Lacoco froze, shocked, and the nightmare version of me hit him again, and again, and again. Harder and faster than I’d ever been capable of in real life. Blood splattered the sawdust as Lacoco’s nose shattered. The fists kept pumping, falling over and over like pistons. The look on my evil mirror twin’s face was completely dispassionate, emotionless. It was my face, but it was younger, free of scars, and the eyes were dead, blank, all humanity shoved aside and focused on only one thing, utterly destroying his opponent.

It was exactly how I’d looked when I’d ruined Jason Lacoco’s life.

Lacoco tried to shove him off, but it was an overwhelming assault. Lacoco hit the floor, and the copy followed him down, knowing exactly how to manipulate an opponent on the ground. He got a knee over one of Lacoco’s arms, and hit him, and hit him, and hit him. Lacoco’s face was being pulverized. An elbow fell and his glass eye had popped out and rolled across the carpet.

It was exactly like last time. I’d lost it. I’d broken his skull open. I’d put out his eye. If I hadn’t been pulled off I would’ve beaten him to death. I’d put him in a coma.

Of course this creature was here. It was made of nightmares. This younger, blank-faced version of me had been Lacoco’s nightmare. I was his monster.

But like the rest of us, Lacoco had gotten a lot better at fighting monsters.

WHUP. The fake me lurched. The bloody hands left Lacoco’s face and grabbed for his leg. The knee that had been used to block one of Laccco’s arms. Lacoco’s hand came off the floor, holding something boxy and orange, and he drove it against his opponent. WHUP. A black circle appeared in the copy’s chest. WHUP. WHUP. Two more.

Lacoco had landed on a powder-actuated nail gun.

As the copy rolled off, Lacoco got one big boot up and kicked him in the face.

The copy crashed into the far wall, reached up emotionlessly, and ripped one of the nails out of his sternum. He immediately started to rise. There was a sharp crack. The nightmare copy looked down in surprise at the new, much larger hole that had appeared in the center of one pectoral. Screw the nail gun, Lacoco had gone for his pistol. His XD .45 extended in one shaking hand, Lacoco lumbered back up, blood streaming from his battered face.

Hands pressed against the holes in his chest as blood trickled between his fingers, the copy turned his head and studied me, speaking with my voice. “You mocked me, Chosen, but I’m not the only one here that causes bad dreams.” He began to laugh.

Lacoco shot him again.