“He hummed to me. It was so familiar, like an orchestra I heard from far away.” Jules pays what he owes for needing to buy back into our game of cards. “By the time I died I’d had enough time already to no longer be missing him. But I remember how he hummed, and how it made me feel like a child again. A real child.”
We play through another set. We don’t actually have chips or markers that are actually good for this, and until a few thousand heartbeats ago I didn’t even know that coins were an option in the between. So our pot looks somewhat strange, by the measure of any world I’ve been to. A collection of metal tabs taken from cans, sprigs of herbs, and small glass beads from the empty fishbowl that no one actually remembers bringing back and has never once contained a fish.
We have the values of everything written on a napkin that is carefully pinned down on the side of the table, a white ceramic urn of rice wine holding it in place. Our napkins - brown paper that is ubiquitous to diners across all logistical or industrial worlds - have a bad habit of not allowing us to clutter up Bastion’s with them as litter. Which is to say, if we bump the table the wrong way and our score sheet drifts too far, it will return to nothingness and take our handwritten notes on which herb is worth how many points with it.
The bottlecaps will too, but they’re heavier and not at as much risk unless we toss them with excess force. Which is how Mark has lost two hundred points so far.
Ellin keeps shooting random members of the group looks as we play. The kind of gooey smiles that someone gets when they’ve just had romantic affection returned for the first time and they’re riding high on the experience. Except she’s managed to get it from mostly all of us at this point; everyone except Six, who might have leaned into her mood just to make her happy, but really isn’t much for romance. And I have to admit, every time one of those looks lands on me, even my ancient and withered heart feels an amount of stirring.
I bring this up to express that I think the only reason Ellin isn’t being utterly rolled over by the rest of us in every hand is that her looks are distracting at least one person just as bad as she’s distracting herself.
She still runs out of any kind of valuable and betable material next.
“The country I lived in had these weird flower cookies.” She shares to buy herself back in. “Like, made with flowers. The fancy ones preserved the petals along the lines of the cookie; stuff baked weird on that world. Ech. Anyway.” Ellin doesn’t look up as she counts out sprigs of rosemary and tollic. “They were on the snack tray at my dad’s funeral. I ate those things every summer as a kid, for years, and the only ones I can remember tasting are the ones from my dad’s funeral.”
We’re playing a multi-layered game here. Because partly, we’re exposing vulnerable parts of our souls to each other, but we’re also doing it while we’re trying to stay focused on a game, but we’re also trying to have fun. Stacking complex emotions, weaving them together, and coming out with a strange melange of an experience.
It’s a challenge, and it’s not something that you casually fall into. But sometimes, when all we have is time and stories, we like to come up with overly complex games. Part of why we play Encounter when we can; it’s overengineered to the point of almost total chaos, and a session of it can take a subjective month, but we have the time.
Usually. I’m running out. But that’s okay.
This has been a good cycle through the between. My last life sucked, but I did a little good, and unrelated to that good, I also got an upgrade that actually feels good, and not just…
I don’t know how to describe the upgrades we often get. Not petty, exactly, or small, because many of them are quite good at turning pivotal life moments into critical parts of a whole world’s history. But perhaps that’s it. So many of those upgrades touch on and shape the worlds we live in. They make us kings and saints and gods and monsters. But even the most powerful [Strike] types don’t let us touch the between.
Ellin plays around with [Strike] a lot. She has over fifty variants of it; more than the lives she’s lived, I think. And a lot of her lives aren’t violent. Once she was a farmer, and used it on her plow as a party trick. But she likes the simplicity. And, I think, also the power. One of them, if she lived long enough, and devoted enough of her perk weight to it, she could cut something out of orbit.
But she’d never touch the between.
I can touch the between now. So can Mark. Small upgrades, tiny in the grand scheme of things. After all, what does one book matter, or one coin? We might actually be here forever; a single trinket doesn’t feel like it has a lot of weight in the face of that. But maybe it does, if the trinket can be here with us for that forever.
And in addition to my new aura layer and excitement to bring back something fun for everyone next time, I’ve also gotten to spend some quality time with my friends. And Ellin, who… well, I don’t know what we are. Friends, lovers, something else, something more or less. We haven’t taken the time to talk about it, because I won’t be here much longer. Our connection right now is what it always was, but with a promise running through it, that we’ll see how things go.
We’ve done it before, and it was fun while it lasted, and neither of us have any hard feelings about it not lasting forever. I don’t think it’s healthy for a true immortal to expect relationships to last forever. But that doesn’t mean that it can’t come and go like a tide.
While I’ve been reminiscing, I’ve lost the round, because I was thinking about aura layers and not paying attention to how Mark has been steadily baiting me into a numerical trap, and Six has collected the right combination of cards to attrition my points directly.
Clearing my throat as I stack up the right bits and pieces to buy back in with, I dredge up something appropriately melancholy.
“There was a librarian at the versity that I was going to.” I start, trying to figure out how to keep the memory short and bittersweet, without going on one of my usual rambles. “Young guy. Just as depressed as me, just as broke too. We didn’t really know each other, but we had a kind of agreement. I’d come by in the middle of the night and he’d help me sneak in, and I’d give him all the baked goods I’d steal from my other job.” I find myself giving a sad smile as I toy with a handful of bottlecaps. “It wasn’t like we were into each other. But it was nice to have someone to be circularly kind to. I would have given him stolen scones even if he wasn’t helping me, and I think he would have done the same.”
“Oy, Luri…” Ellin’s voice comes out with a sad twist of a smile on her face, her horns dipping down as she bends to meet my eyes.
Mark reaches over with a swift motion and plucks about thirty points worth of stuff out of her stash before shifting back to my side and depositing Ellin’s score keeping items on my part of the green felt. “Penalty to Ellin! Expressed sympathy!”
“I am not certain I approve of this metagame.” Six comments. Though his comment doesn’t stop him from placing a wager on two of the revealed cards, drawing, and passing to Jules.
Jules’ tentacles do some kind of complex misdirection that I think is supposed to hide just how little he actually bet, which makes me think that the old noble soul is trying to trick me specifically into thinking he’s bluffing. Or maybe I’ve just had far too much of Six’s returned cider along with a few drinks from the regenerating urn of rice wine at the end of the table. “I do believe that I agree with you, my friend.” Jules vibrates at Six. “Perhaps next time, we could try this reversed?”
“Reversed how?” Mark asks with sharp curiosity as he buries half his hand in a bid to hide the fact that he’s going to lose the round and doesn’t want anyone taking more than he can spare. “We all have to be serious and dramatic while we’re playing, but then tell happy stories? Penalty points for eliciting fleeting smiles and soft moments of levity?”
“Yes.” Jules agrees instantly. “Actually, yes. I believe I would enjoy that.”
I flick two pieces of tollic into the center wager. “Because you enjoy drama, Jules.” I point out.
“Yes.” Jules agrees instantly. “Was that fact in question, Luri? I have spent lifetimes mastering my ability to be an incurable gossip.”
Six gives Jules’ nearest mobility tentacle a pat, uniform grey flesh in a human shape contrasting with the secretly vibrant slick black skin of whatever Jules would call his species. “And that is why we are such good friends.” The golem says simply. “Also you are losing this hand, and should begin preparing another dramatic moment.”
“Curses.” Jules’ triangle eyes tilt downward. “Also I refuse to believe your lies.”
I give a soft giggle at their antics as play resumes, along with all the small quips that we normally offer to each other.
Jules does lose that hand. And then after a slight recoup of his losses, ends up overcommitting two hands later. Ellin uses some of her cards in the round after to steal from Jules directly, and we watch as his banter gets shorter and less thought out as his focus narrows down to the numbers and odds of the game.
It’s a shame that Jules, for all that he is truly good at drama, isn’t much for numbers. I feel like he’s told me before that he’s been an accountant in at least one life, and I truly pity his clients. They may have had some pointed questions to answer to their local tax authority if they were ever investigated.
After he loses, it becomes clear that Jules has been trying to think of something. But where that thought process has led him isn’t to a specific event. “I think I could have done more.” Jules admits in a sibilant buzz. “This was the first life where - ah, this isn’t much of a single thing, I apologize - the first life that I actually opened up. Used all my abilities, didn’t try to hide, threw myself into it.” He glances to Ellin.
She nods at him. “Feels kinda good, yeh?”
“Well, typically, your tales are of wars and campaigns. All the wars I’ve been in have been horrid affairs.” Jules reminds the horned woman. “But yes. And yet, I cannot help but think… I could have done more. Not because it could have gotten me more marks and drops, but because I want to. Because it feels right.”
“I can’t really picture you not doing enough, Jules.” I murmur into my goblet.
“Mmh.” The creature that is my friend simply hums, and plucks some of my points away. “Well. There’s your penalty for sympathy.”
“Alright, I’m coming around to this game being dumb.” I sigh, and check two numbers. One is my score, which is almost nothing, and the other is my heartbeats left, which is looking similarly anemic. “I… I think I’m done, actually.” I push back my chair to stand, supporting myself on Mark’s shoulder as I do so. “And almost done here, too. I’m down to under ten thousand.”
The words sober the group. And me as well, unfortunately. If I had planned better, I could have been caught off guard and as properly drunk as the between lets me get before I got plucked away and back to life. But instead, I’ve made a mess of it.
“I’m not doing too spicy myself, either.” Ellin sighs. “Peaceful lives, bah.” She folds her arms, but for all her grandstanding - and her quite real enjoyment of armed conflict - I still know her for what she truly is, as a kind hearted softie. “I’ll probably be going second. But… ach, if I don’t say it… it’s been good to see you again, Luri.” She smiles at me, sharp teeth forming a beautiful grin.
“I agree.” Six nods. “All of you. It has been too long. Perhaps this time, we should pledge to live bombastic lives.”
“Why’s that?” Mark questions as he, too, stands and starts to clear away the game that is being abandoned. There’s something fun about the casual way he flicks napkins and bottlecaps off the table and into nothing, while he takes far more care with the deck of cards. “Just to see who can do the best?”
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Six shakes his head in an economical motion of denial. “So that when we next meet, we might all have millions of heartbeats to share.”
A pair of tentacles from Jules wrap around Six’s shoulders as the black form looms behind him, wrapping the golem in a sudden embrace. “Ah, I knew there was a poetic heart under all that stoicism!” Jules exclaims, delighted. “Say something else metaphorical!”
“I choose to be stoic because it is comfortable.” Six states. “And I was not being metaphorical at all. Do not question my word choice.”
I try to hide my smirk behind a hand, not wanting Six to think that I’m judging him. I don’t know if the others notice, but he does have a slight infliction to his words now. A kind of defensive tone that he rarely employs. I don’t want to press him or make him feel worse though, not now, not as one of my last memories of the between this time around. “I think I could try that.” I tell him.
Mark gives me a surprised look. “Really?” He asks. “You, Luri, of all people?”
“I know I talk about not wanting to fall into an optimizer trap a lot,” I shrug, flicking my tail behind me in a semi-nervous metronome, “we all do, for… reasons… but… there’s nothing wrong with living, Mark. Just because I find a lot of our upgrades to generate perverse incentives doesn’t mean they can’t be used, and doesn’t mean we can’t be… be…”
I’m searching for the word. Not ‘heroic’, exactly. But something that makes a mark on a world. Not someone larger than life, because I want us to live, but someone who grabs life and takes it for all it’s worth just for the joy of it.
“Exceptional.” Six supplies.
“Magnificent.” Jules offers.
“Dangerous.” Ellin’s grin turns wolfish.
“Interesting.” Mark adds. And then when we all look at him, he withers slightly. “What? Is there something wrong with being interesting? Maybe I just want to introduce some mostly safe high-chaos states to otherwise stable societies! Maybe that’s what I’ll do; revolutionize the package delivery market in my next life in a way that leaves gaping and strange inefficiencies!”
I press my eyes closed. “What a… bizarrely specific example?”
“Is this why you were asking me about [Speed] perks earlier?” Ellin asks. “Are you planning to do something silly?”
“Hey, social mobility has to come from somewhere.” Mark shrugs. “May as well have fun with it.”
I leave them to their plans for their next lives, which I am certain will be disrupted, as these plans always are, and wander back to the bar to replace the clay urn on its shelf. I consider one more drink from it, but a hundred heartbeats is a high cost when that minute is one of my last.
Standing there, listening with half an ear to my friends, I lean my elbows on the bar and take a good look at Bastion’s. The rough wood floor and metal stairs to the oddly recessed second floor, the mismatched tables and chairs, the lamps, the hanging engine, the handful of landscape paintings on the walls from before I first found the place. All of it feels so familiar, a touchstone between lives. And yet a little empty, even with the extra mass of the equippable barrels taking up floor space by the bar and casting a new shadow on my lurking spot.
Bit by bit, though, we’ve been filling it with our own souvenirs, our own little touches. Art and games and sometimes new chairs. The others haven’t even checked their notifications for this life; they knew I was short on time, and so instead of doing it up front, I’ll just have a few surprises the next time I come back. As well as coming back with a surprise of my own, in the form of whatever new book I pull out of my next world.
I love this place. So much so that I’ve mostly abandoned having my own room in the between just to pour marks into maintaining this space, keeping it stable and reachable and alive. With at least five of us, it’s not even that expensive. But it’s also ours. A little secret refuge where we don’t have to be tired for a while. It being freshly stocked with alcohol, and a potential source for more, helps too.
I’m interrupted in my eavesdropping on that source talking about his plans to set his barrels to fermenting some kind of fruit brandy for the next fifty years of his next life, just to see if he can bring us a nice treat, by the sound of a door.
My head snaps up like a kid expecting a visit from a favorite aunt. I haven’t seen Molly in three lives, and there’s other friends who’ve been gone longer. Or perhaps someone I’ve met recently coming back by. Even a brief passing smile would be a small bit of buoyancy for my heart, a little something to help tide me over through however long my next life is.
Instead, what we get is someone I’ve never seen before. This happens around Bastion’s often enough that I’m not surprised, but I do try to hide my disappointment.
The man is an orc, close to baseline, and he’s tall even by the species standard. Skin so dark green that it’s almost black, curved tusks that gleam like they’re polished, and wiry black hair that reminds me of one of my professors in the last life. A style that just radiates ‘career academic’ energy. The look on his face is one of barely restrained ire, though.
The others all watch him, and Mark gives me a look like he wants to know if I want him to take over, but I wave them off. They all keep up their conversation, but with the kind of quiet pauses that make it clear that they’re all listening in as the orc stomps up to the bar.
“Are you open?” He asks directly, in a voice that I am kind of ashamed to admit catches me off guard. He has a smooth and deeply bassy sound that comes from deep in his chest. I shouldn’t actually be surprised; I’ve been an orc enough to know that there’s no requirement to play to the stereotype. But I’ve also been stabbed by enough orcs to maybe have some unintended biases.
“No, I’m Luri.” I say, before I can stop myself, and then instantly wince, look away as if breaking eye contact can restart the conversation, and look back. “Also yes, if by open you mean serving drinks.”
“Thank the bloom.” He claims a barstool, the fine cloth of his pants rasping against the leather. “I’ve been here for three million heartbeats this time, and you’re the first person I’ve run into. And you can get me drunk. It’s the pollen of fate.” He raises a hand, elbow on the bar, and gives me a dramatic look as he extends two fingers. “A beer and a flame, please. Whatever you’ve got on tap.”
I consider what he’s asked for, and then look around what we actually have. “I don’t think… I can do either of those.” I bite my lip as I let my eyes play over the various bottles, urns, casks, jugs, and growlers, that we have. “How do you feel about cider, and a citrusy rum cocktail?”
“I think I’m still thirsty enough that I would go to war for you to pay for it.” The orc gives me a look with his eyebrows that I think is supposed to be smoldering, but I can’t offer him more than a thin grin at the moment, his flirtatious voice only barely offsetting my anxiety about my upcoming departure.
Deft and practiced motions see me through the mixing and pouring of a cocktail for him. An old recipe that I can serve in four shot glasses, poured at different points in the mixing process. “Drink it in this order, savor it as much as you want, there’s no hurry.” I line the shots up in front of him, feeling mildly embarrassed that we don’t have better cocktail glasses. Maybe Mark or I, who tend to moonlight as bartenders for extra cash in lives where we need it, can find an upgrade that lets us harvest cups.
Now that I know it’s an option, I’m excited about the prospect of harvesting cups. What has my life come to.
The orc takes a long drink from the cider, eyebrows rising as he tastes it. Personally, I thought Six’s attempt was good, but still from someone learning. The man at the bar disagrees, apparently. “Wonderful.” He sighs as he sets it back down. “How do you take payment?”
“Eh.” I shrug. “I’m not too bothered. Six is gonna want to empty the barrels before he leaves anyway, so he can try… I think brandy, but I wasn’t actually paying close attention and kinda forgot. Maybe a few marks?”
The orc looks at his cup, then his eyes flick off to the side in the motion of someone checking their heartbeats. “Perhaps I could open a tab?” He asks. “Are you the proprietor of this fine establishment?”
“One of them.” I nod toward the others, who all offer the kind of waves that mean they’ve been listening in the whole time. “Why, what’cha offering?”
He smiles. “I have recently earned a hallway as a reward. I don’t need it, but it might be useful for someone with a [Property].” I don’t let my smile slip, or at all let on that none of us actually have ownership of Bastion’s. Just a very fluid relationship with the space, that gives us some permissions, but no controlling security. Fortunately, I’m very good at putting on a mask for customers, whether I’m alive or dead.
“It’s been a while since we’ve expanded.” I tilt my head. “Or had enough people to expand for, honestly. I’m not sure what good a hallway would do us, but I’m not saying no?”
“Well, I do admit, it would clash with your decor.” The orc sighs himself as he samples the first of his cocktail shots, and raises his eyebrows again in appreciation before drinking the whole thing. “Oh, marvelous. Who knew that you could get this treatment here in the between?” He shakes his head, one large dark hand brushing at his tusks in thought. “But yes, you seem to have a rather rustic aesthetic here, and what I have is, for what I could tell you of it, somewhat off. All white stone and wrought iron. Midsummer techless atmosphere. It would artistically clash.”
I sweep a hand across our chairs. “Matching isn’t our strong suit.”
“Ah, but coherent moods are the foundation for an artistic soul!” He protests, holding a hand to his chest. “And I realize I am talking down what I am offering. But I have principles!”
“Artistic ethic, I believe, we can appreciate.” Jules says, sliding up to the bar next to the orc. To his credit, the man doesn’t react to my friend’s odd form.
Instead, he just nods eagerly. “Yes, it is a matter of… personal taste, but also the coherence of how we spend our time.” The orc states, like he’s remembering a half written dissertation from an old life. “Still, you might find use for it in trade? I simply don’t have marks on me at the moment.”
“Oh, make no mistake; trading us terrain would see us use it for certain.” Jules tells him, which gets a look of dismay from the orc. “Though I think you are overlooking the deeper artistic meaning at play…” He pauses, and waits to see if his audience is paying attention. The orc is, a captive look on his face as he leans in. “…the organic mingling of disparate styles into an emotional coherence. The art of the familiar home.”
“You are a scholar of art yourself!” The orc claps a heavy hand on Jules’ body, sending him wobbling, tentacles lashing around as he tries to hold himself up. “Ah, sorry, so sorry! I truly should modify this body at some point when I have the marks.”
“No concern at all.” Jules sounds dazed as he rights himself. “Though, Luri, were you not preparing to depart?”
“Yeah, I’m out… soon.”
Jules flows effortlessly around the bar, and wraps me in a hug, his smooth tentacles warm against my flesh. “Then I will entertain our guest. Go, say your goodbyes. And know that I will look forward to seeing you again.”
“Thanks Jules.” I try not to sniff as I wrap my arms around his central body. “Hey, I don’t want to come back to find you turned this place into something weird, okay?”
“Please. Trust that I have some sense of style.” He says, and I smile back because I know that I absolutely do.
I nod at the orc. Tell him I enjoyed meeting him, and I’d see him later. He stammers an apology because he took up some of my time, but that’s just how life is. I give my time freely to others in the between; sometimes I need some of it to myself, but it’s the most valuable thing I have. And sharing it is only amplifies its worth.
The other three meet me halfway across Bastion’s, between the tables where they’ve been waiting. “I’ll miss you, again.” Ellin tells me, and presses me into a kiss that goes on for long enough that I’ll be confused over what we are for half my next life.
“I too will miss you.” Six says. “But I will not be kissing you.”
“That’s fine Six, I still love you.” I give him a hug, his unyielding form feeling study enough to hold off the between if he needed to, even though I know he never could. “Oh, the orc at the bar likes your cider. I think he wants all of it?”
“Hm.” Six glances over. “I will speak with him.” He declares, the words as flat as ever, even as he breaks the hug and steps away. “Goodbye Luri. I wish you well.”
“Thanks Six.” I turn to Mark, the last one of them. “Hey.” I try to keep my smile.
He shakes his head. “Sucks.” He mutters. “We just got here.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll live better this time.” I promise. “Six said I have to.”
“He absolutely did not say that.” Mark snorts. “But I get what you mean. I’ll do the same. We’ll have half of forever next time.”
I give him a hug, and his strong arms practically crush me as he returns it. Like he’s trying to keep me here. “Don’t worry about me. Have fun without me. I mean it! Both of you!” I look up at Ellin’s smiling face. “Fall in love. Make Jules feel awkward. Oh! The guy at the bar has a hallway he’s trading us. Have fun with that! Don’t wait on me.”
“…what did you do when you got here first, this time?” Mark asks me, trying to peel me back so he can look me in the eye.
I don’t let him. “Oh, I absolutely waited.” I shamelessly admit. “I always wait. I’m waiting for so much, Mark. But I’m an old idiot. You’re young.”
“I’m over six hundred-“
“A baby.” I overwrite what he was saying. “Maybe next time you’ll catch up.”
There’s a moment of quiet, and I feel his chest shake with a couple laughs while I’m pressed against it. I check my heartbeats. Not much time left. I open my mouth to say something, but I don’t know what to add. So I say nothing.
Ellin’s arms encircle us too. And I press my eyes closed, and let myself be there in the moment. Etch the feeling onto my soul, to never be forgotten. To try to stretch it out for as long as I can. I keep my eyes shut. Maybe if I don’t see it coming, it won’t be so bad. This is a lie, of course. It doesn’t matter. It’s always bad, in some special way.
“You’re gonna have a great life, Luri.” Mark whispers to me. “I know-“
I don’t hear the end of his reassurance. I’m too busy being alive again.