Don't you remember?"

"I-I don't want to. It's too painful..."

Too painful. One must wonder what was too painful? DW sat inside the pitch black room, his face buried in his hands. To us, the only sound is silence. We just see this entity sitting there, face buried in his hands. We don't really hear him speak, per say. No, this is more of a low mumbling. The voices in this man's head were loud and clear to him.

"She died because of you!"

"No she didn't! It wasn't my fault!"

"It's never your fault, James. You always say that. But sooner or later, you have to face facts. Your sins must be atoned for, James. Sooner or later, you must do the right thing."

There's no shortage of psychos here in the land of Xtreme. This young man, however, is a tormented soul. Imagine being the one who used to get drunk. Being the biggest party animal of your graduating class. Now imagine you're drunk, midday, and you are driving. Suddenly you see a little girl, no more than ten. She's riding her bike. You don't see her. Suddenly you do, but instead of swerving you hear a sick thud. You panic. You get out of the car and you call nine one one. Her still warm blood covers your hands as you try and keep her alive. But, it's too late. Before the operator sends the paramedics, her lungs let out their last breath.

Darkwynd weeps.

"Fine...you're right. It was my fault for being a fuck up. I mean...I was having fun. So much fun. Things were great with my friends. Sarah and I were supposed to get married. And I had a wonderful job. But then...then I fucking had to drink that Jim Beam! And my Shelby...oh she was fast...but...she's gone now. Everything is gone."

"So you're gonna try to kill yourself again? You're gonna go out and stop crime? Like you're Bat man? You're no hero, "Darkwynd". You're a fucking loser."

The voices weren't very nice to the man they tormented constantly. Why should they be? They were his guilt. They were stuck in his head. In his heart. When he was alone, he heard them constantly. He suddenly stands and moves through the darkness, walking over to the wall. He flicks a switch and the lights come on. The room is bare, save for a chair in the center. The walls are white, cracked and dirty. The only other thing in the room is an old cracked mirror with small tubes below it. Grease paint for the carnival. As he paints his face, he comments to himself...

"This world needs a hero. I'll show them. Atonement is justice. Yes...this world needs protection. This world needs protection from people like me."

He takes his time, his face becoming covered with the paint which he carefully chose. Suddenly, just before we get to see the finished product...