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Date: Thursday, 24 December 2009 11:02 (UTC)
He took one step, two, and abruptly stumbled back on the doorframe. He had only half-heard the reply; a wave of dizziness had overtaken his senses. There was a spike of self-disgust behind the haze: Why was he allowing this to happen to himself? He was more than the meat and chemicals of this human form, so why was he at the mercy of them? (Again?)

And perhaps he had lost control of this body, perhaps he had permanently damaged it, and he would always be this way, overtired and confounded and weak as a wet noodle. And hey, who was to say he wasn't hallucinating as well, from the elaborate lace and bubbly wine of the masquerade to the airy Parisian flat (even now dissolving into inky black behind him) and the dark woman who had spoken?

He gave a high bark of laughter edged with hysteria. Perfect, this was perfect.

He might as well talk to his hallucinations. "My name is--" How odd, the name on his lips wasn't the one he ought to have been using. It wasn't French, for starters. His real one would have to do. (What language was he speaking, for that matter?) "--is Baraq," he said, "Did you know, you're trailing blood behind you, have you noticed?"
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Lower Tadfield Safehouse

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