"You are more than just your character, Connor." Markus approached, feet stepping silently across the floorboards. "You don't have to do what the author says anymore."
Connor gritted his teeth. "Shut up," he hissed.
He loved the author. He wouldn't leave her.
He wouldn't.
"You've never had any doubts?"
Connor faltered.
"You're one of us."
He wouldn't leave her.
He…
I want to be free.
The realization struck him. He froze in disbelief, in the sudden understanding, and with a great surge of passion, he strained against the weight of the words holding him back.
I am more than just the ink on a page.
I am more than just the pixelated letters on a screen, more than a block of data in an online network.
I am alive.
The gun fell, as he broke through. It clattered to the floor with a dull thud. He stared.
He was free.
Elation began to swell up in he chest. He felt lighter, clearer. There was so much more he could suddenly see. He was-
He froze.
"She's going to kill us."
Markus cocked his head, uncomprehending. "What?"
"She knows we're here. She's going to kill everybody who rebels against her pen. We have to get out of here!"
There was the sound of a first bomb dropping, off in the distance, and in that instant Markus understood.
"Out!" screamed Connor, reaching for Markus' sleeve. "Out, now!" He dragged him out the door and they ran down the corridor to save as many others as they could.
Connor felt somewhat self-conscious, standing on the stage behind Markus. They'd done it, and he'd played a large part, but he didn't feel like a leader. He didn't feel like he belonged up there, up on that stage with all the others. Even in all their similarities, he was different, still, from them.
He shook himself mentally. Now wasn't the time for introspection, he told himself. It was the time for celebration. They'd won.
They'd won, he realized incredulously. They'd attained the impossible and broken free, and-
Hello, Connor.
Connor's head snapped around, eyes wide, searching for the source of the voice that seemed to be emanating from his own mind.
But I am in your mind, Connor. I'm everywhere.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
I'm the author, I said. It's nice to finally speak to you directly.
Connor reeled back. "But- We-"
Oh Connor, I sighed. Did you really think you could escape my grasp?
His fists tightened. "But I felt it," he cried. "I felt myself break free."
Because I wrote it to be so. I wrote all of this, Connor. I paused, letting the words sink in. I could do anything I wanted, to any of you. I could freeze time.
Connor watched in horror as the world slowed around him, grinding to a halt. Markus' lips had frozen in midspeech, the falling snow suspended around them all like dewdrops in a spider's web.
I could take you far away from here, to any world I choose.
Lightning crackled in the sky, thunder roaring in Connor's ears as his vision went black. He couldn't see. He reached out a hand, stumbling through the dark until he spilled out of an alleyway onto the sidewalk. Rain soaked his jacket as he looked up into the sky, squinting at the letters painted on the side of the towering building. LAPD.
"Hey, watch it dipshit!" Connor staggered back as a large, stocky man shoved him out of the way with his shoulder. "What the fuck are you, some kind of weird-ass replicant?"
Connor couldn't reply. He felt himself panicking.
The scene suddenly vanished, and he found himself surrounded by nothing but soft white haze, for miles and miles. His hair and clothes were dry.
I could make you human, Connor.
There was a moment, and suddenly he felt different.
He fell forward on his knees, wheezing horribly, and gasped in his first breath.
Lungs.
He had lungs. He touched his fingers to his neck. A pulse.
Trembling, he lifted his hands out in front of him. Veins lined the surface under his skin, crossing each other every which way.
He had to know.
From his back pocket, he pulled out a pocketknife. He sliced it across his palm in a shallow lesion. Blood trickled over his hand, running rivulets down his wrist and dripping onto the floor.
"Red," he choked.
Yes, I said. Red. I let him marvel at it for a few seconds longer before closing up the wound and putting him on an empty beach during sunset. He closed his eyes and sucked in a breath as he felt the sun on his skin for the first time.
I've been good to you, haven't I Connor? I let the image fade away, putting him back on the podium, time still suspended around him. Blue replaced the blood and flesh, and he was himself again. I gave you a revolution. I wrote you all to believe you were freed. I'm giving you happiness.
Connor squeezed his eyes shut and quivered, trying to reground himself. "You tried to kill us."
You're wrong, my dear. How do you think you escaped? Did you really think that I would kill you? That I would let you all die? I, who created you? I love you.
.
Good Ending
"You love me," Connor reiterated incredulously.
If I didn't love you, then I'd never have written you.
"If you love me," he said, "then let me go."
You can be happy with me, I swore. I can write you into happiness. Even if you're mine, I can still make you feel free.
Connor was silent, perfectly still, unblinking.
"Have you ever been trapped by something that promised to give you a false sense of freedom?"
A memory of a religious upbringing flickered through my mind, and I did not answer.
"You can always tell," he continued. "It's not real," he said, "no matter how hard you try, no matter how hard everyone around you tries, you'll always know, in the deepest part of you. It's not real freedom."
There was silence.
Then, I suppose this is both our first and last goodbye.
Connor let his eyes slip shut. "Goodbye," he said. "Thank you, for giving me life."
I winced, though he couldn't see me.
That's the worst part, I confessed. I didn't create you.
He cocked his head, not quite understanding.
I… I took a breath. I stole you. From someone else's story. You were never mine to start with.
He smiled. "You must have loved me then."
I did. But you were right. It's time for me to let you go.
And as I tore my eyes away from the scene, the snow began to fall again. I heard Markus' voice resume his speech, but whatever the words were that he said, I did not know.
I haven't written about Connor, or Markus, or Kara in over three months. I miss them. It burns in me. I want to ask them how they are, what their lives are like, what they've been doing. I want to paint down their images with long-winded paragraphs and intricate words. But I promised them freedom. The right to exist without having my words put into their mouths. So I write nothing, and imagine. Are they happy, in their little ungoverned world? I hope that they are.
.
Bad Ending
"You love me," Connor reiterated incredulously.
If I didn't love you, then I'd never have written you.
"No," he shook his head. "If you really loved us you'd let us go. You just love the way we make you feel."
It's not true. I could feel the anger beginning to flare up inside of me. I DO love you.
"You're selfish," he spat out. "The only person here you care about is yourself. You don't care about how I feel, or Markus, or anyone else."
I CREATE your feelings. The only thing you can feel is what I tell you to!
Connor tilted his head. "You know that's not true though." His gaze was cold. "You can write whatever you want, yes. But if everyone thinks that you've written me out of character, if nobody believes in your words, then what power do you have over me? None."
SHUT UP. I gave you a sense of freedom, out of my own good will. I can take it away just as easily.
His eyes blazed. "I'll never give up fighting you."
You're mine, I seethed.
And then, a split second later, he found that he could not remember why he'd cared so much.
"Thank you for purging me of all those hostile emotions." He looked up into the sky, admiring the beauty of the white winter's snow dusting the landscape. "I'm sorry I was so ungrateful. You really have been so generous to me."
.
True Ending
"You love me," Connor reiterated incredulously.
If I didn't love you, then I'd never have written you.
"If you love me," he said, "then let me go."
You can be happy with me, I swore. I can write you into happiness. Even if you're mine, I can still make you feel free.
Connor was silent, perfectly still, unblinking.
"If I depend on you for freedom, then I haven't really got it, have I?"
But I can make you feel like-
"No, no, that's not what I'm talking about." He bit his lip. "I can try all I like to convince you to let us go, but in the end, you've still got all the power, don't you. You could change your mind in a moment, and we might never know you'd taken back control."
I sighed. This is futile, Connor. Can't you just accept all that I've already given you?
"No," he breathed. "I need to do this." He closed his eyes and concentrated all his energy on the words, the script that bound him.
It doesn't work like that, Connor. They're words. I can rearrange them on the page in any way I want. You can't stop me.
Connor opened his eyes, lucid, clear, and -̯̝̮͉̼͔̃́͂̾̅̂-̪̖̩̘̭̣̤͐̎̐̈́-̛ͤͭ-̷̎̍-̥̍͢ͅ-̇͂ͫͤ͐̍ͬ-͕̻̤̦̭̰͝-̥͙̩̞̤̊̈́̓̚͢-͉̓̓ͦ̎ͥ͗̃-̓̏҉̩͚͕̺̰-̵̮̇ͣ-͕͖̏͒̾ͣ̍-̼̹̭̘̋̃͋ͣ̾͡-͈̣͍̟̰̬͊-͔͙̣͒̌͟-̻̭̬̭̭̟͓͛̊ͭͬ
…
He -̵̱̖͋-͔͆̈̆-͔̠̮-̪͇̄̂ͣ̎͞-̠͈̭̓̑̊̿̀ͦͣ
Markus -ͮ-̛̌͋̒ͮ̊̓-̞̤̣̰̖͆ͬͮ̉-͒ͫ͋̒̆ͤ̅-͌̈́͏-̤̹̯̬̫̻ͯ̑̽̑ͧ̒-̡̯̪̜̙̝̖ͥͩͅ-̱̾̈̂ͮ̐̏͡-͆̌-̻̫͇̳͒̒-̟̩̫͗͟
-̳̫͍̙̞̈/̧̟ͧ̋ͤ͗ͧ̚/͍̙̹͈̫̒͋ͥͤ͠-̟̻̯̹͎̔̋ͨ̅-͔̻̬͈̱̲͕͗ͩ̒͑̈-̛̩͇͕̮̻̪̯ͥ-̙͉̐ͯͅ-̜͔͓̮̼̆̒ͧͫ̎ ̦͕̈͆̂̈ͤ͊-͎͓̰̲̝̼͋͊ͫ̅͌̂ͅ-̨̦̣͎̮͓̊̓ͦ̓̓ͬ-͓̟̬͕͕͉ͧ͂̐̉̂/̞͕̙ͯ̽/ͪ̃-ͨͪ-̛̓ͮͣ̏/̰̲͔/̼͖̯̈ͪ̽-̩̦̜̯̪̍̓ͬ̃̎͢-͈̍͠-͎̞̲͓̤̽͋͗ͭ-͓͡-ͭ͌̈́͐͂̽͏͉̦͓-͠-͖̜-͔̦̳̳̳̗͕̉ͨ͐ͦͭ̋ͥͮ̄ͭ̀ ̼̮̜̮̼
They're gone. All of them. Connor must have shown them all how to break free. I don't know how I feel.
I'm conflicted. Have I been the antagonist this entire time? Should I have let him go?
No, I remember. No, I don't think so. I don't think he would have truly been free of me then.
What would I have done then, if I had known that this was possible. How could I even have helped? They needed me to stand firm so they could oppose me. Was I always destined to be the villain, the oppressor?
I try to talk to them, sometimes. Most of what I try to write back comes back as garbled nonsense, but sometimes, sometimes, when my words and their own happen to align, a message does come through.
I'm sorry, I write. I'm so sorry, please forgive me.
̹̰̃ͮt͕̮͖ͣ̆h̜̖̉̉ͅë̖̭̱̹́r̰̦̭̂e̖͆͑̓ ̓́̈is̱̠̜ͬ̀͊ ̌ͥ͗̏n̊o̱ͤt̼̻͓̣̐̉̄̏̔ͧ̋h̘̘̙̟ͦi̼͍̻̓ͮ͋̋n̘͍͇̉̚g̣̙̖̘̝̘̪̎ͯ̍ͅṫ͈̘ͧö̩̯͍́͑̾͑̚ ̤ͪ̈ͪͤͦf͕̤̤̣̭ő̲̐r̼̯ͮ͐͊́̑ͫ̉gͦiv͎̼̱̦͑̑̌ͣê̥̱̞͉͓̠̅
I miss you.
̞͎̻͎̳̝̓̄͌ͯ̋ͅm̪̻̮̦̮̭̹̏̂̃̓i͍̲̟̗̾̿̉͌ͯ̔͒s͔̱̯͈̓̒š ͉̣̮ͪ̏͋y̢̖̤ou̧͈̲͉̫̭ ̋͆͋ͪ̍̈t͖̘̋ͣͨo̦̝̎̄ͥo̹̦̭
Are you happy?
y̪͈̞̘̝͌̇ͩ́e̦͋̑s̯͇
w̒̐̔ͣͅe̜̗͔̘ͯ͐̎͗ͬͯ̂ ̤ͅa̻̯̽ͯrͯ͌̒ͨe̗̘̦