Mortality doesn’t always claim its due. In a very few cases, it has found itself completely redundant. In the wake of the final fall of the Qliphoth from around the Sephirot, a single speck of their essences fell to Earth. This coalesced into a stone, which became the signet of a ring. When a person wears this ring, it triggers Conditional Infinite Cell Renewal.
Usually most of these are granted a tight limit on the number of times this gene can propagate itself before its collapse and failure, returning their mortality and nullifying the ring’s power for several years. But one in a thousand exhibit signs of continuous renewal. They become the ring’s keepers for extended periods of time, potentially centuries or millennia.
I have been assigned to this subject, hereafter designated in my dialogue as Subject Alpha. The first date of recognition is 50 BC, then known under the name of “Vercinget”. Subject was executed following his transportation to the capital of his conquerors following a great battle. Subject Alpha revived during transport from the city to a pyre, and escaped. Over the next fifty years, Subject Alpha is noted as having “died” 1687 times by a variety of methods; 347 accidental, 1286 caused in battle against various opponents, 23 due to environmental factors, 31 self-inflicted.
In subsequent centuries, Subject Alpha has become a less obvious figure. His deaths have totalled 34 over the following 2168 years; 20 accidental or environmental, 1 self-inflicted, 1 classified as “murder”, 5 caused by other factors.
Current subject file; CICR Subject Alpha, dateline 18-09-2120, location State of Oklahoma, United States, American Continent. Conditions; Post-Pestilence. 123-345-212363PZ, record open. Personal report from subject follows.
***
I’ve been called many names in my time. Ahasvar. Buttadeus. Isaac. He Who Wanders Eternal. My real name’s Hugo. At the moment.
Death is unpleasant, unnatural death more so. How do I know? It’s because I’ve experienced more deaths that I’m comfortable remembering. From my ‘first’ as an old man succumbing to heart failure on a bed inside an infirmary chapel in the 1100s, to later ones as a young man caught in drive-by shootings or natural accidents in the late 2010s. But how am I able to survive all these deaths?
Apparently, I’m Death’s Watchman, someone who goes wandering the world and keeps a metaphoric finger on the pulse of humanity. The last one fulfilled their term and was allowed death, so I got picked at random from Death’s handbook of suitable souls. Mine is a millennium-long contract with Death to keep tabs on what goes on, whether there are gonna be wars or famines or plagues or purges or suchlike. I feel large numbers of dead, and when that happens Death appears and collects their souls, sending them for judgement in the Beyond. It’s a grim job – no pun intended – but it comes with a lot of travel.
At the time I’ve decided to remember, I was lying in a patch of scrub rubbing my chest, where some smartass cowboy with a gun had tried to shoot me. Pointless. All he did was kill himself, blowing a hole through his lungs. Basically any unnatural death I suffer is reflected back at its perpetrator. Quite unpleasant when I got caught by some pal of Gille de Rais and he.... well, he died in my place. It’s like there’s a huge mirror around me that reflects death, and reflects it back with deadly accuracy when it’s anything caused by another human being. Death says it’s divine justice, but I call it crap.
This period’s pretty much on a level with most of my other adventures. It’s while I was in the Mid West in 1849. The world had gone made for gold, as could be evidenced by the maniacal prospector who thought I was intruding on his “patch” and shot at me before I could explain. Guess he was lucky. He didn’t need to hang for my murder, only be found with a bullet from his own gun in his chest. He’d probably be put down either as a suicide or unsolved murder. Satan knew there were more than enough of them about the place. I didn’t envy the guy his quick way out.
Most people won’t tell you this, since they’re not in a position to. Dying hurts. It’s bloody painful being choked from behind. Or being stabbed, shot, falling off cliffs, drowning in the sea, burning to death, being buried, even once being stoned. But I didn’t die. No matter how many times, I never died. So when she appeared before me and asked me that question, I wasn’t in a mood to be polite.
“Tell me, do you still wish to live?”
The question was idiotic. Of course I wanted to live. Who didn’t wanna live? But I also wanted to die. Here I was, aching like hell because some son of a bitch shot me over something silly, going through the same weird process I’d gone through how many hundred times before... I didn’t feel like being polite.
“What the hell d’you think?” I spat the words at her, “You don’t think I enjoy this, do you? I’m not like those creeps who need it to get high.”
The woman raised an eyebrow. “I hardly see the need for such rudeness. You are wearing something. Something that has attached itself to you quite strongly. I am here to ask whether you are still willing to be its custodian.”
“F--- off!”
You get the idea of what I said, I guess. She didn’t answer. Instead she simply vanished. Damned angels, always coming back to clarify things for their bloody records. Oh well, guess this rant's over. I didn’t like writing it, but since they asked whether I should file a formal complaint, I have done. That's it! Finished! Finito! Wish I could...
