I am lying to you, reader. I just realized. Reading back these last few paragraphs I recognize my fantasy, not memory, taking control. It should have been me who served my masters well and talked these rebel leaders into prolonging peace. I failed. I lay there sobbing, useless. It was my Enemy who made these arguments. It was Tully Mardi who saved the world. “Stop blubbering, Mycroft!” He backhanded me, a strange blow, ill-aimed but strong, the semipracticed strike of one who has trained long on punching bags but never flesh.
I often forget that Mycroft is an unreliable narrator...
