...I do not belong here.

The dreams do not stop, even now. I wonder what I have done to merit this.

Rachel and little Theodore and Hershel aren't here anymore. The house is empty. Something seems very wrong.

I had the most terrible dreams last night... I wasn't myself at all.

Never mind that. I want to spend time with my family.

...Thank you. Truly.

...I am not so certain. I have knowledge of a world where I did ... things no one would understand.

There is no good place for me left. I can only atone without forgiveness.

Perhaps this is just another fantasy of returning to the past.

...Are events to play out the same?

...Never mind that. I shall go. Even if it is no different. I will bare the risks if only to say goodbye another time.

...I would ask to be with Rachel. If she would still accept me with all that I have done.

Perhaps not. The cell I see in my dreams will not grow more comfortable the longer I delay it.

...As am I.

It makes no difference. What is done is done.

(I glanced in the mirror today, taking off my lenses coloured by obsession and grief.

For the first time, I saw the imperfections in the reiterations. Cyclical destruction, fire fueled by ash. The snake to eat it's own end.

Humanity hidden beneath a cautionary tale against fixation on the past.)

...I am sorry, Dimitri.

I know something of forgiveness. At least, something of receiving it, when it is not entitled to you. It would be simpler to just be hated, would it not?

...It is in part because of your "experiment" that I see this now.

Your gratitude would best not go unrewarded.

Loss of security, shelter...

...loved ones.

Outcasts and the grieving.

It doesn't matter. Targent compensates in exchange for loyalty with belonging.

...The same to you, Bloom.

Thank you.

(He sticks the cigarette between his lips, lighting up the smoke. He notices Keats, but says nothing as he pulls the cigarette away from his mouth.)

...Heh. You seem loyal to me all the same. Does it matter?

I'm here, Bloom. There was some delay. Rook can't pilot an airship to save his own miserable life.

These glasses are useless. They do nothing to blot out the light.

Yet, there is reprieve. Darkness. A cold, empty cell.

The vision rehearses. In some instances, light returns, harsher. Freedom.

In others, I obscure, my life's work unrecoverable. Just as the Azran. The irony is not lost on me.

...I shall rest, then.

May you still be here if and when I wake, if I sleep at all.

...My office. I'll meet you at the Nest.

Though perhaps a visit to London wouldn't be so bad.

This is a cruel forgiveness, if any. It seems familiar.

I do not deserve it.

Sleep eludes me. But perhaps you are right.

I'm sorry, Rachel.

Would you like to make yourself useful, Bloom?

Forget it and pick yourself up.
And get us a pack of cigarettes.

...The boys...

Rachel, what if I had told you that you had... passed, and our boys had... grown up? And all of us had changed...

...This is all nonsense, I know. Forgive me. I am confused as well.

A "scientist"? Quaint. I've never heard of you.

I've made a name for myself, on the other hand. I suppose the most ignorant of us cannot fathom the contributions of my research on the Azran.

I... I can't. None of this makes sense...

...Never mind that. It is so good to see you again.

"lol", as the children say.

...Fine. Yes, I'm disoriented and aching in the head and chest. I attributed it to the alcohol and nightmares but I can't be convinced much longer. Such weakness...

... I'm not sure. You were... gone.
Taken from us. And now you're here.

...I took what you told me to heart. My life's searching, to fulfill... our dream. It's been so long.

Rachel. Please tell me that's you. I've not gone mad. Please.

"Rachel Bronev followed you."

R ... Rachel?

...

Frankly, I'm not sure what to believe anymore.

I thought this to be elaborate trickery. At first. Yet now at every turn I am bombarded with these... reconstructions of people I have not spoken to in years.

If I am to believe you, you are to put a stop to it.

I am Leon Bronev, a scholar of archaeology. A more educated man would know that, or at least be literate enough to read my name.

...

And this Raphael has... long since departed, I presume?

... This is a mess. I haven't slept in days, and that scientist is all at fault.