Violet came out of the Not-trance all at once. The cool recycled air of her apartment filled her lungs and she gulped it greedily.

Upon realizing she hadn’t killed Becky after all, a great weight fell from her psyche only to be immediately replaced with shame and guilt. Her best friend had just been murdered, apparently. This was no time to be thinking about her own feelings.

A bigger question begged an answer from her. If she hadn’t done it, who had?

Involuntary chills ran down her spine. The station had a killer on the loose.

She dialed Security Services and waited for them to answer.

And waited.

Violet paced back and forth, quickly losing her patience. “What the fuck? Where the hell is everybody?” She slammed her fist against the wall and whipped a nearby cup across the room.

Eventually an automated message played: “We’re sorry, all operators are currently busy. Please leave a message and someone will get back to you as quickly as possible. Again, we apologize about the inconvenience and hope you’re having a great day.”

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“I’ll leave a fucking message!” Violet screamed at the machine. “My best friend has been fucking murdered and you bastards can’t even be bothered to pick up the damn phone!” She went on to leave her name and comm info. They probably already had both as soon as she called, but whatever. Fuck them.

She rinsed her mouth out again while she waited for someone in SS to call her back. She ran her tongue over her shredded inner lip and flushed, embarassed at the image of her biting Becky to death. But what other conclusion was she supposed to have drawn? Her face caked in dried blood and the bite-size chunks of flesh missing from Becky.

If Becky weren’t dead, she’d be laughing at the truth of Violet’s bloody mouth. Violet couldn’t help but laugh at it herself. Her damn drunk ass walking into the broken door. Of course, that’s what had happened. She shook her head to dispel the memory and checked the time.

Quarter to two.

Her stomach growled. Her hangover begged for something to fill her stomach.

“Fuck. Whatever,” she muttered. Becky would want her to stuff her face instead of sitting around all sad and mopey.

She grabbed her comm and slid it in her back pocket. She made sure to wait for the door to open as wide as it was going to. Getting smashed in the face once was enough.