The heartbeat counter in the between should be a blur. Eighty beats a minute, assuming I’m calm, which I’m usually not, is over a beat a second. Not so fast it’s unreadable, but fast enough that any physical display would baffle the eye with how quickly it flicked through.

That’s not how heartbeats work though. There is no motion to it, nothing to distract the eye or pull at the attention. It simply is the number you have remaining, and you know it.

This doesn’t mean that it’s easy to not hyperfixate on it. Far from it. Time is precious, time free from life and among friends more so, and there is no stopping the beating of the heart. And despite knowing that every glance costs me another handful of heartbeats to the thought and the worry, I can’t help but want to know how much longer I have.

I’m at least sixty lives old, and I’m still fidgeting with my clock as if looking will slow it down somehow.

Bastion’s is warm, the air heavy, the lights pleasant on my skin. Jules is upstairs having a quiet moment with his art tree, some of his long tentacles draped over the edge and running down the wood like black rubbery vines. At one of the tables, Ellin and Mark are arguing over setup for the game of Encounter that we plan on continuing our stubborn multi-lifetime attempt at playing. Six and I are at the bar, listening in with a smile, and Six’s version of a smile.

The overdesigned overambitious mess of a board game from a post-scarcity world Mark lived on is the perfect operational example of why rustic and rural worlds all keep their games simple. In a land of steel and grit, every tavern will have one of two games; some permutation of combo roll dice, or a reinvented form of F’hai that they’ve renamed Baccarat or King’s Tower or something. It’s a social defense response, because drunk patrons have a finite amount of mental space, and a threshold for how much they are willing to gamble on games they might judge unfair.

Even in more developed worlds where free time becomes normal, the most popular games are still those that are easy to pick up, and often fit into standardized decks of cards or bags of chits. But while we have three decks of playing cards - one of them cursed! - lying around Bastion’s, we don’t tend toward those.

We’re complex, messy, and traumatized people, and we like our shared fun to be the same way.

I still refuse to set up the table though. Currently Mark and Ellin are arguing about whether or not we should include the rules for anthropological diplomacy in the next round, and Six and I are avoiding engaging in any way aside from eavesdropping.

“It has been sixteen hundred and fifty heartbeats, adjusted.” Six says to me as I fish around under the bar for a cutting board and a herb knife. The golem has almost finished processing his notifications from last life, and as a reward from his [Visitor To Many Cities] pseudo-quest perk, picked up a [Chef’s Herb Box] which is now sitting open on the counter as he pulls out cloth wrapped parcels from it. “They are still talking.”

“Talking is a really passive word for what they’re doing.” I point out as I thump the cutting board down on the bar, and then stare at it, a thought nagging at the back of my head. “Do we… is… am I wasting time on this Six?” I ask slowly, a suspicion clawing up my chest.

Six tilts his grey skinned face at me. “I enjoy the experimentation of new flavors here. Often times, mixing the various parts we draw from the world and the between leads to unique combinations that we will only ever know here, together. I judge this worthwhile.”

“No, I mean, a cutting board.” I sigh.

“Proper tool use is a valuable habit and a sign of civilization.” Six tells me. Then, like the slow grinding of a knowing machine, he looks down with circular eyes at the board and knife I’ve set next to his new herbs. With a slow curiosity, the golem reaches out, picks up the knife, and stabs it point first into the bar. “Ah.” Six says as the nature of the between prevents anything from actually happening. “I understand.”

“Why do we even have a cutting board?” I run my hands down my back, scratching at the base of my tail. “How did this thing even get here, Six?”

“A strange reward. Perhaps it has some imbuement.”

“Bah.”

Six’s words spark something hostile in me. I don’t care about meta effects. I just wanted to feel normal for a bit.

There are a variety of opinions on what the between actually is. But personally, what I think, is that it’s a problem. Every death showers us with rewards, and new toys for the next life. And how easy it is to take the words of the between as gospel. Or, even more of a base need than that, to see the acknowledgement as endorsement.

Everyone wants to be recognized for their lives, to be told that it’s worth something, to be reminded that they’re seen and known. And for many people that I’ve met here, wandering through Bastion’s in my time as one of it’s keepers, it’s an almost welcome abnegation to replace their own search for meaning with accepting that the between can provide it for them.

They’re a benign form of optimizer. They aren’t setting out to genocide populations or break worlds. But they’ve focused everything on filling up their notification log when they get back. Death is a motivation, and life is just… a game.

I feel like it’s important that I tell you that these people aren’t hollow shells just hunting for an artificial rush of joy. They’re still people, no one is all one singular philosophy. We’re all cracked pottery, wounds from hundreds of subjective years ago filled up with molten gold, souls made whole in ways they were never before. I’ve heard them tell stories of bizarre feats undertaken and truly impressive things they accomplished in record short lives.

But I very rarely hear them talk about friends. About love. Or even about rivalry, or hated foes. They have no support, and no true opponents. People might acknowledge them while they’re alive, but the between will gift them tangible powers that will last forever. And they’ve chosen what to prioritize.

This is why I don’t focus on the boosts from reading my books, or stomaching Mark’s weird drink choices. This is why I’m annoyed that we have this possibly magic cutting board.

Six isn’t quite the same as me. Six is practical; and not just because he was born a golem. The golem has an outlook that tools should be used, and that there’s nothing wrong with putting our talents to use. And in general, I do agree. I’m still glaring at the cutting board though.

But I already have it out, and I’m just going to not identify it and hope that it’s normal. Even though I’m still suspicious of where it came from. I take a sample from the first packet of a fresh leafy herb Six holds out to me and start chopping it into thin strips. An aromatic, almost sweet tang emerges into the air. “Ooh, I like this.” I say.

“Perhaps a good addition to a fruit wine.” Six suggests.

“We don’t have any fruit wine, since the barrel emptied and despawned.” I flick my tail while I cock one hand on my hip and look around the back of the bar. My eyes land on one of the spouts, and I process the reading it puts into my head. “We’ve still got four thousand gallons of lemonade?”

“Let us attempt.” Six starts setting up a row of shot glasses, reaching over to fill half of them with water, and adding bits of the chopped leaf to two of them. On my side, I grab an entirely mundane wooden pitcher and use that to pour, not trusting myself to not screw up the pressure from the spigot. Six and I both raise our samples at the same time, clinking the glass before drinking. I sip and savor, while he seems to suck the whole thing in at once, even though I know he takes his time processing the flavor.

“It’s… uh…” I look down at the empty glass. “You know, I kind of expected that to taste like something more than just lemonade?”

“Perhaps it needs to steep for the flavors to mix.” Six suggests. “Do we have bottles?”

“No, the empties all vanished. I think the between wants us to recycle.” I frown, chewing on a bit of the leaf stuck in my mouth. “Oh, that’s pretty good.” I mutter. “Yeah, it’s just not mixed very well. This would actually go great with a berry or something, you’re right.”

“Have you finalized your notification log, Luri?” Six asks me as politely as he ever is with the dull voice he keeps around as a memento. “Perhaps you could find some.”

I shrug. “I’ve got some I don’t wanna think about.” I tell him. “So I’m waiting. And I don’t think I have any pseudo-quests.”

The golem nods at me. “If you wish to speak, I am here for you.” He says, and I smile at the words. Six is a good listener. Has been ever since I met him here. As we talk, he makes another pair of samples of our herb lemonade, and sets them aside to wait.

I drink some water to wash my tongue as I take a sample of some kind of thin twig with spiky green bits coming off it. “I’m just being me.” I tell him. “Worried that the between will reward me for something I hate, and change how I look at it.”

“Luri, no one would ever properly accuse you of allowing your views to be influenced by the nature of our lives.” Six points out as I sniff at the herb and cock an eyebrow at the almost slimy feeling of the earthy scent. “There is no fault in accepting your actions.”

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

I set the herb down, my hand crushing it slightly into the wooden board as I lean forward heavily, staring down at the backs of my hands. “But there’s fault in what I did.” I whisper. “And there’s guilt, that I lived through it. That I’m here with you all, having a good time, while everyone else…” I trail off, something tingling against the skin of my palm.

“And?” Six asks

“And what, Six? And why do I feel bad for my fuckups?” I snap. But there is no real heat to my words, just worn discomfort.

“No, I am aware of your thoughts on personal failure. I am wondering why you are upset that you continue to exist.” Six slides the herb box a little farther away as he finishes parceling out wrapped cloth onto the bar. “You should not be surprised.”

The words, so blunt and monotone, drag a surprised laugh out of me. I’ve known Six a while, but it’s still too easy, with his voice and appearance, to forget that he’s a fully realized person with a deep capacity to strike emotional blows when he chooses.

I collect my thoughts before I answer, pushing the crushed herb away and wiping my hand on the rear of my new bathrobe. “The thing is, there’s no way to avoid thinking about things once you’re aware of them. Not for me.” I glance up at Six, meeting his ring eyes. “I’m no monk, Six. Even the time I was a literal monk. I’ve never been good at mediation or inner worlding or the… the thing with trying to think things hard enough that reality conforms to you.”

“Magic.”

“No, the other one. The one on mundane worlds.”

“Faith.”

“The non religious one.”

“Manifestation.”

“Yeah, that! I can’t make myself believe things or overwrite my own thoughts as easily as some people can. I can’t turn off a thought once it starts. I’m always acutely aware that I’m being influenced by propaganda.”

Six drums two fingers on the bar top to punctuate his words, his motions never simply idle fidgeting. “And yet you are less affected than someone who is unaware.” He says. “That is my point. It is obvious you would be affected by things within your sphere of knowledge. You are a deeply empathic person, who cares about everything you are capable of. This does not make that influence negative. You were the one who told me, two hundred and four subjective days in the between ago, that even experiences you hate are valuable, if you can learn from them.”

“Don’t quote me at me.” I grumble, stacking shot glasses as I lay myself across the bar and listen. “I’m clearly a terrible choice to listen to and be influenced by.”

“I think you are often the only person in the between who makes any sense.” Six says bluntly. “We are set up like pieces in a game. And you are the only one I have met, aside from the others who also listen to you, who has suggested that we remove ourselves from the board, and take the role of spectators.”

I poke one of the shot glasses off my pyramid, the glass hitting the wood of the bar with a ringing impact that would have made me flinch if I didn’t know that it wasn’t going to break. “I worry when you use metaphor, Six.”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures.” The golem deadpans at me.

I snort. “You’re not asking me to be a spectator, though. You’re asking me to play the game. To open the notifications, and treat it like it’s just a big machine to turn suffering into fabulous prizes. That’s not sitting on the sidelines.”

“This metaphor has broken down.” Six admits. “And I will not be continuing it. What I am trying to convince you of is that your notifications are nothing new. You already know what you have done. They can only make you hurt by making you remember.” He pauses, ever so briefly. “My own refreshed memories often hurt me. Especially those about loss.”

“…And?” I prompt, waiting for the end of that point. “You’re doing a bad job comforting.”

“It’s not comfortable.” Six says. “Pain is pain. But we are very good at enduring it. It is one of the skills we carry with us here.”

I look up at him, confident round eyes looking back at me from his symmetrical grey face. It’s hard not to agree; I’m very good at enduring. I’ve been doing it for a while.

But a lot of it happens in real lives, on worlds where I often feel like I am insulated from pain. Here is the place I mean to retreat to, where I can hide from it all and rejuvenate myself before stepping back into the arena. Here is not where I wish to be vulnerable.

Ah, but when do we ever get what we wish?

“Alright I’ll check the dumb notifications.” I mutter. “I mean, I was going to anyway. Just not right now. Because there still won’t be fruit in there.”

“There is no pressure from me.” Six sets his hands palms up on the bar, and I fold my fingers into them. His skin is room temperature and almost frictionless. “We have quite a bit of time here.”

Never enough, though. In my opinion. A subjective month this time, give or take. And with the lack of real need for things like sleep or food except for pleasure, that time stretches out. And we will have more time. There’s always more. But the limits make it all feel so hard fought and caged up.

I think what scares me most is that I can understand some of the optimizer mindset. I can understand wanting to do great things, to buy more heartbeats with our actions. I can easily see myself burning half my time here just to make it easier to get more of what I’ve spent.

It wouldn’t even be that hard. But this is the mindset that our group rejects. Oh, we read our notifications, and we expand Bastion’s and add our own flourishes to it, and we slot in traits and perks and aura layers and a dozen other nonsense words. And when we live, we live our best lives, knowing that we can do so without fear for ourselves.

But why rush?

The days are like water. And so long as we don’t drown, none of us will ever be thirsty.

“Are Mark and Ellin done with setup?” I ask, derailing the conversation.

Six accepts it without comment. “No, though they are through arguing. What are your thoughts for this?” He sniffs at the crushed herb.

I give my own hand an experimental nose myself. “Eugh. Nothing we drink.” I say. It’s still tingling. “Maybe a rub for some kind of bird meat? But we don’t have anything left to eat. It’s been a long time since we’ve seen a vendor of any description come through.”

We go back to our quiet task of sampling herbs, and trying to decide if any of them would go well with anything we happen to have. The lemonade turns out really good after it’s had time to sit for a while, though I think it would be better if it could be bottled and shaken, which makes me remember that we do have a mixer, and I start preparing some to share with the others. Six at some point starts an explanation of a fermentation process he wishes to try with something else from the box, but for that we’re going to need a barrel, about eight different ingredients we don’t have, and for time to actually pass in the between when we’re not here.

It actually might. It’s never clear to me if Bastion’s experiences time. Entropy is certainly on pause for many things; dust doesn’t collect, books don’t yellow, food doesn’t go bad. Though I have a reasonable confidence that we could brew something given enough time. None of the clocks I’ve ever had worked when I wasn’t here though, and that’s really all I had to go on.

I sold the clocks for a bookshelf a long time ago. Though maybe it was only a subjective year ago, as far as the between is concerned. Somewhere between one and five thousand years, at any rate.

I open a few more notifications as Six folds up his herb box and puts it under the counter to regenerate for later. Simple things, about training a new body up to certain skill levels, or odd world specific things like bonding with a certain number of dogs. Every world has its own hidden things that it prioritizes. If there’s a pattern, I haven’t found it yet, but then, it’s not my priority anyway.

Mostly I’m trying to psych myself up to open the big ones. The ones that hum with odd colors and grim textures. The things that I know are going to tell me that I did an excellent job altering the course of an entire kingdom or something. Such a good Luri, you were in the right place at the right time, and your bad decision was impressively terrible. So impressive it deserves its own special perk.

I don’t get there before Mark and Ellin start shouting for us, and I let go of the grim feeling of personal failure to instead take hold of a pitcher of herb dosed lemonade, and join them. Jules drops off the ledge of the upstairs and hits the ground in a pile of tentacles. Mark asks if I’m okay when I sit, so there must be something written on my face as I leave the lemonade on a nearby table.

But this time, I think he’s actually reading too far into it. Six is right. Pain is pain, and there’s no getting around that. But I’ll have all the time with these people to heal. From every wound I’ll keep taking to my heart, I will have time to recover.

I settle in as Jules and Mark do a kind of board game duet, reading off the narrative and rules of this specific scenario we’re playing. Fiddling with my cards, knowing I can flick them to my heart’s content, and cause no damage except to the emotions of Ellin who is glaring at me with a narrow eyed stare from across the table. It’s the principle of the thing, to her.

As we start to play, trading small bits of conversation while we take our turns and advance a growing plot that I’m never actually sure if this game is generating on the fly or not, I relax. Not just the relaxing that I feel when I get here, when I wake up, or when I first fall into my friend’s hugs. Those are all good. There’s also the relaxing of the break in tension when someone I don’t like leaves the room, which is less good and more just that it’s an end to something bad. But this is deeper.

If the days are like water, then this is surfing.

We have friends, drinks, a board game designed by people who had a few centuries of free time, and no need to get up to use the bathroom. And it is here that I can finally stop looking at my heartbeat counter. That I can ride the waves with my companions, and let myself be lost here.

The game lasts for hundreds of thousands of heartbeats. But I wouldn’t call it subjective days. Instead, I call it what it is; a perfect fluid moment with people I love. One singular point in my life that happens to have expanded to encompass several hundred turns, three rounds of deck construction, and a story about alien first contact where I am pretty sure our multitude of characters are the good guys. I think.

It’s hard to tell, since Ellin cheats a little bit.

On the side of the cooperative game. Against us.

But even that is simply part of the moment. It is part of the growing story of my immortality, the life that stretches on and on and on with no end in sight. But none of my lives have ever needed an ending to give them value, just like they don’t need the notifications to give them meaning.

We share stories of people we met a single time in each of our last lives. The small snapshots and guesses as to who someone was, added like popcorn to our experience. We talk, we play, we laugh.

We are, together, alive.

There will always be a part of me that resents that I do not have a choice. But if I did, I do not think I would want to trade this for anything.