…My pen name is John Vei Lin. After a workout—sweat on my brow, muscles humming. I sit at the computer, the screen glowing in the half-light. "The Ballerina and the Porcupine" is finished; the period is set.
I’m finishing the 18th episode of Bunheads. I think to myself: "They canceled a masterpiece, and so pointlessly!" I open my notes, fingers tapping the keys: "At least Sasha lived his dream, but what about me—still the same weakling with complexes? To hell with it all!"
Fatigue pulls me down; I fall onto the bed without undressing. I close my eyes. Between sleep and wakefulness…
A flash in my mind!
…And I’m no longer holding a monologue with myself about 70 kilometers of loneliness. Because I remember everything that hasn't happened yet.
Freeman is about to appear in this room to send me to Paradise—the place where this race for meaning began.
Silence. Then—steps, light. He stands before me in a white suit, looking as if he’s just come from the cleaners. He looks at me as if he understood everything instantly. But I didn't wait.
"I have three pieces of news for you: I’ve walked the circle, I’ve lost, and I refuse to fix what I didn't create." "But didn't you always want to be a hero?" he countered genially. "I accepted myself. And I let go. To save others is to deprive them of the chance to save themselves." "And what about Max? I can give you a second chance. To fix every mistake." Freeman wasn't persuading. He was offering.
"Last time I went—and I heard myself being cursed. I will simply vanish. As I did for everyone who knew me before the war. Max made a choice. And in war, one can only find death." "But is this your last meeting?" "No, Freeman! Our last meeting was back in '13, when he chose politics over friendship." "This isn't the multiverse, John. This is your reality," Freeman replied. "How will you feel, knowing he is going to his death?" "My freedom ends where another's freedom begins. I didn't create human nature. And though we give to God what is God's, Caesar must have his due."
"And to the porcupine—what belongs to the porcupine?" "I am no longer a porcupine. I just am." "And what about everyone you helped?" "I only made it worse." "Did Wong convince you?" "He sees probabilities. But the world of Issa, Eve, Wick—they died for real." "You could rewrite their fate again. And the rest—it's a matter of faith, isn't it? The one thing my first student lacked."
"I don't know if I believe or not. And I’m not God to make such decisions. But I’ll be glad if someone else succeeds. Pass the Compass to him." He places the artifact into the pocket of his snow-white jacket with a sigh.
"And what about Anna? The idea was sound!" "She had free will. As did Charlie. And a meeting in Hollywood in '22. They chose what they chose. Who am I to go against their choice?" Freeman looked at me as if I had finally understood him. "And I cannot go against choice either. But I help those who can understand it. Do you not believe in yourself?"
"I believe in possibility. There were prophets. There will be more. Someone among them will succeed. And let him be younger. 50+ is no age for an action hero." I gave a grim smile. Freeman responded with a sigh. "Why do you think Skynet never looked for Issa?" "Because Skynet didn't create her?" I had wondered about that myself.
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"If 'Adam' doesn't need 'Eve'—even I cannot go against his free will." A sad smile touched his face again. "You realize she will never exist now?" I answered with the hollow gaze of a Stalker who found the Room—but refused to enter: "How can I decide whether she should be, if I didn't create her? But if she was created for me—and I won't be there—then no one will need saving. There will be no reason. Which means there will be no sacrifice."
He chuckled again, but differently this time. "And honestly?" "Adam dreamed of Eve more than anything. But who gave me the person who now covers my back, and why?" "But she is not a ballerina?" "Ballet was a geometry of longing for me. When the soul is cold, you seek warmth where the form is impeccable. The House simply filled the voids of my soul with convenient blueprints. Realizing this is liberating—like removing a cast after the bones have knit. Happiness isn't in ballerinas. It’s in the freedom to choose them. Or not to."
"You no longer seek salvation in impeccable form because you found it in accepting your own imperfection?" I nodded. "What did this teach you, John?" "A ruthless respect for choice. It is the impossibility of replaying it that makes a choice meaningful. Even the one I find hard to accept." I said it as if setting a final period.
"Don't you want to know more?" I nodded. Now it was I who asked. "Project 402?" "I organized it. Will you miss it? And your abilities?" "I'll do my own imperfect exercises," I smiled. "Those weren't my skills. If you wanted me to be a fighter—I would be one here." "And if the war doesn't end, and you can never walk the streets?" "If you allow that—then we deserved it. I saw where it was all heading, but I didn't leave, even though I was called. Now I am trapped, and I am responsible for not trying to oppose the madness."
He looked at me with understanding. "You know who I am. Why don't you ask for help?" "Because it wouldn't be fair. Many have it worse than me right now." It seemed my answer satisfied him. "What else?" he asked. "How did I get away with eight bodies in Hollywood?" "They would have killed each other anyway, even if you hadn't appeared."
I tried to remember everyone. "Cameron?" "Fans will argue for a long time about exactly how she joined the Resistance and how Connor exposed her. Maybe someone will eventually come up with a simpler story. Or you will write your adventures, and they’ll make a movie." "They won't," I replied curtly. "The House won't even let them be read. But I’ll write them anyway." "Why?" "In their equations, 'refusing power' equals defeat. For me—it became liberation. A man who, after everything, chose an ordinary life is a system error that cannot be corrected."
"Is proving it more important than living?" His questions hit home, but I knew the answers. "I cannot take responsibility for other people's decisions," I replied humbly. "Will you tell Connor her name?" Freeman nodded. "And Connor himself?" "He will always love her." "Pops?" "They’ll send him to the past. To save someone. And he’ll succeed. As always." Freeman gave a thumbs up. "The Beast?" "Joined the Resistance. Stayed away from the brass, close to the kitchen." "Wong?" "Now he, too, has strange memories of things that never were." "Wick and Eve?" "Their stories will continue. But I liked your idea of bringing them together more." "Andy?" "She’ll gather her Guard in the 21st century and find her sister. The headaches will stop. Time heals." "And you?" "And I," Freeman smiled again, "received feedback. And I will receive it again."
He turned and vanished. Without warning, simply folding into a point of light that went out. I knew I would never see him again. But I no longer needed to protect the artifact. Because I had canceled my journey. Not one. All of them. And no one will remember anything. Because nothing ever happened.
But I remember. My texts are questions into the void. But are questions always asked for the sake of an answer? Sometimes the posing of the question itself is the goal. And who knows—maybe Wong will change his mind about settling the score with Freeman, and together, for old time's sake, they will seek answers? And what if it’s not the union of Anna and Charlie—but that which stops the war?
I will wait.
End of the "Vei Lin's Mirrors" cycle.