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This? Your wife embraced you, which you understood to be a typical display of close affection, and the warm glow was there, but only at the fringes. Only as radiation off your pulsing-hot core, which (as your wife nestled up to you) flared and emitted chemical-type fumes. These fumes tugged your attention outward and downward. They caused you to tighten your grip. If you were not as aware as you were, it was doubtless you would've been consumed by sensation. Instead, you were consumed by fear and repulsion, and you tore away suddenly.
"Martin?" your wife said, innocent of her role in things.
You looked at her for a moment, then you looked at the half-full glass on a coaster on the piano. You reached for it and swallowed it down and wiped it away and left the piano, the crowd, and your wife.
-
You did not wake up. In the second scene, it was some time after that. You don't know how you got there, only that you were there, in a darkened room with an unlit fireplace and an empty mantelpiece. A sword had been there.
Your old friend Henry was in the room with you. He was standing in the dark. His eyes shone from the sliver of light from the door. "Agent," he greeted you.
"Figment," you snapped back. "If we're playing that game. You know nothing of me."
"I know more than most people, Martin. I'd say more than everybody. You haven't told Clara, have you?"
More games. You closed your eyes. "You tipped your hand, figment. I will not be led. You and I know very well that I am not—"
"Not him?"
"Yes," you said impatiently.
"Then where did he go, agent? Who will provide for his family? Who will look after his darling Charlie? It can only be you, Martin. You have a responsibility."
"I have nothing of the sort. I am <span class="mu-i">encouraged</span> to destroy her if no headway is made. This—" You pointed at him and at you. "—this is fiction. I am unconscious. You are no more the real Henry than I am the real—"
"I am rather less the real Henry," said your old friend, and twirled one of his knives. "You are too clever by half, agent. You're caught in your own web, aren't you? The more you struggle, the more it sticks. You love her."
"I can't," you said.
The knife flipped and flipped around. He was good with it.
"I mean biologically."
"You are not often biological. You are more often a figment. A ghost. Didn't you love her while you lived?"
"Be quiet!" you snarled.
Henry lifted his head, casting the light from his eyes. "Rudeness toward a friend, Martin? That's not like you."
(2/3)