his face is utterly transformed, twisted by fury and loathing, and I can no longer see any trace of what I loved. the veins on his forehead bulge, his lips twist in a sneer. all I can think is how to get him out of here, how to escape. we’re standing in a hotel room with many doors and windows. finally he storms out, and I’m rushing around trying to fasten all the locks– but there are too many ways in, and I know he’ll be back. sure enough he finds an unlocked door I’ve missed and is advancing on me, venting further spleen– but I’ve heard him coming and managed to dial the front desk for help. I only wonder if they’ll arrive in time– he’s right there, towering over me, and I cry out for help– just in time they’re there, right outside the window, firing through it– I watch the explosion and the wounds bloom on him, and as he crumples, although I’m relieved, all I can think is, oh no, he didn’t really deserve that— and it’s my fault.
I’m tagging along behind her out of the club when she runs into him– he’s giving her offhand orders before he slouches off, too cool for himself– I’m appalled and ask her why she takes that treatment– I ask her why she’s referred to as “the unit,” and she shrugs and says he gave her that name– and I say, why not get rid of it? so we rename and reinvent her, and soon she’s headlining. I watch her bloom under the spotlight, her voice swelling as she soars through the air on a trapeze swing in perfect orchestration.