Disclaimer: I don't own the Outsiders nor do I own the Dark Tower. I also do not own "Blaze of Glory" by Bon Jovi.

xxxxx

". . . staring down a bullet/let me make my final stand . . . "

Dallas Winston stood under the street light, his blonde hair a pale corona around his narrow features. His body language was proud and defiant -- chin up, shoulders thrown back and legs braced. A gun was in his hand, a bitter smirk on his face, a red haze of rage and agony in his mind and despair in his heart.

Come and get me, he thought. Come and get me, you sons of bitches.

Not long to wait now; the banshee wail of sirens was close, foretelling his chosen fate.

The lightbars flashed, painting the entire world in blue and red.

A lot of cops for one teenaged greaser, he thought proudly. They must know that they're messing with Dallas Winston.

Still smiling, he raised the empty gun at the first cop to tumble from a cruiser.

"Bang, bang -- you're dead," he whispered.

The night became a confusion of flickering muzzle flashes and gun shots echoing off the concrete walls of the urban canyon.

The first shot felt like someone whalloped him in the chest with a baseball bat. A second of numbness was followed by a firey agony. Then another hit him and another and another . . . Dallas lost count after five or six, not that it mattered anyway.

Falling to the pavement seemed to take years, although the rational part of his mind still functioning told him it was only a few seconds. It felt like a feather mattress, despite the distant and unimportant protests of his skinned palms. He looked up; he wouldn't die face down.

He saw his gang, saw their looks of grief and horror. The pain in his own heart was mirrored by their disbelieving faces.

For the first time in his life, Dallas Winston was sorry, but it came much too late.

He had to explain it to them; explain a world where good kids like Johnny could die wasn't one he wanted to be part of anymore.

Despite the agony in his chest and stomach, he pulled himself forward on his elbows, feeling the blood from his ruptured lungs trace a burning path up his throat with every exhalation as he tried to speak, tried to explain.

"Pony," he managed to gasp out, through sheer force of will.

Then he died on the dirty pavement.

xxxxx

This is the todash darkness, the voice explained in a conversational tone.

Dallas was in complete darkness. He did not know if he was standing, sitting or lying down. He couldn't move or close his eyes. Shit, he didn't even know if he had eyes.

"Is this hell?" He asked, startled by the sound of his own voice. Well, at least it was something; he had a voice, there was that much.

This is the todash darkness, the voice repeated.

"Okay, I'll bite: What is the todash darkness?" Dallas said. Todash darkness? It sounded fucking stupid.

It is the space between world, between doors, the voice told him.

"That doesn't tell me shit," Dallas said, wondering where the hell he was and what was going on. If he could move, he'd be raging against this darkness and this wiseass voice. "Am I dead?"

It tells you all you need to know, the voice said, now sounding amused, like an adult watching a naughty child having a temper tantrum. You are dead in one world, but there are others . . .

"Who are you?" Dallas demanded. "Are you the devil?"

I am not, the voice said. I am the cry of the bear.

"Again, that don't tell me shit. What the hell does that mean?"

I am the cry of the bear, the voice reiterated.

"Go away," Dallas sighed. "If you're just gonna fuck up my death by repeating a bunch of nonsense shit, go away."

You are such an interesting creature, the voice observed. A comingling of vulnerablity and hardness. Dare I say it? A romantic core encased by a ruthless practicality.

"I thought I told you to go away; if you haven't got anything useful to say, fuck off." Dallas felt incredibly tired. If he were dead, he just wanted a quick dissolution. He hadn't bet on nonsensical conversations with disembodied voices in a fucked-up celestial waiting room.

As you wish, the voice said, that infuriating hint of amusement still audible.

Dallas was alone in the darkness.

xxxxx

He didn't know how long he was there, minutes or years, before he was aware of light filtering through his closed eyelids, turning the world red.

The second thing he was aware of was there was a knife pressed to his adams apple.

He opened his eyes to see a pair as pale blue as his own.

"The Tower or the Eye?"

"What the fuck!"

"Are you for the Tower or the Eye?" The girl holding a knife to his throat insisted.

"What are you for?" Dallas gasped. The knife was pressed so close to his throat that speaking forced the blade into his skin and he felt a trickle of blood run down the side of his neck. If he got his hands on this bitch . . .

"The Tower -- as are all those who love the White," the girl said.

"Me, too," Dallas said.

"Somehow, I doubt that," the girl said, narrowing her eyes. "Are you a servant of the Crimson King?"

"Get the fuck off of me," Dallas snarled. "I don't know anything about an eye or a tower and I sure as shit never heard of no crimson king. If you're gonna kill me, then do it. It's what I want, anyway."

She sat back on her heels, pulling her knife away from Dallas' throat.

"You're a visitor," she said.

"You're a nutcase," he replied, sitting up and shoving her so that she tumbled backwards. Dallas lept after her, intending on strangling some answers out of her, but she'd already brought the knife up. He stopped short, frustrated.

"Who the fuck are you? What is going on? Jesus, this is pissing me off! I just wanted to die!"

The girl, flat on her back, looked at him strangely.

"You can called me Morgaine. It's served well enough in the past," she said. "As for what has happened to you, that I can not answer. What I can tell you is that we are in the lands of Sophie, the Good Queen, and it is the time of Full Earth."

"I died," Dallas said simply, gripping his thighs. "At least I thought I did."

"You may have," Morgaine said. "Death is one way to travel between the worlds, or so the Manni say." She was still watching him warily, the tip of the knife raised in a warding-off gesture.

"I don't understand any of this," Dallas said, sitting back on his heels. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. He could feel the build up of the same tension that had sent him into the night with an unloaded gun.

"Who are you, wanderer?" Morgaine asked, lowering the knife slightly, but still watching him closely.

"What do you care?"

She only shrugged and raised her free hand in a palms-up gesture.

"It's Dallas, Dallas Wintson," he said, running his hands distractedly through his hair. "Man, this is fucked up."

"I don't understand what that means," Morgaine said, scooting backwards, out of striking distance.

He only shook his head, his fists pressed to his temples.

"Give me that knife," he said, looking up at her. "I'm going to kill myself again, an' if any wiseass talking bear shows up this time, I'm gonna send it home with a fuckin' rupture."

"No," she said, scooting backwards again.

"You were ready to scag me five minutes ago, when you thought I was workin' for that red king . . ."

"Crimson King," Morgaine corrected him.

"Whatever," he said, annoyed. "You were gonna kill me."

"You are only a visitor, a wanderer," she said. "Not one of the low men, not a servant of the King. It would be against all I held dear to kill you."

"You wouldn't kill shit. I'll do it myself. Give the knife here."

"No," she repeated, standing up and tucking the knife into a wide, billowing sleeve. She was wearing some loose split-skirt thing under a long, loose shirt. A large red cross was embroidered over her chest. It reminded Dallas of the American Red Cross logo.

"What the hell am I supposed to do? I'm in this fucked up place, when I'm supposed to be in heaven or at least in hell, and the only person I've met so far is a flipped out chick who tried to ventilate my throat."

She stepped backwards again, looking to the right and left.

"Night will come soon," she said.

"Who gives a shit?" Dallas asked disgustedly. He was still trying to figure out what the hell happened. He'd vaguely heard of reincarnation, some crazy Eastern shit, but he thought you were supposed to start out as a baby.

"You will," she said, "if you remain here when the Little Sisters arrive. You will care very much."

"What are the Little Sisters?" He asked, climbing to his feet. He did a double-take when he realized he was wearing cowboy boots and some loosely woven shirt that fell down to his knees. "What the fuck happened to my clothes?"

"The Little Sisters are vampires," she said, starting up the hill. "And I have no knowledge of what happened to your clothing."

"You are fuckin' kidding me -- vampires?" Dallas started after her.

"I am not," she said, looking back over her shoulder and frowning. "You seem overly fond of that word. What does it mean?"

"Baby," he said slyly. "I could show you, but if you're right, we don't have much time to get the hell outta Dodge."

"We are not in Dodge, wherever that may be," she said, as she came to the crest of the hill. "Nor am I a baby. We must hurry."

"Who said I was gonna go anywhere with you? Maybe I'll stay here." Dallas stopped short, but not before he saw the horse, reins dragging as it cropped grass. He felt homesickness hit him like a tidal wave.

"If you like," Morgaine said, gathering the reins and mounting in a smooth gesture. She looked down at him. "It is said death by the Little Sisters seems sweet to their victims, and you have already said many times death is what you desire."

Dallas frowned. Getting shot or cutting his throat was quick and clean. He didn't want to think about what kind of filthy death might be waiting for him at the hands of a bunch of undead didn't want to beg this girl, either. His pride wouldn't stand for it.

"See you later," he said, giving her a half-wave and walking in the general direction she had seemed to be heading.

He heard her give a sidemouth click and she rode beside him as he walked.

"You are being foolish," Morgaine said.

He began whistling.

"Foolish and prideful," she said.

He put his hands into his pockets, happy to have at least retained his jeans.

"Fine," she said, snapping the reins. "Let your pride keep you safe."

"You're gonna leave me out here to die?" Dallas asked.

She slowed and looked back over her shoulder at him.

"Now, you wish to be reasonable?"

"Ain't nothing about none of this is reasonable," he said. "I figure that this is just some weird dream I'm having as I'm dying."

He stopped and looked moodily at the darkening sky.

"Either that, or I'm more lost than anyone's ever been."

"Not all who wander are lost," she said.

xxxxx

Author's Note: Well what did you think? Should I continue? Where the beep is Dallas and what's going on?