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A Whiter Shade of Reality

There was a sense of vertigo when he opened his eyes. It was a drastic shift and he tried to locate the Architect of the Flesh team that he was in the middle of a huge battle with.

There was no blood. No wounds. No guns. Nothing. In fact, it was a big blank that he was in.

He sat in a white room at a table; there was a white cup in front of him filled with a black substance. Steaming. It smelled like coffee. He took a sip and was glad to find that it was in fact coffee. 

He saw his reflection in a mirror; he was wearing a white t-shirt with WHAM written in black letters. Great! he thought. I'm a George Michael wannabe. 

There was sound of a ding and a door opened up. Three men walked in all dressed in white, each carrying a clipboard. All looking like carbon copies of him.

Max scratched at his chin and discovered he had some stubble. He took another sip of the coffee, and immediately the three clones went to their clipboards and started scribbling.

"Max." A voice came over an intercom.

"Not I," Max replied. "You've got the wrong person."