Thirteen weeks and a goodbye after the fall.

  It took a lot of work to get everyone to leave the place we called home. Some people accepted it with a dejected sigh, and some people fought like we were personally responsible for the fall. Honestly, I couldn’t blame them for that feeling. After recovering from a devastating loss, their newfound life was being snatched away.

  Again.

  They’d watched from bedroom windows and office towers as creatures made of ink roamed the streets and took every person they didn’t kill. They couldn’t fight the creatures. Most could only watch in fear as police officers and soldiers alike were cut down. If the AHF couldn’t stop them from taking anyone they wanted, how in the hell could a person with no combat experience even expect to inconvenience them?

  That didn’t stop people, though. The number of citizens that took up arms in whatever manner they could was admirable. They died in the street like cattle taken out to slaughter, but they did it with a weapon in their hands and courage in their hearts. But that’s how things always went, didn’t they? Without fail, the blood the brave always paved the way for people like me; the coward who just wanted to see the open sky one more time.

  Lately, there’d been more days like this, and each time, the clarity lasted a little longer. The lack of constant factory production was having a healing effect on the world, and it was visible in the clouds. Above, I could just barely see the silver glint of ships coming and going from the lunar base. Did they know how many people were trapped down here? Did they care? I hoped they did, but I feared they didn’t.

  I’ve seen so much in my long life. I’ve been a ruler, an advisor, a voter, and an outsider. I’ve known kings and queens, democracies and dictatorships, theocracies and true autonomy. None of them were perfect, but each aspired to emerge as the ultimate solution for their people.

  Humanity built so much in their short time on this planet. Megalithic monuments that have endured for millennia, a moral code that transcends religion, and an unbreakable sense of community. None of this existed in my brother’s lifetime.

  It was the most important piece of society, and the missing piece of every fallen empire. When a community consumes a lesser one, the first thing to be stamped out is the sense of acceptance. Often, it is a test of an invaders’ greed, and it was one they failed time and time again.

  Sunlight warmed me, gently kissing my face and cleansing my mind of the pain and sin I held on to like an identity. Its warming glow brought back memories long since pushed to the back of my mind. As I laid there, I realized something I’ve been afraid to admit for so long.

  I wasn’t sorry.

  I’ve done awful things. Every time life forced me to repeat the sin of murder that cursed me with this long existence, I hear the screams of the dying in my thoughts for years after. But that wasn’t the case tonight. I left that building knowing the accountants would die in that fire, and I accepted that.

  They weren’t misguided souls, caught up in the events around them. They were humans that chose to consume the flesh of others simply because they didn’t want to work for their sustenance. It was that knowledge that drove me to seek them out, and it was that knowledge that wiped away any regret I felt about what I’d done.

  I lifted my arm and stared at the object in my hand. After learning the true source of humanity's power, I’d found and charged a single battery. I suspected it was the energy that powered my immortality. If so, it wasn’t the power of the gods; it was a tool used by the oldest race of beings in our universe.

  God did not curse me. The being I called god changed me into a something capable of recovering from the worst that nature could throw at me. Not a single part of me was human anymore. In a way, I was more like the mutants milling around the base of our building.

  Could the energy trapped inside this battery finally kill me? Did I even want to die anymore? Even if it could strip the power from my body, I wasn’t sure I wanted that anymore. For so long, I’d searched for the answer to a problem older than civilization itself. Now that I had the answer, it felt pointless. For the first time in a very long time, I had a home I loved and a society that would flourish if given the chance.

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  Taped to the bottom of the battery was a single button. When pressed, the bomb in the basement would blow and seal the tunnel. There was no point in going down there to fight in a last moment of glory like a viking giving his life for his kin.

  I could blow the basement now and save myself the drama of it all, but that didn’t feel like the right answer. I wanted to wait until they broke through the barrier and got inside; I wanted to eliminate the entire pod.

  Could I survive the collapse of an entire building? Yes, I had to survive. Even if it took a long time to claw my way out of the rubble, I would survive. There was no other option. Rebbecca and Chuck would wait for me, and with their help, I might build society one more time.

  Was that the redemption I’ve sought? Was the very act of rebuilding civilization from nothing over and over again my penance, or my prize? Or was I just the clockmaker, winding the spring of humanity every time the hour struck twelve?

  I’ve held many names in my lifetime. Most reading this will have guessed at least one, some may have even guessed two. Only the most observant will have guessed more, and I feel confident that none will have guessed them all.

  Ready for the next chapter of my life, I moved to the stairwell of my most recent home and took out a worn leather journal. It wouldn’t be long before this journal is complete, and it is ready to take its place on a shelf in Atlantis. The scratches of humans twisted beyond measure echo the scratching of my pen on paper. Soon, I will push the button and ride the explosion to the ground, only to get up and start over again in an hour.

  Vandre is the most recent in a long line of names. Most have no meaning, having made very little impact on history outside of having watched the world pass by. Others have shaped humanity through bounty and hardship alike.

  I was once John; I liked that name. It was one of the few times I didn’t use a name tied to the death of my brother… I did good things with John. Though I had to abandon him after the assassin shot me in the head. Too many people saw him die in that car for him to return a few days later.

  Before that, they knew me as Arjuna. Even after hearing my story, people were convinced I had some kind of supernatural ability to know right from wrong. They believed I was the ultimate warrior, incapable of falling in battle. I suppose, in a way, they were right.

  Mankind once knew me as Cambyses the Second, King of Kings and ruler of the known world. It was a title I held by virtue of power alone. After having lost an entire army in Egypt and some unfortunate unrest in Babylon, my adopted father sent me on a campaign hoping I would never return. I made sure his hope became a reality.

  One of my oldest identities is Romulus. To this day, many claim the brothers that built Rome were myth. I can’t claim that he was there from the beginning, but I brought him with me anyway. I carried his ghost through the ages and wove his image into the very stones of an empire.

  The first name I ever used was also the most unknown. For many years, I traveled across what is now Africa, bringing food, water, and other supplies to the wandering groups of humans in need. Eventually, we settled along the Nile and the people worshipped me as a god. For a long time, I honestly believed that myself.

  They called me Set, the god of the desert, storms, and foreigners. Then, one night while I was deep in my drink, I told my story to a priest. After that, I heard rumors about my supposed brother Osiris and how I’d murdered him. I lost the title of benevolent ruler and became chaos incarnate in a matter of a few short years. Gone were the days of being worshiped. I became a feared representation of darkness and all it encompasses.

  Of all my identities, I did the most good as Set. I wish I could have done more, but despite my longevity, I am powerless to change the past.

  But here we come to the end. To the name you will most likely know best, to the story I told when I wrote those dammed scrolls so long ago.

  You see, I wasn’t cursed for having malice in my heart. I wasn’t cursed out of hatred or forced to walk this long road because of greed. When I wrote those things about myself, I was convinced that I was evil. I was cursed because of a mistake that rang through history like the toll of a bell. I was cursed because a starving man broke open a bone to drink its marrow. In my feelings of betrayal, I embraced my rage for the first and most significant time.

  God cursed me because the man I attacked was my brother. I killed him because I was starving, and I’ve starved for death ever since. This power has kept me alive for a hundred thousand years, never allowing me to move on.

  Not a day goes by that I don’t think about him. Not a moment has passed where I don’t wish I had died instead.

  There is a name I’ve kept all this time. A name I hid in the background of religion while painting my sins as those of my brother. A name I abandoned to all but the most significant people who enter my life.

  Dear reader, you are now one of those significant people. If you’ve been to my vault, if you’ve seen my journals, then you already know my name. If you—by some chance—find this journal and I am no longer alive to care for it, please ensure it is placed with its brothers as a record of my life and the incredible history of humanity.

  My name—for those who haven’t guessed—is Cain, the first son of Adam and the murderer of Abel.