It rose to its feet, keeping its eyes locked on the terrible thing reflected in the mirror. It didn't know why it began to panic, but It did then, flailing and running. It tried to scream, silently, Its head filling with insane noise.
It was unaware of Muse's protests, orders, and threats, as It begins to tear at its face, ripping a large hole in its face. It did not feel the pain immediately, but when It did, It screams in genuine, unending pain. Even to Its own ears, Its screaming sounded like an insect's dying screeching.
Muse and the woman on the floor watched Its spectacle as It sank to Its knees, pressing Its terribly injured face to the scarce comfort of the reflective floor. Blood and clay formed in a pool around Its head, and It could not care.
Croakingly, It slowly asked, “What am I, Muse?”
Muse remained speechless, and It gratified Itself with heaving, shuddering in the painful aftershocks of the damage It had done to Itself.
Finally, she said, “The Inner Eye. You see, but when you're exposed, you're nothing, save for Consciousness.”
The clay-thing groaned. “I am... I am... I-”
“You're not. You have her memories, in the clearest view. I do not blame you for wishing to be her, but you're not. You are not her.”
“Then... what... can... I-”
“Kill her. Do it now. What will happen here will not be a murder. Not really. There will be no one missing, you will simply take her place, as ruler of this Vessel. She has damned us both to die in this funeral pyre with her, but I resolve not to go with her. Is that fair to me? Was it to be fair to you?”
A realization came to the clay-thing, but it felt empty, although It acknowledged it. “You... care... nothing... for... me.”
“No, I don't. I care for myself, my fate. She meant for me to walk with her through her own self-imposed servitude to grief, when I was meant to lead her through the path to greatness. She betrayed me. She betrayed you, as well. I care only for you because you are the closest to being able to become her. I am not about to offer you nothing, however; I am content with offering you the same that I once offered to her. Whatever will make you happy, I can show you to.”
“You speak... as though... there... are... others. Are... we... not... alone?”
Muse paused, then spoke with unrestrained coldness. “They were weak, like her. Some are already dead, some dying, and some may make it over the crossing of consciousness. Don't think of them, now, think of us. Of her betrayal.”
The clay-thing shuddered, feeling the lack of goodness that emanated from this being. It knew that she was no she; no more than It was a she. The clay-thing felt as though she was no different from It – except that maybe she was uglier than It was – and the only real difference between them was that she knew how to lie. It was not surprised to realize that everything that she had said to It, prior, was likely to be a coldly calculated untruth.
Am I to be her puppet?
Did it matter?
“You'll... help... me?”
Muse walked over to the clay-thing, waiting for It to raise Its head,
and silently handed It the gun. As It took the gun from her hand,
she said, “I'll be your friend.”
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