AN: Hello, Angst. It's awfully nice to see you again.


He had expected to feel...ecstasy. The world at his feet, the sweet taste of power on his lips. Euphoria, the adrenaline pumping through his veins, the final sense of fulfillment.

Instead he felt numb.

They told him he was a genius. Inspired, they said, to murder the innocent bystander and not the smarmy hero. Much more heartless, makes you look properly cruel, not just the opposite of good. Her death is inconsequential and the best crimes are the most pointless ones; committed for the thrill of it, the rush.

He waited and waited for it to come but it never did. There was no rush. He just sank. Deeper and deeper into a depression so absolute he could no longer confine it to Billy. His old self was too weak, too fragile to hold it all. Gradually it seeped into Doctor Horrible too, and that was when things got really nasty.

Before, he'd had a purpose. A vision of a better world. His methods may have been a little unorthodox, but they were motivated by heart and soul.

Not so now. Nowadays crime was easy, killing second nature. He had lost his moral inhibitors - what use did they serve? In the end it all went to hell. Life is painless when you don't have to think or reflect, when there is no such thing as guilt.

No-one noticed Billy disappear from his workaday life, no questions were asked. Doctor Horrible woke up every morning and went to bed every night.

But it was Billy who had the nightmares.

He heard her voice, felt her touch. Once, she kissed him, and he thought he tasted blood. But when he woke up his mouth was dry. Like everything in his life, so parched and empty.

It was so tiring. He couldn't let the League suspect anything, so at meetings he had to play the part. Eager to dominate, grateful for his position, evil in every way. It drained him.

The thing was, in his old life, Doctor Horrible and Billy had been different but they were still essentially the same person. Emotions and events in the Doctor's life spilled over into Billy's, and vice versa. It was vital, to sustain the illusion. Now, though, he tried to separate the two, tried to forget all Billy's remorse and misery, but it didn't work. Billy was a dried-out husk of a man, and the Doctor was an empty chasm into which all of Billy's emotions spilled.

The strings finally broke when he killed a woman just for the colour of her hair. Standing over the body, watching blood slowly oozing into the scarlet tresses, it hit him, and he collapsed to his knees, sobbing.

The hand that reached for the gun was most definitely Billy's, and the finger that pulled the trigger belonged to him as well.