Of Phantasm and Fury

The Twinness of Souls

22 The Twinness of Souls

"...And a new year has arrived..." -E.H. Hanson

Side Tunnel, Command Center, SafeSpace, Seattle, Washington

The pair departed the dank hallway for the brightly lit main chamber of the Command Center, and Maggie.

Balcony, Palazzo, Siena, Italy, Simulation Crystal

She watched—they watched—as the sky grew ominous, clouds crackling with the heat of a thousand lightning bolts, matching the slow-growing fresco adorning their shared dormitory wall. "W-what's happening?" she whispered, unable to look away.

"It's time—" Antonio's voice rang out amid the rising wind, rippling through the miasmic cloud of crimson, tangerine, cerulean, and violet. Ochre too—a tawny yellow-amber-brown.

"Time?" She stopped short, spotting the vineyard in the distance, its threadbare twigs bearing surprisingly sumptuous fruit, sprouting tendrils upon tendrils, growing, lengthening by the second—"time for what?"

"A decision," clarified Antonio. "Whether to leave these Siena, Italy confines. Whether you want Harry—where you want to go—how you want to live your life—"

"It's too much! I-I'm scared!" Macy shrieked, as the whistling gusts grew stronger, Braxton Hicks of a metaphysical sort, testing and thrumming, pulsating and easing, pressurizing—what if she chose wrong? What if Harry really was with Abigael this entire time? What if she surrendered the serenity of the simulation crystal for a world of unmitigated horror, and worse still—seeing Harry and Abigael—married—she shivered involuntarily—with—kids?

"CHOOSE!"

"I...I can't!" And before Antonio could voice further opinion or guidance, Macy broke away, racing through the courtyard halls, now devoid of passerby and student alike, her mahogany curls floating about her as her costume transformed from thick, sturdy Milanese leather boots to close-toed black canvas espadrilles, her all-purpose slacks and tee to a casual-but-elegant denim blouson dress, flowing and flaring in artistic, chiaroscuro fashion, arm outstretched much like Andrew Wyeth's painting, "Christina's World," egg tempera on gessoed panel, reaching for a house, a piece of hope, the corporeal existence of which she knew not.

Command Center, SafeSpace, Seattle, Washington

How do we buy more time? Maggie drummed her manicured nails atop the center table—the laboratory table, it was typically called, as Macy had devoted many an hour to hybrid magic-science projects, each more intriguing than the next. But that was then.

We need another Macy, another Harry! She thought back to Julian, who was no doubt expecting a second—or dare she say—a third date, of her oldest sister, who had zero feeling toward the goateed man. None whatsoever, because her sister's heart belonged to another. To Harry.

Glamours plus cloning...serum...she paced around as Harry and Jordan approached the herbal section further down, no doubt removing concoctions from the rickety cabinet in the hopes of discovering a solution to their multifaceted quandary. She turned to the powdered substances before her, glittering obscenely, as if mocking her for her troubles. A serpentine colored bottle, and another of glittering autumn hue, vaguely smelling of pumpkin spice and Autumnal Equinox—

She screamed in frustration as waves of cerebral energy emanated outward from her cortex in steady, unyielding undulations. Suddenly clutching her forehead, she became aware of a slow-but-steadily burgeoning pressure, of one—or two—twin forces, unmitigating, unrelenting, wondering if this was, perhaps, an empath's unceremonious end—