At the end of the aisle, crouched in the gloom and laughing, is the other Jon, the one I saw standing in my kitchen doorway. He has turned on the machines I am sure, be it by some Jedi mind trick or the simple throwing of a switch. How he managed it is pointless. What matters is that the machines I am moving amongst are suddenly vicious beats where once they were marble statues, and I have to get out. I scream, but it barely carries over the grind of thickening, aged cables and gears. Things are falling around me, the machines tearing themselves apart for lack of wire or oil. I need to find a way out.
I come to one of the giant blocky machines which probably acted as a power source or a heater, and I scramble up levers and gears like a cog monkey. The only thing I can think about is the high rafters and sweet silence from the top while the world crashes and burns with unlubricated fury below me. Getting away from the murderous other Jon is also a perogitive. So I move upwards, ever upwards, and cling to window sills and find hooks and nails and crumbling bricks to pull myself up higher until I am there, squatting in the rafters. The other Jon frowns, and I see him shiver, flicker.
Then there is Jon standing in the doorway, looking shaken. As far as I know, he has never seen his counterpart and probably wouldn�t recognize a black doppelganger. And he sees me barely up on the rooftop (ho ho!) and stares, empty-faced. I think, wildly and pointlessly, that I should have warned him. Impossible, but he looks so dazed down there that all I want to do is give him a hug.