MacLeod: The Dark Morning Sky: Mind of the Mourner

Young Revan looked around in a dark void. He found himself in a working t-shirt, jeans, and shoes. His knuckles did not hurt any more, which was good. But he still felt...

Off.

"You muckle gype," his voice called from behind. He turned to see himself, dressed in the tuxedo and apparently broken clip on bowtie. He saw himself with his hands behind his back and standing tall with a scowl.

"Sorry?" Revan was both sightly insulted but very dumbfounded.

"Are you just going to lay there and take it?" Other Revan was furious with Proper Revan. "Jus' do nothin' as those bastards get away and you die?"

"Oi! I tried!"

"NOT HARD ENOUGH!" Other Revan stood as a wave of black smoke pushed Proper Revan several feat onto his back.

"Argh!" Proper Revan stood up on his feet, quickly, and stomped in Other Revan's direction. "What the hell?!?" He started emitting a blue smoke as he contested Other Revan's black.

"Let me take it from here."

"What?"

"You heard me." Other Revan started pacing around Proper Revan. "You can't ev'n get out a stupid door. How are you supposed ta avenge them?"

"Wha-- Avenge!?! How! We're ten!"

"And so was the blond one. He got dynamite an' he knows how to use it. Trained and mentored."

"Yeah? An' who's supposed to train us then?"

"You keep saying 'us', I'm liking where this could go."

Proper Revan was slightly baffled at the deviation from their conversation.

Other Revan continued. "The ring."

"Sorry?"

"You saw it. The funny glow in it?"

Proper Revan remembered. "Yeah. And?"

"An' wha' kind o' gift can you expect from a Dust company owner?"

"Dust," was Proper Revan's answer.

"Good. Tha' ring's means freedom."

"Okay, but how do I use it? I donnae know how ta use it."

"I can take care of it. Now, Remember Uncle Nolen?"

"Who?"

"Nolen McCoun? Come on you remember. I'm jus' the pain in yer 'ead."

"Yer my what?"

"Focus. Remember? Weapon smithy? Arms specialist? Rejects all o' tha invites to parties?"

Revan recalled his mother sending a letter to the west some months before.

"He's some mountain man, isn' he?"

"The perfect place to hide."

"From who?"

"Moron, tha Children o' Grimm or wha'ever the hell they're called."

"I don' understand."

"You should. I do. I'm you."

"Then you do everythin'!" He turned his back to his angrier self, frustrated with himself. "I'm done!"

"Good."

"What?"

Proper Revan could feel himself being overtaken by the force of agony and sadness, losing control of his actions and thoughts. He felt control being lost as Other Revan smiled.