Catoptromancy

"Mirror, mirror, on the wall. Who is the fairest of them all?"

Catoptromancy - Divination by means of mirrors.

Everything hurts. A bone deep pain that keeps me awake most nights, makes it impossible for me to relax during the day. Unexpectedly, my left arm, the toes in my right foot, and all the other parts regenerated by our masters hurt less than the rest. I expected the opposite. The brief respite that I get a couple of hours after eating, when everything feels normal, just reminds me of what I lost. I know what this means, know what they're doing to me, but the absence of pain is such a pleasure that I don't want them to stop.

I wasn't supposed to get old in the game. I never believed that I'd be the one left standing when the betrayals and fighting were over. Still, I did and I was. It's been a wild ride. Pleasure and pain. Torture and ecstasy. In the middle of the soul destroying violence and traitorous acts, I've done everything I ever dreamed of doing, and some things I didn't know I wanted to do until the opportunity presented itself.

Is there anything left to surprise me? I'm tired, bored, jaded beyond my wildest dreams. Am I supposed to care?

Krycek stands up and paces. His face is almost inhumanly smooth. His body lithe, complete. His hands move constantly. Fingers running through his hair, snapping an atonal beat, stroking his other arm. He toys with the full-length drapes drawn over the windows that fill one wall. The heavy red velvet pools against the dark wood of the floor, and slides easily through his fingers. Two walls are covered with Old Masters. His eyes slide over the hodgepodge of portraits darkened with age and scenes lit from within by an unseen light, then focus on his favourite. A triptych of nightmare scenes hung in the centre of one wall. Imaginary creatures mingle with debased people. Monks cavort. A village burns. A saint is tempted. The last wall is filled with moving pictures. A bank of monitors, flickering from scene to scene, room to room, apartment to apartment. People eating, sleeping, comforting each other, doing all the everyday things of life in the imagined privacy of their own homes. In the centre, a modern triptych illuminates the three rooms of one apartment. The middle screen shows two men sleeping, spooned, in the middle of a bed.

I should turn off those screens. They show me the one thing I don't have, can't have, won't ever have. A bank of domesticity from which I cannot withdraw. Hell, even if it were offered to me without strings, I wouldn't take it. I've gone too far. I'd smother under the sameness. A few months, and I'd be begging to get out. Reduced to my knees, to suicide, or to homicide.

When did that happen? When did I cross the line that separates me from everyday life. Maybe with my first kill? Or that single, long stride in a stairwell, when I consciously, determinedly stepped over the possibility and continued on? Or the long minutes in a dry shower waiting for the right time to shatter a potential peace? All of them probably, and a hundred or more other reasons.

Yet I watch. I fall into my chair. Not for comfort, or because I'm tired, but to stop myself from pressing my nose against the glass of the monitors. A voyeur's habit that could prove dangerous. A whisper of emotion that occasionally pulls me to my feet, fingers sliding over the screen. I don't try to kid myself. There's no escape from the hard edges of my life to the blurred perfection of theirs. It didn't happen then. It won't happen now. Not even our masters have that kind of power.

Still, I don't regret anything. Not a single choice. Not an action. Not a reward. Nor do I claim that I was only following orders. Occasionally, when the sky hovers just above my head, deep, dark, sea-green, ominous, I wonder if something out there could invade my barriers, or I could reach beyond them to hunt for something that is no longer there. In those rare interstices, I could almost regret my inability to feel regret for those things I'm supposed to want.

Almost.

Better to have the flex of fingers against leather, biceps against black silk. To raise up my left arm and watch the graceful movement of muscle, tendon, and bone.

"Sir."

"What?" A word flung out, harsh and sharp, that finds its home and slices like the whip coiled on the table at my side. He flinches satisfactorily, then snaps to attention in the way only the military can manage without breaking bones.

"Sir. Subject 331 is awake. Sir."

Fear really is beautiful, even more so when it hides in dark shadows. "Has he said anything?"

"Dr. Mokhtari reports, 'Subject 331 has not spoken yet. He will be available for further interrogation tomorrow.' Sir."

"Tomorrow? Hmmm." I contemplate the triptych. The thought is tempting, but I don't want to fail again. Once is acceptable. Twice leaves me open to charges of weakness, to replacement by the hungry young men and women who watch for the tiniest opening. There really is no other decision. "Tell Dr. Mokhtari to treat Subject 331 with gentleness and care. Order special dishes from the kitchen if desired. No books, but access to the usual video feeds."

"Sir?" A frown creases the lieutenant's face, erased by fear as soon as he realises his mistake.

I tap my fingers on the chair arm, revelling in the movement, the sensation of unyielding wood against flesh and bone that I missed for so long. Perhaps that sensation, that pleasure saved the man's skin from shredding. No matter. What is done is done. Or, in this case, not done. Still, I cannot let him get away completely. So, I stare into his eyes. Let the mask over mine slip for a moment. Exchange the calm green of every day for the bottomless green-black hole that took the place of my heart all those years ago.

He shivers quite satisfactorily. An involuntary ripple that starts in his stomach and expands outward until it impacts his aura. "Sir ... sir, I ...."

I raise a hand, cut off the apology, watch the fear cut off his breathing, then smile. A baring of teeth that I let reach my eyes. Then, sure that he'll never question me again, I shrug. "Sometimes pain isn't the best way to discover a man's thoughts."

"Yes, sir." Another bone-jarring snap to attention that locks his knees in place and, I'm sure, keeps him upright.

"Oh, and lieutenant."

"Sir?"

"If he asks for more cigarettes, give him another pack."

"Yes, sir." Another salute, then he wheels around and marches from the room. Quite amazing really. I will never get used to the unquestioning obedience of the remaining military. It's possible that the deaths of their less obedient comrades had some effect. Yet, I've seen it too many times over the years to believe that's all there is to it.

When he leaves, takes the distraction with him, the pain and exhaustion return in waves that break over me, punishing me for the brief respite. Six months, they told me. Six months for my nerves to recover from the assault of the regeneration. The agony of those long, thin, grey fingers wrapping around my body, re-opening wounds, forcing once-healed cells to accept damage so that healing and growth could be forced in another direction. They offered me six months of oblivion. An unacceptable panacea. Peaceful and pain-free but at the cost of everything I've worked so hard, given up so much to win. If I accept, then I lose. Everything I gave up, all the other possible futures, gone for no reason at all.

Return to the bank of monitors. Focus for a moment on a woman curled up in a ball. Eyes staring at a blank wall, tracking a horror that exists only in her mind. Blue eyes with pupils blown wide. Hair with ragged chewed ends still showing remnants of the peroxide that kept it blonde. Another with a man, his back to the camera, white bandage around a shaven skull. Soft, cottage cheese skin visible through the open back of a green hospital gown. Huddled in on himself. The only signs of movement are smoke rising toward the ceiling, the slight up and down of one arm. Even the effort of breathing in the smoke does not leave any sign of movement. People and more people. Some families relaxing in what they think are private homes. Others, poor tormented souls, who might as well be in Old Bedlam for all their surroundings matter.

I never thought of myself as a voyeur before. I've been too many things: tinker, tailor, soldier, spy. Single agent, double agent, triple agent. They've accused me of them all. I get the occasional curious question, but I still don't see any need to provide the answer. Accused of many deaths, some of them not even mine. Not that I will ever admit the truth to anyone. Doubt and uncertainty serve me so much better. If no-one is sure of what I have done - who I have killed, maimed, mangled, betrayed - then no-one can possibly know what I am capable of doing now.

They're moving. Turning over in their sleep. Dark hair, the streaks of silver grey almost invisible against the older man's silver chest hair. Arms wrapped around each other. Legs entwined. Sweet. Tender. Loving.

Vaguely queasy making.

I should have them killed. A minute's work, possibly less. A touch of a button, and the two men start dying moments later. In whatever manner I choose.

But I cannot. I've watched and wanted. Each of them at one time or another. Waited outside hospital rooms and prison cells. Held their deaths in my hands over and over again. Even when their fists stroked my body black and blue, I could not take that last, final step.

Now, more than ever, I cannot afford this weakness, this self-indulgence, but I cannot give it up. Even to feel their blood run hot down my new arm, anoint my body, baptise the limb that replaces the one I lost for them. If I close my eyes, I can feel it. The sharp sword slicing deeply into their guts. Two cuts. One across. The second up and down. A third, staring into their eyes, capturing the last drop of consciousness, before the sword takes their heads. I ache for it. Yearn to share it with them. The final, most intimate moment.

An honourable death. Simple, straightforward. Honest. At the hands of an enemy who has never quite been that.

Another movement catches my eyes. Pulls my attention back. Moves it from lust to lust. They're awake now, touching gently, kissing. Why do I feel the emptiness more when they do that? A hollowness letting me know that something, some feeling, ought to be there. An empty ache. A memory of pain instead of the reality.

And, like all pain, there is a cure. I lean forward to touch the screen, only to find my hand is already there. That must not happen again. What if someone had come in. Discovered the extent of this weakness. I cannot give that kind of power to those who hover over me.

For that moment of weakness, one of the two men must pay. Unfair, yes, but the way of this world we all helped create. If I don't punish them, exact penance for my lapse, then things will get worse. So very much worse. As long as I hold the reins in my hands, there is control. Most people on this planet will continue to live in peace. The grey ones are patient. Their world has some time before it is swallowed up, reborn in the black hole that sucks the life out of their corner of the universe.

To keep this precarious peace, those men must suffer. Fools that they are, they'd probably suffer gladly if they knew the reason why. Hugging each other. Seeking reassurance that they're still there. I can feel the eyes on my back. Staring through the lens. Can they feel my eyes on them.

Who will I choose? It must be one of them. That much is guaranteed. A man my age or one older? Long and lithe or tall and broad? I cannot take them both at the same time although I have thought of doing that: putting myself in the middle. Finding out what it is that keeps them this way. Can I miss something that I've never had, never been able to have?

God, I hate rhetorical questions. All that navel gazing gives me gas. Simplicity is so much better. Answers even better than that.

So, will it be brown hair or silver hair tonight? The screen holds so little tactile promise of the feelings to come. My forefinger touches one head then the next. Caresses slowly. I wish there was some way to feel them through the screen, leave their hair in disarray.

So hard to decide.

Eenie.

Meenie.

Minie

Mo.

I'll take that one.