I'm exhausted. Blood pumping in my ears, chest heaving, bending over to catch my breath. She's kneeling a few feet away, gasping.

Well, that was a glorious waste of time. And I do mean glorious.

I glance back up towards the bathroom.

"What do you think would happen if ..."

"Let's not."

"Fair."

There's a stone to hand, knocked to the floor when I went careening into the bookshelf. I fling it at the mirror, and am rewarded with the crack of shattering glass, and the music of shards hitting the stone floor.

And an explosion. A quiet explosion, but any explosion in my bathroom is too loud.

I look down at my hands in confusion. I don't keep explosives.

I have recently encountered two things that boggle the mind. The first is that the media keeps calling these "random bombings". Hello? Anyone with a grain of taste, or a dictionary could see that my bombings are anything but random. The second is that a store could have the sheer gall to feature Ann Coulter's "book" prominently in the display window. Ah, well, perhaps this will teach them a lesson. Bottle, match, sling, and we're off.

I realize that I will have to get gas for the scooter, and more kerosene. Also, I will have to get some cash, as my double has probably cancelled the card by now. I pull up to a self-serve station. It accepts the card. Ha! Perhaps my double is keeping as busy as I.

I'm ready to call it a night and ride gloriously into the sunset when I am overcome by dizziness. Damn! This isn't good, at least not for me.

My evil twin's returned. Apparently he's reacted to the chaos by shopping. "So, what's the deal?"

"Honestly I think it's overrated. Half the town seems to be getting on fine with their evil twins, the ones who really seem intent on causing trouble are outnumbered, and they're just not playing well together anyway. There's a lot of 'There can be only one' crap out there. Do you have any tuna?"

I nod towards the pantry. "So you didn't feel inclined to join in?"

"What's the point? I figure -- ah, honey soy, good -- my life's only going to be easier if they whittle the list of contenders down to one. Then I'll consider my options. How about you?"

I sigh. "When I first came here I was rather hoping for a quiet life. Seems that may be harder to come by than I thought; apparently around here the price of freedom is eternal superpowers. Or insanely ridiculous gadgets. By the way, what were you planning to call yourself?"

"Hm?"

"If you're going to be here for any length of time, we need some means of differentiation. Plus, I'm not having a housemate I have to refer to as 'Hey you', much less 'Hey me'. So, pick a name."

"How about... Zorkoth?"

"You'd better be taking the piss."

"The Crocodile Hunter."

"So evil extends to your sense of humour."

"Yeah, yeah, let me think about it, ok? For now just call me Evil Twin -- E.T. for short."

"One more and you're looking for new accommodation."

He mutters something under his breath. It sounds suspiciously like "At least evil has a sense of humour."

Time to change the subject. "What's in the bag?"

"Oh, just some supplies. Went to RadioShack."

"You really are evil."

"You say that a lot. I do not think it means what you think it means."

"Great. I'm sharing a house with the Piranha Brothers."

He perks up. "That works for me! You can call me Doug. And meanwhile, I've made tuna sandwiches. Want one?"

"...Yeah, ok." I take a bite out of the proffered sandwich, and grimace. "It's a bit tasteless."

He shrugs. "I have evil bland issues."

I sigh. "It's lucky for you I'm letting you stay here. Out there an angry mob would lynch you within a week."

"What did you do?"

"I broke the mirror."

"Duh. But with what? What exploded?"

I look down at her feet.

"Did you throw one of those?" I ask.

"I guess so. Wonder which one ..."

There are only 24 runes in a set. Working it out shouldn' take too long.

There appear to be two more bodies in the bed than should be there by rights.

Right.

No, wait. Wrong.

I open my eyes and stare at... me. I appear to be glowering. And breaking the spine of the paperback I'm reading.

"HEY!"

"What? I'm evil, what did you expect?"

"I don't know, perhaps a Celine Dion collection. But not spine-cracking."

"I'm evil, evil has good taste, you ninny."

"Oh, right. I forgot. What's Evil Paul doing?"

Evil me looks over at the two lumps on the right. "Same thing regular Paul is doing."

"Oh, sleeping?"

"Yep."

"Heh. Want to take a shower?"

Evil me gives me a wicked grin. Shit, the bitch is going to hog the hot water.

I come back downstairs from a nice long non-talk with the gargoyles on the roof. Evil me is gone. I don't ask. Bob's in the kitchen with a bottle of beer.

"Sorted," he says. He doesn't look happy.

I shouldn't feel pleased. "Not so easy getting rid of a version of me that agrees more with your ideas on how to spend an evening?"

"God, no. She was--I think she would have done mean things to kittens. That attitude with your face messes far too much with my world view. By the time I got her to stop babbling, it was a relief."

"Mm, maybe a little TMI there."

"Sorry." He came over and actually hugged me. "She tasted horrible."

He's very nice to hold on to, so I let the hug go for a while. Then I pull back. "Since when do you like kittens?"

You'd think I'd just accused him buying tickets to a Celine Dion concert. "That's--where did you--hmph."

"You don't sulk well. It makes you look like a four-year-old who's just been told to finish his creamed corn before he gets dessert."

He gives me a serious look. "Are there any mirrors between here and hte roof? I cannot believe you actually mentioned creamed corn."

I should be out there fighting evil in all its forms and incarnations. But I have not had a happy day. "Probably only one way to be sure I'm really me. Make sure I taste right."

The doubtful look fades so fast into his patented evil-in-a-good-way grin that you'd think the face muscles would cramp. "I could do that."

Note to self: When the floods roll back, get a kitten.

I open my eyes. It's morning. Huh. And the last day of vacation before classes start again. Oh! I was going to make pancakes.

I struggle out from the confines of my warm bed-- literal confines, actually, I'm beta-testing for a friend her new invention Snuggles, the Blankets that Hug You back. To help, you know, insomiacs get to sleep. I advised her to think about chaning the name-- and go into the bathroom. I'm groping under the sink for a washcloth when I feel the light, tentative touch of fingers against my back. I yelp, and smash my head up into the mirror frame.

The person behind me snatches her fingers away, and gasps. "I'm sorry!" she says. And I'd swear I know that voice. I turn around to see... me.

Only not me. Her hair is smooth and unruffled by any overaggressive bedsheets; and her voice-- can my voice be that high? One hand's at her throat and the other's hovering in front of her mouth.

"I didn't mean to startle you," she continues. My voice is totally not that high! "I just, um, hello."

She's wearing a long, fluffy white nightgown. I refuse to feel schlumpy in these flannel pajamas.

"Where did you come from?" I ask.

She looks vaguely pained, then waves her hand in a way that conveys that it's the nearest dimensional weakness to here, only she doesn't want to say it straight out, because I really ought to have known that and she's embarrassed for me. I stare at her, and then I realize what happened. I check it-- yup. And, fuck. I haven't renewed the warding spells on the apartment for weeks. And this is the bathroom-- a mirror, right next to a window, a door, and several places of running water. Oh fuck. But it appears she's the only thing to have come through. I'm lucky I was here for it.

Well, this bathroom is a trifle cramped for the two of us. And I want to get her out of that ridiculous dress. Not out out, I don't think she'd understand if I tried to drag her into bed with me; just, she's got to change clothing. I refuse to have a conversation with someone who looks like me, has a ridiculously high-pitched voice, and is wearing a fairy-tale-princess nightgown. That's just too much.

I direct her into the bedroom. She circles the room slowly, gazing at the books piled on the dusty desk table and glancing at the patterns in the swirl of the wood grain of my floorboards, then sits down at the foot of my bed and looks at me attentively. "You've got to put on some different clothes," I say, and pull out a dresser drawer, all business. "I don't have any skirts that aren't pleather, right now, so I'm afraid you're going to have to wear pants."

She stares at me with wide, unblinking eyes, and I have the unshakable feeling she's paying more attention to my earrings than what I'm trying to say. She doesn't seem stupid, though; just very, very interested in certain things. Or whatever's directly in front of her. I give up, and sit down next to her on the bed. The blankets seem to have gone back to sleep; I can hear them purring softly behind us.

She's examining the stitching in the quilt on my bed. "You might have at least been wearing a leather corset," I say sadly.

i have not known this place before. it is a very new place. the leaves turn over and die an instant later, but remain green. i know i do not understand it.

she walks it quickly. i am watching her. i do not think yet. i do not know anything.

i am watching everything.

there was a moment, there was an instant and i could remember something. there were-- ice. there were reflections, and sound echoing from the tops of high cliffs. there was a message sent. warning. there were teardrops. or flashes of light. there was breath fogging uselessly into air. i do not remember anything completely.

where i came from there was no green.

i do not think she knows.

no. yes. a moment. a memory.

i follow her. the grass is rough in this part. her mind echoes "sidewalk", her mind echoes "street" and "cars" and "motherfucker in the blue volvo, it's called the goddamn turn signal". she does not know me.

ice. and leaves. it is only a beginning.

there had been a signal.

yes.

it is warm here.

Half an hour later, she's wearing a pair of jeans so old they're soft and thin and practically not denim any more, and a ratty pink shirt from the bottom of my dresser. I couldn't convince her into any other color. I put on black, all black, and while I'm tying up my stompiest boots I notice she's braided her hair into several smooth plaits while staring out the window at the public park below. I can't believe it.

But, you know, I figure, I have an evil twin, I may as well take her out to breakfast. We're walking along the main drag of Sang Sacre, trying to find a place that's still open for pancakes. She trails a few steps behind me, examining every object in every shop window, and I'm starting to seriously think about a leash and choke collar. Not in the fun way, either, in the "let's walk a little faster" kind of spirit.

I tug her away from a display of neon lighting in every shade of the rainbow, and turn around to see a familiar figure in a long black coat, hurrying into the traffic. I grab her hand and start running. "Hec!" I yell.

He turns around, and I wait for a comic moment of doubletake when he realizes there are two of me. But it doesn't seem to have fazed him.

"Hi," he says. "Your evil twin? She's kind of fuzzy."

"Hello," she says politely.

"See?" I whine. "That's just my point! I'm supposed to be the neck-lick-ee. My twin's supposed to come in wearing black leather and being threatening. What do I do when life doesn't follow canon?"

"Well," he says, "I'd love to stay and talk, have an evil conversation with your variously evil selves, but I'm kind of in a hurry. You know. Great battle, matter of balance between good and evil, it occurs around these parts about every six months. Some towns have softball leagues...." He clears his throat. "I've got to go talk with some of the big guns."

I glance behind me. The other me has pulled my arm back, and she's studying the grip of my fingers around her wrist. I hope she isn't planning on making a break for it. I tighten my grasp enough to make my fingers go white, but her face remains placid.

Hec's making polite noises of goodbye.

"Hey, one more sec," I say, and grab his arm with my free hand before he leaves. "Do you notice a difference between her voice and mine, by the way? Wouldn't you say hers is a little higher?"

"No," he says. "You're exactly similar, couldn't tell you apart except for the clothes. And the hair. And the attention span. I've really got to go now."

I glower.

"There isn't enough soap."

"To hang ourself?"

"That would be rope."

"You're being pedantic."

"You're hogging the water."

"You're hogging the loofa."

"Trade you."

"Only if you let me use the conditioner first."

"Done."

"And scrub my back."

"Scrub your own damned back."

"That's what I'm asking."

Okay. She has a point. But if she starts with the puns, I'm turning the cold water on both of us...