He knew not long after he got here that the place was mad. Energy signatures shaped like men and women (and worse) that roamed the halls. First they were subtle. He caught them out of the corner of his eyes, but they were gone. It was nothing. He tried not to think of it.

When he woke to her voice, her old sing-song, Rise and shine, Bruce, or you'll be late for breakfast! and the drapes had pulled open under ephemeral hands, he had realized that the hotel was as mad as wonderland and he was losing his grip. He messaged Ivy, then, trying to keep it at bay-- trying to find out if this was hotelwide of it it was just his mind again, bowing under the pressure.

She didn't answer. Ungrateful bitch, his father said. Just like your mother. They're all alike, women. They'll suck you dry, Bruce. They'll take you for everything while you work your fingers to the bone. Then they'll shit out an abomination and tell you it's your son.

That was when he found the gun.

He tried for his father first. One bullet-- through the man, into the wall; thankfully, nobody was in the adjacent room (or if they were, they died soundlessly and without protest).

Brian laughed at him, and strode out; Rebecca, where's the scotch? He sat alone for the better part of the day, then, with a gun in his hand. He wondered what it would be like, if he could finally simply die, but-- no. No, he couldn't. He couldn't silence then this way. But if one woman was just like all the others... Surely, surely, his father would not care which one he abused, would he?

He slept on it. Woke early, in the predawn light, and saw a Christmas tree out of the corner of his eyes. There was the crack of knuckles over cheekbone.

You'll spoil him!

No, no, Brian, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I just wanted to encourage him!

The room is cold now, and despite that there is no tree, red and green lights flicker over every surface, and in the distance, a woman lies sobbing, unseen. Bruce looks up from his seat at the foot of the bed, rumpled and haggard. He looks up, as his reverie is interrupted, and his eyes are dark and brown, shadowed by sleeplessness.

"How nice of you to drop by," he says, so very mild.

"I don't think you are."

His eyes cut to the door, which closed-- locked-- of it's own accord. He focuses then on her-- seeing the flicker of Christmas lights dapple her skin, bright and merry and twinkling.

He hates Christmas.

"Have you figured it out yet? It's offering everything you want. You can be a martyr. Die for a cause. So another may live. It simply won't be an orchid." His eyes drop, and he says, "That must disappoint you. I'd say I'm sorry, but I'm not. I wonder why I didn't think of it before. That the Admiral could do that for me...

"But this place will. He can have you and you two can deserve each other, and she can stop crying."

"She at least tried to get away," Bruce says, voice still oddly flat. "To get out of the cycle. You wallow in it. Perpetuate it. No human can ever be good enough because so many failed you. So you frolic with flowers and claim they love and care for you, because no human can the way you need. You checked out. You gave up, once you were hurt one too many times."

It doesn't matter if this has a note of truth, or if it's just the ravings of a half-mad warden.

"He quit trying to be a good husband, never tried to be a father at all. You can be a pair of quitters together, and she can be free of him. She can get away. All the wanted was to get us away, I-- Pamela."

He's on his feet; his hands in his pocket. The gun is an easy weight. He's never really used one, not before now. Oh, he picked one up because they were useful for intimidation and keeping people away-- but rarely had he kept his loaded... except when he thought about turning it on himself.

"Your death can at least serve a purpose. It can set her free."

"You had every opportunity to become better than them!" he snaps back at her. "Every chance to lift yourself out of powerlessness, to stop furthering your own cycle! And you didn't! You just -- kept it going, became the abuser instead of the abused. Congratulations, Pamela, you've become what you hate."

Bruce gave a pathetic laugh even as he lifted the gun, leveled it. His hand was not steady; so he made sure it was at center of mass; it was not going to be quick. No headshots; he'll knows he'll miss.

"I guess we all do, in the end, don't we? Become what we hate." The shot is almost a surprise-- careless and and strangely thoughtless-- another prompt from the hotel, or perhaps a misfire, helping Bruce along. But the next two are more purposeful.

The fourth is to his temple; he doesn't even check to see if Ivy is dead or bleeding out -- to die in slow misery. Green blossoms from the wound and a moment later, a wall is ripped out as Bruce gives over to the beast, rather than face what he's done.