We're down for another night. Another night, another mountain. Another sky. Another day tomorrow. Another. And another.

Fred took first watch and Sam went to sleep. And I can't sleep at all.

The sky is rippling red and green, now, like some weird belt of gas on another planet. The Moon isn't moving right, anymore. The stars have changed position from last night, just like the moun

Joe just talked to me. He leaned down, over me, with his human face and animal eyes an inch away from mine.

And he asked me this question: "So what was your big secret?"

Me: I...

Joe: Hey, if you can't tell me, who can you tell?

*He pulled out his knife and held it close to me. It still had blood on it from the other day.*

Me: Shit, I don't have one, sir.

Joe: I'll tell you mine, in exchange, if you want to hear it.

Me: I don't think...

Joe: That wasn't a request, Marine. That was an order.

Me: Sir, I don't... I...

Joe: You will tell you mine, and you will tell me yours. Or I will jam this into your crotch, cut your dick off and make you eat it. And then I will feed your soul to the wheel, tonight. Do you understand me, Marine?

Me: Yes... yes sir.

Joe: So tell me. Your biggest secret is...

What could I do? I told him. I told him the whole fucking thing, start to finish.

I told him about XXXXXXXXXhow much I loved XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXshame I felt when XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXkept falling down, getting weaker XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXwouldn't go to the hospital, even when XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXthe funeral XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXand then, a while later, when a mutual friend confronted me on the street, I said he was mistaken.

And I just walked away...

And Joe listened, and he nodded. Maybe he already knew, and maybe he didn't. I guess it isn't as bad as Sam's, in the long run, but still, I feel so wretched. Years later and I feel like crying whenever I talk about it.

I was crying. I know, because he reached down with his knife, like he was going to poke my eye out, and scooped up a tear with the point, instead.

And then, with his knife less and an inch away from my eye, he leaned over all the way and told me his secret.

"I am trying to get us all killed, Marine," he whispered in my ear: "But there are rules of engagement. We are here to fight the enemy, not become him. We must stay strong and pure, until we are ready to go. And in going, we lay down another mark, here. And another. And soon this will no longer be alien country. Someday, son, this will all be ours."

He jammed the knife in, then. It clunked against my cheekbone, and I think it broke something. I didn't even dare scream.

"The word is Thusimos. Tee-Aitch-You-Ess-Eye-Emm-Oh-Ess. Thusimos. It means 'Fit for Sacrifice,' and that goes for all of us."

Then he got up and walked away. I might have woken Stan or Fred, or reached for my rifle and shot him in the back. We could have done it right then and there. But...

Jesus, he's right. There are rules of engagement, here, and they're like iron. I can't even move my hand towards my gun when I think of fragging him, now.

This is no place. This is no time. We are all strangers in another world, and he wants to do what the British and the Soviets couldn't do to it. What even the fucking Taliban could never do, and them living just miles away.

Can I stop him? Should I stop him? Do I dare do anything but run and hope he doesn't come after me?

What do I do?

Too exhausted to think. Too tired. I'm just tired and fucking tired of being tired. I want to be steam and float away. I want to melt into the earth like dropped candy on a hot day. I want to lie down and not get back up again.

Please just let me end this.

The word.

I know what it is, now. Jesus, I know what it is. And I know what I have to do, too.

It was in the dream. I didn't dream the play, tonight, after Joe left, I just dreamed the man. Just the man walking down those stairs, again.

I don't need to dream the play, anymore, really. One way or the other, it's finished. Or I am. Or both.

Is that what he meant? You see, tonight the man talked to me.

We had a conversation. Maybe his last. Like this was his last show ever and he was going to play it to the hilt.

Yeah, a show. He sounded like an actor , with a grand and seasoned flourish in his voice. There was passion there, even in extremis. Or maybe just to spite it.

{He was also rather florid, I have to say.}

Him: Ah, my audience. Welcome, young friend.

Me: Where am I?

He: You are here, with me, on my way down to my moment of truth.

Me: What do you mean?

He: I am going to die, all over again. In fact, by your reckoning I think that I already have. Such is the nature of time in these places. But am I haunting you, or are you haunting me?

Me: I don't understand.

Him: I think I do, my friend. See? You also have the mark.

*He points to my right arm, and there is something there, under the skin. It is large and geometric, but moves, and therefore defies exact classification as circle, square or triangle. Maybe it's all these things at once?*

Him: So you see, perhaps we are haunting one another. What a tale that would be, eh? 'I sing a song of two ghosts on the stair - neither of whom was truly there...'

Me: Is that why you're doing this? A good story?

Him: No, my days of spinning dreams and telling tales is done. I have had my time, my friend.

Me: But why?

Him: I do this because it has to be done. And I am the one who is supposed to do it. That is the meaning of the mark, itself.

*He opens up the sleeve of his cloak to show me that he has one just like it, on his arm.*

Him: So you see? Perhaps like has attracted like in this place.

Me: Or maybe I am just dreaming...

Him: But I say you are in my dreams. And that is rather frightening, indeed, because I thought I was awake. Of course, our Art being what it is, who can truly say where sleep begins and wakefulness ends? Especially here...

Me: I'm not where I should be, back where I am. Is that why I can have these dreams?

Him: That may well be it. You are in no place, now, and the laws are different.

Me: What laws? Whose laws?

Him: The laws of the dead. You see, you sleep now in the borderlands between four or more great ideas. The Empires built by those ideas have fought and clashed over these lands for ages untold, but none of them have truly claimed these lands, and the laws of each slip back and forth across them in waves.

Me: I still don't understand.

Him: You are not dead, yet, my friend. With any luck you will never understand. But I fear the mark means that luck has passed you by. I fear you too shall tread this landscape of dead men, long-gone songs, ages-forgotten plays...

Me: Jesus Christ.

Him: Not that I have seen, but you can always try looking, yourself.

Me: No, I mean... is there any way I could just get a straight answer? I'm in fucking hell, right now, and every time I try to get out of it and get back to my writing, there you are.

Him: Yes, and I said that like attracts like. I can help you no more than you can help me, I think. But I think, also, that these things are not the point?

Me: You can't tell me I came all this way just to get killed?

Him: Do I have to? You seem an intelligent fellow.

Me: No! I refuse! I'm not going to die in some shithole I couldn't find on a map before September 11th! I won't! I won't...

Him: I think that you will, actually.

Me: *silence*

Him: And there, my friend, is the quiet of truth. They say the truth speaks with a loud voice, while lies can only whisper, but my experience says the reverse. Of course, all good stories are trruth couched within lies... are they not?

Me: Yes. I guess they are.

Him: There's a good lad. Say, would it help if I told you a story?

Me: I think I already heard enough stories for one night, thanks.

Him: Well, then let me give you the ending, my friend, and then perhaps you can go back to silent watching. 'And the name he took before others, once he knew of his place in things, was Thusimos. And so he was, for he knew, at long last, that he did not choose to do these things. He was, in fact, chosen.'

And that was it. He vanished along with the stairwell, and I awoke to hear the wind shifting, again. But all I could hear was the word in my head. His answer to me.

And now I understand. I have been marked ever since I turned my back on the truth, even if I didn't know it.

The word has slipped past me - into me. It has become woven with my being, like someone stitched it into my skin. Like that mark I saw on my arm in the dream.

I did something wrong. Maybe denying the truth isn't wrong, but denying the one who shared that truth with me in his hour of need was. I turned my back on the truth when I turned my back on him and his condition disease.

And even now, years later, I can't write it down and leave it sit, even in a book no one will ever see again.

I did something wrong, and the world found a way to help me make it right. And that's why I'm here, now. That's why I did all these things that were contrary to my nature.

I did not choose to do this. It chose me. I was chosen.

And that's why I have to do this one, last thing. There are rules of engagement, and while I don't know if I understand them, I know that I have to be the one to try.

I don't know if Sam or Fred will be able to get back, or not, but I owe them the chance. Maybe if they hoof it they'll get out during the day, when it's not so fucking crazy. Maybe they can get there before their piss dries up, or whatever's taking the bodies decides it wants something a little more fresh. Maybe tomorrow, maybe someday.

I take out my signal mirror, and look at myself, one last time. I do not recognize these features. They are a mask that fits me poorly. Only the eyes show me, anymore, and I

Today I have seen what is left of a man when the world decides he must die.

{Scene 3, on the stairwell outside the apartment}

Larry: I don't expect you to understand why I'm doing this. I don't know, either. It's just something that I have to do.

Jenny: You don't have to do anything. You can choose your own destiny. You can stay here with me.

Larry: Yes, I know.

Jenny: Then why?

Larry: Because I can choose to do this, or not, but I know that I was chosen.

Jenny: By who?

Larry: God, if you want to call it that. Maybe the Devil. Damned if I know. All I know is that I have been chosen, and if I don't follow through, I'm worse than dead.

Jenny: What could... what could be worse than that?

Larry: I could be lost.

Jenny: *pause* Bullshit.

Larry: Jenny-

Jenny: Larry, you are talking complete bullshit!

Larry: I know it sounds like it, but there's no way to explain it. I can't even try. Even if I could, I don't think I should. Not directly.

Jenny: I love you.

Larry: I know. And I love you.

Jenny: Then couldn't you try? Just for me?

*Larry looks down, shakes his head. Then he turns, slowly, and walks down the stairway. Jenny sinks to her knees and cries.*