You are that which was born and bred and reared and rend within the walls of the Labyrinth. You are, too, that which was kept slumbering between pulsing walls and winding hedges, watched over by countless eyes and watched with them in turn. You are, too, all too aware of the intricacies of your home, or perhaps a seedbed, or perhaps overgrown hedges, or perhaps a box. You look at the box before you, smiling. Yes, a box is quite right indeed."Old friend," you say, even though you've never met it, and it surely cannot hear you, "it's rather nice to see you, like this."The box does not answer-- it is only a box, after all-- and sits very neatly upon its desk. (You assume, anyway, that it is the box's desk. Perhaps it's a bit rude, but there is nothing around to claim it in its stead.) It is red, and black, and blood, and shadow. It is the echo of your chrysalis-- only hard edges instead of something dozing softly-- before you blossomed into glorious white and magenta. Until you emerged, growing curioser and curiouser.You are possessed by the urge to touch the thing, and so you do. With a whimsical flourish, you raise a finger to touch the very tip of a corner of the box, the cube, the thing that could be a crucible or a grave. A singular, frigid spark pricks at your skin, traversing the length of your spine alongside a frisson of delight.Those from the Labyrinth know their ilk, and this is no exception. The cube is one of Yours and Theirs, and this place you've been deposited is sure to be a wondrous adventure. Your laugh rings clear in the dead, stale air, and you hear the rustlings and chatter of creatures approaching, homing in on an intruder, regardless of your shared sire.Over the eons, you have long pondered the limits of the Labyrinth's nature, the capacity of its cruelty, and the intimacy of its terror. You think you have it down quite well.In order: infinite, endless, and tender.The things that follow prove your point.--The door is just a door, but that which lies on the other side of it is anything but. You do not often look at your reflection, but you're quite certain that what gazes back at you with such stern discontent is not, in fact, you. Rather impressive, considering it lacks a proper face."What are you doing," it says, flatly, and while their skin is still ghastly pale, the wild mane of their hair and the dashing cut of their coat are both so dark that they make the shadows around them look pale. Instead of the shock of magenta that accents your tail and horns is an almost seafoam green, and the lustrous gold of your jewelry is dull, and navy. "You don't belong here.""Oh," you say, reaching out to clap a hand upon its shoulder, not fussing about the threshold you've just crossed, "I know! But they put me here, you know, so I assumed I should have a good look around." The reflection, or inversion, or creation whole-cloth, does not answer, and instead grabs your hand hard enough to make your facsimile of bones creak, and creak.You have no dignity to speak of: squeaking with pain is not above you, and a good thing too. It hurts enough you clean slide out of your human attire of flesh and blood and opposable thumbs and pop back into the shape of a perfectly good and entirely normal rabbit. With hooves. Your inversion follows suit, and the sound it makes is one of disgust. It makes it again, louder, as you prance around it giving it a good look up and down. "You dislike me a great deal," you muse, and shrink yourself abruptly to wind yourself between its legs. It tries to trample you, and fails. It's delightful. "What's it like, to have no whimsy?""I hate you," it corrects, shrinking slowly until it is exactly your height. The height of an absolutely average rabbit. (Which is, for the record, about three and a half feet tall-- but who's counting?) With hooves. But no face. "And it's miserable. You're here, and I'm here, but you'll be there soon, and I loathe that I lack the frame of reference required to sound as sensical as I know I can be.""Oh, there's no need to be so dreary!" You tuck your head over its shoulder, deeply unnerved by something with your voice sounding so flat and bland, and nuzzle it fondly. Poor soul. "You've only just been born, and you'll die as soon as I fade from your sight. Or sooner, if you fade from mine. Or sooner still, if our keeper and maker decide it."It shudders, and is so, so cold. It grows colder. "It doesn't feel like it, though. I was born when you were, and would do nothing you did. It feels as though I'm at the end of a road I did not take, and it's crumbling, and crumbling." It waits, and though it has no face, you know that if it wore a human one it might be chewing at its lip, or some other nervous habit. It's not one you have. "And yet I want you to stay."You slither back into your human skin, and press a finger to your lips as your coat and hair and wings whirl around you. The distance between you grows and grows as you walk backwards away from your lonely, dreary doppelganger. "I know," you say, with sympathy rather than the empathy the creature before you craves, "and I'm sorry that it hurts."It's a good thing that its dissipation was swift. You do hate being called a liar. Especially when it's true.