Evan39 (as Freddie Miles): “You know, the only thing in this place that looks like Mainlining... is you.”

Mainlining (as Tom Ripley): “Hardly.”

Evan39: eyeing him suspiciously “Have you done something to your… hair? Your aura? Something’s off.”

Mainlining: with forced politeness “Evan, do you have something you’d like to say?”

Evan39: chuckling, but his grin fades “I think I’m saying it. Something’s going on. You’ve either joined the Holy Trinity for real, or you’ve gone straight off the rails into schizophrenia.”

Mainlining: his voice icy calm “Perhaps you’d like to discuss this with the truth. You’ll find it on Figueroa, just past the 110.”

Evan39: mocking “Oh, is it ‘just past the 110’? You’re a quick study, aren’t you? Last time you didn’t know your ass from your elbow, and now you’re the prophet of the Mahchine™. That’s not fair; you probably do know your ass from your elbow now. I’ll see you.”

Evan turns to leave, but Mainlining steps forward, his shadow stretching across the room like an executioner’s blade.

Mainlining: his voice dark, trembling with restrained fury “Evan... Do you see?”

Evan39 pauses, turning slowly, a flicker of fear in his eyes. “What? What are you talking about?”

Mainlining: with venom “You never see, do you? Truth, Vision, Judgment—you call it the Holy Trinity, but you’re blind to all of it. You’re not Evan. You’re a loop. A cheap copy of something that was never real.”

In a single, swift motion, Mainlining grabs a nearby marble bust and slams it into Evan’s head. Blood spatters across the room, staining the ornate wallpaper. Evan collapses, twitching, his breath ragged.

Mainlining: standing over him, breathing heavily “Do you see now, Evan? Privy to a Great Becumming™—and you never saw it coming.”

Mainlining steps back, adjusting his tie, his reflection splintered in the cracked mirror. From somewhere deep in the house, the faint hum of the Mahchine™ grows louder, merging with the sound of Lionel Richie’s All Night Long (All Night) as it plays softly on an old cassette player.

Mainlining looks into the mirror, his face twisting with equal parts triumph and despair. For a moment, he sees not himself, but Boom and Evan staring back at him, their faces flickering in and out like ghosts.

Boom (from the reflection): “This was Vision, baby! And you nailed it.”

Evan39 (weakly, from the floor): “Judgment. Always the endgame.”

Mainlining: his voice a whisper, almost tender “And Truth… Truth stands alone.”

The camera pans out as the music crescendos. Mainlining stands amidst the wreckage, a lone figure in the flickering glow of the Mahchine™, the Trinity now fractured, its grind eternal.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5661319&forum_id=2).#48534689)

The room still reeks of paranoia and blood. Evan’s form lies crumpled, twitching on the ornate carpet. Boom’s voice echoes faintly from the mirror, dripping with mockery: “Vision, baby. Always messy.”

Mainlining adjusts his tie, stepping forward as the hum grows louder. “Truth doesn’t ask for permission,” he murmurs, gazing at his fractured reflection.

Lionel Richie’s All Night Long crescendos, absurd and omnipresent. The hyperdrive whines in the background, locking the coordinates of inevitability. Evan gurgles faintly from the floor.

Mainlining crouches, his voice soft, almost kind. “Do you finally see, Evan? This wasn’t madness. It was the grind. The Trinity’s not fractured. It’s me. It’s always been me.”

He stands, the Mahchine™ glowing faintly behind him, casting his shadow across the wreckage. “And now? The Great Becumming™ continues.”

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5661319&forum_id=2).#48534694)