The mechanical gate rolled slowly open. Ahead was a pathway of gravel road that wound it’s way amidst the trees.

The handgun from before was tucked in my jeans. There was the weighted pressure from the Black Dart in my pocket.

It was a weird feeling. I was in no rush. I felt no sense of panic or urgency. But there was a very real kind of fear. Not of Samuel, or the Feds, or anyone else. Not that.

Perhaps dread was the right word. Something was coming. Some impending finality. An abstract feeling at first. But as I walked, the pieces began to come together in my mind.

Despite accomplishing the kind of massive breakthrough I suspected was normally accomplished through years of intensive psychotherapy, I knew that this wasn’t quite over. Not for me, or for anyone. As much as I would have liked it to be.

Somewhere along the line, I had believed it would be. Even without considering the implications of my own little character arc. All we had to do was beat the bad guys and get the thing. And life would go on. I would ride off into the sunset. Or Tanya would ride off with me.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Somebody would ride off into the sunset, is where I’m going with this. But preferably me.

Preferably on a Harley. With Tanya’s arms wrapped around my waist, cheek pressed against my upper back, her hair whipping wildly in the wind, like something out of an eighties flick.

Like any dream, I was able to suspend this idea for at least a brief moment in time. But when considered rationally, in the cold light of day, the absurdities become apparent.

First of all, I’d never ridden a motorcycle in my life.

More importantly—how to put this…

I killed her brother.

There it is. In plain black and white.

And thanks to Oscar, I could now remember doing it. His name was Liam, and I had known him, and been friends with him, and I could clearly recall the look of horror and surprise on his face when I put my gun up against his face and pulled the trigger.

Because I had chosen Jackie—and in a way, the ease of my own guilt—over him.

I stopped in the middle of my walk and put my hand up against a tree, suddenly feeling like I was about to be sick on the grass.

It was one thing to believe that a manipulated version of myself, one whose memories had been altered or erased, had committed murder in this way. It had been a disturbing revelation, in an unsettling, abstract sort of way.

But now I know the truth of it.

What I—the real me—had done.

And now that I’d come to terms with my own agency, convicted that my actions were my own...

Well, you see where that left me.

I wasn’t quite done, yet.

Depressing. But in a way, not so bad. Because it meant there was just one more obstacle I had to overcome.