"You are toeing the line, I hope you know," a voice says matter-of-factly.

He turns toward the mirror and nods to the moving metal within it, forming as a face though bent and overly long.

"I am. It was necessary. Well, no. It was the right thing to do."

Metal creases upward, brass fur for eyebrows. "In what way? Was it not agreed that our two worlds would co-exist, apart, parallel, on speaking terms approximating sign language among the blind?"

"Air carries words, whether spoken, seen, or moved--and I moved," he says. "I felt a compulsion."

The face grew larger in the mirror. "That being?" It asks.

"Self-respect. I left practicality on the nightstand table to rush, outside, and stumble on something. Principle."

The metal face takes on a bark-like appearance, growing wizened as minutes pass. "And here I thought we had reached some consensus. My dear man, make a mark of it. We are held at peace, ourselves, by a thread, our sinew. Pragmatism. You for your actions, I for mine."

The flesh-colored apparition feels the earth breath through the ivy tendrils. "Yes," he says, "Perhaps I should have kept them around."

"For amusement, if anything," the metal says with a smile.

He shakes his head and sits by the mirror. "We differ there," he begins, "I saw the good in them when no one else did. But a thimble of well-meaning cannot sail on a sea of obfuscation. There was no use in it anymore, there was--"

"No use for them," the mirror finished. "They were no longer of use. Say it. You know you've thought it. I certainly have. It is the truth. They had their place, their meaning, you loved them, they loved you, and now they have been replaced. Just. Say. It."

"...You know I would just argue with you in the past," he says.

"Hah, don't I ever," the mirror replies.

"Use implies a certain disconnection. The problem was quite the opposite, you know. To have continued would be to use. So I burned my bridges to keep the thoughts from returning."

"Fat lot of good that did," the metal man says, "You seem to be going on about it."

He sighs. "They deserve what has happened and will happen. But I do admit some small guilt over helping nudge things along."

There's a single short burst of laughter. The mask in the mirror shakes. "Rely on your memory to fade in the sun of days. Passion becomes pink in the wash after enough cycles. Besides, sooner or later, more come. More always come."

"That doesn't make it right," he says.

The mask does not look pleased. "That makes it irrelevant. You owe no decency to those without decency. However, they could have been useful to us. We must obey the Golden Law--or otherwise the sky will be as blood and we will be in a far, far worse place than we are."

"I won't disown justice or what is right by me. Not anymore, even for the sake of leaving some option open. Besides--have I not gained the sort of satisfaction you enjoy from doing it? Isn't that using them one final time?"

"Tastes sweet, doesn't it?" The mirror intones.

"It tastes like nothing, but it does feel justified."

"Then it would seem we have nothing to discuss for the moment. Do try to have some fun before I come in and have it for you." The last sentence has a ring of amused but palpable menace to it.

The gloss of the mirror fades. All is dark as the dais is left within the wilderness, the movement of hands whispering some final note before silence sets in.

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