Vargas

by Zarla

What if Johnny had not killed Edgar? How much of a difference does one person make?

19. Gradient

He drove home with some difficulty. His broken glasses didn't help, the rain didn't help, and his mental exhaustion certainly didn't help. More often than not Scriabin had to sharply remind him where to turn, to look out for other cars, and that that was a stop light, not a stop sign.

What had happened, the implications of everything that had just happened to him, kept trying to surface. He tried very hard not to think about it. The knowledge that there was something he should be dealing with, something very important, lingered in the back of all his thoughts, but he didn't want to think about that now. Not just yet. He was too tired.

Scriabin worked with him on this issue. He didn't bring up anything that had just happened. He commented when Edgar endangered his safety, but mostly limited his contributions to soft thoughtful sounds. Edgar didn't care enough to inquire as to what Scriabin could be thinking about.

Just didn't want to think. Sleep was an easy way to take care of that.

When he got home, he shut the door behind him and at Scriabin's reminder, locked it. Despite the fact there was nothing more he wanted to do than go to sleep, he followed Scriabin's advice and locked all of his windows. Finally, he kicked off his shoes and fell onto his bed without changing his clothes and without getting beneath the covers.

It took a surprisingly short time for his thoughts to quiet enough to allow him to sleep, considering what had happened. Scriabin helped him in this regard, helped refocus and redirect thoughts that led in circles. His voice was sharp, almost annoyed, but what he was doing at the time was more important to Edgar than how he was doing it.

Dreams...

Without his normal logical barriers, his dreams quickly focused on what had just happened. The fear and confusion, the trauma of regression, and the certainty of his future.

Of Hell.

Harder to control now. Edgar was not a lucid dreamer.

Something vague and ominous looming over him, a flash of something black, and then it was gone. The same thing kept repeating and repeating...something approaching, black flash, gone. Some kind of bizarre camera or something...no, that didn't make sense...

Unwillingly trapped in a child's body--not unusual in his dreams--although this time Edgar could think rationally. Confusion, terror at this being his prison, an attempt to escape thwarted by something else, and the constant insignificant feeling that came with a body so small and powerless. Fear and failure, and the looming thing again.

He felt arms gently close around him. His adult body returned to him, the fear and the thing faded, and the dream thankfully shifted to less frightening territory. The arms remained through it all, an anchor, and he felt a body pressed against his back. Someone breathing against him and warmth through his clothes.

Soft whispering that the entire thing was still just a dream and as much as it may have shamed him, not a dream he was unfamiliar with either. He had had dreams that just consisted of genuine constant contact with another person. Nothing deeper than that. Just to be touched, to be held, to connect with someone on that level. Contact was so rare when he was young, hugs given such importance because they were so uncommon.

He didn't like thinking about those dreams and often relegated them to the same place as the dreams about his breakfast or about whatever book he had just read...all dreams were meaningless. They didn't mean anything. Just as becoming some random chipmunk, being shot three times, and standing on the edge of a rooftop being offered the world all meant nothing, so did the dreams of being held in a tight and loving embrace.

It didn't matter who held him in these dreams; it was being held at all. Being cared for. Previously he thought of God, which was the only real possibility that had no unpleasant implications. Affection from that source had no guilt, no bad feelings associated with it. Honesty. He could appreciate that affection without any regret. It was supposed to be there.

Now...he tried not to think of who held him. He didn't like the possibilities that arose if he thought too hard about it. Scriabin of course had mentioned at times how the arms that held him in one dream or another were thin, skeletal, with fingers that more resembled claws than anything else...

Thus why Edgar tried not to think about these kind of dreams, and why he decided that they didn't mean anything.

This didn't change the effect they had on him, that they had always had on him...that sense of peace, serenity, and calm. To be cared for, by one source or another. To be wanted...noticed...

With what had happened recently...he couldn't attribute this to God, as he had before. He wanted to, he so desperately wanted to, but he couldn't. Not anymore. At that thought, the person who held him hugged him tighter, whispered something he couldn't remember.

He slept this way, with the illusion of someone beside him, and he slept deeply without any more trouble.

---

The next three days did not follow the pattern Edgar had unwittingly set for himself. They blurred away into something hazy in his memory, days with no meaning and no purpose. Much, he found on further introspection, like the majority of his life before he met Johnny. Since that encounter his life had become increasingly memorable, if one could put it so lightly. Days filled with tense minutes and memories of conversations, of emotions, or at least of some kind of marker that made it clear this day was different, this day was a day rather than a smudge of time that he logically knew had passed, but had no evidence for.

It had been a long time since he could forget days like that, since he could forget even hours or minutes.

The seventy-two hours showed him that there was a reason outside of Johnny that he found his days memorable, a reason he was not aware of at the time to which he had never given real consideration or thought.

For those three days, Scriabin did not argue with him.

He disliked using the word--finding it laden with more potential meaning than he felt the situation deserved--but the all-too-brief days without the constant bitter sarcasm, the mean-spirited sniping insults, the logical traps and metaphysical snares, could only be described as pleasant. It was the only word that seemed to sum it up so completely.
Pleasant.

Not to say that Scriabin did not get in a few sarcastic jabs here and there, but Edgar thought it too much to expect all of it to stop. It was the feeling behind the words, what they were directed at, that changed the mood and tone of their relationship. Scriabin's digs about accidentally spilling his cereal, the jokes while he was reading, the comments on his wardrobe and workday, were made in a light and forgiving manner. There was no malice, no deeper hatred that motivated Scriabin's occasional antagonistic remarks.

Edgar wondered at times if this was the only way Scriabin knew how to interact with others, through a kind of teasing that perhaps spoke of some kind of affection. How school yard.

Edgar thought that the general peace meant he could be honest. He thought it meant that he could ask Scriabin questions that he had never found the appropriate time for before. Scriabin did answer one or two, but avoided the others uncomfortably. When Edgar pressed the matter, Scriabin lashed out at him quickly and with viciousness, reminded Edgar that mistaking kindness for closeness could be fatal. Edgar immediately retreated and apologized, boundaries made quite clear. A very long hour went by of awkward silence before Scriabin was willing to speak with him again, and by then it was like it never happened.

An uneasy cease-fire, but one that existed nonetheless. Certain topics became instinctually off-limits. There was no talk of what had happened in the church, of the notes Johnny had left, of Jimmy, of the future, of his feelings, or of dreams. Everything that Edgar feared would be brought up against him as soon as Scriabin found the chance now lay at rest.

He knew why Scriabin was doing this, why he let the animosity go for now. Healing, he had said. Edgar wasn't sure how to do that. He didn't know how to heal, where to begin. He just assumed, as he thought Scriabin did as well, that rest, mental as well as physical, would help that process along. Scriabin granted him both.

Edgar slept for periods of time that he previously thought impossible. Fourteen hours went by without him stirring at all. His dreams were hazy but not as hazy as he would have liked, although Scriabin made no comment. They were pleasant though, fulfilled their purpose and allowed him to sleep.

He caught up on everything that he had neglected over time. He restocked his fridge, picked up the pieces of paper and pens scattered on the floor, cleaned the bathroom and the kitchen. He explained his absence at work, arranged a time to make up for the hours he had missed, got gas for his car, and contacted his optometrist about getting a new pair of glasses after what felt like years without them. He was eager to put an end to the constant ache between his eyes that he was sure was the fault of the cracked glass.

Small errands that built unmonitored. Nothing that required his immediate, urgent attention, just minor distractions. Something to keep his hands busy, keep his mind away.

For once Edgar recalled having an actual, genuine conversation with Scriabin that did not revolve around some fault of Edgar's. A conversation that wandered without focus, changed with what he was doing, without depth yet still indicating a kind of familiarity Edgar wasn't aware they could have.

He heard Scriabin really laugh for the first time, and realized he couldn't remember the last time he had laughed himself.

Three days. The phone was silent.

It was pleasant to keep it shallow. Keep away depth that they knew was painful, that they were both well aware of. Chatting about things that didn't mean anything: the weather, this author, or the current movie that came out. A constant conversation in his head that had no meaning and wouldn't be remembered. Like the forgettable days he thought he could never have again, conversations with Scriabin faded into the back of his mind.

Building a friendship on lies, on false shallowness, on the desperate fantasy of normalcy. Despite the fact that the conversation was internal, that the person--if he could be considered one--that Edgar was talking to existed only within his mind, despite all this there was the wish that this normal life he was leading, all the minor errands and lost time and conversations that were completely and totally unremarkable, was real. That things really were this simple. That the voice in his head really was just amused by the word "elocution" and had a craving for tacos. That there was no homicidal maniac, no otherworldly system, no emotional turmoil, no eternal damnation. No loss, no pain, no hurt, no damage.

Normality. Playing at a normal life. What Scriabin had once condemned as meaningless, pointless, he now worked to keep alive. Worked as hard for the same illusion, although Edgar couldn't say for sure it was for the same reason. He would've liked to, but he didn't know that for sure.

And at some points during those three days, Edgar thought that this resembled his old life, before he met Johnny, more than he thought it should, and he wasn't sure what it meant that the false hollowness had suddenly become so appealing.

They both knew it was a lie.

They both knew it had to end.

Edgar was sitting on his couch reading. Scriabin was humming some tune in the back of his mind that sounded familiar, but Edgar couldn't place it. He wondered if this was going to be one of those things that was going to haunt him, if at some point in the future that was entirely inappropriate he would suddenly perk up and shout the name of the song as if figuring it out was some kind of accomplishment. It could happen, or the tune could just dwindle off into his memory and be forgotten, as so many other melodies had done. He wondered briefly if Scriabin just made up each little song, a thought which always made Scriabin snicker softly but never answer the question.

Interactions without meaning, skating on the surface of a pond that had been unbroken for days Edgar loved not being able to remember.

Scriabin's humming slowly faded, and there was relative silence. A moment of self-awareness and Edgar realized with mild amazement that he thought mental silence was unusual.

Edgar...

Mmhmm?

These past three days have been pleasant. I know that's the word you've chosen for this, and I can't find any direct fault with it at the moment. It's as good a word as any.

He turned the page. Sure.

I would like to pretend that this could continue, that I could accomplish what you asked of me when...

Edgar's eyes widened at the realization that this was it, this was when it would end, and he sighed. He closed the book carefully and set it to one side. He knew this would happen, he knew it, and yet somehow he didn't feel prepared.

Scriabin must have felt similarly, as he sounded more morose than anything else. I wish I could erase what you've done. I wish this could be how things are, that everything you've done could be so easily glossed over. But I can't. I'm not willing to live a lie. I know the short-term benefits of the occasional flight of fancy, the escape that all people require at some point or another. I understand that, so don't try to bring it up. But, Edgar, I know that this cannot continue. I know when it has to stop. I know when the lies have to stop.

Edgar wanted to say something in response, but he couldn't think of anything. It was only three days, and to be at such a loss for words...was this loss deliberate, an attempt to evade the argument he knew would come? He really didn't want to start fighting again, not just yet...

Not his decision. It is time for reality, Edgar, for what we've put off. Two weeks you told him before, and that gives us a limited window of time, if there is one at all.

It was the first number to come to mind...

Ha... Quiet and humorless. I remember saying I would take notes, but after all this time, it's a little more indistinct than I would like. I'm not sure where to begin with all that has happened recently. All of it speaks of a future less than pleasant. I'd rather not deal with another mental breakdown, not after how calm it's been, so talking about this may take a bit more finesse than I planned.

Or you're used to. They had traded minor insults for the last few days without the threat of serious consequences. Scriabin sighed.

Even the false relationship that's been built...even that must come down eventually, I suppose. It's not even directly related, but everything gets connected in the end...regardless Edgar, what do you want to think about first? Why not, tell me what you feel most able to handle at the moment.

Edgar thought for a moment, considered. The past few days had been a blur...memories that he had avoided had tried with some success to join the lost time. Defense mechanism after defense mechanism, and...

There are so many things I don't want to think about...

A pause, and Scriabin sounded thoughtful. God, you bare yourself to me without thought now. How desperate are you for affection? For the false friendship we had built? How badly do you want someone to be weak to without being stabbed in the chest for it?

Edgar sighed. Not just yet, he really didn't want to...

Maybe things did change with us...

You wish they had changed. Struggling to find a rhythm that he once found natural. You wish that things could change that easily between us, that we really are just our most positive attributes, one-dimensional things that interact so easily. No past to complicate things, no future, just what we wish the other was and the other working to fulfill that desire. No... He should be angrier. Edgar expected him to sound angrier. It doesn't work that way. Not that easily. I'm going to have to break through the ice--as usual, take the initiative--since I know you're no help in this department.

Edgar leaned back and rested an arm across his forehead. Well, go ahead. You might as well.

But before Scriabin could continue, Edgar thought of something else. What would it be like, Scriabin? I mean...if it was really like this? If we really didn't hate each other as much as we do?

Another long pause.

I wouldn't be here, Edgar, obviously. He sounded somewhat hesitant. Such a simple leap of logic I thought wouldn't be beyond you. Hate, perhaps, is not the key factor here. It's what I do that you think requires your hate. Arguing with you is what was missing these past three days, Edgar, not our mutual dislike. Fighting with you reinforces, justifies what you feel for me and without that, it fades. You forget that it's there without that constant reminder.

He wasn't sure if he believed that. So why not just-

But fighting with you is what I do. You know that. It's how things work, isn't it? I challenge you, I raise questions-

That I don't like to answer, I know. Edgar waved a hand.

But that's what it is, Edgar. That's how it works. I fight you, I question you, and primarily I don't listen to you. Otherwise you wouldn't need me. Otherwise...I wouldn't have come this far.

But what if...I mean, you used that to develop, in a way. I mean, arguing provided you with a focus while you...grew, isn't that right? Why is it that we have to keep...

Edgar, stop. Scriabin sighed. I told you, we can't live like this. This is not who we are. Fantasies will only end up getting us both killed. With our current situation, we can't get caught up in minor problems, in what we wish was true. We need solutions, we need plans of action.

I don't see why we can't...

You know why we can't? I didn't want to do this this quickly, but already you're reminding me. He spoke fast and with a hatred Edgar wished was false. I can pretend to like you, I can hold my tongue in check for three days, but that doesn't change anything. It doesn't change the fact that I hate what you do, how you act, your decisions that put me in this position-

My decisions? Edgar felt his hand clench, and this did feel familiar now that he thought about it. How can you criticize me-

Fine, let's hit the most pressing issue first. Let's destroy this illusion before it becomes any more appealing or valid. We're in a bad position now, Edgar, we're in a very bad position and it's a result of your actions. We're a waste-lock now, remember? A twinge and he felt goose bumps rise. You remember, I know you do. I'm sure that hasn't slipped your memory completely over these past few days. I'm still not sure how much of it is real, thanks to you, but Satan told you what will happen. He told you that essentially, we're going to become the focus for every aggressive feeling in our vicinity.

Hearing the words but still the deeper meaning eluded him. The ramifications, the long-term consequences he had avoided for so long. How do you know that for sure?

Godda-! Ggh, I forgot you'd do this. Right. Scriabin's voice changed abruptly, cloying and hatefully sarcastic. You still don't think that was all my fault, do you?

Edgar felt his eyes narrow and a quick defensive reaction, an urge to claim that he didn't know what he was doing before he realized that wouldn't help his case. Instead he struggled to match Scriabin's tone. No, I don't, but that doesn't mean that what happened actually-

An angry frustrated sound. Okay fine, fine. Go ahead and do that. Go ahead. But indulge me, Edgar, please. Deeply sarcastic. Just play along with me for now, let's get whimsically hypothetical. Let's just say that, horror of goddamn horrors, that maybe this whole thing is more than just some "I-got-punched-in-the-nose" fantasy and maybe, just maybe, the future for you isn't mindless chatter about sitcoms and cereal. Maybe the future for you isn't what you want it to be or what you wish it was, and maybe in fact the future is entirely out of your control.

Funny, you seemed quite intent on saying that I was in control of it at the church. His eyes still narrowed and he felt the beginnings of familiar shivers. He tried to force his body to stay still.

A pause and Edgar felt rather proud of himself. Maybe his arguing skills weren't the only ones that had suffered a little from disuse. Scriabin struggled with his response.

Continuing with our "this isn't real" take on the current scenario--I know it's your favorite kind--I merely presented to you the possibility of your real power. I told you that you could be free, that you did have options, and that now, you could take control of your life. Not that you had, but that you could. Frankly, I don't think you will.

That doesn't surprise me. I hardly expect your support.

Ha, see how easy this is? See how easy it is for us to go back to how it was? You know why that is? Because this is how things are. This is how things work. This is how it works for us. We can pretend but what good is that? Pretending doesn't change anything. Pretending things are better doesn't actually make it so. You've always had trouble with that concept.

Edgar rolled his eyes. Here it comes...

Scriabin paused and he heard him hiss softly. Obviously didn't expect Edgar to anticipate what he was going to say. No, there are more important things to think about now than him. For example, the fact that your soul, as I mentioned, may belong to something other than God now...

If this entire waste-lock thing is true, anyway. It was simple to set himself in the position of general yet unquestionable opposition. I don't know that for sure.

How much evidence will you need? Spiteful. How far along will you have to go? If what the Devil said is true, the end result of this entire thing is eventual collapse. What exactly that entails I can't say for sure, although I can say with some certainty that it is not good. Personally, I imagine insanity at the end of this entire thing for you. How crazy will you have to get before you believe that this is happening?

I'm going to need some evidence. I'm not going to jump to conclusions because of something that may or may not have been a dream. He crossed his arms.

It wasn't a dream because Nny collaborated on the details with you. Unless you're planning on blaming this on some kind of collective unconscious Jungian ideal, and you have just as much evidence for that possibility as you have to the lock theory.

There was that thread that Scriabin had mentioned before, that one persistent chink in the mental armor that he kept forgetting about, and Edgar couldn't find a way around it. He cursed softly, wished he could just end the conversation-

I can feel your defense mechanisms beginning to set in... As if to add weight to his words, Scriabin sounded distracted. I suppose I got carried away. God, I forgot how angry you can make me sometimes. However, I'm going to take the high road here and keep in mind how this needs to go. It's no good for either of us if you have another breakdown-

No good for you, you mean. Edgar kept his arms crossed, still irritated at having been caught in the same trap. He let his voice turn sarcastic. You understand when I say that I somehow doubt your concern.

A pause. Good to hear. Blind faith, trusting what you're told without question is never a good idea. Do you know why? Sickeningly sweet tone. Because when your false idol is exposed, you suffer. You're intimately familiar with that, aren't you, my boy?

Edgar winced at the thought, and he heard Scriabin hiss.

God- you always do this to me. I didn't...no, I'm not apologizing to you. I may have to get your life in order, but I'll be damned if I'll apologize for you being an idiot.

Edgar thought, noticed that his leg was twitching. He wasn't sure when he started doing that. You're in a really bad mood today, aren't you?

He didn't think that such an offhand comment would give Scriabin so much trouble, but he didn't respond for almost a minute.

I'm losing focus. Control. I'm usually much more composed than this. Eloquent. That's a better word for it. I can do much better than this. As appealing as it may be to exploit your weak spots now, that wouldn't be productive. I let you heal so we could discuss this, not so I could pull out the stitches.

Edgar hesitated. He didn't want to think about this, but he couldn't do that anymore. He had to stop hiding--as he was sure Scriabin wouldn't let him rest otherwise--and just as he suspected, there were connections involved in this entire thing that he really did not want to contemplate. But Scriabin started it, Scriabin opened the lines and wanted to talk about it, and that was what Edgar would do. Scriabin, you said...well, the Devil...said...that we're going to be the focal point for every negative feeling in our vicinity...that every hateful feeling is going to be channeled into and through me...do you think...if this whole thing has started already, do you think that's why you're so angry now?

Another pause, then a thoughtful hum in the back of his mind.

No, no I don't. I've been controlling my temper for some time without too much effort. I think this is more of a situation where the anger just accumulates and then comes out in one big burst...

God, what will happen to me? Edgar rested his head in his hands. If this whole thing is really true, how will this affect me? Will I change? I mean, I would have to change...I can't imagine this whole process being...unnoticeable. It can't be, he said that the locks eventually collapse...this will have to affect me in one way or another, if this is all true. What will it do to me? What will this be like? Will I become those feelings? If...Nny said that he was a lock and that he felt that his actions were beyond his control...it could be that the amount of...hate going through him...fed his psychosis. Will that happen to me? God, losing control like that...will I...collapse...

Couldn't have been more specific, eh? Scriabin directed his comment to someone who was not listening. Collapse indeed. There's a number of meanings that could potentially have. Well, I suppose it's in his character not to tell the whole story.

And you, what will happen to you through all of this?

Scriabin didn't say anything.

Unless...

You're...asking me? A moment where he sounded fairly amazed, then his tone quickly hardened. Why do you care? Since when have you ever cared about how anything affects me?

I mean...look at what you said before. That was...you've...gotten angrier recently.

No I haven't. You've gotten weaker.

You've gotten angrier...you swear more often...you've lost your patience with me much faster than before...and you've said things to me that really...that you wouldn't have said before. At least, I don't think you would have.

Scriabin snorted. Amusingly enough, I think you're giving me too much credit. I didn't think I'd ever say that. Don't tell me that that false friendship we created has completely wiped your memory. My boy, my dear child, I said things to you in our distant past that cut you far deeper than anything I've said recently. Some of my earliest...some of the earliest things I said to you were far more venomous, far less forgiving than what I say now. What has changed here is not what I say to you, not my attitude. I have not become crueler, my boy, or more short-tempered. I have merely become more powerful, and you have subsequently become weaker. That is the reason my words have more of an effect on you.

I don't think so... Edgar shook his head. There's more to this than that, I'm sure of it. You're the one who's so insistent that this entire process is, in fact, occurring at all. If that's the case, there must be some kind of...impact it has on me. On us both.

I don't-

I remember something, I remember you talking about seeing something. When I was half-awake that one time, I remember you swearing and I remember how you felt...this kind of anxiety. That's not nothing, that's not...normal. We saw something, both of us, and you saw it too. It wasn't real but you saw it too.

I didn't see-

You're always claiming we're so connected. Irritation in his voice that he didn't intend. You're always going on about how we're the same person, or if not that, that we at least came from the same source. We're joined, you feel what I feel, all of that. Why is it now, when something bad is happening, you're suddenly...exempt? Why is it that whenever something bad happens to me, we suddenly couldn't be more separate?

Another pause.

I didn't say that I was exempt, that wasn't-

What are you? Edgar found this topic to be less potentially disturbing than the idea of being a waste-lock and the ramifications thereof, and thus readily changed his focus. What are you, anyway? What's your answer this time? Are you still me? Are you different from me? What do you want from me? What do you want?

Silence.

Edgar was about to get up and walk into his room, guessing that maybe being closer to the action figure might give him some more hints as to how Scriabin was reacting, when Scriabin spoke again.

Edgar, tell me. You aren't honestly stupid enough to think that I would ever tell you anything about myself, are you? Do you think, do you somehow think that after all this time the grand secret of my existence, my deep inner goals and the mysterious workings of my mind, can so easily be accessed with just a simple question? Not only that, but the same question you've been asking for as long as I can remember for the fifty-thousandth time? Grow up, Edgar. Merely hardening your voice and sounding authoritative won't get you anywhere with me. It never has. You have no power over me anymore.

Are you saying I used to?

Scriabin took a moment to consider this. Which way to toy with you, which way to take this...fine. I'll play along. Yes, I do think you had power over me once, long ago. But guess what. I warned you. I warned you not to give me a name. And even though I didn't warn you before that to stop encouraging me, you gladly fed me by constantly validating my contributions, by interacting with me. You kept me alive because instead of ignoring me, you gave me your hatred, your resentment, all the negative aspects of yourself, and that was more of a validation than you knew. You created me. It's your fault I'm here, and all of my relative power has its source within you.

Well, why can't I take it away?

Edgar, there's this concept that both you and your dear psychopath have problems with. It's called 'change.' Perhaps someday, long ago in the foggy mists of the past, you could have stopped me. Maybe there was a time when you could have taken more responsibility for your conflicting emotions, for the two sides you couldn't reconcile, and maybe you could have stopped me. But I'm afraid, my boy, that I have changed. And so have you, if you'd bother to take the time to consider it. I have changed, Edgar. I have taken the power you offered me. I have changed and become something that you have no power over now. You can't control me. I don't have to tell you anything. You can't make me tell you anything.

That's funny...I seem to recall that you were quite afraid when I rebuilt my memories not so long ago. Edgar smirked for a moment. I think that'd indicate that I still have some power over you. You're a liar.

Scriabin sighed in irritation. Of course I am, Edgar. You act as if this is new information. In light of this, why do you ask me these questions? Do you expect a truthful answer from me? Do you expect an answer at all?

A pause, and Edgar shook his head. No, I guess I don't.

Good. Now, let's get off this boring topic and focus on what's important. You do have a tendency to focus on such minor details. What I am doesn't matter anymore, as there's nothing you can do about it now.

You know what?

Edgar, I'm-

No, before we move on, I want to say something. You don't know what you are, do you? I bet you don't. I bet you don't even know.

Of course I know what I am. Scriabin sounded deeply offended. What kind of idiot do you take me for? How could I develop this far, and this well I might add, if I didn't know what I was doing?

His defensive reaction was encouraging. You don't have to know what you're doing to accomplish something. I bet, I bet you don't know half of what you think you do about yourself. You're just as confused as I am, you just hide it better. Where you came from, what you're here for, all of it. You don't know. You really don't know, do you? Incoherent frustrated sounds, and Edgar smiled. No wonder you won't answer my question.

I have no idea where you came up with such an incredibly stupid interpretation of what I just told you. A moment to get his voice under control. That's not true, but that's also not important right now. Our 'relationship' is a minor speed bump here. It's so trivial compared to everything else that's happening that it's insulting that we're even talking about it. Can the implications of what happened, the sheer immensity of the fate in store for us, be that lost on you? How can you possibly try to focus on me with so many more serious problems at your doorstep?

Edgar could recognize what Scriabin was doing, but on the other hand, he did have a point. Still...a moment to work his words, find a way to make them sharp and biting. Of course you're upset because we're not focusing on the right problem. Not because you don't want to talk about it or anything.

He heard a low growl in the back of his mind.

God, I hate you.

And Edgar felt satisfied.

You were saying?

Scriabin sounded as if he was trying to make a decision, then made a dismissive sound and continued. What we need to focus on now is how we're going to get out of this. I don't know about you, but I don't feel particularly inclined to become a glorified hate-funnel, as your dear Nny put it. The collapse mentioned also does not sound appealing. We need a plan.

Well then, what do you have in mind?

Silence.

This time, Edgar did get up and walk into his room. The toy stood where it always was, one arm pointing out across his bed.

"You don't actually have a plan, do you?"

"Of course I do." It was an instinctual quick response and it was easy to tell. Edgar sat down on his bed and stared at the motionless action figure. It was strangely comforting to hear his voice physically. At the thought, Edgar quickly reevaluated his feelings. Not comforting. Irritating. "I'm just trying to put it into words."

"You're really off your game today." Edgar leaned back and folded his hands behind his head. "I could see right through that. You usually make it more difficult."

"I've noticed you're also quite a bit more snappish. You know, you ask me if this lock business has made me irritable, but I'm afraid you haven't considered that it cuts both ways. You haven't been this sarcastic with me for some time. In a way, it's encouraging I suppose, but not enough. It's a bad sign."

"So, what's your plan?"

"Hmm..."

Edgar stared up at the ceiling and waited.

"If you hadn't jumbled everything up, I could get a clearer look at things..." Scriabin mumbled. "As it is, the Devil mentions that when the lock is destroyed, the cell empties itself...and that Johnny's suicide destroyed his status as a lock. Obviously, suicide isn't an option."

"Why, exactly?" Edgar was surprised that the words came from him, then looked a bit deeper. "And since when is that your decision?"

Scriabin didn't say anything for a few seconds, and he sounded astonished when he spoke again. "How...I just can't understand. How on earth can you be so callous? For god's sake Edgar, I'm still here with you. I know that it's just so much to ask, but could you please take my feelings, or at least my existence if nothing else, into consideration?"

His sarcasm masked something else, and Edgar for a moment wanted to go for it, wanted to dig through the masking lie and expose it, but then he remembered.

Promises in the church, phantasmal contact, and that protective, possessive snarl.

It was so easy to polarize their relationship, to swing from one extreme to the other while forgetting all the shades of gray in-between. It would have been easy to pretend that the two of them were mortal and bitter enemies, just as it would have been to pretend to be friends. But in the end, it wasn't that simple. It would never be that simple.

And in a way, he hated the fact that it couldn't be that simple.

Edgar was silent.

"You don't make this easy," Scriabin said. "We're in a horrible situation now. So many opportunities passed by, and so many bad decisions. Tangled up in mistake after mistake. However, I have confidence that we can make it through this, as we have before. After all, the past isn't always indicative of the future. We can survive. We have and we will. And even if it comes down to it and you give up, as you're so wont to do, I'll survive. I'll make sure of that."

"How?"

A quick question, and again Scriabin was unprepared. They both weren't used to this. That was his only guess as to why Scriabin was getting caught off-guard so often.

"We'll...figure something out. This lock mess...it's not good. There's no easily available out for us. I'm not sure if the process can be reversed. The only thing we really have to work with is the mention that when the lock is destroyed, the cell is emptied. There may be some other way to destroy your status as a lock...although I somehow doubt that any such solution would be pleasant. Johnny for example committed suicide...there must be another way, something less permanently damaging. While Johnny did somehow get his second chance at life, I doubt you'll be so fortunate. The Devil said that he was a mistake, which I suppose led to his resurrection. You, however, are the ideal candidate for this entire mess, and therefore when you die, I think that will be just how things should go. I won't accept that," Edgar opened his mouth to say something, but Scriabin cut him off, "and neither will you, if I have anything to say about it. We're fighting this and that's all there is to it. This time there's no passive acceptance of death, you understand?"

Edgar rolled his eyes, but didn't feel like pressing the issue. Let him believe what he wanted. In the end, it was still Edgar's body and it was still his decision. It wasn't as though Edgar really wanted to commit suicide; he just resented his ability to make that decision being questioned, usurped by Scriabin as if it was his birthright. He wouldn't choose death, but he at least wanted a choice.

"I don't know enough to really put forth a good hypothesis as to how to void the lock position. Insanity won't do it, as Johnny has illustrated, so the collapse of your mind won't empty the cell. It seems tied to the physical aspects of the assigned lock...and that is a tricky thing to overcome. Johnny implied that he had done some amount of damage to himself experimenting with his invulnerability or what have you, so a great deal of pain and suffering won't clear the lock status either. Death can't be the only solution...there has to be some other way. This entire process...hmm, I wonder if the mental collapse of the lock is a part of the process, a sign of a full cell, or merely an unintentional side-effect. I'm leaning towards the unintentional, considering that Johnny's psychosis raged on for some time regardless of how full the cell was...otherwise his status would have been voided when he went insane and...well, regardless, I have confidence that we can survive the process for some time. Not forever, surely, but for some period of time. Perhaps enough to do research, study what's happening and learn how to cope. Adaptation will be key, and thankfully that is one of your specialties. Eventual collapse, whatever that entails, but maybe not with enough practice. I can't say that for sure. Of all the problems facing you, this one worries me the most. It has no easy resolution."

Edgar couldn't think of a solution either, so he stayed silent.

"So, as much as I dislike doing this, I'm afraid we may have to let that rest. It's the most important issue but there's no ready solution, and ruminating about it endlessly will be no help to anyone." Scriabin sighed, then mumbled to himself, "I hate not having the answer, especially for something this important."

Edgar should have leapt on that chance, should have attacked as he was sure Scriabin would have done had their positions been reversed, but he just couldn't find the motivation. He could empathize, as much as he hated to think so, with that kind of frustration. There were a few things that he had never had a satisfactory resolution to and that had always irritated him. The fact that Scriabin was not frustrated with him but rather, with their situation, probably also had a hand in it.

"I think you're right. I don't like leaving that either, but...I don't know what to do." Edgar found himself shuddering as he heard the words repeat in his mind in a much higher voice. He quickly pushed the memories away. The last thing he wanted to think about now was how he had completely failed under pressure at the church. That was embarrassing as well as unhelpful.

"Hmm." Scriabin seemed fairly surprised that Edgar hadn't attacked him. Shades of gray coming back for them both, and his tone softened somewhat. "There's another issue though, one that I think might be a bit more easy to resolve in that it actually has a feasible solution. I can still feel the residue of doubt in you, over what exactly this lock business could mean for you spiritually."

Edgar pressed his arm over his eyes. "That's it...that's why I was avoiding this."

"Yes, I think you're right." A minor truce and one that was exceedingly temporary. Edgar wondered which one of them would be the first to break the peace. "You're not afraid of the eventual collapse that is the end result of this system, and neither am I. I have confidence that we'll be able to handle it, perhaps to overcome it when the time comes. If not that, at least the ability to handle what will happen. But that's far from saying there's no fear at all on your part. It's just there's a different factor here that you find more important..."

"You understand why." Edgar could keep up his end of their civil discussion at least. In that way, at least breaking their tenuous connection wouldn't be his fault. "I'd rather not die, but if I have to, I'm not..."

A deep sigh.

"I wasn't afraid..."

"As I said before..." Scriabin's words came haltingly. "You're outside their jurisdiction now...you belong to no one but yourself. You are alone."

A sharp pang in his chest, real physical pain that caught him by surprise. At the twinge Scriabin stopped speaking. A few tense moments went by until the pain faded.

A physical manifestation of pain that should have been internal? Perhaps this hurt more than he was willing to accept at the time. Possible. Edgar felt like he was drifting slightly in a way that was hard to define and knew that was a bad thing, but he wasn't sure how to fix it.

Scriabin resumed speaking, his voice soft again. "I felt that just as you did, and I know that the consequences for bringing this up again could be quite dire. But the fact of the matter is...at this point, your moral code has no relevance." He sounded uncomfortable. "How to phrase this...a lot of your emotional turmoil over this period has been a result of your conscience...the rules you feel you must follow and the punishment you inflict on yourself for breaking these rules. Without delving too deep into the heart of this just yet, as much as I would like to, this moral code no longer has any authority. Punishing yourself as you have is pointless. I tried to make this clearer to you before when we spent our time together in your mind, but you weren't very receptive then. I can only assume you're more so now."

Still drifting and he felt this vague sense of panic, that he should be stopping this but he wasn't sure how. He had a feeling that motion would only make it worse. He resolved to stay where he was, relatively. Scriabin's voice at least provided an anchor. That way he knew he wasn't really moving.

"You don't sound like yourself."

Scriabin made another uncomfortable noise. "Like I said...this requires a bit more finesse than I'm accustomed to. I wasn't lying before when I said you were more resilient in the past...then again, I've become more powerful. The situations facing us have changed as well, in their scope and influence, and I suppose I can't always rant or argue with you the same way. This situation does call for a...light touch. I consider myself adaptable...intelligent surely, and definitely enough so to adapt to what the situation requires." Edgar perhaps should have been annoyed at the egotism in Scriabin's last statement, but he could hear his voice shaking. "Attacking you as I usually do in this situation would not work. This requires logic, acceptance of the facts. Presenting them in the way that I...usually do often worked for minor problems, but this is something a bit bigger than I'm used to dealing with...you with, I suppose it would go. And lately, I've found how you react to me rather distressing. Things are changing."

"I got the message after three sentences." Edgar wanted the bed to stop moving. "You don't need to elaborate any further. I understand."

Keep talking and talking and talking. You're trying to justify it to yourself. You're afraid of changing too.

Scriabin made a growling noise. Forgot that that line between the two of them was still open. In his defense, Edgar was distracted, but that still didn't make it an intelligent thing to do.

"I think it would benefit both of us..." Scriabin said very slowly, "if you stopped derailing the conversation."

Edgar rolled his eyes again, but knew that pursuing the matter would be useless now. To echo his words earlier, Scriabin was not being very receptive.

Also, Edgar still felt as if he was drifting somehow. If Scriabin started sulking and refused to talk, he was worried about what would happen if he didn't have his voice to focus on.

"As I was saying." Scriabin coughed. "You don't understand how much pain you're causing yourself. I have often pointed out to you that you've placed yourself in a horrifically abusive relationship, but that's not the only cause for your anxiety. It's easy for you to erase your emotions, to drive them away with distracting activities and the like. I still experience them though, I do feel them and as a result, I get a clearer picture of what's going on inside of you than you do at times."

"Don't start with the gay thing again." Edgar now felt that even if he wanted to move, he couldn't find the energy or ability. He had to keep Scriabin talking. At this point, if he did lose that focus, there was a chance that he might not be able to stop himself from floating somewhere else entirely.

"Didn't we already go over this?" Scriabin sighed. "It's not that, although something like that is a factor in this. The main problem is this constant internal monologue you have, besides me, that punishes you for what you do. You can never trust your own decisions. You're always second-guessing yourself, what you want and how you want it and why. I blame most of this debilitating caution on your maniac's influence, but a good deal of it is the fault of that moral code you cling to so tenaciously. You assumed that everything you ever wanted awaited you in the afterlife, so it was easier to put off desires until that time came around. That eternal reward essentially canceled any on this mortal plane. That's a bit beside the point though...the fact is that you play the martyr, Edgar, and you do it often and well. Now, there is no point. It's easy to look at this situation as being inherently negative, but I find there are positive aspects to it as well, if you'd care to look. You are free. You have the ability to make your own decisions without that all-encompassing guilt." His voice took a very sudden bitter turn. "Whether or not that involves screwing Johnny is not my decision."

"I'm not- Jesus. Can you never let that go? I've told you a thousand times, it's not like that. There's nothing between us-"

"No no no, that's not the point. The point is that if there were..." Scriabin paused, considered his words. "I'm not saying that there is, exactly, although I do find most evidence works against you in this case, but if these feelings were present, there'd be no reason to deny them, destroy them or hide them, hurt yourself for having them. You've self-regulated your behavior for so long, living by the code you think is right. Is that what you really believe, or is that just what you've been taught? You have a chance now, Edgar, to recreate your life as you see fit. Everyone else's belief systems, their rights and wrongs, do not apply to you. Do you see what I'm getting at? I don't care if you're straight or gay or bisexual or asexual or even Nnysexual for god's sake. What matters to me is that you stop torturing yourself about it. Do you realize what it's like for me? To have to hear you constantly do this, feel you in this constant turmoil, and then have to deal with you pretending it's not there? It's like someone runs up to me and kicks me in the shin every day then pretends it never happened."

"Scriabin..."

Absorbed in his own speech. "I'm trying to present this in as...non-hostile a way as possible. Believe me, if I had my way I wouldn't take such a..." Scriabin tried to find a word, then eventually gave up. "I'd do this with my own customary flair, but this situation simply...it wouldn't work right now. And the solution is more important than the process, in the end. If you understand what I'm telling you, it won't matter how I convinced you."

"Scriabin..."

"I dislike presenting things this way though, it strikes me as being remarkably spineless. The logic behind it is sound enough though, I suppose. I guess this is how you feel-"

"Scriabin..."

"What?"

"I have a problem." That came out a great deal more frightened than he intended.

"What?" Scriabin's tone changed immediately. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know." Edgar tried to remain calm. It always paid to remain calm in strange situations. "I just feel...kind of strange. Kind of like I'm floating."

"Why didn't you tell me?" The anger in his voice was comfortingly familiar, and Edgar paused for a moment at how bizarre that was. "I can't listen to you as well when I'm talking through the toy, Christ, and you let me go on and on and didn't mention it-"

"What do you mean you can't listen as well? You heard me before." He had to keep speaking. It made him feel heavier.

Of course I can hear you if you're directly talking to me, or thinking in such clear-cut sentences. Mental voice again, and Scriabin sounded distracted. Where is it- but with something as minor as this, what the...mmph, something as minor as this, a kind of spatial distortion or...no, that's not it. I'm not quite sure what this is...well, either way, something this small can easily be missed when my attention...wavers...hmm, when did this start?

I can't remember. Edgar felt more disoriented now that his physical voice was gone. My memory used to be so good...what happened-

This is not the time for that. Edgar stopped talking obediently. This is strange...this kind of reaction and I wasn't even close to attacking you. You don't mean to tell me that I can't talk to you about this matter at all? I refuse to accept that, this is far too important-

"I don't think that's the issue." Edgar had to speak, he was feeling further away each moment. "I understood what you said. I was thinking about it. I just don't know why I feel like this...I just feel kind of strange. I don't think it was related to what you were talking about. Maybe it was."

Well, thanks for that. I suppose that's better than nothing. Sarcasm, but that's what he expected. A moment passed. You should have said something. Why didn't you say something?

"I thought it'd go away. Maybe I was dizzy or something, something like that. I thought I could handle it."

Another few seconds of silence, and Scriabin made a long sound that could most closely be likened to a whine, although it wasn't so desperate. I don't like this at all. Also, you didn't have to phrase it like that. It doesn't make you clever to turn things back on me, particularly when you need my help. It makes you stupid.

He didn't intend to phrase it that way, but it was too late for that. Part of him wanted to say that he didn't need his help, but another part reminded him that pride wasn't his particular moral failing. That one belonged to Scriabin. "Can you fix it?"

He wanted to think harder about what had just crossed his mind, but Scriabin cut him off. Can I fix it-, Edgar, these things aren't that simple. I can't flip magic switches in here and make you happy or sad. A pause. Well...hmm. Either way, I'll just have to find what's causing this dizziness...some thought you aren't consciously recognizing, no doubt. Also, you may be hungry. Go get something to eat and try not to think too hard.

"I don't want to move."

Mmm, right. I forgot.

"What's it like for you? What do you see? I mean...considering...if we're going from the pure biological definition of the mind...technically all you could be would be chemicals passing from neuron to neuron. Somehow I don't think it could be that boring for you."

Sentience is a funny thing, isn't it? Scriabin really sounded like he wasn't paying attention.

"Do you have your own place in there? How do my thoughts materialize anyway? Is it visual, or-"

Look, shut up. I'm trying to do something. You're being very distracting. Also, it's tremendously difficult to explain. Scriabin grunted. Imagine for example...how to get this across, hmm...imagine if you will, being a two-dimensional shape and having, say, a three-dimensional shape attempt to explain the third dimension to you.

"You read that in a book."

Correction: you read that in a book. Therefore, you know the rest. Either way, analogy is apt, et cetera et cetera. Now shut up, I'm trying to find out what's wrong.

Before he had been floating in a generally horizontal direction, as best as he could guess. Now he suddenly got the impression that he was spinning in place and his stomach lurched at the sensation unhappily.

Mmph...didn't think that would have that effect. I hope this isn't serious...it shouldn't be. It isn't. I bet this is just residue from the lock system. Ha. Well, this is our first step to understanding the entire process. Scriabin took a deep breath. I'll have to take notes on what's going on here. Either way, it's not serious. I can fix this.

Scriabin so often sounded like he was trying to convince himself of what he was saying.

Edgar thought back to the argument they had just had, what they had been saying to one another, and again the shades of gray that he so often forgot. It was hard to keep all facets of a person in mind while interacting with them, especially with someone like Scriabin.

"Why are you helping me?"

That makes the fifteenth time you've asked me that. Going for the record? Uuf, let's see...you know why I'm helping you. I've made this clear several times ear- can you move now?

Edgar attempted to move his arm and found that it responded, although slowly. "Yeah, getting there."

Good. That means I'm onto something.

"Well...thank you, I guess."

Another moment of silence.

My home too, he eventually mumbled. What can I say. It's us for me. Maybe someday it'll be us for you too. Rrgh...this makes no sense...how could this be...hmm.

With a quick jerk, the room stopped moving and Edgar was back on his bed again. He moved his other arm cautiously and stared up at the ceiling through a fading haze of red stars and spots. Been pressing a bit too hard he supposed. After he felt a bit more steady, he turned his head to see the action figure standing on his desk, still frozen in the same position as always. He felt like he was looking for something when he looked at the toy, but he wasn't sure what it was.

"Okay, it's gone now. Everything stopped moving."

"Good." Scriabin was breathing a little fast. "That wasn't too difficult. Now that I know where to look, I can prevent that from happening again. It's nothing to be worried about."

Edgar wanted to believe that.

"I hope this isn't a sign."

"C'mon, Edgar. If there was going to be a sign, it would have come much earlier than now."

"Hmm..."

"Either way, where were we?"

"Freedom, or lack thereof I think."

"Well..." Trying to regain his train of thought. "I think I presented my views fairly clearly. It's up to you whether you decide to recognize them or not. I think you'll find that all my arguments are logically sound. It's a matter of whether you decide to continue living your familiar lie, or whether you accept the life you could have."

"It's not quite as simple as you make it out to be." Edgar felt the beginnings of a headache coming on. "I also seriously doubt all your arguments are logically sound, as you put it. Either way, I'll keep it in mind. What else?"

Scriabin's voice darkened.

"Jimmy."

"Oh God, that's right." Edgar pressed his hands over his eyes.

"You gave him a window of two weeks. I don't know if he'd believe you or trust you after it all, but it at least gives us a timeframe to work with. It may not be accurate, but it's what we have. Now, you said you wanted to help Jimmy. I would like to continue keeping thoughts in check and ask you how, but instead I'm going to ask you why."

"Scriabin, I know you're upset that he threatened me." The headache was getting worse. "That doesn't justify throwing his life away. I can't do that. It's not right."

"Not right...?" Scriabin sounded genuinely confused for a moment, then hardened his voice. "You think this is about him threatening you? Feh. This is about more than that. I do find it rather amusing that you assume I was trying to protect you." He sounded anything but amused. "There's more than one person in your body, remember? I was trying to protect myself."

Edgar rolled his eyes again. "I somehow doubt that, given what you said and what you felt. Didn't occur to you that sometimes the link goes both ways, did it? I did feel your concern, no matter how much you try to hide it. I'm not sure why you're trying to lie about it, but I suppose that's what you automatically do."

"You're learning how to kick people when they're already down." Scriabin was trying to hide the uncomfortable tone in his voice. "I didn't think you'd ever pick that up."

"Either way, the fact that he threatened me is hardly reason to let him die. I have a responsibility now. I have to stop him, or stop Johnny, or do something."

"Since when? When did his life suddenly become your responsibility?" He now sounded vaguely resentful. He was probably still upset about being confronted about his protective outburst. "His life is his own."

"That's an easy way to avoid responsibility. The fact of the matter is that if he does die, it would be partly my fault for not having tried my best to prevent it. If I can save his life, I will."

"Funny though, that the pedophile wasn't as deserving of your effort." A very nasty tone in his voice, and Edgar was taken aback. "Or for that matter, those two teenagers in the movie theater. What makes the difference?"

A very uncomfortable thought, and Edgar struggled to find a way to respond. "It's not a matter of who these people are...it's the position that I'm in to help them."

"Uh huh. So tell me, when Johnny left to attend to something down in the basements, leaving you with those two teenagers whose names you've probably already forgotten, why didn't you set them free? You were in quite the position to help them there. You were also in the position to tell Johnny to stop torturing them and yet somehow that thought didn't cross your mind as you sat on the steps and watched. Why is that?"

"Well..." He was too complacent...Scriabin had easily backed him into a corner. He forgot this was what he did best. "It's that...I guess that back then, things were...things were different between me and Nny. I mean...I couldn't really...talk to him back then. I was too afraid-"

"So what you're telling me, essentially, is that you were unwilling to help two suffering human beings just because you were afraid? Afraid for your own life? In the light of this and other such events in the past, it's a bit much for me to accept your avenging crusader role now. You've already let a number of human beings slip through your fingers, people you were entirely capable of helping, without a twinge of conscience. But now suddenly, Jimmy is worth your attention? Suddenly Jimmy is your responsibility? What makes him different? What makes him any more worthy of your help than the others you ignored? You've let down countless others, hundreds perhaps, by your lack of action. Forgive my skeptical nature, but I hardly believe that your intention to rescue Jimmy is either sincere or out of the goodness of your heart. It won't erase the people that you've forgotten. If you're afraid of getting indirect blood on your hands, I regret to inform you that you're completely drenched in it."

Edgar stared at his hands.

Scriabin gave a contented sigh. "God, that felt good."

Edgar buried a hand in his hair and closed his eyes. "Shut up."

"But seriously, Edgar, why. Jimmy means nothing to you. As a matter of fact, he threatened to kill you. How ironic. Do people have to want to murder you for you to want to save them?"

Ouch. Edgar winced, but couldn't think of anything to say in response.

"Either way, Jimmy is not worth your attention. He's not your responsibility. You did, in my opinion, more than enough to try and dissuade him from his suicidal visit with Johnny, and he refused to listen. He's a moronic teenager who thinks that his problems are the be-all end-all of the earth, and assumes that everyone else agrees with him. He idolized Nny merely because he represents what he wants to be, romanticized what he wants Nny to do. All petty high school revenge fantasies of getting back at the teachers and kids that pushed you around with some high-gloss goth poetry 'beauty of death' polish to try and make it seem less shallow. He has no concept, no ability to understand the scale of his problems as compared to, say, a sociopath like our dear Nny. All of these are character flaws though, hardly enough to warrant killing someone, although perhaps you'd disagree. You did let those two from the movie theater suffer immensely, die probably, for merely being obnoxious."

His head was pounding. An insistent throbbing pain was building in what felt like the lower part of his skull.

"I'm not a bad person..." He couldn't think of anything else to say.

Scriabin ignored him. "Jimmy has killed people. He's a murderer and from what I heard while you were drifting off at one point, I'm fairly sure he raped someone as well. These are crimes which are on a far grander scale than almost any of the people Nny has encountered and killed. You have to agree with me that Jimmy's crimes easily surpass those of the clerk who turned off the Brainfreezy machine at the wrong time or whatever it was that poor man did. Not only that, Jimmy hasn't even expressed any kind of remorse for what he's done, instead reveling in the fact that he ended someone's life for an unbelievably stupid reason. He seems completely and utterly aware of exactly what he's doing and entirely capable of stopping himself from doing it, and yet, he does, and did, not do so. Jimmy can't even play the insanity card, for all the good it does, as a justification for what he's done like Johnny can."

"Mmph."

"Now, let's play some hypothetical games here. Let's say that our fanboy Jimmy gets caught killing someone. He's jailed and sent to court, and let's assume that the evidence has built up, as he was too stupid to hide it properly-"

"Glad to see you're being impartial."

"Too stupid to hide it properly, and he's pronounced guilty. Let's say he's killed a number of people, though it pales in comparison to his idol, and not only that, he's also convicted for the rape of that girl. Now, how would the state deal with this criminal?"

"I don't know." Edgar didn't want to talk about this. "Life sentence I guess."

"Maybe. But, depending on what state you're living in, there's a chance that he could get the death penalty. Now tell me, if you've been following this as I hope you have, what the difference would be from Jimmy meeting his end at the hands of his misguided idol or in the tight embrace of an electrical chair. What would be the difference? What makes one more just than the other? Are you willing, Edgar, to go against the pronouncement of the law that he should die to support your theory that he deserves to live? Does your responsibility for him end when the law takes him off your hands, and by extension, wouldn't your responsibility end when he falls into Johnny's hands, just as he always intended?"

"No. It's not right." He shook his head and wished the pain would stop.

"Why?"

"It just isn't!" Backed into a corner and he couldn't find a way to logically justify what he just knew. Having to explain the unexplainable- why did Scriabin have to be so good at this? "If I can prevent this, if I can save him, I'm going to try."

"As I said before, why him? Why him, out of the hundreds of others who have died, perhaps unjustly, under Johnny's blade? Why is your righteousness so selective?"

"God, shut up! How can you be like this?" Edgar turned towards the action figure. "How can you argue like this to let someone die? How can someone's life mean so little to you?"

A pause, then Scriabin replied in a smooth, even tone, "I present the same question to you."

"You can't judge me-, ngh!" He pressed his hands to his head. "These are different situations, things are different! Just because..."

"I'm afraid there's little logical recourse for you with this scenario. You are not responsible for Jimmy. It's his own stupid fault if he gets killed, and what's the loss if he is? He's a murderer and a rapist and a remarkably stupid one at that. Although he does serve as an ironic piece to the main focus of so many of our conversations-"

Do you think it's okay that I kill people, Edgar?

Nny, it is possible to like a person without liking what they do-

"What about Nny? By your logic, it wouldn't matter if he died as well, since he's also done bad things."

There was that bitter hatred that he had yet to hear directed at any other target. "Do you think I'd argue with you on that point? Where on earth did you ever get the impression that I liked Johnny at all? I've told you since the beginning that there's no worse relationship you have than with him. You just never listened, and look where it's gotten you."

No...thinking back, sifting through his memories and Edgar found things once said that encouraged him, encouraged him to deepen the relationship that Scriabin now claimed to despise. It hadn't been his idea to hug him for one thing, among others, and

That didn't quite turn out the way we expected, did it?

We.

Contradiction...the thought cast a sudden and intense light on what Scriabin was saying, and Edgar spoke slowly. He had to make sure that his suspicion was well-founded, before...

"...You want him dead?"

"I want him out of your life. He's a distraction now, an unhealthy and unproductive one. Surely you concede there is a great deal more at stake here than whether or not Nny loves you and whether or not you love him in return. Your soul and your sanity are in jeopardy, if they're not already lost."

Just as he thought.

"You know..." Edgar narrowed his eyes. "I would like to take what you're telling me at face value, but you've reminded me that that's not a good idea. There's more to this than what you're saying, and there's more to your argument than the logical front you're putting on. I remember, Scriabin, what you said to Jimmy when he threatened me. I remember how you felt. I remember how possessive you felt. I know there's more to you wanting Jimmy dead than just him being a...a bad person."

"It'd be much simpler that way, wouldn't it?" His voice more hostile. "If this was all tied up with emotional baggage that would invalidate the truth, make it less believable. I'm afraid I can't indulge you here, Edgar. Here's one fantasy that I will not cooperate with you on."

"No..." Edgar looked at the wall for a moment, thinking over his words carefully. There was a good chance that he could only say this once, because if Scriabin reacted the way he thought he would... "There's always something more with you. There's always some kind of...ulterior motive, some deeper motivation for what you say to me. From the very beginning you lied to me, said you were a part of me, and used my doubt and my fear to develop. You say that I had a hand in your development and yes, I'm sure that's true, but you're not entirely innocent yourself. There's always something more to you, Scriabin, there's always more to your words than you'd like me to think about. So often I tend to focus on what you say, too often have I thought about how it would affect me and I never considered that my reaction may have been part of your motivation..."

"What does this have to do with anything?" Scriabin's voice was rough. "You pointed out to me before that I was justifying something to myself by going on and on with all those words. Say what you want to say."

Edgar winced at the reference to Jimmy, then narrowed his eyes further. He could feel the muscles near his mouth twitch for a moment. Here goes. "This isn't about my morality, about any kind of ethics. This isn't about Jimmy at all. You don't want me to become independent, become strong like you said back then. I didn't even realize it at the time, it didn't even occur to me since I was still...I was hurting from the lie you had told me. God, using that moment against me, you...you'll do anything to get what you want! You don't want me to make my own decisions about my life, you want me to make yours! First you said that I'd have to depend on myself, and then right after that it was all about you! I had to depend on you! My weapon, my support, my everything, it all comes back, came back, to you!"

"Edgar!" An angry cry, and Edgar suspected that it was to buy him some time to think while simultaneously stopping the conversation. "Do you remember what I said earlier? Do you remember what I said about how I experience your emotions? How at times I have a clearer view of what's going on inside you than you yourself do?"

"You always say that-"

"Well then understand this," Scriabin hissed. "What you wanted more than anything back then was someone to rely on, someone to take your god's place. I felt it, I felt your pain and I took on that role for you back then because that's what you wanted me to do. Whenever things get too hard, you always fall back on relying on me. What I was trying to get across was that you should try to prevent that-"

"No!" He was looking hard enough, looking through and it all shattered underneath his scrutiny, underneath his skepticism that he now realized he had been neglecting. Lie after lie falling apart, tied together by those threads that Scriabin had mentioned, a badly knit sweater and Edgar reached out and grabbed the action figure with one hand. "You didn't say that- God, you're lying to me! You're lying right to my face! How can you, how could you lie to me like that back then, back when I needed...back when I was hurting that badly? How could you lie to me about something so important? This isn't about me becoming powerful, it's about you!"

"And what about me-"

"This is about you! This is about, this is about what you want me to do! This isn't about what I want, this isn't about what I need, what I should become, this is all about what you want! Everything, everything you ever told me, it was all for you, to make me what you want me to be! It was all an effort, God, a huge...a huge elaborate lie to get me to believe that for once you cared about something other than yourself! That you ever had anything other than your own benefit in mind! Just using me- I'm not your tool, Scriabin! I'm not your toy! You don't own me!"

"Yes, that honor belongs to Johnny, doesn't it?"

Edgar stared at the action figure and his mouth fell open.

"Don't think that because I haven't been as cruel as before that I can't be so now." Scriabin's voice was filled with hate. "Don't think me harmless. Exposing a lie doesn't render me powerless, if that was a lie to begin with-"

His grip tightened until his fingers ached and trembled. "You know it was, just stop pretending-"

"What do you hope to accomplish with this?" His tone was flippant and condescending. Not taking him seriously and intentionally, deliberately, making that clear. Edgar felt his heart quicken as his anger built higher. "Again, are you looking for insight into my psyche? Do you want to know what I want? Another reprisal of that all-too-often asked question, masked in anger and righteous indignation? I have doubts now, Edgar, that you really want to know the truth about me, about what I want. It's something you wouldn't want to hear, and therefore you'd just block it out. Pretend it never happened."

Edgar wasn't going to let this go. Not this time. "Don't change the subject. You were lying to me. You were. You always have been. This isn't about me, this isn't about my sense of ethics." He was surprised at the mocking tone he took with his last three words. "You couldn't care less, could you? All that talk about my conscience, about hating what I do to myself, how I need to stop torturing myself, it was all a lie, wasn't it? All of it, all of this sympathy and kindness you've given me, it was all...just manipulating me, just getting me to do and believe what you want! To rely on you rather than God!"

Scriabin's tone was dismissive. "Black and white, Edgar. Just because I lied about one thing doesn't mean I lied about them all."

Edgar glared for a few seconds, then threw the toy as hard as he could. It hit the wall with a loud thump and fell to the floor.

"How could I have ever trusted you!" Edgar was furious and this time found no regret or fear at the feeling. It was anger at a source deserved; it was anger that could safely be expressed without ramifications because he wasn't human. Scriabin wasn't real. He kept forgetting that and it was time for that to stop. "How could I have ever thought you'd think of someone besides yourself, that you'd ever have anyone's welfare in mind except your own! I'm just a glorified vessel for you, a toy to be manipulated, an elaborate marionette, well, not anymore! This is my body! I was here first!" Edgar stood and walked over to where the action figure rested on the floor. It looked small against the carpet, broken. "I was here first. You came after me and you fed yourself from me, and I allowed it. Allowed it. In the end this body is mine and it will always be mine. I make my own decisions, I define my own life, I define myself. It's not your place to make decisions for me, to try and change my life to suit your needs. You're a parasite, a delusion, perhaps some indication of future psychosis, but you are not a person. You are not a real person. You don't have rights, you don't have any claim to my body just because you chewed out a place in my brain to stay. You have no claim to me. I don't belong to anyone except myself, not you and not Johnny. I don't belong to you..."

Nothing.

Edgar knelt and looked at the toy. One of the arms was out of joint, and the head was tilted at a strange angle. He reached out and began to adjust, to fix what had been knocked askew.

"You're mine. You're my voice. When I felt you get angry, when I felt your anger at Jimmy, I felt touched at first. Now I realize...you just don't understand." There, he found it, the perfect condescending cadence that mocked and mimicked Scriabin's tone from earlier, the dismissive tone that spoke of an unsurpassable inequality of status. The overwhelming assertion through each syllable, each deliberate pause and emphasized word, that he was better than the person he was talking to, now and forever. Wouldn't Scriabin be proud of him. "You really think you're human, you really think that you're my equal. That somehow we're really two people, rather than one person and one mental monologue that's gone on far too long. You've berated me for so long for laboring under my own illusions and yet you've held one for yourself. Pretending to be human, to be real, that my body is your body. Well, it isn't, it wasn't, and it never will be. My body is mine, my mind is mine, and they will never be yours. You will never be more than what you are. I don't know where you got the impression that you could ever do so. You're desperation for reality, for my validation, is pathetic."

Trying hard to dig at the one weakness he knew Scriabin had, and his voice was shaking along with his hands. He wanted it to stop, but the more he tried to cease the trembling the worse it got. Something like adrenaline must be causing this, he was sure. His rage felt familiar and addictively powerful and he never wanted it to end.
The action figure now clutched tightly in one fist and his knuckles were white.

"I know you can hear me." Edgar felt his lip curling in a snarl. "I know you can hear what I'm saying. You've become too self-important, too self-absorbed for your own damn good. You never thought I'd catch on to your manipulation, all those lies you weave around me. Pretending at my freedom and just trapping me yourself. God, you've always been my enemy. How could I have been so blind?"

Nothing.

"Talk to me!" Edgar shook the action figure as if that would renew the conversation. "I know you can hear me! Don't pull away from me, oh ho, don't pass out halfway through this, our little session together!" He found the words rasping through clenched teeth, choked with bitterness and long-repressed rage. "After everything you've done to me- Christ, Scriabin, you even lied about loving me, that's how desperate you are to control me! You always condemn me for so many faults and you have the exact same ones! We're so alike, and yet that's the last thing you could want! Except when it serves your purpose, when it prevents me from attacking you- answer me! Answer me, goddamn it!"

Stubborn silence.

"God, and to think I could ever depend on you." Still shaking and this was definitely adrenaline now, he could feel it. His entire body shuddering in waves, clenched tight in his stomach and spreading tremors through his limbs, causing the toy to shake in his hand as he struggled to keep still. "To think that I was ever that stupid, that hurt, to depend on you. Depend on what? A voice in my head? A desperate delusion? I can't depend on you, I could never depend on you, you have as many faults as I do except you aren't even open about them! You're deeper in denial than I could ever hope to be! How could I depend on someone like you? How could I ever depend on such a shameless hypocrite, on such a compulsive liar?"

He stood, walked back over to his bed, and set the action figure back on his desk. Edgar wanted to slam it down, throw it again, but something made him put the toy down the same way and in the same place he always had.

All that anger he had sublimated into other things, had kept hidden away for fear of hurting someone or himself or making some kind of grievous error, all of it now coursed through him and it felt so natural. It all felt so right, and he hadn't felt this confident in what he was doing for so long. He felt capable, strong and able to defend himself, to reinvent himself, to take back what he had let slip out of his hands without thought and over it all that anger that made it seem so real, so permanent, so plausible.

"No, I won't depend on you, Scriabin. I won't listen to you. I am never listening to you again. This is it. I'm taking responsibility for my life. I'm taking my life back. My decisions are my own now and if you don't like them then that's too bad. You have no power over me. The only power you have is the power I gave you, and I can take it away. I'm afraid that's a side-effect to being an unwelcome parasite."

Still silent and that only fed his rage. He didn't just want to be angry, that wasn't enough he wanted to hurt someone- "What's wrong? The last thing you could ever do was stop talking. What's wrong now? Can't find anything to say, any logical traps to hide what you really want? Any smartass remarks? Twisted metaphors or Biblical mockery? What's wrong? Since when have you ever been at a loss for words?"

Silence and he felt his hands clench, his entire body shake for a moment and he could see himself pulling the toy apart, ripping out arms and legs and throwing it in the garbage disposal in the kitchen. He stood there, envisioned himself doing it, could hear the plastic squeaking as he tore limbs from their sockets, the pop of the head coming off. Destroy him, destroy this, destroy everything once and for all.

And for a few seconds, he thought of it as murder, then he bitterly corrected himself. It wasn't murder if the other person didn't even exist.

He could see himself destroying the emblem of what he so hated so clearly, so easily, but he did not move. He stood and tried to force motion, yelled at his limbs to obey but instead he only stood and stared.

Edgar turned away and felt a twinge of nausea again, the room spinning just slightly. This felt familiar, but he was not letting that distract him.

"You make me sick," he said in a low voice, then turned to his closet. "You make me sick. I'm going out and guess what, you're coming along. You know why? Because you can't stop me. You can't stop me from doing what I want anymore. I'd say that we were going out, but we're not. I am, and you're coming along whether you want to or not. Isn't that right?" He took off his glasses, considered setting them to one side carefully, then found that he didn't care. He tossed them onto the carpet without much concern, then pulled off his shirt with motions so quick that his ears stung afterwards. He searched through his drawers for a clean shirt, finding that the insistent silence, the complete mental silence only made him want vengeance more strongly, want to hurt him more, to hurt him as Edgar had been hurt before. How could he have ever thought that Scriabin could ever feel sympathy? Apologize? Even feel at all?

He pulled a shirt on and picked up his glasses. They were undamaged--Edgar had specifically asked for stronger frames--and he stared again at the toy standing by his bed.

"Why won't you answer me?" Edgar stalked back over to his dresser and found his voice rising. He didn't want it to, but before he knew it he was shouting. "I know you can hear me! I know you can hear me because you hear everything, don't you? You can hear and feel everything, so I know you can hear me! Answer me! Say something!" He felt dizzy but he wasn't going to sit down.

Still refused to speak, but finally Edgar could hear something in the back of his mind. Breathing.

"I know you're there." He felt something rushing to his head and he wasn't sure where the floor was anymore. His vision slowly fading out, a faint kind of blackness around the edges, and he felt dizzy but he wasn't going to stop. "I can hear you. This is you, isn't it? You can't handle me standing up to you so you're hurting me physically again! Like you did before, when I had that...seizure thing. You can't argue with me normally, so you're just going to try and get me to pass out! It won't work this time! I won't let you do this to me, I won't let you have any power over me anymore! This is my life, this is my life! It's not yours! It will never be yours! You will never have a life of your own!"

The floor shifting and the blackness flooding his vision and his head was pounding. All of it intensified, amplified by the amount of adrenaline currently coursing through his body, by the sheer undiluted rage he felt. Directed at Scriabin primarily, but even now it shifted to his own body, to whatever was happening, to the fact that the one time he was standing up for himself that something like this had to happen.

A soft sound in his mind that he couldn't easily define, and the blackness began to fade away. The floor slowly began to stay in one place, stop shifting back and forth, and he found his sense of balance again.

You should probably sit down. Scriabin's voice was soft and emotionless.

"So there you are." Edgar glared at the toy and decided to stay where he was. He didn't have to listen to him. "Why so silent all of a sudden? What's wrong? Can't think of anyth-"

Sit down. Something's gone wrong, something's got a hold of you. There's something in...something that's trying to...just sit down. It must have come in before, when...it doesn't know what it's doing, what effect it's having on you-

"God, you never stop, do you?" Edgar said bitterly and crossed his arms. The floor again began to list to one side, but Edgar refused to move with it. "You can never stop lying. What are you blaming now?"

Sit down.

"Not until you tell me why."

I already did. Scriabin's voice seemed strangely devoid of emotion, of the hurt that Edgar expected. He felt disappointed. This thing is doing something to you. It's making you dizzy. If you sit down, I can-

"God, looking back on it...there are so many things that I thought were something more, were something real. So many things that you could have done, could have used to try and gain my trust. When I was drifting before...that was you, wasn't it? You set up the situation, hurt me then pretend to help me. Set up these traps and rescue me and think that I'll fall for it, that that will give you that edge over me, give you more of the control you so desperately want. You were lying to me then...you're lying to me now. Of course you can fix this, you're the one who's doing it to me!"

Sit down.

"No!" Edgar moved and that turned out to be a mistake. The floor abruptly turned and twisted beneath him, raised itself up and before he knew it he was on his back and he couldn't feel his legs.

Okay, I can...I can figure this out... It sounded like he was talking to himself.

Stop it! Edgar wanted to speak out loud but found his voice internal. Stop this, I know what you're doing now! I know what this means! I won't fall for it again, stop lying to me for once in your life-

I can fix this... Scriabin's voice shook. I can fix this, I know I can-

Stop it! He wanted to feel his body again, he wanted to feel but his body wasn't moving, nothing was responding. He could feel the beginning of panic, the desperate desire to escape, to get away. Something pressing on his chest and it was getting harder to breathe.

I can...

Why are you doing this to me! That was it, that was the question that he had longed to ask since he first heard Scriabin's voice, and he shut his eyes tight.

A strangled noise in the back of his mind and in response, a twinge of compassion. He didn't expect it, didn't think of it, didn't want it, but there it was and with it came an instinctual question.

Are you okay?

After all this work, this rage that built so high and felt like it took over his whole body, all of it, after all of it he still felt it...he still felt concerned. He had struggled not only to show Scriabin that he knew the truth, but to make himself stop believing in the lie, stop believing that Scriabin was anything more than what he had said. Struggled to finally cut this off, to remove the shades of gray that were false to begin with. And yet, he still felt it and he still asked and even with the regret that followed, it did not vanish.

Connection. If Edgar felt that concern, then...

Oh my god. Oh shit. Recognizable terror and small frightened words. Oh. Shit. I...

What's going on? Successfully distracted from his ranting, and his concern continued unchecked. What on earth was Scriabin this afraid of? Even when Edgar had rewritten his memories, he hadn't sounded this frightened. Scria-

What are- get... Scriabin's words were choking and broken. A pained gasp, something like desperation, and he could hear him hiss. Another stuttering cry and then a scream tore its way through the back of his mind, startled him out of any angry thoughts that he had been entertaining. GET AWAY FROM HIM.

Scriabin-

Get out! Scriabin paused, took a few harsh breaths. Get out! Get out!

Who- Something anguished and short and again that twinge of compassion. What's-

I won't let this, I won't let you, get out. Get out! Get out, he's mine! A hoarse scream that he knew would have been painful if forced through physical vocal cords. I won't let you touch him! I'll kill you! I'll fucking kill you first! Get out!

What's going on? Helpless, trapped in a weak body, and where was his flash of black now? Edgar's arm moved. Who are you talking to?

A low growl in response to his question. The room abruptly turned beneath him and he tried desperately to steady himself, to find a sense of balance, some kind of center that wouldn't change.

A very long scream of pain in his mind, and he felt something tear.

The world stopped spinning, the rushing sound in his head stopped, and when he opened his eyes he could see.

Edgar sat up after a few seconds, shook his head, found no lasting effects from the motion, then looked at the toy on his desk as if it'd give him answers. Still standing in the same position as ever.

Scriabin?

Watched but he didn't move.

His concern far more intense, his words quick and high. He didn't even think to prevent it. Scriabin, are you okay?

Nnngh...

Edgar breathed a sigh of relief at the soft moan. What happened? He felt drained, nervous somehow. His entire body still shaking but he wasn't exactly sure why. The aftereffects of adrenaline he could guess. All anger vanished in the face of this unknown danger, and now he wasn't sure what to do. Are you okay? What's going on? Who were you talking to?

A shaky sigh. I'm...

What happened?

Edgar...listen...

What?

Some of the things you said... He sounded exhausted. Some of the things you said before...I can't say they're false. But I want you...to keep in mind that I'm not the only one who wants to manipulate you. I'm not the only one who now has...access to you. The danger that you face is not all from me...this system...

That...what was that? What happened?

Let's just say...if you'll believe me of course, trying to touch his words with familiar scorn but his voice shook too much, that there's a pipeline...an avenue open through you for hate to come through...and let's say that there are things that find you a...potential home.

Edgar's mouth went dry. What? What do you...do you mean something tried to...

I'm afraid that I...disagreed with them on that point. Nngh... Another shaky sigh. This is...you can say all you like, disagree all you like, lie as much as you want about it, about what I've become and what I've taken from you but in the end...this is mine. This is my home. I'm not about to let some...some two-bit figment try to take what's mine...what I've worked so hard for...I don't think so. No.

An attempt at bravado, but it was painfully transparent now. Is that what this is? I don't...think that's all. I can feel it again...you want to protect me, don't you?

Scriabin tried to laugh but began wheezing halfway through. Protect you...you fool. How easy it is for you to forget everything...forget anything that doesn't agree with your current argument, whatever you currently believe...you're such a fool. Do you think, my dear boy, my precious Edgar, that I am the worst thing that could happen to you? Do you think that of all the parasites, as you call them, that could be inhabiting your mind right now, that I am truly the worst there is? That I am really the worst thing in the world for you?

Edgar shivered once and then couldn't stop. Oh God...

My dear, foolish, boy...you don't understand. You don't understand what I am...what I mean, what I could be...what happened. Why don't you just forget about it...it's not important to you...

Edgar ignored the attempt to derail the conversation, tried to find something to focus on. You sound like you're in pain...

Hnh. Since when have you ever been perceptive? It sounded like it was difficult for him to speak. Since when have you ever cared for your unwilling passenger? Your inhuman parasite? Huh...protect you indeed. I assure you that nothing is taking my place, not while I'm still alive. Nothing is going to set up shop here, not here. I said that I'd fight this system and I will. This is my territory, and I'll fight for it. You should study that sometime, Edgar...fighting...I know you're not familiar with it... His voice trailed off.

It didn't even occur to him to contest Scriabin's constant references to ownership. What did you do? How could you have...wouldn't I have seen it? Or been aware of it?

Too wrapped up in your shouting, I suppose... His voice was getting weaker. You don't have a talent for paying attention to multiple things at once. Nngh, and what does it matter to you anyway...? I don't matter to you, as you so eloquently stated. Rage...didn't you think while you yelled about how unusual it was, that you felt so angry? How alien, how foreign? God, and I thought we had a chance...if you're this unaware of this system's effects...if you succumb so easily to some small thing's temptation, then what hope is there really for us? Or rather, for you?

You're not giving up.

Very true... His breath caught for a second, and for a moment he heard a soft whine of pain. I'm not going to give up. Ha, I don't think...when whoever runs this system finds out what I've done...I don't think they'll be pleased.

Edgar took a deep breath and stared at his hands. They kept shaking and he could see the indentations from his nails pressing into his palms. His thoughts were scattering and he had to keep thinking, he had to keep talking and keep everything in line.

"Then...you're not a part of the lock system, are you?"

Of course... A soft sigh, and real effort. "Of course I'm not. I thought that much would at least be obvious, even to you..." His physical voice sounded even weaker than the mental.

"So...you must be something different."

"Where are you going with this?" Scriabin only sounded vaguely interested.

"Encroaching on your territory...do you think that the system will try to use you? Use you against me?"

"God, I don't know." Scriabin let out a deep sigh. "You understand if I'm a little...tired. It may not seem as such to you, but I've just been through..."

"Hmm..." Edgar pressed a shaking hand to his chin in hopes that would make the tremors stop. Scriabin couldn't have been a part of the lock system...even if he had been lying, there was enough evidence to prove him correct. After all, Scriabin had come into being far before the lock system had come into place. He had to be a part of something else...

"Funny..." Scriabin gave a wet cough. "You were so worked up earlier...hating so vengefully, so completely. Eloquently, I might add. You sounded a great deal like me...ha. But again, once the emotion passes, it falls to the background...we regain equilibrium...back to how things always were. I can't feel your hatred for me now, not like before. Come and gone...did it ever mean anything at all? Was any of it real..."

"I don't feel angry anymore..." Edgar shook his head. "That's a good thing...if this whole system is going to be kicking in more often...I'm going to have to be more careful with that. I can't let myself get...lost like that. I'm not angry. But just because I was angry doesn't mean I was wrong."

Scriabin made a short sound that perhaps would have become a word, but then he lapsed into silence. He breathed another deep sigh, this one with a faint rasp to it. "So many layers...there's more than one motivation for the actions that one takes sometimes..."

"It's kind of difficult...forgive me for doubting you on this point-"

"Again, imitating me..."

He didn't like that.

"But you understand that if one of your motivations is...inherently selfish, perhaps damaging to me..." Edgar sighed and felt something like apathy sweep over him. A lack of emotion, of any kind of involvement, but he had to finish what he was saying. "How can I believe that...how can I believe anything you say when I know that somewhere...it might not be true? That it might be for your own benefit, or just to hurt me? How can I risk that? Fool me once..."

"Again...one motivation is not all there is at times. I don't feel comfortable...some things that I have done are not...related to that, exactly. But as the relative trust we built is shattered, you understand my reluctance to talk about this. I doubt you'll believe anything I say...it's no fun to lie to someone who won't believe you..."

"You don't lie for fun."

"True enough." A kind of rasping sound. "Still...you won't believe me, whether or not I'm telling the truth. So...I feel inclined to just...not talk at all. Not to mention that I'm still bl- I'm...I'm not really..." He sighed. "I'm tired, Edgar."

"Well...you seem set on the fact that I not judge you for one of the reasons you've been doing this to me...what other ones are there? What other justification for your behavior is there? Why? What other reason for all of that...ego-saving talk in the church? You didn't believe that, did you? You've never believed in that...in my strength. Just presenting me with the illusion got me further under your power..."

"Edgar...this may come as a shock to you-"

"You always preface things that way."

"But manipulating you was not my original...intent. It's not what I was created for."

"Well, you were the one who brought up change."

"Does it even matter..." Another hoarse cough. "Does it even matter what I say now...does it matter what I would ask you? Does it matter..."

"You're changing the subject."

A pause. This time, Scriabin succeeded in changing his tone, his words familiarly touched with hateful sarcasm. "I'm sorry, I must have forgotten my place."

Edgar paused, considered apologizing, then turned to look at the ceiling. "But what other motivation could you have? Other than self-preservation...that relates right back to the manipulation though...that all of this is for your benefit, not for mine. Tell me, if you want to convince me to trust you again...was any of the affection, the kindness or concern you ever expressed for me...was any of it real?"

A cough.

"Scriabin...was any of it real? When I asked you...I asked you to...and you said that maybe later we could discuss this...well, I want to discuss it now. What do you feel for me?"

"May I ask you something first?"

"Avoiding the question again..."

He didn't say anything, and Edgar sighed.

"Fine, go ahead."

"I present the question back to you..." A coughing fit this time, and Edgar turned to look at the toy. Still motionless. "What do you care for me? Do you feel anything for me at all, my boy? I find that while your anger may have been foreign, may have been misplaced, you still...believed what you were saying. And to be honest...how much of it was true...?"

"I don't know." Edgar shook his head. "I don't know how I-...I...it's always changing. I can't...you're not...God, every time I talk with you, it's like I...I mean, what was our conversation just like? One minute you're perfectly civil and another you're sarcastic like always, and another you're hating and another you're hated, and then you're hurting or you're compassionate, and you talk about helping me and us and at the same time, you talk about control and belonging and ownership and God!" He pressed a hand against one of his eyes. "This sounds so stupid. Why can't it be simple? Why can't I just sum it up in one word?"

"You have before..." Scriabin's voice was weak and scratchy. "Shall we say it together?"

Edgar stayed silent, but Scriabin said it anyway.

"Hate."

"It can't be that simple. You know that. It isn't that simple and sometimes I wish it was." He shook his head again. "I can't...I can't hate you, I can't hate...I don't know if I've ever hated anyone. I mean, you've done things for me...you've helped me. You did...you protected me. And even if that was all a lie, an elaborate charade for me, you offered to protect me before and I know for a fact that was sincere. I know that wasn't a lie, and that makes things so complicated. There's...I can't say I like you, hardly...if at all, actually, but I can't say anything, I can't say anything definite. It's always changing. God, this sounds so stupid. This sounds like..."

"Well, I think you'll find that my feelings towards you can, likewise, not be so easily summarized." Scriabin gave a soft pained moan, shaky and uneven as he tried to stop the sound. "Please...I can't...I'm tired. I'm just tired..."

"Tired..." Edgar rolled over and looked at the toy again. The two were sharing perhaps their most honest moment in both their respective lifetimes, and Edgar took the chance to say what he knew was true. "You're not tired, you're hurt. Somehow. I still don't understand...I don't understand what reality must be like for you. There's a world that you keep talking about that I can't see...I can't even hear...it's just constantly just out of my sight. I don't understand. Have you created your own world, your own reality, within my mind? It can't be like that...that's not how the human mind works. How much of what you tell me is true?"

Another pained noise. "As much as you want to be true...nnf. I'm...I'm going to...tired..."

"What can I do to help?"

"What?"

"You...I swear, from the way you sound, it sounds like whatever it was you...fought off, I guess it would go, but it sounds like it tore you to pieces. Like you're in some serious pain. How? Why? What can I do?"

"It's never any intermediate with you...it's always black or white. Help me, hate me, never in between. No wonder you're confused."

"Stop avoiding the question."

"Mmph..." A soft laugh. "It's not so easy. You believed in what you said, and that creates a barrier that cannot be easily overcome. You don't consider me a person. You don't consider me real. You can't even think of the world that I inhabit, you can't empathize enough to try and think of how I would feel, about what my life may be like. All of this, these dehumanizing things you've done to me for so long, all of it creates this distance between us...you cannot simply wish me into being, make me appear in front of you so you can kiss it better and, and pretend it wasn't your fault that this happened to me in the first place."

"My fault? My fault? You're the one who decided to tangle with whatever it was-"

"And you're the one who enabled that thing coming in here in the first place."

Silence.

"Surely you...you know that, you understand that this whole lock business...it's your fault. You can't blame anyone else for the situation we're in. You and your obsession with Nny, with the psychopath, and never thought that'd have, nngh, consequences..."

God, he wanted to dispute that, but Scriabin's current state forced him to curb his tongue. Fighting with him wouldn't help, now now. He had to find a more effective way to derail the potential argument.

"There's nothing that can be done about that now...the only thing we can do is..." Edgar stopped, and he remembered. "Assess the...damage..."

Flickering memories, the inside of his car and the trench coat-

"Scriabin, what happened back in the car?"

Scriabin groaned.

"Ah, I...I almost forgot."

"Do you..."

"Considering what just occurred..." Struggling not to sound quite so worn out. "I think that that black out...may be related to the lock system somehow..."

"But why would I black out like that? What benefit would that have?"

"What benefit would collapse have?" Scriabin snapped. "This system is far from perfect."

"I don't...I mean, God. What could have happened? I mean...something must have taken control of me...of my body, to get me to come from here to the church. Something possessed me..."

"I suppose you could think of it that way." Another soft groan. "Another possibility is that someone took you there..."

"No one was there when I woke up..."

"True. They could have left before you woke up though."

"And why would they take me there? It doesn't make sense...something took control of me, something took me over, I'm sure of it. God, that sounds...that sounds so horrible. I can't be losing control of myself this badly. Things can't be...this bad for me."

"Hardly speaks of some other conclusion."

"Are you sure you don't remember anything?"

"No, I don't remember anything." A pause, and his tone softened. "I wish I did remember. I'm no more happy with this missing time business than you. After all...it's our body."

"Our body..."

Scriabin groaned again, but didn't say anything in response.

"Are there...have we gotten anywhere?" Edgar sighed. "Have we accomplished anything with this? With talking about this? Except going back to the status quo..."

"Well, are you going to try to help Jimmy? I still don't see why you should." Scriabin managed to sound resentful.

Edgar stared at the toy for a few seconds.

"You don't have to. I'm going to try anyway."

Perhaps if he was in another state of mind, Scriabin would have been annoyed at Edgar's attempt to stop the conversation, to exert any kind of authority. Instead he hummed a snatch of a song, and Edgar recognized it as the tune from earlier that day.

A few minutes before Scriabin spoke again. "Fine. What did you have in mind?"

Edgar shook his head. "I'm not sure yet...I can't call Johnny, not after last time...even if he's disconnected that...I can't risk something like that."

"You can't find his house, either. So that's not an option...unless you focus on Todd's house instead."

"I could try and track Jimmy..."

"All you have is his first name."

Edgar was surprised that Scriabin was contributing, then thought a little harder. So far all he had presented were the negatives, the case against. It was too early to say that Scriabin was trying to help him.

"If I wait for Johnny to contact me...he might not try in time. Jimmy might've already found him by that point..."

"If he hasn't found him by now, that is."

"What time is it...?" Edgar glanced over at his alarm clock. "He won't be asleep, so I could go over there, but...I don't know if I want to bother him right now."

"He can be so moody, can't he? Tomorrow then?" Another failed attempt at sarcasm.

"Tomorrow...something. I'm going to do something this time." Edgar fell back against his mattress and stared at the ceiling. "I'm going to save someone this time."

He could feel the desire, soft in the back of his mind, to contest the statement, to rip holes in it until it had no meaning, and then it faded. Small vibrations, minor things that he had only just become aware of and he was still not sure how to listen.

How to listen...

He had always thought himself a good listener...

Sighs gone unrecorded and perhaps Edgar had been purposely deaf this entire time, but he thought that gave Scriabin too much credit, too much of what he wanted. He hadn't really heard it, thought of it until now, that much was true, but he wouldn't let that continue.

Not quite sure of what he was doing, but he tried to focus on that desire that had flashed across his own emotions so briefly. Familiar but distorted, twisted just slightly into that uniqueness that Scriabin had acquired at some time that Edgar could not easily remember.

Listened, focused, trailed. Found. He felt a sense of exhaustion and apathy that matched what had come over him previously, deep and resigned. The desire to just stop fighting for once, to stop this, to let it go for once, to rest. Beneath it all, he could feel shaking strands, thin strings electric of pain crackling near and sharp.

Scriabin was in pain. Real pain.

Edgar knew it, he could easily see through his claims of exhaustion. To feel it was a different experience entirely. His body did not respond to it, did not try to numb or ache the feeling. His mind accepted its reality, its existence, but it was uniquely not his. Still, he felt intimately aware of it, knowledgeable of how much it would hurt, distract, tear and torment and what it was doing to Scriabin. What effect it had on the other person, such close knowledge and yet that distance that differentiated the two. It was so close that Edgar feared that if he really tried, or maybe if he didn't, that that pain could easily become his. That if he reached out and touched it in some way, somehow, that it would easily jump from one person to another.

God, was this what it felt like for Scriabin? To be so closely aware, to be able to feel things so tangibly and yet from such a distance, such an unsafe boundary?

Soft breathing, labored and laced with the occasional sound, accidental from vocal cords not meant to be vibrating, unwilling indications of the process of dealing with pain. Something that Edgar assumed must have been his own heartbeat and he felt something ooze and flow, and wherever Scriabin was and whatever strange realm or reality he seemed to reside in, Edgar knew that he was curled into himself and he was bleeding.

Trying to hide from him, hide percieved weakness and Edgar knew pride wasn't his own particular moral failing...

Another frustrated whimpering sound, and then a soft sense of curiosity. Awareness of a spectator. He could sense some kind of anger beneath it, resentment, something that might have approached hatred, but mostly confusion.

Edgar opened his eyes, looked at the clock, and found that two hours had gone by.

I... Edgar stared at the ceiling. That was...I probably shouldn't do that again.

A moment of silence from Scriabin before he spoke, his voice shaky and soft. Do whatever you want. I don't care.

Not unless I'm prepared, I mean. Not now, he didn't want to hurt Scriabin further. A quick recovery, clarification, and he hoped that Scriabin wouldn't hold it against him.

Someone knocked at his door.

Edgar should have felt more surprised, but instead there was just a vague sense of curiosity. He found himself already out of his room and walking towards the front door without the exact memory of doing so.

He should have felt something more than what he was, or wasn't, feeling. Anticipation, fear, something like that. There was only one person who would be at his door. Where was his fear?

He opened it.

There sat a box of once-frozen waffles.

Waffles.

Edgar stared at this without comprehending, or perhaps with some comprehension and just overwhelmed with the question of why, for a few minutes. Then he noticed a small note that rested on top of the brightly colored box.

It took a few mental commands before his body moved, but he eventually leaned over and picked up the scrap of paper. It was torn from something, Edgar wasn't sure what, and the writing on it was familiar. Sharp dark letters, a few random scratches here and there.

Edgar
I'm sorry for
Have some waffles.

Edgar wasn't sure what it was that Johnny felt sorry for, but it was one of those rare moments that he apologized at all and, whether or not it was for anything Edgar could have prevented, he felt somewhat touched.

Waffles? Scriabin perhaps meant to sound contemptuous, but instead sounded childlike and weak. He got you waffles?

"I guess so," Edgar said. He walked back into his apartment, shut the door, and walked to the kitchen. Without any thought, much as his trip to the door, he put the box in the freezer.

He stared at the scrap of paper, then watched his hands carefully pin the note to the fridge with the magnet that his phone company had sent him as a thank you for his patronage.

Edgar stared at the note and wanted to comprehend it, but nothing worked through. He knew this was deeper than it appeared, but he couldn't access it.

Don't you have something to say about this? Desperate for some kind of meaningful input on the note and gift.

A pause, and then Scriabin made a soft "nuh uh" sound.

Are you sure?

The same sound, and a shaky sigh.

"Maybe I've been too close to you..." Edgar reached out and touched the edge of the note softly. "I'm sorry for...what does it mean? What does any of this mean?"

Edgar expected Scriabin to have an answer, whether or not it was one that he liked. Instead Scriabin just made a general "I don't know" kind of noise and again a flicker of emotion crossing his own, that gap where he knew he should be feeling something about this. Not his emotion there, and not intruding so boldly where Edgar's emotion should be, but it was just a tinge of Scriabin's confusion, exhaustion, and the soft crackling of pain beneath it all.

Maybe he thought I...I'm not hungry. It's not a physical gift, or maybe it is. I'm indifferent to waffles...I don't think I've ever mentioned them to him.

Edgar walked back to his room, still confused.

He's not giving up. That sounded good. Too close...he's not giving up. He's not giving up on me just yet.

He rested his head against his pillow and let his eyes close. He found another tinge of emotion, too soft and fast to be identified, and he tried to focus.

I won't give up either.

He dreamed that night, dreamed of his room. He dreamed of his room, and of a man curled up against the dresser beside his bed, bleeding and alone. His trench coat was laid out carefully to one side, several holes ripped in the tough fabric that aligned with matching tears in the body of its owner. His striped shirt hung in tatters in places, giving glimpses of angry red gashes against skin, smeared blood and something black along the edges. He sat with his scraped knees drawn loosely to his upper body, though not close enough to aggravate the gaping hole through his shoulder and the slashes across his chest. Deep cuts across his arms, shallow scratches across his face bright red and burning, and his jeans were ripped and stained. He stared at bloody hands and shook uncontrollably.

Edgar dreamed that night, of walking to the shivering man and sitting beside him. He watched him flinch away, raise his hands to hide his destroyed shoulder, to hide the ripped muscle and flashes of bone through rent flesh.

He said something that he couldn't remember and the man raised a hand to him, as if to strike him. Edgar caught it before it could land, held it still, and Scriabin stared at him in confusion, still shaking.

Edgar looked at Scriabin's arm where several crisscrossing lines bled in a way that perhaps in a better state of mind he would have known to be impossible, an illusion. Instead, he took the antiseptic that had appeared beside him that had always been there, poured it into a shallow dish, dabbed a cotton ball that likewise always and just existed into it, and then touched it to the scratches.

He dreamed that Scriabin screamed when the alcohol burned through the cuts, seared through the wounds and that the sound had been far too familiar. It burned through to memories that he wanted to forget for the simple fact that they were memories, and often Edgar thought that memories did not have as much of an effect on the present as many supposed. Scriabin tried to pull away from him, to wrench his arm free, but Edgar tightened his grip and did not let him loose. Despite the jerking of his trapped arm, of the screamed curses and threats, Edgar worked.

Eventually Scriabin's struggles quieted and he was silent. Gauze that felt natural in his hand, pads of cotton and Edgar wrapped it carefully around and around, his hands following what felt like an ancient pattern but could never have been so old.

He dreamed that Scriabin sat still and stared at him while Edgar bandaged his arm. When Edgar tugged at his shirt, Scriabin raised his one good arm without protest and he carefully worked the torn fabric around the ruined shoulder, trying to avoid irritating the wound any further. The gashes across his chest were now more visible, pink and red and white and the definite evidence of some kind of claws, something animalistic. Scriabin hissed again when Edgar rested hands on his chest, felt for something although he wasn't sure what, and set to cleaning it. Scriabin's hand settled on Edgar's shoulder, clutched hard enough that Edgar felt as though his collarbone was bruised and the ache made it hard for one of his hands to find symmetry with the other, and as the disinfectant burned its way through his chest, Scriabin made rough gasping sounds, angry and helpless.

It was with a quiet certainty that Edgar worked, dreamed, found where his hands belonged and what they should be doing. He didn't question his knowledge of what to do, and neither did Scriabin. His hands kept moving.

More soaked cotton pads pressing against the tears, gauze stretched around to hold them in place, and Edgar alternately dipped towards and away from Scriabin as he rolled the gauze around his chest. His hands at times traveled up to Scriabin's shoulder blades, and he found them sharp and protruding, didn't want to touch them anymore so moved on.

He dreamed that Scriabin said nothing, that the affair was carried on in silence that didn't seem strange.

A metal clip to hold the wrapping in place, and then he turned to the shoulder. The most damage had been done here. Edgar felt certain that Scriabin either could not feel his paralyzed arm at all, or was in excruciating pain and could not find the motivation to move, to make it worse.

He wiped away the blood that had turned the area red, found the limits of the wound and he did not have to think of what to do. Under his hands he found that the edges knit together, some flesh renewed but not all, rough stitches appearing through and across Scriabin's skin. His fingers moved without true thought, lifting invisible needles and keeping the thread clear of tangles, and with each line that appeared, that dragged Scriabin's skin closer together, he could hear another gasp, strained and with more voice than he must have desired.

Sewn shut, and then he cleaned, he pressed the cotton ball against the rough edges, he let Scriabin rest his head on his shoulder and make agonized inarticulate sounds. He found the materials he needed appearing beside or in his hand; a brace to keep the shoulder in place, a way to stop him from moving too much, exerting himself too frequently.

He dreamed that he pulled Scriabin's head away from his shoulder and looked at his face. The scratches dragged their way across his cheeks, his mouth, and his nose. His eyes remained free from damage, as somehow Edgar knew they would. Dark hair stuck to Scriabin's skin, sweaty and matted perhaps with blood, but he couldn't tell for sure. He brushed the hair away from Scriabin's face, stared at his reflection in his glasses, and found that he did not care. Constantly hidden from him, but that was all right.

He rubbed away the blood on his face, watched him wince and try to turn away, but not with enough force to succeed. Edgar set his hand on his other cheek to hold him still as he cleaned the scratches despite Scriabin's flinching wordless protests. Bandages that he found beside him when he reached out his hand, and he applied them and still Scriabin stared at him, and still he said nothing. Silence between the two of them and Edgar was too busy to think of why.

The last open cut tended to, and Edgar leaned back. Scriabin continued to stare at him, and it was hard to tell how he felt. Edgar stared back, and he found that he could not find how he felt either.

Something resolved, but he wasn't sure what it was. Something mattered, something gained meaning, something found meaning, but he didn't know what it was. A hazy mist that hovered over him, that kept trying to remind him of other things, but instead he merely looked over the dressings he had applied, thought over whether or not they were satisfactory, whether that one or this one could be altered slightly, tightened or loosened.

Something happened, but he couldn't remember what. All blurry and indistinct, except the image of Scriabin sitting, swathed in white and pink bandages, staring at him and Edgar realized he didn't have to see how he felt, and he reached out a little, followed that thread and then he felt it, he felt his confusion. Complete desperate confusion and yet he said nothing.

Scriabin knew and Edgar knew that neither had an answer for any question presented now, any explanation for this. Edgar reached out a hand, and Scriabin reached out his matching hand, matching skin, and something happened, but Edgar couldn't remember what at that point. Swirls and shapes and things got indistinct, and something rough brushed against him, and the one image that remained clear, the one image that he could remember of Scriabin sitting all white and black and pink and staring at him.
Stared and Edgar's hands, his hands.

He dreamed.

He dreamed that he took care of him.

Edgar woke up, and he decided that that morning, he would have waffles for breakfast.

---

Author's Note: The book mentioned in here is Flatland: A romance of many dimensions by Edwin A. Abbott. It's a weird little book. Ya can check it out at www alcyone com / max / lit / flatland /