Call me no more Mikkelus. By flesh and blood betrayed, the Mikkelus that you knew no longer exists. Where once had been love, where once joy abounded, now there remains only a wasteland, watered by bitter tears. Look no more for laughter, for only sorrow remains. The best part of what had been Mikkelus, discovered but a short while ago, has been stolen away and crushed; what remains cries out for justice, for redress, and yes, for vengeance against those who have taken away my joy.

The woman I love believes me to be less than a man, possibly not even human. Is it true that I am a copy of a man? If so, does being a copy of a man make me less than human? Am I less for having been copied by a man rather than being the end result of genetic roulette? Can I say that my body is my own? My thoughts and memories? And, if I can not, how much of all that I am is a fabrication?

I recall having lived scores of hundreds of years. And yet, I learn that the age of my body may be measured in a span of weeks and months, despite the memories of ages past. I recall having loved Vanessa for the many seasons since we first met, standing by her when she sought happiness with Clayton, standing by her through a pregnancy that carried her off to Hell itself. Yet, though I recall it as though I had been there, how can I have done any of this before my existence? If a memory exceeds the lifespan of the being who remembers, is that memory a true memory, or a false memory?

And yet... how much what I knew and what I know have changed. I used to know that time was not at all as we perceive it. I used to be able to see and feel the flow of time and space around me, even divert that flow. I could follow the flow of energy and sense the strands of fate. I saw the composition of the world around me, tracing the patterns back to the source, almost without trying. Comparatively, I am more than half blind, unable to see what any apprentice can perceive, my sight limited to gazing upon the normal world and Kirlian fields.

My physical shell has become less effective. Where previously I could heal with little more than a thought, a glance, and a song, now I must maintain physical contact and concentration. Previously, I found it necessary to shield my mind from the thoughts around me; now, if I concentrate and establish physical contact, on occasion I might be able to sense strong feelings or read strong thoughts, but the world is strangely muted to my listening mind.

Vanessa believes my feelings to be a reflection of love, and I a mirror with no choice but to reflect the feelings of the one who made me. I am certain my memories must be a reflection of another's lifetime, since much of what I seem to recall predates my very existence. Yet, I do not know when my existence began; I can point at no single point in time as a date of being, saying my life began here.

How can either of us know which, if any, memories are real? Which emotions are mine, and which emotions are inherited? Would I feel this way if I were to meet Vanessa for the very first time today?

And yet, this love feels real, genuine, as does the ache and the despair which comes from having been rejected and replaced. If I love her, if I desire her happiness above my own, then I must let her seek her happiness, even if that seeking takes her from my side... how can I deny her anything which might bring her joy? Even if granting her desire means I must give up my own desires.

But, what matter the desires of a mere copy? A flawed copy, too, it would seem, for the tasks that my memory tells me were as simple as drawing breath now elude me. While I may suspect sabotage to be behind my failure to bring the house systems online, perhaps I have lost some fundamental ability. Perhaps I am less for having been copied, my being fundamentally flawed on some level I cannot persuade the medical scanners to display.