not fully, not yet. Perhaps being the monster for so long caused brain damage. Jackson kissed her forehead, then laid back down. He pretended to sleep until she fell asleep then left the bed. He knew Angela would be mad if he was caught, but he needed time on his own. He did leave a note in case they woke up before he got back. It simply said he needed some air, and he’d be back soon. In truth, he’d written the note two days ago, and kept reusing it.

The air was cold, and the moon was still high. Jackson guessed it was around midnight, maybe one or two at the latest. All the shops were closed, save the bars. The inn had lights on, but no one manned the counter. Jackson pulled the cape tighter around his body, shaking slightly from the wind. He passed darken windows, and a few other night owls trying to get some air. They didn’t stop to talk, just gave him his space as he gave them theirs.

Jackson found a chair and took a seat. He rocked slightly, humming to himself. He looked to the stars, then leaned back. He was comfortable, and his eyes grew heavy. He shook himself awake and started to walk again letting his mind wander onto the trip coming up. In three days, they’d start the journey west, and about three days from then would reach the Beast Men Capital. It felt like that would be the start of a very bad day, and the obvious problems floated in his mind. He feared this little trek, mostly because it screamed trap, and Jackson didn’t feel like wondering into it blind.

He must have walked for two or three hours before returning to his bed. His mind feeling heavier than ever before. Climbing back in seemed impossible, Barbara had rolled over and was holding onto Gypsy like a child does to it mother, and Angela had moved taking much of Barbara’s territory. Jackson instead took a seat in the corner, a hard-wooden chair. He laid against the wall and allowed his eyes to close.

The room Jackson was in was hot. His tiny hands gripped the knife tightly and was shaking as the blood and sweat dripped down his face. His house was on fire, burning pieces from the ceiling fell to the floor next to the body of his father, still clutching the shotgun. His clothing had caught a flame, and the sickening scent of burning flesh made Jackson retreat slightly. His mother was only a few inches from him, her corpse clutched a steak knife. The clean blade sparkled in the dancing flames. Like his father, her body ignited. Jackson wondered when his time would come. When would he turn into a flaming body, and how painful that would be.

“I-I-I-I s-s-so-sorry!”

Jackson was still in shock, wishing for punishment that would never come.

“What… are… you… sorry… for?”

The voice of death asked, taking his mother’s this time.

“I-I killed… killed t-them…”

Jackson felt tears mix with the blood and sweat. It was becoming hard to breath, and more of the house collapsed.

“But… they… were… terrible… people…”

Death used his father’s voice this time. Jackson shook his head as a wooden beam fell next to him. Part of him wished it had struck him, that it had ended him.

“Think… of… all… they… did. Think… of… all… the… things… they… did… to… you!”

“NO!”

“Don’t… hide… from… the… truth!”

Jackson didn’t want to answer the voice. He didn’t want to admit they were cruel, horrible people that deserved death. Jackson knew what came next, any moment a fireman would rush in, see him scared and drag him to safety. That fireman would later claim not to find his parents and would even lie in court to help hide Jackson’s actions. Jackson knew he couldn’t hide it forever. He did a terrible thing, and there was no excuse.

“They… tried… to… kill… you… first! It… was… self… defense!”

Death chose Gypsy’s voice this time. It sounded closer than ever. Once more the cold metallic hands gripped Jackson, cradling him against its armored body. The cold armor felt so good in the burning room. It felt so safe, and the pain was fading.

“Get away from me!”

An older Jackson burst though the fire, ripping his younger self from the monster’s grip. Death roared at its loss. The older Jackson stared down the red eyed beast, anger over coming him.

“Don’t try to justify this! Don’t bring me back here! I killed them because I wanted to! That’s right Berserker, one day I would have had to do it, it just happened to be the night pops pulled a shotgun on his little bastard. Stop trying to get into my head!”

“Get… into… your… head?”

The voice of death was hollow, genderless, and cruel. A chill ran down Jackson’s spine as he heard it.

“I’m already here!”

The voice it used was his own. Or better to say, he spoke for it. He touched the left side of his face and felt the black armor. It had taken over his left side, covering his eye, giving him a new hand, and he felt steadier on the armored leg. Jackson gripped the half on his face and started to pull and rip. It was painful, blood dripped from it covering his hand as the fire around him intensified. It felt bonded to him, trying hard to hold onto his flesh. He heard the sound of something ripping, ignoring it he continued to pull on the helmet. Finally it caved and slammed onto the floor. Jackson looked down at the helmet and covered his mouth in horror. What he had ripped off wasn’t the helmet, but half his face. It was smiling back at him, then whispered the word: SAME.

Jackson collapsed out of the chair, grabbing his face with his remaining arm. He had to feel for several second before he accepted that he was still intact. His stomach gave, and he rushed to the window. Hoping no one he liked was below, Jackson couldn’t hold it in anymore. The nightmare had been too much for him, to real, to sickening.

All three girls were awoken this time and rushed to his aid. They stopped inches from him, not knowing what was wrong as he couched. They didn’t dare touch him, as a dangerous sense was floating around him, and Barbara noticed a tarot card had formed in his hand: number thirteen, death. He crumbled it, taking a deep breath. He tried his hardest to calm down, but it was so real. No, it was real. A memory twisted by that monster to get what it wants.

Barbara, the bravest of the three, stepped forwards and placed her hand on his shoulder. Jackson first jumped, part of him wanting to retreat. The card reformed in his hand, and he destroyed it again. The other two moved forwards, placing gently hands on his shoulders. After a few minutes, Jackson fell back. He was ice cold, sweat dripping down in bucket loads. His eyes were wide, and his fight or flight was giving him a headache. They drew slightly closer, all pale. With his one arm, Jackson dragged all three girls close to his chest. He held them tightly, using them as anchors to stabilize his emotions. After a while, they tried to pull away, but Jackson wouldn’t let them. He wouldn’t dare let go of them until the sun shined brightly through the window. When he finally released them, his heart beat had returned to normal and anger filled him. The Berserker had done a very good job of pissing him off.