Now when I think of Finn, I think of a sentence that got stopped in the middle. A painting that will never be fully realized.
I died before we ever got the chance to be what we wanted to be.
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” I say at last. “He’s just someone who has an entire life to live. An entire lifetime worth of memories that will eventually add up and I will be nothing more than a tiny blip to him. Which is kind of bullshit, isn’t it? To die young and know that everyone you love will love other people, and you’re just existing in the afterlife, knowing that the person who’s the most important to you is slowly becoming the most important to someone else.”
My breath catches. I wait for the confession to make me feel better, but it doesn’t.
There’s nothing cathartic about discussing my own death.
Gil’s mouth twitches. “I was asking about the man who shot you.”
“Oh.” I fight the burn in my cheeks. “I didn’t know him. He was robbing a gas station and…” When my voice starts to shake, I clamp down on my anger. “He took something from me I’ll never get back. All I can do now is pretend he never existed.”
“Is that how you conquer your enemies? By ignoring them?”
“No,” I snap. “But it’s not like I can go back in time. And even if I could, I’m not a fighter. I don’t have powers like the rest of you.” I picture the gun, and the girl, and the split second it took to make my decision. I wouldn’t have been able to stop him, I plead with my own mind, hoping it will somehow make all of this easier to deal with.
Gil walks back to the books, running a finger over one of the spines like he’s searching for a memory. “For what it’s worth, nobody has powers. We simply have the ability to manipulate the world around us. Some of us are naturally better in certain areas than others, but all of it can be learned.” He hesitates before glancing my way. “Even by you.”
I tuck my hair behind my ears and give in to my curiosity. “If Ophelia created this place, how is it possible that we can still change it? Shouldn’t she have some kind of fail-safe that stops humans from becoming stronger?”
“Would you prefer if we couldn’t fight back?”
“Of course not,” I say, flustered. “I’m just trying to understand how Infinity works.” And how I’m ever going to fit in it.
Gil lets out a patronizing sigh. “Ophelia didn’t create Infinity—humans did. She can build as many courts as she wants, but she can’t stop us from interacting with this world.”
“Not unless we take the pill,” I say grimly.
He nods. “The heart of Infinity will always belong to humans first. It’s part of the reason Ophelia resents us so much. Without humans, Infinity would cease to exist.”
“She can’t survive without us.” I blink, absorbing the information like it’s part of a bigger puzzle. “Which means she’s not really free.”
Gil stiffens. “What does her freedom matter?”
“Is—isn’t that why she came to Infinity? Isn’t that what she wants?”
“What she wants is the end of human consciousness. But since she can’t have that without destroying herself—at least not until Death finds an alternative—then taking over our minds and turning us into servants is the next best thing.” He turns away from the bookshelf. “The Colony isn’t concerned about Ophelia’s reasons for coming to Infinity. She’s a virus; she needs to be stopped.”
A strange reservation wells up inside me, and I don’t know how to make sense of it. I don’t doubt the Colony’s motives, or the pain they’ve suffered at the hands of the Residents. But yesterday I was asking Ophelia to check the weather forecast, and today I’m being asked to join the people who hope to one day destroy her.
And I’m not saying the Colony is wrong for fighting back, but what does destroying Ophelia even mean? Is that like committing murder? Is killing an AI as morally reprehensible as killing another human being? And who gets to decide whether murder is an acceptable form of punishment?
My life was stolen from me. I know what it feels like, and I wouldn’t wish that kind of injustice on anyone. Maybe not even a Resident.
The confession slips out of me too quickly. “I know Annika expects me to join your fight, but I don’t think I can do it. I don’t want to be responsible for taking someone else’s life.” I take a breath, and the words that follow are just shy of a whisper. “Not even if it’s for the right reasons.”
“Does it count if the Residents aren’t technically alive?”
I don’t look away. “We aren’t technically alive. What makes us any different?”
His face hardens with a mixture of surprise and resentment. When he speaks, his words are like ice. “If you think you’d fare so much better on the other side of this war, you’re welcome to leave.”
My face flushes. I haven’t just stepped over a line—I’ve leapt over it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” I pause, wishing I could stuff my words back in my mouth. It’s one thing to make assumptions about a world I know nothing about, but it’s another thing entirely to share them out loud. Especially with the only person in the Colony who escaped from War.
“I’m tired. I don’t even know what I’m saying,” I say, hoping to smooth things over. It’s not exactly the truth, but it isn’t a lie, either. It’s hard to concentrate on anything when my brain feels like it’s being pulled in a thousand different directions.
Gil walks across the room like he’s grateful for an excuse to leave, but he stops just short of the doorway. “Sleep if you must. Annika wants to see you in the arena tomorrow; she thinks you’re ready to be tested.”
“For what?” I ask, heart thrumming.
“If you’re going to survive in Infinity, you need to learn how to control your consciousness. Testing your mind will help us figure out the best way to train you.” Tightening his mouth, he adds, “You may not want to fight, but maybe there’s some other way you can be useful.”
When he’s gone, I make my way to the bookshelf and find the leather book he seemed so entranced with.
It’s a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. I wonder if that’s how Gil sees himself—as a prisoner who escaped, seeking revenge. And maybe that’s how I’m supposed to see myself too, but I don’t. I don’t care about revenge. I just want to feel safe.
I split the novel open with my thumb, expecting to see words lining the pages, but to my surprise, every sheet of paper is blank. It’s as if the book had never been written at all.
A story lost to time. Lost to memory.
Because everything in the past will one day be forgotten. Whether it’s books or art or pain—one day I will forget the short life I lived. I might even forget the people I care about most.
It should scare me, but it doesn’t. I’m not sure I want to spend a thousand lifetimes missing my family when I know seeing them again means the worst has happened.
I don’t want my family to die. I don’t want them to come here.
So maybe forgetting them is a kindness. Maybe it’s a way to survive.