Mimicry of The Abyss

chapter 7

"So, Choice C, then? Let's find out which one of us is the snack."

Rhael felt the words crawl up his spine like cold spiders. He gripped his sword so hard the hilt groaned, his knuckles white and trembling. "Choice C was my joke. My thought. You’re just a parrot in a stolen tunic."

The other Rhael took a step back, his face a mirror of Rhael’s own terror. "That’s exactly what a copy would say, isn't it? Give the original a bit of lip to make it seem authentic? You’ve got the stutter down, I’ll give you that. It’s a nice touch."

"I don't have a stutter!" Rhael barked, his voice cracking. "I have a... a hesitant way of speaking when I’m under extreme duress! It’s a personality trait!"

"Call it what you want," the copy said, his eyes scanning the grotto. "But I remember the smell of the damp hay in the barn back home. I remember the way the floorboards creaked in the middle of the night when I’d sneak out to the larder. I remember the scar on our knee from when we fell off the fence trying to impress Elara. Do you remember the fence, 'Rhael'?"

Rhael flinched. The memory was vivid—the taste of iron in his mouth, the sharp sting of the wood, and the way Elara had laughed instead of helped. "Of course I remember the fence. I also remember that Elara moved away two years later and I cried for a week. But you didn't 'remember' that. You downloaded it. You’re just a parasite with a very high-speed connection to my brain."

"Are you sure about that?" The copy lowered his sword slightly, his expression shifting from fear to a haunting, pitying sadness. "Think about it. Really think. How do you feel right now?"

"I feel like I’m about to have a heart attack in a room full of quartz! How do you think I feel?"

"No, I mean... inside," the copy whispered. "Don't you feel a bit... fresh? A bit new? Like your skin is a suit that hasn't been broken in yet? I feel the weight of twenty-four years of failure. I feel the ache in my lower back from that time I slept on the stone floor in Oakhaven. You? You look like you just woke up from a very long, very dark dream."

Rhael’s heart hammered against his ribs. He did feel strange. But he had attributed that to the sheer terror of the Silent Dungeon. "That’s just the adrenaline. You’re trying to gaslight me. That’s a classic monster move. You want me to doubt myself so I’ll let my guard down."

"I don't want to kill you," the copy said, a tear actually welling in his eye. "Gods, I don't. But I can't let a thing like you walk out of here wearing my mother’s locket. I can't let you live my life while I’m left rotting in a glass jar."

"I’m not wearing a locket! I sold it to pay for this shield!" Rhael screamed.

"Exactly!" the copy shouted back. "And I feel the guilt of that sale every single second! You’re just saying the words, Rhael. You’re reciting the script I wrote with my own mistakes. You were born three hours ago in a puff of smoke and data. I’m the one who has to live with being a fraud."

"Shut up! Just shut up!" Rhael lunged forward, his sword swinging in a desperate, clumsy arc.

The copy parried the blow with a metallic clang that echoed through the grotto. Their blades locked, and for a moment, they were face-to-face. Rhael looked into eyes that were identical to his—the same flecks of amber, the same slight squint in the left lid.

"You're fast," the copy hissed, straining against Rhael’s strength. "The dungeon gave you some upgrades, didn't it? Made you a bit more 'heroic' than the original? I was always a bit slow on the draw."

"I'm not fast! You're just as weak as I am!" Rhael shoved the copy back, gasping for air. "This is insane. We're both arguing about who's the bigger loser. If you were a 'Perfect,' wouldn't you be... you know, perfect? Why would the dungeon copy my bad posture and my crippling self-doubt?"

"Because that's the data!" the copy yelled, wiping sweat from his brow. "The dungeon doesn't want a hero. It wants a replacement. If I'm a mess, you have to be a mess to pass the test. It’s simple logistics!"

Before Rhael could respond, a wet, clicking sound drifted from the shadows behind the quartz pillars. Both Rhaels froze, their heads turning in perfect unison.

A Blank—one of the spindly, smoke-like scouts—crept into the light. It wasn't wearing a face yet. It was just a jagged outline of a person, its limbs twitching with a rhythmic, mechanical hunger. It hissed, its smoke-like body roiling as it sensed the two identical sources of data.

"Great," Rhael muttered. "Company."

"See?" the copy whispered, his sword held steady. "It's looking at us. It's confused. It doesn't know which one to record."

"Or it's waiting for us to kill each other so it can pick up the scraps," Rhael countered. "On three?"

"On three," the copy agreed.

"One... two... three!"

They moved together, a synchronized blur of leather and steel. Rhael swung low, aiming for the creature's spindly legs, while the copy went for a high thrust. The Blank shrieked—a sound like metal grinding on bone—and dissolved into a cloud of foul-smelling mist.

As the smoke cleared, they stood three feet apart, both panting, both covered in the same silvery dust.

"Nice hit," the copy said, his voice shaky.

"You too," Rhael replied. He looked at his hands, then at the copy's hands. They were both trembling in exactly the same rhythm. "This doesn't prove anything. We both know how to fight a Blank."

"It proves I'm not a monster," the copy said. "Monsters don't protect their copies."

"Or it proves you're a very dedicated actor," Rhael snapped.

"Rhael! Down here!" A voice boomed from the darkness above—the sound of Ordan's commanding roar.

The ceiling of the grotto was a jagged mess of broken quartz. A rope dropped through the hole, followed shortly by the heavy, armored form of Ordan Vesk, who landed with a thud that shook the floor. He was followed by Ilyra, who hit the ground with the grace of a cat, her sabers already drawn.

They stopped dead.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," Ilyra breathed, her eyes darting between the two Rhaels. "Two of them. Of course there are two of them."

"Ordan! Ilyra! Thank the gods!" Rhael shouted, stepping forward. "It’s me! I’m the real one! He’s the copy! He’s been trying to tell me I was born three hours ago!"

"Don't listen to him!" the other Rhael cried, his voice dripping with desperate urgency. "He’s a 'Perfect'! He’s got the memories, but he’s too confident! Look at the way he stands! He’s not even shaking anymore!"

"I am shaking!" Rhael yelled, holding out his hands. "Look! Vibrating like a leaf! See?"

Ordan raised his claymore, the massive blade gleaming in the dim light. "Neither of you move a muscle. I mean it. If either of you takes a step, I’ll split you both and let the gods sort it out."

"Ordan, it's me," Rhael pleaded. "Remember? I told you my secret! The goblin den! The knight! The ears!"

"I know that too!" the copy screamed. "I remember the shame of it! I remember the way the air felt in the guild hall when I lied! He’s just repeating the data he stole from the room!"

Ilyra walked a slow, predatory circle around them. Her eyes were hard, searching for the slightest glitch, the smallest slip in the mimicry. "Nira was right. The kid is a beacon. The dungeon just didn't want to lose the signal, so it made a spare."

"I'm not a spare!" both Rhaels shouted at the same time.

They looked at each other, horror crossing both their faces.

"Stop doing that!" Rhael barked.

"You stop it!" the copy snapped back.

"Ilyra, look at the scratch on the cheek," Ordan muttered, his eyes narrowed. "They both have it. The arrow from Nira. The dungeon is getting faster at the physical details."

"It’s not just the physical details, Ordan," Ilyra said, her voice a low, dangerous rasp. She stepped closer to the Rhael on the left—the original, or so he hoped. She pressed the cold edge of her saber against his throat. "It’s the soul. The way the eyes move when they’re afraid."

"Ilyra, please," Rhael whispered, feeling the steel bite into his skin. "It's me. I'm the one who was scared of the shadows on the first floor. I'm the one you saved in the alcove."

"He has your voice, Rhael," Ilyra said, her eyes boring into his. "He has your memories. He even has your cowardice. So tell me... why should I believe you're the man and not the mirror?"

"Because..." Rhael’s mind raced, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. "Because a mirror only shows you what you want to see. And I'm pretty sure nobody wants to see me."

The copy let out a frantic, high-pitched laugh. "That's a good line! Did the dungeon write that for you? It's very 'Rhael.' A bit of self-deprecation to win the audience over?"

"Shut up!" Ordan growled. He looked at Ilyra. "We can't take both of them. We're already low on supplies, and the Hall of Mirrors is still active. If we bring a mimic into the next level, we’re dead men walking."

"I know," Ilyra said. She didn't move the blade from Rhael’s throat. Her gaze shifted to the copy, then back to him. "Rhael, if you're real... you'll understand why I have to do this."

"Do what?" Rhael squeaked. "Wait, no! Don't do the 'kill them both' thing! That's a terrible plan! There has to be a test! A riddle! A... a birthmark in a weird place!"

"The dungeon knows your birthmarks, kid," Ilyra said. She moved the knife from his throat, but only to place the tip of her saber against his heart. Her expression was a mask of agonizing uncertainty. "I spent the last hour trying to keep you alive because I thought you were just a boy out of his depth. But in here? In here, 'out of his depth' is exactly what a monster looks like."

"Ilyra, look at his shadow!" the copy shouted, pointing at the floor.

Everyone looked. Rhael’s shadow was standing perfectly still. It wasn't tapping. It wasn't signaling. It was just a dark shape on the quartz.

"It stopped," Mavin said, stepping into the grotto from the rope. "The signal is gone."

"Because the data is complete," the copy said, his voice turning cold. "He's the one. He's the transmitter. I'm the one who was being broadcasted."

Rhael looked at the copy. For the first time, he saw something in the other man’s eyes—a flicker of triumph. A minute, crystalline flash that didn't belong in a human eye.

"Wait," Rhael whispered. "Ordan, look at his pupils. We talked about this with the Tarek-mimic! The light!"

Ordan swung his torch toward the copy. The man flinched, his hazel eyes squinting. The pupils constricted into tiny, perfect black dots.

"They're reacting," Ordan sighed, his shoulders slumping. "He’s human."

He turned the torch toward Rhael.

Rhael stared into the flame. He felt the heat on his skin. He felt the sting in his retinas. He waited for the world to go dark as his pupils shrank to protect him.

But Ilyra’s face didn't relax. Her grip on the saber tightened.

"Rhael," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Your eyes... they aren't closing."

Rhael felt a void open in his stomach. "What? No. I can see the fire! It’s bright! It’s right there!"

"The pupils aren't moving, Ordan," Ilyra said, her voice thick with a mixture of rage and grief.

"Ilyra, I’m me!" Rhael screamed, tears finally streaming down his face. "I swear I’m me! Maybe it’s a delay! Maybe the magic in the Hall of Mirrors messed with my nerves!"

"It’s over, mimic," the copy said, stepping forward with a look of profound relief. "The harvest is done."

Ilyra looked Rhael in the eye. She saw the tears. She saw the terror. She saw the man she had pulled into the alcove. But she also saw the static black pits of his pupils, staring back at the fire with the indifference of a stone.

She pressed the blade harder against his chest.

"I'm sorry, kid," she whispered. "I really am."