We are not traitors

He's sure he's hallucinating again. Then he's not sure at all.

Later, he's not certain about which was worse.

He's seen a lot of things that weren't, strictly speaking, there, at least not in the traditional literal sense. But by now he knows the heft and weight and presence of those things, the space they make for themselves in the world. He isn't afraid of losing the ability to distinguish between what's real and what isn't. That was never his problem. But when, on the way back to the bike after work, he sees what he sees, he does feel a spike of fear. It's ambient and massive, not fear of one thing but of many things, all of them poorly defined.

He had almost forgotten what fear felt like.

Without thinking, he follows, leaving the bike and all thoughts of home behind. To follow that form and face is instinct of the deepest kind. It is, after all, what he spent a long time believing he was made to do. He no longer believes that, but the instinct remains. He would follow this man everywhere. Anywhere. He would happily follow this man into Hell.

Not that his relationship with certain definitions of Hell isn't a lot more complicated now.

Through the crowd, threading and weaving, somehow unable to break into a run or call out, always just a little too far behind and never getting a good enough look that he's sure, even as his heart is screaming at him that there's no one else it could possibly be.

He knows Tom Hobbes. Would know him anywhere.

You knew this could happen.

Toward one of the subway stations. Down. Rush hour crowd, and twice he's sure he's lost him. But there, on the platform - and Tom doesn't look unsettled, doesn't look confused or out of place.

Mike stands, penned in, unable to move forward or go back. His gaze is locked on that face and his heart is tearing itself open, and he knew it would hurt if it ever happened but he didn't know it would actually hurt this much.

What if he doesn't remember. What if he doesn't know us.

The train rattles into the station and the doors slide open. Everyone pushes forward, and he fights not to get caught in the tide, swept past and away. But Tom is boarding the train with the rest of them, and at the last moment he turns, and Mike knows his worry of seconds ago was moot.

Tom knows him. There's recognition in his eyes as keen as any blade.

Recognition. And disappointment.

The doors close and he's gone.

The crowd is thinned out. He could go if he wanted. But for a moment he just stands there and tries to remember how to breathe.

Then he turns and heads for the stairs. There's nothing left to do down here.

For the moment, there's nothing left to do at all.