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She's not working today, which is a nice sort of respite. Kat loves what she does, feels like she has a purpose for the first time since accident that first took her dancing aspirations away from her, but it's also sometimes a lot. Especially lately, it's started to seem like there's always something going on. Of course, that's not strictly a work-related thing — they're all still recovering, in their own ways, from Marcus's possession — but it's definitely a contributing factor, and she could use a breather.

She could also use a drink. Going out and getting wasted isn't really her thing, but she's pacing herself, sitting at the bar a few sips into her second drink, her cane propped up against her barstool. It's nice, just getting to sit like this, to unwind for a little while and breathe. Around here, there's no telling how long any peace will last, anyway, and she has a feeling that something else is bound to be right around the corner.

That peace tends to be even shorter-lived than she expected, though at least in a small way. This bar isn't a terrible one, not so upscale that the drinks will cost a fortune but not too seedy, but nowhere is free from drunk assholes; from a table close behind her, a couple people abruptly let out a shout, probably at the sports game playing on TV, and Kat, mid-sip, is so startled that she spills whiskey on her sweater.

"Goddamn it," she says to herself, though it's a lighthearted swear. There are worse things. Peeling off her sweater, she glances amiably over at the girl nearby and, thinking out loud, adds, "Guess there's always got to be at least one table like that, right?"

The strangest thing about all of this, Kat thinks, is how much more stifling the apartment feels now that she lives there alone rather than sharing it with her mother. Sooner or later, she's going to have to move — that was always the plan anyway, for her to get her own place once she was doing a little better back on her feet, and now it's just kind of miserable staying here — but she hasn't committed to anything yet. In the meantime, she's got an awkwardly half-empty apartment on her hands, having been moving her mother's things out incrementally. Probably she should hire someone, but she'll definitely have to do so when she actually leaves, given that carrying heavy boxes and walking with a cane don't exactly go well together, and she can't really afford to do that twice. Anything she can't manage herself, then, or that she can't talk Marcus into taking care of for her, will have to wait.

It really is kind of depressing, though, which is saying a lot, when she's holed herself up for months at a time before. At least no one is dead this time. At least she hasn't shut out people entirely. On the contrary, she thinks a little company might do her good, and she has a feeling that she isn't the only one. There are a lot of people who've gone, lately, and Kat isn't so self-absorbed that she can't realize how other people might be affected. So she texts Blue to see if she's free; promises takeout, whatever shitty movies she can find on TV, and either commiseration or distraction or some combination of the two; and while sitting around waiting, starts scrolling through channels. There's got to be something reasonably terrible playing that she can leave on for a while.

It doesn't take Kat all that long to figure out that her mom is gone. For her to be late getting back from work is one thing; that's practically to be expected, and there's no telling what might come up around here, anyway. She calls, though, half on a whim, a fragment out of concern, partly because she's planning on ordering dinner and wants to know if she should get anything else or if there might be food already on the way. What she gets is an automated message telling her that the number isn't in service, which is bullshit, because she called her mom earlier today and got through just fine. She knows people who've lost people, though. She knows how it works, and that this is one of the telltale signs. Still, she waits, with increasing dread in the pit of her stomach. It could be some weird glitch. Her mom could be on her way. Eventually, though, as it gets later and there's still no sign of her, she calls her mom's work, where the last person still there for the evening says that she went out on a lunch break and never came back.

If it weren't for the phone, she would panic about now, start calling the hospital or the police or whoever the fuck else. The number is disconnected, though, and an accident wouldn't do that. Not even smashing or otherwise getting rid of the damn thing would. So, with a quiet sort of certainty, she realizes that she's alone.

That much is fine, really, at least in a technical sort of way. The plan was always for her to move out when she got to be a little steadier on her feet. Her family has been splintered for such a long time, though, since her car crash, her dad's accident, Casey's... well, possession. Losing half of them when she showed up here, having only just gotten them back, so to speak, was bad enough. She and her mother might not have always seen eye to eye, but to have lost her now, too, hurts in a way she wouldn't have expected.

However much she might excel at wallowing, there is one other person who should know about this, and admittedly, she could probably do with a little company. With that being the case, she texts Marcus, informs him she has pizza (with a picture included), and tells him to come over. Hopefully, she won't be interrupting anything, but Kat isn't sure she gives much of a damn about that. This is too important for her just to ignore it. She has a feeling he'd agree with her.

Another week or two, and she'll be out of her wheelchair and on crutches. Even that seems like an impossibly long stretch of time, but she's already made it a month and a half, and Kat figures she can make it just a little longer. This process was never going to be an easy one, so it's no surprise that isn't. Hell, it was hard enough the first time she was injured, and that was before she had a shattered kneecap — a comminuted patellar fracture, her doctors would say, but she knows what that really means. There are pins and wires and screws holding her knee together, and just starting to put weight on her leg again, currently encased in a full-length cast, is going to be a long, arduous process.

She'll walk again, but probably never quite the same. Dancing is out of the goddamn question. She tries not to think too long or hard about that, except that it's inescapable, many of her afternoons spent holed up in the bedroom she's claimed as her own in her mother's apartment, watching videos of Darrow's ballet company on the internet. That could have been her, if she'd shown up here just minutes before. There was still every chance that her career was shot to hell, but even just that sliver of hope had been enough.

Now she's unmoored, left to try to figure out what the hell to do with her life when the one thing she ever planned on is out of reach.

When she isn't shut up inside, she wanders, trying to get a feel for the city that's going to be her home now. Her arms get tired easily, but she is, at least, a little more familiar with it than she used to be, and she knows to avoid the pseudo-IHOP that also houses a pool, so it's progress. Still, it seems like she comes across something new every time she comes out. A little café with its awning dubbing it Un Chat Gris is one such place, the cats in the window not surprising, given the name, the idea of it also serving food a little more so. At least it's not as odd as pancakes by a swimming pool. She'd pass by, but someone is leaving and offers to hold the door for her, so she decides to hell with it, and smiles and nods before making her way in through the vestibule.

Kat looks around curiously once she's inside, taking everything in, smiling when she catches sight of a girl who looks about her own age, maybe just a little younger, behind the counter. "Hi," she says, summoning up what warmth she can. "How does... this work? I don't think I've seen anything like it before."

Leave all phone messages for Katherine Rance here.

Leave all mail for Katherine Rance here.

There are screws and wires holding what's left of her kneecap together. It will be weeks before she can put any weight on her leg at all, let alone walk, and she's already been told that she'll need assistance when the time comes, that once they can take the cast off, she'll need a brace, probably crutches or a cane for — her own addition — God only knows how long. Though it hurts still, dulled by the painkillers they've given her but present all the same, it's that she can't get out of her head. There's a sick sort of sense of déjà vu to it, reminiscent of her recovery after the car crash, only with far more weight to it, more finality. At least she'd been fully mobile again once she recovered, even if her potential career was shot to hell. That one little chance, that sliver of hope she'd had that maybe, just maybe, she could rebuild her strength and get back to studying, is shot to hell now.

All because of an actual demon that nearly ripped her family apart.

They've brought her a tray of food, but she's barely managed to pick at it, too tired and too sore and feeling like there's a lead weight in the pit of her stomach. It isn't exactly like hospital food is ideal, anyway, and if nothing else, she resolves when she gets out of here to find and eat the biggest, greasiest cheeseburger she can, the sort of thing she wouldn't have wanted to touch when she was still dancing. She's pretty sure she deserves it.

In a day or two, they'll let her out, but for the time being, she's still stuck in bed, watching soap opera reruns in a mostly unsuccessful attempt to keep her mind occupied by something other than the state of her knee. She turns the volume down, though, when she catches a glimpse of movement in her peripheral vision and turns to see her mother coming in. At least that's one thing she can say for this mess of a situation. The demon is gone; if she'd had any lingering doubts, Father Marcus put them to rest. She doesn't question anymore that he knows exactly what he's talking about.

"So we're going to match soon," she says in lieu of a greeting, a weak attempt at humor, one corner of her mouth curling up. "How's the outside world?"

Her head is spinning, and Kat doesn't think it's from whatever painkillers are in the IV she's been hooked up to, though they probably aren't helping on that front. There's just too much to take in, and she barely knows where to start with any of it. What happened to her mother, the months she's apparently missed, the impossible nature of what she's been told about this place, even if she has no choice but to believe it — that alone would be enough to have anyone thrown. Add to that having shown up in this state, straight from a demon inhabiting her mother's body torturing the rest of her family, now having words like comminuted patellar fracture and unstable, the prospect of surgery hanging overhead and the knowledge that she really will never dance again this time, impossible to get out of her head, and it's no wonder she can barely begin to process any of it.

As if it wasn't enough that her life already got turned so upside down repeatedly over the last few months. Her accident alone — and not an accident after all, she reminds herself — would have been bad enough. This, now, is nothing short of an unpleasant reminder of it, the white hospital walls and the too-clean chemical smell lingering in the air bringing her back to that night. At least the pain in her knee has dulled some, though she doesn't expect that to be the case for long. There's no easy recovery from something like this. She doesn't need a doctor's careful explanation to know that.

And yet, when she thinks back on it, remembers her father's screams and the expression Casey wore, how she'd seemed the night before, reading about the paramedics who were killed, she knows she would do the same thing all over again if she had to. Better her knee than her father's life. Better that she do it herself than give Casey one more burden to bear.

Mostly, there hasn't been much for her to do but wait, as is so often the case in hospitals. On a whim, she reaches for the remote for the TV, starting to flip through channels. Chances are, she won't know any of the programs, being apparently in another fucking world and all, but she might as well have some background noise. She's finally settled on some trashy soap opera when she sees the light change, hears a noise at the doorway, and turns toward it, not expecting to see someone she knows instead of another doctor or nurse.

"Father Marcus," she says, smiling faintly. She owes him one hell of an apology and she knows it, but right now, she'll take whatever familiarity she can get. "I guess you heard the news, huh?"

It was bad, before, when it was Casey, when she thought her sister was being tortured, when that thing that had been inside her tricked her and killed those paramedics and did who knows what else while on the run. Her father's accident, her car crash — it turned their whole family upside goddamn down, and for this. This was always the endgame, to get back the girl who got away, a decades' old grudge that the rest of them are just collateral damage in. And for all that Kat is scared, more so than she can remember having been in her entire life, even more so than when she came to in a car smashed against a telephone pole and found Julia's lifeless eyes staring back at her, she's pissed, too. All of their lives have been decimated, Casey more traumatized than she knows she'll ever really comprehend, their father still recovering, her career ruined, Julia dead.

Her mother gone, apparently. This is integration. It's permanent, the demon said, as difficult as it is to process that when the person standing in front of them, keeping them all here, looks and sounds exactly the same. At least with Casey, when they finally found her again, she'd been all but unrecognizable, the voice coming out of her nearly inhuman. As disturbing as that had been, to say the least, it had been easy to separate that from her sister. Easier than this, at least, all of them being terrorized by a woman who bears a perfect resemblance to Angela Rance, except for a demeanor that isn't hers at all, that sends a shiver running down Kat's spine.

"I'm going to kill you," her father says, unflinching, and Kat doesn't think she's ever loved him so much. Just a few weeks ago, he probably wouldn't have even been able to string that sentence together. Now, he doesn't even seem to hesitate.

"Now, that's the kind of talk that we just can't afford," the demon replies, her mother's voice lilting.

Emboldened, Kat doesn't wait a moment before chiming in. "Marcus is gonna find you," she says, miraculously keeping her voice steady, seemingly unfazed. She believes it, though. Father Marcus saved Casey; whatever her previous misgivings about him, she thinks now that he might be the one person equipped to do something about this.

"Well, then, I'll kill him, too." The demon sounds almost cheerful. It only spurs her on.

"Really?" she asks, brow arching slightly, eyes steely. "The way I heard it, you got your ass handed to you by a twelve-year-old girl. What kind of all-powerful demon lets himself get chucked out a window?"

She's walking a dangerous line and she knows it. She also doesn't care. This can't get any more fucked up than it already is, not really, and she isn't just going to sit back and take this. She's done enough of that already.

The demon swings a hand towards her, and Kat knows what's about to happen, braces herself for the impact, only — it doesn't come. Her mother's palm hovers inches from her cheek instead, and for as confused as she knows she looks, the demon wearing her mother's face only looks more so. Seconds pass, hanging heavy in the air, and then realization seems to dawn on it:

"Regan."

All that talk of integration, permanence — maybe it's not so permanent after all. Maybe her mother really is still in there somewhere. Maybe there's hope. Kat isn't much for praying, except for show, to appease her family, but she's almost tempted to now. If nothing else, it would be a nice way of metaphorically spitting in this asshole's face. Casey didn't go down without a fight. Her mother didn't go down without a fight, all those years ago. She doesn't intend to, either, her back rigid and expression schooled as she waits to see what comes next, hoping in the back of her head for Father Tomas to wake up or for Father Marcus to barge in.

Neither happens. Instead, the demon, all too pleased with itself, says, "We're going to play a game. A game that can end at any time. And all you have to do, Regan—" It sets a hammer down on the coffee table with a dull thud, and Kat feels her stomach drop a little, all too sure of where this is going. "Is open the damn door."

Her eyes widen, and she takes a breath, glancing from her father to Casey, before the demon says, "Round and round we go," and gives the hammer a spin.

"Oh, my God," Casey breathes, her eyes brimming with tears. Kat isn't sure she looks much better herself, expression faltering, but for her sister's sake, for the sake of not letting this thing win, she's determined not to let herself crack.

Not even when the hammer slows to a stop, pointing directly at her.

"Looks like we have a winner!" the demon says. "The birdie with the broken wing." Kat's face does crumple then, her composure slipping. It's taken so much already, and now it's just going to take more.

"Casey, dear," it continues, "I want you to pick up that hammer." Casey, still in her seat, is pulled to her feet by the demon. As if it hasn't done enough to her already. "Let's go. Come on. There we go. Good." Casey's breath catches. "It's okay, baby. Yeah. Pick it up."

Casey does, still moving slowly, reluctantly, looking on the verge of falling apart.

"Good. There you go. Now come on over here."

Kat watches as the demon guides Casey over towards her, all but holding her breath, waiting for whatever comes next. "And what I want you to do with that hammer is to hit your sister just as hard as you can." She's barely keeping it together now and she knows it, and she isn't sure if it's better or worse when the next instruction is, "Start with the knee."

"Don't," her father, silent for so long, interrupts. "Don't do it. We're not gonna play your sick little games."

They already are, though, and they have been for such a long time, and Kat, already bracing herself for what comes next, doesn't see a way out of this one. The demon has the upper hand. It has for longer than any of them realized, and maybe they won't give in easily, but there's only so much they can do.

"I'm gonna give you until the count of ten to do it," the demon says, still too cheerful, taking far too much pleasure out of all of this. "Otherwise, I'm gonna tear both of Daddy dearest's arms off."

As if on cue, her father's arms stretch unnaturally out to the side, his face contorting with pain. For a moment, Kat feels like she might be sick, distantly aware of Casey yelling, "No!"

There's only one way this ends. She won't let it go any other way.

"One."

Her lip quivers, her gaze stuck on her father, crying out where he's become some human game of tug-of-war on the couch.

"Two."

"Please, you don't have to do this, please," Casey begs, the words spilling out rapid-fire, as if pleading will make any difference.

"Three."

"Please, no, please!"

Between Casey's begging and her father's yelling, Kat feels herself break, a sob in her throat, shoulders shaking.

"Listen to me," their father says, speaking quickly in turn, like he doesn't think he has much time left. "I love you both so much."

"Four."

"Please, please, don't do this," Casey continues, the hammer hanging heavy at her side.

"Okay, this is not—" Their father manages to say through clenched teeth, fervent, staring down Casey. "This is not your fault. Do you hear me?" Kat wants to say the same thing — tried to, a night ago, only that was when the people hurt were strangers, not their own family.

"No!"

"Five."

"Daddy, no." Casey's voice is softer this time, almost resigned.

"Every day I wake up, I'm so proud. I'm so proud to be your dad."

"Six."

"Please, please, no, please!"

Finally, Kat finds her voice. She won't let this happen. If their father dies, it won't be Casey's fault, won't be any of theirs but the sick fuck running this show, but there's an easy fix here, and she might as well take it. She was probably never going to dance again anyway. The knowledge of that doesn't stop her stomach from turning or keep her voice from breaking, but it's the only small comfort she's got. "Do it, Case."

"Seven."

"And your mom — your mom loved you too."

"No, please," Casey says, her voice small and broken in a way that only makes Kat more determined.

"You can't ever forget — You can't ever forget that."

He's preparing for the end, Kat thinks, and is probably close to it, too. Casey, still, is unmoving. Kat can't blame her, given the decision at hand and the cruelty of her having to be the one to do this, but they're running out of time.

"Eight."

"Do it!" Kat shouts, desperate now, unwilling to accept any other outcome here.

"I can't," Casey whimpers, and as close as they are, Kat knows that pleading won't work with her any more than Casey's pleading had worked with the demon. There's only one thing to do. Casey already has so much on her shoulders, bearing so much more guilt than she should have to. The way she'd looked reading about the paramedics who'd died filters through Kat's mind, makes her steel herself. She won't give her little sister one more burden. She won't let their father die when the alternative, at least, won't put anyone else in the ground.

"Nine."

She snatches the hammer out of Casey's hand, and before she can stop to think about it, before she can even brace herself for the impact, she brings it down hard on her kneecap, crying out as Casey shrieks. It's a sick, unnatural sight, and she screams again, pain radiating through her whole leg, but then her father slumps down, and though she's crying now, unable to hold it back anymore or catch her breath, it's the only thing she could have done. Even the accident — the one that wasn't really an accident — didn't hurt this much. It makes sense. The damage wasn't so severe. Her knee was busted, but it wasn't in pieces. She can barely look at it now, as if doing so somehow makes it worse; she shuts her eyes instead, doubled over and gasping for breaths between sobs.

It's because of that, she thinks, that it takes her a moment to notice the absence of any other sound in the room. Casey isn't crying anymore, her father isn't shouting, that fucking demon isn't laughing her mother's laugh. She's in a living room, but it isn't her living room, and she's alone. Wincing, trying uselessly to hold back more tears, she wonders if this is some trick, some mind game, but she can't imagine that that would be so easy or so quiet, not after the torture they've all just been put through. Maybe she's passed out, but she doesn't think she would be in so much pain otherwise, shaking slightly on a couch she's never seen before.

As little sense as it makes — and then, has anything about any of their lives made any kind of sense lately? — Kat does the only thing she can think to, hands hovering over her shattered kneecap like she wants to cradle it but is afraid to touch it. She calls, her voice weaker than she'd like to admit, "Hello?"