Childbirth

Subject: Mortimer | Classif.: Sirath

Traditional forensic ballistics tests on the bullet and casing did not help much. The only conclusive finding was the model of the firearm that was used. And with it being the most common pistol in existence, Tim wasn’t too pleased. Unless they had the actual murder weapon on hand, this information was almost good-for-nothing.

Luckily for him, traditional methods weren’t the only tests at his disposal.

As a containment facility discovered in the last Age, Pris’s power of observation was closer to that of omniscience. Considering it had to deal with hundreds of world-ending threats back in the day, its ability to study them was second-to-none. So while the true science behind the magic-based tests in the lab eluded him, running the gamut of scans yielded extremely promising information.

First, there was zero trace of an Aberration affecting the bullet. The weapon, the perpetrator, they were all naturally occurring within this reality. Second, was the way an ordinary bullet fired from an ordinary pistol could kill the most extraordinary Immortal.

Like Tim in the past, Vita had multiple layers of immortality, on top of the one she got from swearing fealty to the king. Even without said layers, she was notorious for being able to undo any and all damage taken. A Gift that made Tim’s healing look slow in comparison. Being unkillable was one thing. She was outright invincible.

Without reality-altering factors at play, the lab’s analysis suggested that she lost the same way any regular Immortal did: She got countered. The simile of Immortal combat being likened to a chess game still held true.

The murderer had the ability to outright negate Gifts and magic.

That was the only conclusion Tim could glean from the report. A 99% probability was attached to it. If it turned out to be the 1% labelled “unknown,” then they were screwed. “Unknown” was reserved for entities beyond even the likes of a Qanthorah like Pris. And for all his unceasing life, only one being ever fell into that category.

And it was about time for him to pay it a visit.

Making his way to the lounge, he was surprised Mia wasn’t here. Only her scent. The same herbal shampoo he salvaged from The Wishing Well all those years ago. Regardless of what other random brand he switched to, she always smelled of overcast skies. A reminder of the short time they both spent on The Surface, their one common denominator.

This aroma of nostalgia swirled around the corridors, painting a picture of her running before fading away. Maybe it was due to Pris’s resetting the rooms, but he wished it lingered longer. But other than losing the scent from his nose, he realized something else was missing.

Pris was being awfully quiet.

“Hey Pris, you good?” He asked the room he was in. A hidden wine cellar meant for the now-extinct higher-ups who ran the facility.

“I require more context to answer that question.”

The delay was noticeable. Back then, Pris had no issues communicating with hundreds individually and at the same time. Even from its emotionless tone, he could tell that the supercomputer-like Aberration wasn’t feeling so super.

“You said you were operating at only 4%, right?”

“Correct.”

“You holding up alright?”

“Within expectations of my current output. Yes.”

“Tell me, which one should I pick?” He asked, taking out two different wine bottles, comparing each one.

The one on the left was so ancient, even the label didn’t know when it was made. Hand-painted instead of printed, only bits of pigment were left. Tim guessed it was over 100,000 years old at a minimum. The bottle was cloudy. The liquid, murky. He could imagine the nectar’s heaven-sent taste at the tip of his tongue. Probably tasted like the dying god’s piss.

The one on the right was a “theoretical” wine. Like how some artists drew weird shapes on a canvas and called it their vision of the future, this was some scientist’s interpretation of the evolution of alcohol. A result of them asking whether “they could” instead of whether “they should.” The bottle was steel instead of glass, reminding him of a gas canister. His years of experience sampling all kinds of swill in Pitstop told him this would taste like rocket fuel.

“...”

No answer came from the walls hiding behind the wine rack. Only a jab.

“You’ve already made up your mind,” Pris pointed out.

“Wrong answer.”

“What you’re planning to do is futile.”

“Like how you’re keeping reality intact at only 4%?”

“That is my duty.”

“Same goes for me.”

Keeping the rocket fuel back into the rack, he took the prehistoric wine with him. The dust on the bottle was so thick, he imagined Mia having an aneurysm, the neat freak in her taking out her wipes to cleanse the container. Thinking of his daughter as he left the cellar, he found the heart to ask Pris:

“You’re scared of dying, aren’t you?”

“Incorrect. I was never alive to begin with.”

“But when you drop to 0%, you stop existing, no? That’s pretty much the same as dying.”

“Nonexistence is not death. Death implies the possibility of revival. As the Lord of Death, you should know better.”

“Alright then, lemme rephrase that.” Taken aback by the monotone sass of the Aberration, he thought for a bit. “Are you scared of not existing anymore?”

“I am… not sure.”

“Is that why you’re taking longer to think before talking?”

“I do not see the correlation.”

Letting out a tired sigh, he took out a proverbial page from his own book. “You’re worried your time is running out, so you’re more careful of how to spend it. You wanna make the most of what’s left.”

“That reasoning eluded my observation. Perhaps you are correct. Perhaps, I am… ‘scared.’”

“Well, good to know you’re normal.”

“I have a question.”

That’s new. A godlike being experiencing existential dread. But for him, it was a welcome feeling. Having an organic conversation with someone closer to his level.

“I have seen many humans and Aberrations die. They all react differently. But you… you are indifferent. You are indifferent to the knowledge of your demise. Why is that so?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because someone keeps telling me, ‘happy dying,’ so much until my fear gets evened out with happiness.”

“That was a personality quirk I inherited. I do not mean it literally.”

“Maybe, but that doesn’t mean I can’t take that literally now, can’t I?”

By the time he asked that, he was already standing in front of the swimming pool door. Having this whole conversation with the building drowned out the whispers that always invaded his mind when he was near.

He put the wine bottle on the floor. Only after severing his right hand and leaving it by the door outside did he pick up the bottle once more.

“Warning. You are about to enter an Aberration containment unit. Class unknown. Potential effects include death by… everything. Are you sure what you are about to do is worth it?”

“C’mon, Pris, you’re acting like it’s my first time in there.”

“It’s a preprogrammed response. I am reminding you of the futility of your actions.”

“How kind of you.”

With a pause, the building switched personalities once more.

“Kindly provide verbal acknowledgment by saying ‘yes.’”

“Yes.”

“Happy dying!”

The corridor Tim was in failed to maintain its appearance. Bending, reflecting, painting and repainting over the canvas of reality again and again. Even though he was still standing normally, the floor beneath him was gone. Pris struggled to maintain visual coherence of the room. Only a blur was left. Except for the door.

The swimming pool door did not open. It simply forgot to exist. Neither Tim nor Pris could tell if a door was ever there in the first place. It didn’t just blink out of reality. Past, present, and future, every single trace of it, from the fabric of memory to the very concept of a door, was deleted.

For the brief moment the containment unit was opened, not a single person in the entire world could recall what a door was.

For all Tim knew, there was a rectangular frame in front of him. Its purpose was unknown. But this did not change his goals. He remained firm in what needed to be done. He had to enter.

Walking past the frame, the scenery before him changed. A large, translucent membrane was suspended in front of him, dangling from infinity. An amniotic sac. The same kind of cavity that enveloped the placenta inside a pregnant woman. Only, there was no baby.

Yet, he heard their cries. Underneath the hanging membrane was hell itself. Wayl. The name of hell in this reality, separate from the one he knew. As the name implied, it was a place of endless wailing. Infants, newborn and unborn, filled the endless void he was in with their crying. Their shapes, vaguely visible beneath the empty amniotic sac, were stretched infinitely thin in a helix, forming a whirlpool of souls.

Their shrieks of anguish stirred a sense of urgency within Tim. A primal drive to provide care for the young, ingrained into his very DNA. It took him everything not to dive straight down into that whirlpool like so many had done before. Fighting against his own paternal instincts, he stepped into the amniotic sac, its mucus-like sensation embracing his skin.

He shut his eyes, taking on a fetal position. The wailing turned to bubbling as the amniotic sac plunged into the whirlpool. Even as he was submerged, he did not feel like he was floating, but free-falling. As if the hypothetical womb he was in was collapsing for all of eternity. He fought against the urge to break out. To save himself.

Allowing himself to be vulnerable and putting his full faith in the membrane that covered him, the feeling of being in freefall vanished. The sac came to a halt, suspended once more by the inestimable length of the umbilical cord connected to it. When he opened his eyes, all of it was gone. The sac. The crying. Everything.

He found himself standing on an endless plain of tall red grass, its stalks bending, blown by a breeze that did not exist. Towering above it all was something that borrowed the form of a dead tree. No bark. No leaves.

And yet, this was the tree of life. A paradoxical being, taking root in the pits of Wayl. A mother whose existence insulted the very concept of childbirth. An affront to life.

Its hollowed-out trunk was soft and pink. Vaginal tissue contracted and expanded, constantly trying to give birth. It breathed as if it were in labor. In its desperation to bear children, it failed to notice its fruits. Fetuses that dangled by the fallopian tube-like branches at the top. Silent. Stillborn.

Just looking at it was causing Tim to be sick to his stomach. But he could not bring himself to hate it.

“I see you’ve kept the light on for me,” he said to the tree. He was truly grateful. The only reason why he was here was because it allowed him to exist. At any moment, it could take that privilege away.

Taking a seat right in front of it, he used his remaining hand to pour out the wine over its roots of crystallized blood.

“This will ease the pain.”

As if responding to him, the tree seemed to relax. Its birth canal did not pulsate as much as before, slowing down.

“You know, the craziest thing happened.” He continued. “I’m actually a dad now. She’s not actually mine, but… I’m a father.”

He paused, giving space for the tree to reply. There was none.

“Taking care of her is already driving me up the wall, so, honestly, I feel like I finally get you for once. But just, how in the world do you do it? Being a parent and all…” His eyes looked away. “It’s been so long. I just… wish you would talk to me.”

But it wouldn’t.

“I wish you would just admit to me that you had a choice and you chose wrong.”

It didn’t have a choice.

“Sorry… so many years passed. And we’re still bickering like this.”

Just you.

“I miss you. I really do.”

Silence.

“But… Actually, after this, I don’t think I’ll be visiting anymore. I’ll… I’ll finally get to rest. Maybe you’ll get yours that way, too.”

He doused himself with the remaining wine in the bottle. The blood over his severed right stump turned black. And with a snap of his fingers from his left, he lit himself on fire.

“Goodbye, Mom.”