Welcome to Gaia! ::

A small cake in Wonderland meant only one thing, even in the absence of instructions in letters of icing. Mimsy felt safe in her immediate decision to take a bite, and picked it up to do so without a second thought.

The strange sensation of growing smaller and smaller had only one effect on her - overwhelming excitement and validation and happiness all rolled into one, as though the confection contained some concentrated chemical specifically synthesized to greatly improve all that was good in her life.

This was Alice's chance, the chance that was the answer to everything that she desired. This was the chance that she played over and over in her mind, practiced until it was memorized when the time came for her turn to try.

This was her single opportunity, and she would take it and apply her balanced equation and prove to Wonderland that she belonged here. If all went well, she would meet no resistance when she labeled Wonderland with 'mine'.



"Who are YOU?"

Ah, exactly as it should be. She felt comfort in its familiarity, now unquestionably in her element. She was safe here.

But she could not prevent her mind from wandering to the stray connections that were tied to this, the times when she had recklessly attempted to apply the formula meant for this to a world from a different place and time. She had so desperately called upon the caterpillar in times of loss, where self had gone missing, replaced by her or it or nothing at all.

'I know who I WAS when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then', repeated like a mantra. It was not difficult to identify each change, each diversion, each duplicate, but the caterpillar never helped her find the first. No matter how many times she thought of it, Mimsy was still a hopelessly lost thing that she could never quite find.

A smile, warm and confident, as she began to recite the correct answer to the question it posed.

"Greetings and salutations! I know very well, sir, at the present. I am your new neighbor here, first and foremost, and am pleased to make your acquaintance. My name is Mimsy Kercher Morris, formerly Mimsy Sigrid Kercher, formerly Mildred Sigrid Kercher. The Mimsy that stands before you is Mimsy version two point five, in its thirteenth cumulative iteration. Is there any further information that you would like me to provide?"

She held thrilled anticipation in the clenched teeth of her alarmingly eager smile.

"Find OUT," sighed the caterpillar, which was far from her calculated result of his response.

No matter. No need for concern. No reason to be anxious, thank you, she could still do this just fine.

It was only a minor adjustment to make before the remainder could be applied.



Something about herself felt not quite right in a way that she could not quantify. She determinedly fought to shove it aside, refusing to allow anything to cast doubt upon her ability to do this. She could do this. She was right.

Head held high, she walked through the door, strategically rearranging variables in her mind.



The room was warm with the light of a golden summer sun, its rays casting an illuminated welcome across the floor, desk, and walls. She was alone, but the sound of something bounding back and forth seemed to come from somewhere just outside.

It was not a room that she recognized. Still, she could not ignore its probable significance, so she began to inspect everything with the high level of scrutiny that crucial observations required. The results were strange and difficult to process, especially when the running started and stopped at irregular intervals the whole time.

This room conclusively was:

• Hers, as evidenced by the reports and abstracts on the desk that she had signed with her name.
  
• Only 'hers' in the sense that this was another Mimsy, indicated by the 'Dr.' in front of that signature.
  
• An office in a house, containing the majority of her research and findings, if not all of it.
  
• A place to study the phenomenon of emotional matter created by the limbic system within the mind.
  
• A room within a house located on the island facility of Deus Ex Machina, derived from the familiar geography visible outside of the window.
  
• Nonexistent in her most recent timeline, considering the vast number of alterations made to 'her' life.
  
• Potentially located within or near the bubble containing the glimpse of New Year's Eve, sans 1999.

Someone called her name from another room. The voice was familiar in a way that she did not want to address, so she refused to do so by temporarily ignoring it.

Upon completion of the room's thorough investigation, she allowed herself to peruse the documents on the desk in greater detail, drawn by a purely scientific curiosity this time. It all made an impressive amount of sense - from her brief assessment of the data, at least - and it was a fascinating approach to the explanation of FEAR and its kindred emotional matter and their apparently spontaneous generation. It seemed that she shared a theory regarding dark matter's connection to emotional matter and its corresponding worlds with Dr. Mimsy Morris--

--wait.

That was a titled version of her name now, but it hadn't always been. The list of conclusive evidence began to crumple and tear around the edges as she hurriedly tried to adjust her results, racing the inevitable what ifs of further curiosity that would soon flood her mind.

And they did, as expected.

Just in time for the source of the persistent running noise - a little girl, waist-height - to come bounding through the door, on a warpath that led directly towards her. Mimsy flinched and braced herself for her inevitable demise.

There was a hug instead. It didn't hurt, but it was very tight. She would probably survive.

The girl began to jump up and down, still partially attached to her.

"You're back! We missed you so much! Me an' Ramona have been real good, too! Promise!"

"Ramona and I," she automatically corrected, as if the girl had triggered some sort of reflex.

"Oh! Yeah!" The girl smiled up at her, mouth half open and missing a tooth. It did not look like her correction had sunk in at all. "Buuuut me an' Ramona--" Really? "--have been doing all the stuff you said! So now I'm the best at it, and come on mama, you gotta see!"

Mama.

With the same mad dash of excited impatience, the girl was gone again, right back out the door she'd barged in through. She had not waited or beckoned to her, but it did seem to be implied that she was meant to follow.

If she was 'mama', at least.

She nudged her glasses up to press her hands against her eyes. This was beginning to make sense. The pieces had fallen into place on their own, stacked upon and connected to a universe that she had only briefly seen a glimpse of. The real Mimsy in this universe had been shy and quiet, obsessed to a fault over lists and planning, a neurosurgeon with an actual doctorate. And a mother. To an actual human child.

No--to two. This girl and Ramona.

Mimsy had still not moved from the rigid position that the child had hugged her into. She wasn't sure what to think. Going through that door to follow the girl that called her 'mama' meant acknowledging and accepting a suddenly apparent motherhood. The door was the only way out, as far she could tell, and staying here in this room meant...well, she didn't know. One of the two options would surely find a better fit within the formula that led to the perfect ending; she just had to determine which is was.

While she thought, she browsed through the research once more, stopping to note something of prospective use here or there. This Mimsy had made more progress than she had in identifying and isolating the critical information that would bring enlightenment and understanding (and power), and she was much more than just a scientist. In all of the information on the desk, none of it told her how to do all of this at once.

The sun hid behind the clouds, and the room didn't feel very warm anymore.



There was no daughter waiting for her when she stepped inside.

The room was filled with the bright fluorescence of the lights overhead, refusing to allow any shadows to gather like dust in corners or beneath equipment.

And oh, the equipment. The room was filled with that too, panels and computers and a very large series of intricate tubes and tunnels that came together as a Large Hadron Collider. This was CERN, just as she had seen it during her internship orientation, except...much livelier.

Someone handed her a champagne flute and gave her a congratulatory shoulder pat, their smile wide and friendly. Most of the smiles were friendly, in fact, but she didn't know any of these people. Why did they like her so much?

When they began to congratulate her, she began to understand.

But this had not happened.

She had never located that definitive evidence of the Higgs boson's existence. She had not been the one to find it on that day in July. She had been working on menial tasks in a secret facility on a remote island, which made no acknowledged impact on the world at all.

"Congratulations," she told them, but it was hollow.



She left, but it had not been the exit.

The room she stepped into was quiet, dimly lit by a single desk lamp. There were two beds and two neatly organized sets of belongings, one of which was recognizably hers. Many of the items were things that she had not owned in a while.

Many of them were things that she had lost in a fire.

The belongings on the other half were things that she would never see again, for the rest of her life.

Mimsy stood in the corner (the real Mimsy, stiff and cold and made of stone), watching over the room. She was always watching, with the exception of the days when she had been turned towards the corner, but those were few and far between. She always stared straight ahead, with those vacant eyes.

She wondered if Mimsy knew that the room would be empty soon.



The only thing here was a mirror, and it didn't take long for her to discover why.

She moved with the stiff determination that one might expect from someone who had been encased within a statue by Insanity for the last year and four months. The fine grey dust that coated portions of her body was shed, bit by bit, with each slow step that she took, leaving a trail like the tail of a comet. Their eyes had been locked on the other's equally steadfast stare since she first opened her eyes.

Mimsy knew what this was. What it meant. She had been the one to initiate this agreement, bound by infallible logic and her word, and it had seemed like the only choice for a very long time. It was fair. Since that day in November, she had taken such volatile, unpredictable chances to learn and experience so many things that she never would have even considered before. She felt safe doing so, because she was positive that Mimsy Kercher, trainee, twenty-four, was perfectly preserved from the day that she died. This was her failsafe. This forced her to accept risks to survive.

She had always known that the day would come when this no longer made sense, this tangential existence that had strayed so far. She had always promised that she would forfeit this life, because a second chance at everything meant that she would already know the formula to lead her directly to 'right'. From there, she could make alterations to vastly improve her life.

She had always known that she would do this, but today she wasn't sure.

They were silent as they studied each other for a while. The original raised her eyebrows - what are you waiting for?

"No."

The word was out of her mouth before she even realized that she was saying it, reflexive again. It felt a whole lot like nothing else would have come out instead, even if she had tried.

"No, not yet. I am not done. I need to stay here. I have too much to accomplish. It is not time for you to return. I still have to...I'm not done." Any her from the past would not comprehend everything in the same way that she could. They would not know how to do this like she did, even if she explained it in tens of thousands of words. It had to be her, the Mimsy from now, to complete what she had begun. The prototype wasn't even the right shape anymore - where were all of the missing pieces? And all the parts that were patched back up? Was she even capable of modifying herself to match the Mimsy that she would have become?

ALICE told her that she was real here. ALICE said that she was the one who was real, and AI could not lie. She was real here in Wonderland, and she felt sick at the thought of giving that up.

"No," she repeated, pointing towards the mirror. There was amusement in the initial Mimsy's eyes. She invited her to defy herself. She urged her to consider what that choice would say about what she had become. She dared her to utter those words.

And that was a very simple challenge.

"Go home. Go home, stay there, and wait until I am done."

The plan was to take the cake, wrap it up in a bit of cloth, and save it for later -- but the second it was within reach SpringTooth could smell it, and the smell made him pause: hesitating, holding it in his hand, and taking a generous sized bite.

He should have known better, after the mushrooms. Or perhaps some part of him did know. He looked up as the world shrunk around him and made a small, mostly amused sound. It was alright. He was used to being smaller than most of the world around him.

Smoke curled around him, making his nose wrinkle and dragging him around, slowly, to look at the caterpillar.

"Who are YOU?"

It was a hard enough question at the best of times, and one that in all honestly SpringTooth tried to avoid. At the moment, he was a gryphon, and he was only too happy to let that define him: an adventurer with a fantastic hat and very little fear. With, as his online profile said, dark, somber, enticing eyes and posture that says he's afraid of nothing. Thinking deeper than that made him wriggle, and he didn't want to --

"Find OUT!"

________________________________

But it was too late: here he stood, in a room, the caterpillar's den melting away around him, the disorienting sensation that he wasn't himself settling slowly in around him. Gone was the gryphon with his swagger, his fantastic clothing melting back into the perfectly-tailored suits that Harrow had always preferred, his hair gone rumpled and cheeks flushing slowly.

He knew this room: his study, back at home, with a pile of work from his tutors settled on a table. In the distance, there was the exit sign, but here -- here was unsorted documents, a pile of notes that needed to be highlighted and rewritten into a tidy, planned hand, books that had to be put back on shelves. He chewed on the inside of his cheek and shifted where he stood: he took one step toward the pile of papers, and then another, the memory hauling him in.

He just needed to clean up a bit. Then he could continue on.

And that was, in fact, exactly what he did. The books, familiar in his hands, went back onto his shelf, Harrow loosening his cravat as he tied the desk. The notes were carefully color coated and settled away into a binder, the binder closed and cleanly set to one side. The documents were put in their proper folders. If time had any meaning, here, he would be at it for an hour, two, almost three, before things were good enough that he could focus on anything else.

He swiped dust from the desk and hesitated another moment, oddly reassured by the familiarity of the task. Harrow liked tidying, and organizing. He liked how his desk looked with everything in place.

And the second he turned to go through the door, it fell to pieces with a clatter, his eyes going wider and horrified as he turned to look. Papers were scattered across the desk and floor, books tumbled crookedly on every surface. His peace shattered, and he refused to try again, to give in to the futility. Instead he slipped away, to see what he could find beyond.

________________________________

The moment the second door opened, he was tossed into another kind of chaos: the clash and zing of a battle, his clothing melting into something more like armor, his body shifting, his hair growing, and in his hand -- in his hand --

It was GGGD's sword, but it was solid, a jaggedy hunk of metal that wrapped around his hand and forearm, that gleamed sharply at the edges, a carefully designed shape that was out of his own head --

And that didn't melt the second he focused on it, as it always seemed to before.

All at once, he was filled with a certainty of purpose, his eyes lifting to fix on the white-coated young man in front of him. Their weapons met, smashing together with familiarity, Harrow's body moving of its own volition, as if it knew how to do this, and the feeling was exhilarating. He didn't mind, in this moment, that he felt more like a rider than the one controlling the vehicle, nor that none of this made any sense for his life.

It was battle and he just had to give himself in to it.

So he rode in the body, let the scene play around him. He half-watched, half-helped as the sword melted from one shape to another, as he somehow had the will to create whatever he needed in the moment. A shield to block a bolt thrown from somewhere across the dark room; a spear to strike after someone as they retreat; a sword to clash, edge to edge, with someone brought in close.

Objectively, he knew this was unlikely to be his actual future. He wasn't going to grow into this lean, strong, competent soldier; no. Instead, Harrow was likely to pass his classes and end up settled at a desk somewhere, carefully pushing papers, as he had done just in the previous room. And, in truth, he would be perfectly happy for it.

But, now and then, it was nice to go along for the ride and see what the heroes felt like.

Only after the battle was over and won did he pause to catch his breath, fully in control of himself again. As tempting as it was to engage in another battle, the truth rang in his head. He moved through the next door.

________________________________

At first, here, the light blinded him: the normal city street looked strange to his eyes. This wasn't Amityville, and this wasn't home, no.

It was the human world.

And he, human.

For a moment, things were too disorienting for Harrow to fully process what was going on, too strange to really truly understand. How was it, exactly, that he knew that he had changed? The air smelled different. His body felt different. The world was both bigger and smaller than it had seemed before and even the brush of clothing against his skin was unfamiliar.

His clothes were white, strangely pristine considering his location at the mouth of an alley, unlike anything he would choose to wear, other than the fit. The bow at his hip was grey and pink, trailing fabric down his side, impractical but not exactly unappealing. Just strange.

A sound drew his eyes upward, to fix on a creature that looked more like home but that, in this world, this alternate realm of possibility, filled him with a slow dread.

It stood between him and the door, its head bobbing and weaving as it watched him shift in place. It looked like so many of his classmates in their natural forms, or even like large versions of minipets he'd seen tottering around campus. Elsewhere, he might have pat it on the head, easily, thoughtlessly, and given it a snack.

Here, he was its prey.

The words he spoke were gibberish: he couldn't understand his decisive cry, and didn't care to, but when he pointed at the creature, it suddenly paused, walked in a slow circle, repeating the last handful of seconds. And then repeating them again. And again. It was stuck in a loop and he blinked at it in confusion for one long moment before stretching his legs out into a run [and at least he was stronger here than he even had been at home] to take off through the door.

He didn't give it time to recover.

________________________________

This time, the door slammed behind him in a decisive sort of way, and he found himself melting back into the guise of Gryphon-class SpringTooth. His heart still hammered as he clutched at his hat, as he struggled to catch his breath, and so it took him a moment to see the young man standing in front of him. Dressed in pink and black, perfectly pristinely tailored, just a hair feminine and unafraid to be so -- it was him. Him as he really was, blinking and a hair flushed as they took each other in.

It was painful, almost, to look at himself this way, to drink in how frail he looked in the close-fitting suit, the slick sweep of hair back off of his forehead, the almost nervous-animal flickering of his eyes back and forth.

"Well, I guess we're supposed to...to do a challenge, or..."

The stuttering, at last, made SpringTooth strangely angry. Perhaps the challenge they were supposed to do was meant to be profound, to teach him something about himself. They were supposed to face off and show their writing prowess, their knowledge of useless facts, their organizational skills. Too bad. Here, he was the Gryphon, and ******** if he was going to give in to that.

Instead he stepped forward and punched himself, hard, in the nervous, flushed face. He was stronger than that twerp. At least here, for a while, he could pretend to be someone else.

Harrow'd body melted away into smoke and he never even felt his hand connect. Instead, it came back with a small cake settled onto his palm, and fearless, self-confident, strong SpringTooth shoved it immediately into his mouth.

He didn't want to think about this. As the world righted itself, he decided this was who he would be for a while, at least. This was right. This was good for him. He strode away, pausing for just one moment to peel the card from the sole of his shoe.

_____________________________

Quest Completed!

+ 1 level
+ 1 loot card

[whups, forgot to roll for Springtooth / Harrow! SORRY!]

Just what was this caterpillar about, wanting JK to figure out who he was? He was himself! But JK felt his assurance in that answer waver. Suddenly his sense of himself seemed about as solid as the smoke issuing from the Caterpillar's mouth.

"I- I don't know." JK admitted. He was a creature of frenzied study, a recluse, an inheritor of his family's debts, but what did that mean when he was wandering about a land where the grass liked to lay itself out in a black and white checkerboard? He yanked on the scarf. He certainly felt no connection to this costume, to JK the Cheshire Cat. But would JK be better at handling this strange dream?

Suddenly he was enveloped by billows of smoke. As though from a distance, he heard the caterpillar order him to find OUT. JK wanted to know how he was supposed to find himself when he couldn't even see his hand when he raised it in front of him. He stumbled forward, and his foot hit carpet. His bare foot. The familiar garb of Halloween threw him off. Johan patted at himself, feeling for the Cheshire Cat costume, and checked behind him for the tail. All gone.

Then he noticed the room he was in. The family library. It was a place he'd spent entire weeks sequestered by himself, pouring over old tomes, and journals. It was one of the few places he'd felt somewhat at peace, hence his preference to study there. The library had been built many, many generations ago and filled floor to ceiling with books stacked precisely on tall cases of dark, polished wood.

Johan lifted a hand to take a book out of closest case, his mind almost immediately leaping back to where he'd last left off studying. But a neon light flashed, throwing him completely off. That had never been in the family library. Down the row of bookcases, he could see a strange red door, above which the flashing sign read 'EXIT'.

Oh yes. He had to find himself. The long nights, the grim determination to find a cure, the endless studying. His family's need was real, but was he defined by this part of himself?

"No!" Johan declared, and walked toward the Exit. He found it difficult to take a single step without catching sight of a title that piqued the scholar in him. Shouldn't he take that treatise down and cross-reference it with his notes on hexes? Or that tome on medieval curses? He hadn't read that one in a while, his memory of it was rusty. Johan grew frustrated with himself. Where was his resolve? He wasn't studying just to study! He had a purpose! One that existed outside this library!

With that thought, Johan grabbed the door handle and yanked it open. A rush of smoke enveloped him, and was just as quickly gone. He was... elsewhere. When Johan realized exactly where, he flinched, taking a step back. He expected to hit the door, but when he looked back, the long gallery of the basement stretched behind him. The sound of his feet on the floor sounded wrong, too. Johan looked down to find his wardrobe had again changed. He was wearing boots, explaining the unfamiliar feel and sound they made on the floor. He was also wearing gloves, and when he pulled one off, he realized why. Completely crystal. When was this taking place? The curse progressed at a consistent, slow rate. For it to have completely taken over his hands... This had to be years in the future.

Green light was suddenly reflecting crazily off the smooth facets of his exposed hand. Pulling the glove back on the disturbing sight, Johan looked down to the end of the gallery, and saw the same door and sign. EXIT. He would gladly leave this place. He did not want the curse to define who he was.

But as Johan strode down the gallery, he came to the first recess, which should have held the still figure of one of his ancestors.

It held shards.

"Vh-v-" Johan stammered, staring at what was left of his relative. He moved hesitantly closer. H-how? Who had done this? The gallery was the best guarded area in his home. Reflected green light caught Johan's peripheral vision, and he turned slowly, hoping it did not mean what he thought. He walked to the next recess.

Shards.

He walked to the next.

Shards.

He jogged to the next.

Shards.

The next.

Shards.

Johan ran down the gallery.

Shards, shards, shards, shards!

No, nonononononononononononNO! This couldn't happen! These, these had been his responsibility! He was supposed to free them! How had this happened? What could he do?

He was right at the door, but he needed to do something! Could he piece them back together? Were they still alive in that state? Would it help at all? Would anything?

He couldn't do this. Overwhelmed, Johan fled, wanting to get away, to escape. He pushed through the EXIT door and was once again enveloped by smoke.

As the smoke began to clear, Johan felt shame bite deeply. He wasn't his curse. He also wasn't the savior of his ancestors that he often pictured himself as.

Where was he now? The smoke completely cleared, and Johan felt something wrench within him. What?

What had he just been thinking about? Another dream? Some mad hallucination about attending a school where monsters learned to scare humans. It faded as he tried to grasp at it. He turned his attention to the room around him. This was... his throne room. He hadn't been here in this part of the castle for centuries. He didn't even remember what name they'd called him when he'd last worn a crown. Maybe mothers told their children bedtime stories about him. He sincerely doubted there were any books left that spoke of him.

Where had She gone?

He walked down the length of the throne room, cobwebs disintegrating around him. The room was in ruins, the throne itself long gone, stolen or crushed beneath falling masonry. He'd let it go for too long. He waved his hand, and magic rushed over the room in a fury. At its touch, the walls righted themselves, tapestries rewove themselves, the throne grew from the dais. The magic washed over and left the throne room whole and complete once again. He walked up to the throne and looked down at the crown on the seat. He didn't take it. After a moment, he turned to leave, and noticed a light coming from one of the side rooms.

Curiosity. Now there was an emotion he thought long dead. He walked over, and pushed the door open. It was a small, private dining room, where he'd entertained foreign rulers. He hadn't directed the magic to touch this place, but at the other side of the room, a green light flashed over a door. 'EXIT' it said.

He walked toward it.

"Johan."

He stopped. Stopped dead. He was hallucinating again. He had to be. But that had sounded exactly like

"Johan, why are you here?"

He found his heart was pounding. That name, that voice! Could it actually be Her?

He turned slowly, and saw Her sitting at the table.

"Don't you remember your name, Johan?" she asked, sitting there. Looking like Spring. He suddenly felt the weight of his years press down on him. He gasped, trying to draw breath.

"W-where were you?" he finally asked, tears formed in his eyes. Goddess, how long had it been since he cried? "It's been so long!"

The Goddess sat at the table, watching him with sympathetic eyes.

"My gift has been hard for you." she stated.

"You cursed me!" he cried, face twisting in pain. O Wonders, the Goddess stood up and came to him, laying white hands on his, drawing them down away from where they'd been clawing at his skin. She began to lead him to the table.

Green.

"Sit with me. We will talk, Johan." she soothed him. He wanted to follow. After all this time, all the pain she'd caused him, and he still wanted to kneel to her and kiss the hem of her dress. The Goddess.

Green.

"Johan. That was my name, wasn't it?" he asked.

Green.

"It is your name. Come, I will answer all your questions." she assured him.

Green flashed out at him from the corner of his eye. Johan finally turned to look back at the sign. Something about that door. He stopped following the Goddess. She kept a gentle tension on his hands, trying to guide him onward.

'EXIT'

"I think I need to go." Johan said.

"You can go if you want, Johan, but you will be happier here." she replied, and let go of his hands. Johan looked back to her at that, uncertainty written plainly across his face.

Green.

"I-I'll be right back." he said, and found himself running for the door. What was he doing? He looked back toward the Goddess as he opened the door. She was smiling sadly.

Smoke.

Johan was in a plain room. There was no door, just a mirror on the opposite wall. He looked down at himself. He was... he was normal. His usual attire at Amityville. He couldn't grasp what had just happened. Had those all been him?

That last one. He retained an impression of a long, long, long stretch of years. What that Johan had been through was a lot like what he imagined being frozen as a statue was like. Johan shivered, and looked at the only other thing in the room to distract himself.

So, a mirror. He walked up to it, and noticed something. His reflection wasn't dressed like him. It was dressed in something that looked like a military uniform, with a sword at its side. Johan frowned as he studied the reflection. If frowned back, and then lunged forward. Johan stumbled backward, eyes wide as his reflection stepped out of the mirror. He'd been on a search for the Real him. Was this the real him?

The Other Johan stopped just outside the mirror and studied Johan in return, taking in his Sorcerer's robes.

"Never thought I'd go and learn magic." the Other Johan said. It was strange hearing his voice coming out of someone who looked so much like him.

"Vhat are you?" he responded. "You vear a uniform, und a sword?"

"I'm a soldier." the Other explained, and held up a hand, forestalling further questions. "Listen. Sword, magic, and weird accents are superficial differences. You and I are here for one reason. I'm here to prove that I am the Real Johan. The one who deserves to exist."

The Other Johan drew his sword, and fell into a fighting stance. Johan stepped backward, immediately raising his hands, startled but ready to fight back.

"Vhat in Halloween do you mean 'deserves to exist.'?" he demanded, as they began to circle the room. "I am the Real Johan! You stepped out of a mirror!"

"And there's a Johan who's a suicidal immortal, and one who destroys what he swore to protect!" the Other retorted. "And there's one who doesn't want to admit that he's been reading the same books over and over, searching for new ways to write old notes so he doesn't have to face the truth."

Johan flinched, and the Other Johan moved in, swinging the sword. Johan cast quickly, and a runic shield sprang into being between him and the sword, blocking the attack. The Other Johan pressed forward, trying to push through.

"If you break the curse, what's left of you, Johan? You say the curse doesn't define you, but your whole life is built around it!"

"It's my duty, damn you!" Johan yelled, pushing back. He formed runes that sent balls of light smashing toward the Other Johan. The blasted reflection actually managed to guard himself against the magical assault, using the sword to cut through and deflect them.

"How many generations?" the Other demanded. "It's not just you, Johan. The entire history of our family is defined by it. You've read the histories, the journals! What were the Klarsteins before the curse? They were nothing!"

The Other attacked again, and this time the shield cracked. How was he managing this? Swords shouldn't be able to break through magic! The Other pressed forward again, his face inches from the shield.

"And what will the Klarsteins be if the curse is broken?" he asked. Johan's eyes widened, and the shield shattered. Something punched his abdomen. He looked down to see the blade protruding from his midsection. His legs collapsed. Shouldn't this hurt? He just felt weak.

"I-I am afraid." he finally admitted. "My magic is stronger because of the curse. I do not vant to break the curse only to become a cripple."

The Real Johan knelt down, eyes full of understanding. He pulled back the collar of his uniform, showing the glimmer of crystal facets.

"It's time to stop being dependent on it. If you want there to be something left when you break the curse, you have to create it now."

Johan looked back down at the sword, grimacing. It was true.

"So, vhat vill happen?" he asked, noticing his hands were dissolving into smoke. "Vill I be a soldier now?"

"That isn't how this works. The sword is just an argument. The correct one." The Real One answered, watching as the lesser completely faded away. In seconds, the smoke had condensed into a small cake. Johan considered it for a moment, then picked it up, and took a bite. The world shrank a little bit, the smoke cleared. He was back in the Cheshire Cat uniform. Duty called.

"Could do without the silly accent, though."