To Rex, the Avatar wasn't a lie; it was a tool. It was a perfect anatomical and behavioral replica that had succeeded in its primary function: deception.
"It is accurate enough," Elizabeth corrected, her voice hardening, "that the person who has spent more time with you on this island in the last several months has not distinguished it from you, even at close physical contact range."
"Even when she was touching it. Even when she was leaning into it."
"Yes," Rex said.
He didn't defend himself. He didn't need to.
He was a man who had conquered the very concept of identity.
She delivered the next line without drama, her voice a flat, clinical monotone. It was the sound of a person standing at the edge of a precipice, looking down into the abyss of a man's soul.
"You were Tremor," she said.
It wasn't a question. It was a verdict.
Rex said nothing. He simply watched her, his patience as infinite and terrifying as the void.
