Mirrormask and all of the characters with which it is associated belong to the following: Neil Gaiman, Dave McKean, and the Henson Company. Cracked Actor belongs to David Bowie. Id belongs to Sigmund Freud. Angst belongs to Emo kids and girls who write boyband fanfics.

Self Preservation

They sold you illusion, for a sackful of cheques.

You've made a bad connexion, 'cause I just want…

-oooo-

It was certainly not his proudest moment.

Well, to be honest, he'd had quite a lot of moments that could be categorized thusly. Hell. His life could be summed up as 'not his proudest moment.'

But that's a story about the past, and this is a story about the future. Or rather, his impending lack thereof.

It had never occurred to him that the world in which he lived wasn't real. It was real enough to him, it had always been real, and he was certain it would go on without him. This was no time for solipsism. It had occurred to him, from time to time, that he himself may not be quite real. But to discover that he truly was a concept? The confirmation was unsettling to say the least.

Helena had created the world. Well, okay. Every world had to have some sort of creator, right? Or not. Or maybe- but that really isn't what he was supposed to be thinking about. What was it- oh, yes. Helena had created at least a part of the world. And then, she had created the inhabitants. Most of them. Some of them. He actually had no idea who had been created, and who had existed, and who never really existed outside of his own head, or who had never existed at all, but might one day. He remembered a life, growing up and doing things and wondering a bt in his adolescence what it was all about, really. that didn't mean it had happened, of course, only that he had memories of it happening. Perhaps she'd created those, too. Suffice to say that the girl had some degree of influence over the world he inhabited. Yes, that would do nicely.

And now, she was destroying him, as surely as she'd fought to save the dream-world. Valentine wasn't dying. He was changing, fragmenting, twisting rapidly into an idealized image of himself. Helena was superimposing her memory of him onto some man she'd met in the 'real world.' She would remember her brief companion as a loyal, amusing, sometimes bumbling but always good-hearted guide. This, as he well knew, was utter bollocks.

He was conniving, self-serving, and mercurial. Add to that undependable, snide, and opportunistic. He was perfectly capable of being downright mean, lying, changing sides, abandoning a friend. Several friends- he'd lost count. Oh, he could get them back when he needed them. He always got them back when he needed them. There was an odd charm to him, a repentant guilt that was perfectly convincing. How strange that Helena had never realized what he must be, why he'd appeared to her in the first place.

In the weird half light of the border between dream and reality, it is easy to step outside of oneself, to evaluate the truths. It was clear now; the idea of being a concept- what was the word? Anthropomorphicization? That sounded pretty dignified, anyway. Valentine was Id. He was self-preservation. Her instinct for self-preservation. That's what this story was about, wasn't it? Her fight to save her better side, her 'true' self?

Some things he'd done she'd seen as selfless, or contrite, or even the acts of true friendship. They weren't, of course.

Every action he took was for his own damn benefit, thank you. He went back for her only when she was the only means to his ends. He stayed with her when it appeared that she was some sort of protection, or could at least be used as a shield. He betrayed her when she had reached the end of her usefulness- and regained her trust upon realizing she was the key he needed. He threw apologies left and right, disguised oh-so-cleverly under a layer of reluctance and embarrassment. No one could ever say he wasn't a damn fine actor. He slipped a bit under pressure- shouting "I'm sorry!" into the sky without an ounce of repentance, but even that was enough. The final act- giving the mask to Helena- that was no selflessness.

The future fruit. Now, there was a useful thing. It was there, it was unprotected, and therefore it was his. And the future he'd seen- gods! That was no life, that was unimaginable. When she'd held her hand to him, asked for the mask, it was not easy to give it to her. But he knew what would happen to him if he used it, so to her it went. That was it- she was gone, the balance would be back, he could get on with his life.

Or, as the case currently appeared, he could cease existence as a separate entity. He would be torn apart- reabsorbed into Helena's subconscious, applied to her impressions of that man who should never have bourn such a physical resemblance to his manifestation. It was too cruel, too tragic, for this to happen to him. Of course he couldn't allow this to happen. Self-preservation, remember? He would fight it, he would…

A wave of guilt, uncharacteristic and wholly unwelcome, rolled over him. It was followed by comprehension- I am a bad man, he thought. A bad idea, a selfish streak, an essential but unpleasant facet of a human being. A distilled ingredient that was simply a piece of a whole. And then he realized what must happen.

He closed his eyes, and ceased to exist.

It was not the proudest moment of his life, but it should have been.

-oooo-

A/N- I absolutely adore Valentine. Still, I thought it would be interesting to take a dark-side view of him, especially as there will be countless Helena/Valentine romances gracing the world of fanfiction soon. This appears to be the first posted Mirrormask fic, although I could be wrong (It is the first on and I thought it would be good to ensure that the fandom starts out with a darkish fic, even if it is nothing more than a lot of rauko-style rambling about inner psyche. I need to write a piece with action!