It didn't take long for the Other to come charging at him again, throwing his weight forward with all the intensity and drive of a bull hurtling itself at a matador. There was nothing but hatred and rage on the face that was thundering towards him, a face that Miguel otherwise knew so well as the one that stared back at him any time he looked in a mirror.
But that wasn't his face. Not at all.
Never in his life could he recall ever being so angry, so consumed by ferocity and fury, and it made the lines and angles of his face harsh and imposing.
It was frightening.
But he couldn't turn and run. Not only would the Other pursue him, run him down, and crush him out of existence, but it just wasn't in him to do that. He didn't run from things. Never had. It was how he had joined the UEO, how he had pursued a career in the Navy, how he had chased a commission to the one-of-a-kind flagship, the pride of the fleet. That refusal to give up or turn tail was how he had gotten to where he was in his life today. It had driven him to succeed in his chosen field, going further, faster, than anyone else in his immediate family. It was what had landed him a position on Brody's elite ground combat team, and what had kept him in his seat on the bridge of that flagship, a department head and a member of the senior staff.
Miguel Ortiz didn't run, and he didn't quit.
So he met the Other head-on, letting them plough into him and twisting and ducking to put his shoulder between them at the last second. He felt his shoulder impact the Other's chest, a hard slam, heard the wind knocked out of them, and before he lost too much ground to make a difference he shoved his own weight forward and into that furious mirror image of himself. Unbalanced and thrown by the interception and the sudden halt of his own momentum the Other tipped and then went back, falling to the ground, snatching out at Miguel's uniform but not quickly enough to actually catch anything but air. Miguel had jumped back at the last second, feeling the air shift just in front of him, knowing better than to feel any sense of premature triumph at the minor advantage he had gained over his opponent.
He couldn't stop now.
Without letting more than a single heartbeat pass he drove himself forward again, swinging a kick at the Other's head with the intention of dazing him long enough to really make a difference, possibly even get the job done. It was only a glancing blow, the Other seeing the strike coming and twisting and rolling out of the way of all but the barest brush of boot against skull. Miguel felt a flash of frustration but stamped it down, snuffed it out, and refocused. The Other was quickly regaining his footing, breathing ragged and eyes blazing.
Miguel actually tossed his other self a smile.
It had the desired effect, bringing the Other storming towards him again. Miguel was ready to swing himself out of reach and lash out with another blow of his own but the Other anticipated the feint and met him full-on with a tackle that had them both on the ground before he even knew they were falling. He landed hard, his own weight coming down on top of him, firm and solid and strong, and the Other wasted no time in making use of the upper hand he had gained. A blow smashed down into Miguel's stomach, just at the bottom of his ribcage on his left side, the sudden sharp pain almost blinding, giving the Other all the opportunity he needed to land another strike. It caught Miguel across the face, a solid punch that made his skin feel hot, a field of stars bursting across his field of vision in the immediate wake of it. Another blow to his face had him tasting and smelling blood, thick and wet and metallic, and when he gasped he almost choked on it.
Move. Move. Before it's too late.
With as much speed and power as he could muster in that moment Miguel used what gap there was between them to bring his leg up and around, hooking the Other around the ribs on the opposite side, before wrenching his own weight to the left. The Other was driven, forcefully, from his perch and sent sprawling across the ground, eliciting a grunt and something not unlike a growl as he went.
"Look at you," he spat, getting himself up off the ground without taking those burning, resentful eyes from Miguel. "Pathetic." With one last push he was up, using the back of one hand to swipe across his face, over his mouth mainly and under his nose, almost as if he was the one streaming blood. With a low roll of laughter that was brittle like old glass he went on, "You don't deserve what you have. You're not even strong enough to defend it, let alone keep it." And then he grinned, showing teeth. "So I'm going to take it. All of it."
"Like hell you are," Miguel tossed back, getting back to his feet as well, taking a moment to spit the mouthful of blood pooling under his tongue onto the floor, but never taking his eyes from his mirror for so much as a second. "None of this, what I have, is yours, and it never will be." His career, his family, his friends. All of it was hard-earned, fiercely defended despite what that other him was saying, and Miguel would die before he let someone strip any of it away from him.
The Other grinned again. "You're right about that much, at least."
Miguel couldn't help the frown that sprang onto his face. He hadn't expected the agreement with his defiance, a statement in such stark contrast to the aggressive barbs that had preceded it.
"You still don't get how this works, do you?" the Other taunted, laughing at him even as he began to walk. Stalk, more like, moving in a wide circle around Miguel who had to turn more or less on the spot to keep his eyes on the very real threat before him. "How we work," he pressed, gesturing between them with a sort of arrogant indifference. The grin became a smirk more like the one he recognised as his own, but there was a cruelty beneath the surface that just didn't belong.
How this works. Miguel latched onto those words and immediately tried to make sense of them, taking hold of the problem in his mind and working furiously to take it apart, dissect it, and find a solution. How we work.
"Always trying to think things through," the Other remarked, derisive, the words spoken with a sneer. "You spend too much time up here," he said, tapping his first and middle fingers to his temple, "and not nearly enough time here—" a hand over his heart, "—or here." And then that hand went to his stomach. His gut. "That's why you could never beat me."
Always trying to think things through. The frown started to slip from Miguel's face. His gaze had wandered briefly from his mirror as his mind worked but his eyes snapped back to that familiar-but-different face suddenly. How this works. How we work.
Of course.
The Other's face froze, the smile halted midway like it had been caught in a trap. Miguel kept his eyes locked on the Other's, so much like his own and yet most definitely not his own, and as his smile started to form, the Other's slipping even further, he began to hear it. See it. Feel it.
They were one and the same, two sides of the same coin, reflections of one another with striking differences in thought and feeling, yes, but they were the same. The Other was him.
And he knew his own mind. All of it. Every piece.
It was so brilliantly clear then that it was almost blinding and the Other's smile vanished completely, replaced in an instant by a fresh sneer and an accompanying snarl as the knowledge that he had undone his own advantage swept through his mind.
Their mind.
The Other was all impulse and reflex, fury and rage and desire, want and need. It had none of the logic and reason and patience that Miguel had worked so hard to craft and nurture and sculpt over the years of his life and so it didn't even stop to think, not even for a second, about what might go wrong when it threw itself forward and at the enemy. A sound not unlike a roar broke out of the Other's mouth as he drove towards Miguel who, for once, didn't hold his ground. But he didn't run either.
Carefully and steadily he paced backward, one foot and then the other, closing the gap that was suddenly so clear in his mind, like the blueprints of this space inside of himself had unexpectedly been laid out before him. The Other continue to hurtle forward, closer and closer, and closer still.
And then he was close enough.
Miguel reached out and took hold of twin handfuls of the front of the Other's uniform even as he bent his knees and rocked his weight back. A sort of startled realisation came over the Other's face as he pitched forward, his own momentum working against him. Miguel brought his feet up, both of them, planting them in the Other's stomach, his gut, and as his weight continued to rock back, arching, he shoved. Hard.
The Other had just enough time to spit out a furious curse, grabbing too late for Miguel's arm or uniform, anything that might slow his movement enough to save him, but he had been moving so hard and so fast that he had no hope of catching himself in time.
Miguel's shove was powerful enough that he felt the burn of the effort through the backs of his thighs, but more importantly it was enough to send his mirror hurtling right on over him and into the open air beyond. Another furious yell came tearing out of the Other's mouth as he went, powerless to stop himself from flying right on over Miguel and forward, hard and fast.
All the way to the edge.
And right on over.
Even before that harsh and unforgiving gravity took hold Miguel was rolling over and getting back to his feet. As he was setting one knee down he heard the pitch of that yell shift and change, realisation hitting home with full force, and without mercy. The Other tried to grab at the edge, seeking some kind of purchase with which he might save himself, but it was too late. There was nothing for him to grab.
Miguel reached the edge as the Other went careening right over it, the arc of his forward motion such that he could look into those identical but alien eyes as they went down, growing smaller and smaller, the voice getting dimmer and dimmer as he fell. All the way down, who knew just how far, the Other fell until there was no more falling to be done, and then it hit. Miguel felt the impact like a jolt through his entire body. It robbed him of breath and took all the strength from his limbs. Thankfully when his legs folded underneath him his weight tipped back instead of forward, sparing him the fate of his mirror self. He didn't even feel himself hit the ground.
For what felt like a very long time he simply lay there, flat on his back, staring up into the black nothingness that had been his whole world for what felt like an eternity. He lay there looking at nothing, seeing nothing, and feeling strangely lighter.
And as he watched, as he stared, it wasn't just his own self that felt lighter. As he stared up into that endless dark sky it started to pale, growing paler still, lightening towards something that was recognisably grey. But it didn't stop there. On and on it went, slowly but surely, until the darkness had become a lightness that was close on glaring. It became difficult to look at, a strain on his eyes. He squinted, closing his eyes altogether, and turned himself over, hands flat on the ground so that he could push himself up.
When he opened his eyes again there was light all around him, beautiful and clarifying, and as he lifted his gaze higher still he saw something so wonderful that he almost felt like crying.
A door.
And not just any door.
It was a hatch, just like the ones spread throughout seaQuest.
For a moment he struggled to get back to his feet, having to catch himself and force himself to be patient so that he didn't stumble and undo all of his progress. He didn't even pause to wipe the blood from his face, no longer flowing but still warm on his skin, too taken with the sight of the door, that hatch, and his almost unbearable desire to get to it.
Up the few short steps leading to it he went, reaching out with one hand almost hesitantly, some small part of him not daring to believe that it was real.
But it was real. Miguel told himself that it was.
And then he laid his hand on it, lightly at first and then more firmly. With a flowing, almost flooding sense of relief and hard-won triumph, he pushed.
