“Thought I made a stand. Only made a scene.” -Metric, Dreams So Real-
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There is an interstitial moment where I am nothing. Not asleep, not awake, not alive.
I open my eyes again, outside of reality, and subjective time resumes.
Sometimes, I think I can feel something in that moment of death. A loved one calling my name, the feeling of light, or fire, or the depths, a sad temporary welcome. It’s probably a hallucination, because the only time that moment comes is when I’m dying, and most evolved brains have a mechanism to dump a large quantity of dopamine to make the last experience a little less traumatic.
I say probably because I’m not going to reject the idea of an afterlife when I’ve already had about forty of them.
My body sinks into the blankets of my return point as it finishes becoming what passes for corporeal around here. For a while, I lay unmoving, letting the sensations of this form become familiar to me again. I haven’t done much customization on this in-between body, so it’s mostly what I became familiar with in my first long life, with a couple traits from my original childhood, and one thing as a reminder.
Five feet tall, smooth copper skin, wavy hair that drops down half my back, breasts that comfortably fail to get in the way, a form that could have been broad shouldered and tough if I’d ever bothered to mod on muscle. My eyes are one of two reminders of my origin, a smoky and dull amethyst. The thick scaled tail with a line of bone plates running down it is the last remnant of the best life I ever lived.
The tail gets tangled in the blankets every time I wake up. My thoughts emerge from the smoke of nonexistence, quickly piling up as I fail to process anything. Nerves begin to send sensations; the blankets are cool, and soft but a little rough, my back no longer hurts, my eyes do not scream at the light.
It is always a powerful relief to wake up here and be reminded of how many small pains you accumulate in a life. And then to feel a euphoria as every one of them fails to check in.
I’ve been staring at the ceiling for two thousand heartbeats. I know this because there is one notification that I always check when I get back, before anything else. I can spend a long time ignoring a lot of what this un-world has to offer, but what I always want to know is, how long? How long, until…
Well. I checked.
[Welcome back to the between, Intercessor. 3,456,000 heartbeats remain. Prepare yourself.]
In every life, you’re always on the clock. Twice out of all of my nearly hundred lifetimes, I’ve managed to hit immortality in one way or another, which should feel like a relief, but really doesn’t. You’re just on a different clock. It’s always ticking. But the thing about being alive is, the time is obfuscated. No one knows exactly how long they have left. It's almost refreshing to not know if you're going to make it to old age or fall off of something before you expected it.
But here? Here I know. Down to the fucking heartbeat, I know. There is a moment when this body will be removed - not even the dignity of being really destroyed - and I will be reborn. Again. Again, and again, and again. Back into a real world, and a real life, and a messy, chaotic, loud, angry existence.
On average, this body runs at eighty beats per ‘minute’. Arbitrary here, but it doesn’t actually matter. Everyone tries making a form with a massively reduced heartbeat at least once; or one without a heart at all. The thing doesn’t care. It rounds down. No heart? You’re out almost instantly. One beat a ‘month’? Well, you get exactly one, then. No overflow. Ever. Even if you would have had almost two months subjective, you only get one beat.
I spend a thousand heartbeats feeling sorry for myself, before I actually get up.
My room is the same as I left it, because the cost to get into someone else’s room is stupidly high, and the cost to mess with it even higher. The return point, the bed, is a circular bowl of mundane blankets and pillows in the center of the space. Overhead, a chandelier made of salvaged pipes hangs, a souvenir from a dead world and a kind friend. It paints the place in a soft orangish light that comforts me. The color of a summer evening when all the chores are done.
There’s a door. It’s not an impressive one. And then the rest of the room, all the extra space I haven’t used, is blank.
Not even white. Just… not there. Unused. I don’t have any other furniture, or any assets to add. It’s partly because I don’t care, and also partly because I have something better to spend my bestowed currency on.
I finally muster the energy to rise. It’s annoyingly easy. My body moves to my slightest whim and without complaint. The tail, once I exfiltrate it, helps me balance and is as much a part of me as it ever was. Nothing hurts, nothing rushes me. One of the perks of not having actual biology is that I won’t ever need to hurry to use the bathroom after waking up.
There’s exactly two things I can check; the door, or my notifications. I don’t feel like I have the energy for the latter, so I touch the central glyph of the door and let it pull itself open for me. It’s got one charge on it, same as every time I wake, and it only goes to one place. I had to trade two other doors, a room, and six skills for it a long time ago, but I think it was worth it.
I step through, into Bastion’s.
Behind me, my room closes, and won’t open again until I either buy a better door, or die somewhere else. I don’t care, it’s not like I’m storing anything there or keeping any valuable secrets. And despite the fact that I’m walking around nude, I have no expectation of inviting anyone back to my place tonight.
“Luri!” The first voice I’ve heard in this entire subjective continuity greets me with a well worn enthusiasm. “Put some pants on before you put someone’s eye out with that thing!”
Mark grins at me from behind the counter of Bastion’s. Default human male; taller than me, buffer than me, certainly more cheerful than me. The man has boundless optimism that I find as exhausting as I do endearing. He’s standing behind an oak counter wearing a loose toga patterned to look like dragon feathers, shaking something in a glowing crystal mixer.
I ignore his demand for pants and make my way through the empty room, passing a hodgepodge of different styles of chairs surrounding the three tables we have in here. A staircase made out of a steel grate step ladder bolted to the wall leads up and around a corner to a balcony overhead, where we’ve got a couple more small tables, and also the comfy chairs. That’s also where the library is.
We call it a library. But it’s mostly board games. Getting books here is next to impossible without a souvenir or a random drop. Building the slim collection we have is already an accomplishment to be proud of.
I nod at Mark, trying to manage a smile for him as I sit on one of the stools by the counter. Saying nothing, I settle my bare ass onto the cracked black leather, and slowly pitch forward. Elbows on the counter, head in my hands, eyes drooping.
I am so tired.
“Welcome back.” Mark says softly, setting down whatever nightmare drink he’s putting together. I think it’s glowing stronger than before, but he leaves it as he circles around from behind the bar, kicking up a wood barrier to join me on this side. His arms wrap around this remade shell in a hug that feels too real.
I know it’s not. I know nothing here is supposed to be ‘real’. But I don’t care. I let him hold me as it all starts catching up. A lifetime of pain, fear, and exhaustion, all of it for nothing. All of it leading to just another pointless death, and then back here, and I am crying and wordlessly wailing and I am so, so, so very tired.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
After I’ve wasted three hundred heartbeats on self pity, I dry my eyes on a shitty paper napkin from our infinitely refilling dispenser, throw it into nothingness, and take a deep breath. Once I’m a bit better, I offer Mark a thankful nod, and return a proper hug.
“You’re the first one back this time.” Mark says as he maneuvers so that my lack of pants bothers him less. I don’t care; I’ve lived too long to actually care anymore. But also, I haven’t felt like spending on pants when Bastion’s needs ongoing touch ups. I’m not poor, but I’m not rich either, and I don’t want to pull out one of my outfit souvenirs today. “Well, other than me. But hey, we can’t all roll sparks, right?”
I nod, but still don’t say anything. Mark doesn’t press me on it. He knows what I’m waiting for.
“Welp! Here! First drink of the cycle!” He cracks open the crystal mixer, and it hisses as he pours something that looks like liquid ice into a pair of shot glasses. “Salude!”
We clink our glasses together and drink. It tastes like mangos and moonlight. Another notification adds itself to my list, and Mark and I grimace at the same time as we’re hit with both the words and the alcohol.
“Holy shit, that…” He wheezes. I’m struggling to try to no-sell his concoction myself, and let out a distressed cough, both of us pounding our fists on the bar as cold fire lights up our guts. “For fake bodies, these things sure are lightweights!” He coughs out.
From behind us, there is the sound of a door opening. And then a voice cuts over our gasps. “Oy!” The woman even sounds like a blue eye. “Are you two drinking without me?! Mark you promised!” Ellin’s voice is heavy and heated, and I spin my stool to watch her stalk in. Her striking figure she custom built for war before realizing what this nowhere place really was; seven feet tall and all hard muscle, curved ram horns ringing her bald head and green nomad wraps covering her body. All she’s missing is a war spear and she’d look right at home on the cover of one of the comic books we have upstairs. “Bastard!” She punctuates her complaint. “Ah, hello Luri!”
“I did no such thing!” Mark defends himself as he pours her a shot of whatever horror cocktail we’re drinking, and another for the both of us. “I told you we’d share a drink! Now come get it, before we’re done with this and I have to make a new one.” He glances at me. “And give Luri a hug.” Mark adds.
Ellin does both at once, bracing her chin on the crown of my head, the coarse fabric of her outfit pressing into my skin as she wraps an arm around me and we drink together. “Ah! Yes!” She slams the shot glass down so hard I’m worried she’ll put a hole in the counter. “The perfect end to a shitty life!”
“No good?” Mark asks, and I tip my face up to give her a questioning look myself.
“Sexist.” She sighs. “Again. Couldn’t kill enough people to change it either. Old Hol knows I tried though!”
Mark shakes his head. He’s new. Sixteen lives, I think; found us early. And still a pacifist. He doesn’t say anything though.
A voice from upstairs does, though. “Ellin, you utter brute.” Prim and proper. Bit of a French accent, though he keeps saying it’s Martian. Jules’ door went unnoticed as he slipped into Bastion’s, and now his inhuman form looks down on us with amusement.
Ten coiled tentacle limbs, six of them thick like structural columns and supporting the rest of him, the other four weaving around his body like he’s dancing. Jules’ face is covered in the same smooth midnight black skin, glistening in the light of this place, while a triangle of red slitted eyes look over us. Out of everyone, I think he heard that he could reshape himself here, and really got excited. The ex-nobleman, freed from all social and biological restrictions, finally allowed to be who and what he wants, whatever that might be.
“Don’t lecture me on etiquette you walking fear fantasy!” Ellin yells back. “Also get down here! You should try this stuff before it kills one of us!”
“It’s not that bad.” Mark protests. And I agree with him. It’s growing on me. Like some kind of invasive parasite.
“Who’re we waiting on?” Jules asks as he drops to the floor, ignoring the stairs I spent so long on, his tentacles making a wet slap on the polished wood floor. “Tee-kon, Molly, and Six?”
“Molly went on ahead.” Mark says quietly, and my heart aches. Fresh pain for a new body, not the first ache I’ve ever felt, but the first one of this type this time around. It’s always a novelty to feel the exact mix of chemicals to pair with your emotional trauma. “And Tee… I dunno, we’ll see if it’s coming this time.”
“Ah, alas, I will miss Molly. Though I have several million beats myself, perhaps we will cross paths again.” Jules shakes the orb of his head in a sympathetic motion, a light humming vibration of regret filling the air around him.
Ellin snorts. Not unkindly, but her words are blunt. “You just wanted a roll in the hay with your girl.” She accused.
The hum cuts off as Jules turns his eyes to look at her, all of them sliding around his head as one tentacle grabs the new shot glass Mark sets down and he clinks it with the rest of ours before slamming it down next to Ellin’s. “Yes!” The word almost makes me burst into giggles, it sounds so much like a stereotypical Frenchman yelling “Oui!” “I did! Is that so wrong? To find comfort with someone who connects with you?”
“Course it ain’t, you know that. Ellin’s being an ass.” Mark says. “Which is why we love her. Every group of ragtag friends needs one asshole in it.”
“Of course.” Ellin pulls herself up to full height. “That is known! I thought it was Luri.”
I almost say something. Jules jumps in before I can though. “Ah! Luri! My apologies I did not formally welcome you. Hello, hello again, good friend.” Two of his tentacles wrap around me in a hug that I return warmly. “Still quiet for now?”
I nod. He bobs back at me.
Ellin snorts again. “Romantics.” She says it like it’s a curse.
“I think it’s cute.” Mark protests. “Besides, it’s not like we don’t have the time to be a little silly.”
“Ah, fair, fair.” Ellin shrugs her muscled shoulders. “How long are you waiting this time?”
I check my heartbeats. I always round to about the nearest hundred thousand. Just in case, I suppose. I hold up a hand with five fingers extended.
“Five hours this time? Not bad. Subjective, right?” I nod at Mark’s words. “Well, I’m down to play bartender this time. Anyone checked their log yet?”
We all shake our heads, with one degree of vigor or another. I usually put mine off for a while, until I’m feeling calmer. Though the rampage of whatever I’ve been drinking is certainly helping. The others… well, Jules likes to maximize his time for analysis, so he’ll often check right away. Ellin likes to make a party game of hers, so she’ll wait for anyone else to show up. Mark’s like me. He’ll wait, though not because he secretly hates it and more because he wants to maximize his time with his friends. He also enjoys the party games.
“Am I late?” A monotone voice cuts through our little gathering, and we all turn to the door. A pale slab of grey flesh roughly cut like a human stands there, mostly featureless except for a glitter in their eyes. “I hope I am not late.”
“Come on in Six!” Mark grins, shaking his mixer. “I wanna see if this can get you drunk!”
“Is that what this poison is?” Jules curls his tentacle up over his head, all three eyes aligning on the empty shot glass like he’s scanning it for chemical composition. “You made something to get a golem drunk, and gave it to us?”
“You can’t die you’ll be fine you big baby.” Mark says with a laugh.
I rise from my seat and give Six a hug as he enters; the monotone and lack of features on his face utterly at odds with the compassion he puts into the simple gesture. “Hello Luri.” He says to me. “I have missed you.” A smile is all I offer in return, though it’s a wide one, and Six nods in understanding as he disengages and mechanically takes the shot glass Mark has poured, downing the drink without comment. “Has anyone begun checking their messages yet?”
“Dammit.” Mark mutters, looking at his crystal mixer like it’s a son that just embarrassed him at a family reunion.
“I’m waiting for Luri’s timer!” Ellin declares. “I want to hear her be aggravated by me!”
The others laugh. I do too. Slowly, bit by bit, real warmth creeps back in. Not from the alcohol or the radiance stone in the floor, not some mundane heat that you can replicate with something as petty as clothing. But the kind of warmth that comes from feeling like, no matter how tired I am, and how long it takes to come back, that I’m not alone.
I claim a chair at a table as Mark and Six head behind the counter and start making some kind of food for us all with the bits and bobs we have stored, and Jules and Ellin start sorting through their notifications to clear the low-interest ones, things where the payout is a handful of cysts or something small.
Perhaps it is foolish that I allow myself to hope. Things are feeling good, so I trick myself into thinking that they could get better. That this time… it will be okay.
Molly really doesn’t show up, she must have had a really bad life to have already gone on ahead. And it’s unlikely I’ll see her within the next two million heartbeats here; we seem to die on cycles after all. I’ll miss her, because we’re friends. Tee-kon doesn’t show either, for an unspoken reason. But they’re not who I’m waiting for.
The timer in the corner of my vision, heartbeats ticking down, occupies more and more of my thoughts as it gets closer to my self-imposed deadline. I stop hearing the others laughing. Stop smelling whatever apple sausages Six is cooking for us on the camp griddle. I barely notice when one of Ellin’s drops is a red silk bathrobe, which she passes to me as an act of charity, despite the fact that I know Ellin doesn’t mind if I’m nude. Despite her protests.
I think I stop breathing at one point, to try to extend it. That actually works, though never for long. Real or not, these bodies still act like bodies in many ways, and they’ll start up again when you pass out. But the problem isn’t the number, it’s the time it represents.
Mark pulls up a seat next to me, a handmade wooden chair from an extinct tree on a high desert frontier of a world where civilization was just getting started. He settles into it like it’s a vaguely uncomfortable chair, and not a priceless historical relic. Everything here is a priceless historical relic, unless you count the cost in marks and memories.
He doesn’t say anything, just sets a hand on mine on the green felt surface of the table. Ellin and Jules go quiet as they watch me as well, more overt pity in their eyes, though Ellin’s has a bit of contempt in it. I don’t blame her. It’s a bit stupid.
I’m so many lives old, and I’m still acting like a lovesick teenager who just got dumped before prom.
I take a deep breath. “They’re probably not coming.” I say out loud. Then I shake my head, put on my best fake smile for my friends, and turn to Ellin. “So, got anything good for your murder spree?”
The woman beams at me, Jules rolls his eyes, Six sets a plate of sliced and salted alien vegetables and a few cut sausages into the middle of the table, and Mark pats my hand before settling back next to me in comfortable companionship. The room rushes back in, and I feel the light and warmth and smells again.
Ellin starts loudly checking off notifications, dropping meta-real items into the center of the table in a growing pile, and inviting cheers and jeers as she reads them off. Mark gets up to go back behind the bar and try to see if he can drink himself into thinking her stories are impressive.
I sit. And I enjoy this slice of real life, here in the nowhere and nothing, in between lives and outside of death.
And secretly, I do not stop waiting for them to come through a door.