This story took me close to two years to write, given that I had trouble coming up with the reincarnation scenes, and the in-between scenes with Decim and the dark-haired woman. The reincarnation scenes aren't the only past lives between them; I merely limited them to four.

The dark-haired woman wasn't a talkative one, but when she spoke, her words always mattered.

Or perhaps, Decim thought, it was because he preferred to hear her speak. There were a few judgments where he would have thought otherwise without her perspective. There was the woman who feigned sweetness, only to be cheating during her game, and appearing to make her opponent seem the worse in frustration. There was the man who was shouting and overly aggressive, only because he was scared, as another example.

Once, while clearing away the bar, his assistant glanced up at him. Decim paused from where he was restocking the bottles of wine. The towel she had been using to wipe off the bar dropped to lie on its side, and Decim watched her sit heavily down upon the bar stool, her head in one hand.

He moved toward her, his shadow falling over her. His hand brushed the top of her wrist. "Don't," he said as a comfort.

She lowered her hand to stare up at him, a scowl on her face. "You don't feel regret, do you?"

He gave a shake of the head.

"Well, that's unfortunate, then," she muttered, rising to scrub the counter more harshly than before. She didn't speak to Decim again until the next day.

-Pre-modern-day Nunavut, Canada, 1354-

He had never meant to take Ticasuk with him, but there was no choice. Times had gotten hard for everyone in the village, with food being scarcer. While Kallik had spoken with his wife on the prospect of children, he found himself lucky that they had not been able to go through with it. Their children would have starved.

Within the darkest nights of winter, their hunting party had left, carrying women with it this time due to the scarcity. She'd rowed alongside him in the boat, her dark braids bouncing with the movements of her arms, and her eyes narrowed in concentration. Blades had broken and needed mended. They'd come close when an orca had been speared, only for the massive dolphin to disappear beneath the ice floe, leaving a trail of blood in its wake. They'd already lost two of their party from the orca, dwindling its numbers down to three.

Now, however, there was a problem. The mother polar bear was angry that her cubs were threatened, the hunters needing all three, including the mother, for their meat. With a massive roar, the mother reared back on her hind paws, with her cubs darting across the floe for safety. Her large eyes reflected the moonlight menacingly as Kallik flung his spear at her. He gnashed his teeth in annoyance as the spear missed to be stuck in the snow, his aim worn down by exhaustion and lack of food. The bear charged, and he pulled his hunting knife from his pocket. Uki's shout sounded from behind him, and two arrows shot through the air, one sticking in the bear's side.

Blood hit the ground from the side of the bear, who let out a roar of pain, shaking herself out before pounding toward him. Kallik took a breath, and charged to the side, the bear's harsh breath, smelling rankly of seal, and blood, blowing into his face. He held his breath and tore into the bear's neck with his knife. She reared up, taking him with her, his feet leaving the ground.

The bear's claws tore through his hood, exposing his snow-white hair to the blistering cold. He gritted his teeth against the pain as he crashed to the ground on his side. Kallik groaned, and attempted to move his hand forward, but it was useless, the limb broken. He could only let out a defeated groan as the polar bear pounded toward Ticasuk, who held her side, panting heavily from the pain from a raking of claws.

His vision faded away as she threw her spear at the bear.

XXXXXX

It was sad whenever a child appeared at the bar, but it was not uncommon. Decim did have lollipops under the bar, near the cash register, and he often handed the dish to his assistant, who would present it to the children. At times, however, he would be careful to remove a few from the dish, specifically the car-shaped ones.

She came to dislike the appearance of the candy dish, as it usually meant that it would be a sad occasion. Little children would cry, with smiling lollipops in their hands, begging to be allowed to go home, and to see their parents or grandparents again. Some would beg for a beloved toy, or a balloon, as a comfort. She'd sit with them on the booths, allowing a little boy or girl to rest his or her head in her lap, and cry, while she stroked their hair or back. They'd cry to the elevators, not sure where they would go, despite the comfort given by Decim that they had passed.

"Have children ever failed?" She asked quietly as Decim put the candy dish away again.

"It has happened," he replied, glancing up at her.

She frowned and said nothing more. The next day, while behind the bar, she noticed a new hanging mannequin, the size of a child. Asking Decim to join her, she pointed at it. "Could I help you dress this one?"

Decim felt compelled to say no, given the fact that he was talking to mannequin, herself. Wanting to keep up the charade, however, he replied, "This once, yes, you may."

A little girl with her hair under a pink bow later took up residence beside the lily pond, her extended hand open just above a floating lily pad.

-Lyons, France, 1548-

"Burn them! Burn the witches!"

Jeers and angered screams broke forth from the sea of people who crowded the platform, which was heavily piled with wood. To Romain, it still hadn't quite sunken in that he was going to die. He could feel his wrists bleeding from where the ropes had cut through them, and he could smell the sulfur of the clothing that he had been forced to wear, but it all seemed surreal to him.

"Let me see her! I beg of you!" He'd wept for his Faustine, while imprisoned in his cell, and awaiting his day of execution. Their home was burned to the ground before their very eyes, their livestock killed, and their crops razed. Their loyal hound, Bisou, was decapitated while defending his master by biting and tearing into the legs of the villagers, who demanded the blood of the white-haired devil.

It had been only a moment of respite to see her one last time. It tore at his heart to see her bound to the pole next to his before being roughly spun about, and tied, as well. Faustine's face bore recent bruises as Romain's did. He jerked against the pole, but it was useless.

As the flames rose, he could only beg the Almighty God, if he listened to him even now, to be reunited with his wife in Heaven.

XXXXXX

"Will you teach me to make drinks?" She'd asked.

With a nod, Decim gestured for her to follow him behind the bar. "We'll begin with the easier drinks," he explained as a preface. Though she was careful with the drinks, not spilling anything, she did become frustrated when the accurate colors did not appear in the mixture, with purples appearing as dark blues, or sunset oranges manifesting as sickly yellows.

Decim would tell her, politely, to be patient whenever she began to mix too hard, the glass tinkling under her ministrations. Having subjective opinion removed from the equation, he was able to her exactly how the taste was off. Though she did appreciate the accuracy, it did get grating, at times, when mistakes were repeated.

Decim would chide her, saying that it took time to master mixing drinks, and that there was no judgment, as she did not have to mix. Relaxing before him at the bar, she would enjoy one of his creations, and wonder if she would ever become that good.

On one occasion, Decim decided to entertain her by pitching the bottle in the air to catch. "How do you do that?" She asked, raising an eyebrow.

Decim, despite himself, felt that he wanted to continue to show off. Shaking the bottle between his hands, he threw it backwards. It cartwheeled in the air over his head. About-facing, he caught it in both hands. "Practice."

She shook her head at his sarcastic reply, though it didn't take away from the grin, and the placing of her hand on her hip. Kneading his hands on the bottle, Decim found that he didn't want to look away from her expression.

-Pittsburgh, United States of America, 1867-

"You're going to be all right, Conrad! Stay with me!"

Conrad gave a weak smirk at his friend's words. Horst meant well, but kind words would not save him. His blood pooled on the floor around his mangled right arm and right leg from the crush injury. A hole had dug into his side from the machine falling on him. His white hair was streaked red, his blue eyes bloodshot.

The foreman in the background screamed at the others to get back to work, quit paying attention to the immigrant trash on the floor, and to clean off the machine. Horst shook him in vain, his voice becoming more frantic as he began to fade from his vision. He hoped that no one would tell Elsa how he had died. She had enough to worry about at the cotton factory. She'd taken her hair down from its bun last night, its long, dark strands hanging over her shoulders as she'd held him in her arms, his head buried in her pale breasts.

As Horst began to fade from Conrad's vision, he could only hope that the pay Elsa would be given for his death would be enough to keep her fed for a while.

XXXXXX

"Could I make a request?" Decim asked Nona, once when his assistant had gone up to bed.

Nona was seated on one of the circular couches, her feet propped up on it. Clavis was at the bar, enjoying a bowl of red bean ice cream. "What do you need?" She asked lazily, tired from a long day of monitoring each respective bar, and from the subject matter of the higher levels. Nona smirked. Decim's, being the lowest level, should have given her the least of her issues, but it ended up being the opposite, with the presence of the dark-haired woman upstairs.

"May I see videos of my assistant, from when she used to ice skate?" Decim asked quietly.

Swinging her legs around to put her feet on the floor, Nona shook her head. "I can't allow you to get too close to her, Decim. Her time is almost up."

Decim glanced at his manager sideways. "Then who am I with?"

Nona glanced sharply up at him. "You are with a human assistant, who killed herself. She's an experiment, Decim. That's it." And, she thought to herself, if Oculus noticed certain materials funneling into Decim's bar, that would cause a problem. She was lucky for her boss's apathy.

"We have lived together for nearly one and a half months, however," he commented, his hand moving over to his arbiter's badge. Nona's eyes followed his movements and narrowed her eyes. There, a human heart would have beat. Perhaps her creation functioned a little too well. A better test subject would have been two completely different beings, not a "linked" double like this pair. Still, given her limited time frame, she needed results. With the death count spiraling out of control, as well, it was imperative that the experiment be completed.

"And you have been the proprietor of this bar for several years," she replied evenly, "One and a half months is little is comparison."

"May I then ask for more time?" Decim inquired. His breath caught as she seized him by his shirt collar, yanking him toward her. Clavis turned in his seat, and Nona waved him off. With a shrug, he turned back to his ice cream.

"This is exactly my point," Nona growled, "You are forgetting who she is to you. She is your assistant, nothing more. I assigned her to you, and as your manager, I may retract that assignment at any time I chose. Are we clear?"

After a pause, Decim replied, "Yes, ma'am."

Releasing his collar, she stood up, adjusting her uniform. "Good. Now, make me a drink, will you? I need something to take the edge off."

Dutifully, Decim gave a slight bow, and headed back for the bar.

-Osaka, Japan, 1971-

Aito slowly raised his head, his body battered and bloody, and his clothing shredded from the clubs and knives of the rival gang. There were four of them, illuminated sporadically by the swaying light. The oldest was Hiro, but the more dangerous of them was Daiki, who was jumpy, and prone to striking or harming Aito.

He'd given up hope of being rescued from this interrogation. He hadn't enough prominence to his bosses, being a mere foot soldier. He was an easy loss to cut for a drug deal that had gone poorly.

Yoko was dead. Her bloody body was lying in a bathtub, her black hair sheared off, and lying on the floor beside the tub. He regretted immensely dragging her into all of this. They'd tortured her for information on his location, his habits, and anything else on him. The last he'd seen of her was her cooking a cup of ramen for herself. He'd promised her that he'd be leaving this life behind, and he had been planning to do so, but the timetable had kept slipping. There was always loyalty to prove, or one more job to complete. Now there was no time left.

Aito lowered his head, his teeth gritted. A rough hand yanked it up, and he gasped. Silver flashed through the air, and tore through his eyes, the last image he saw exploding into red. Aito collapsed to his hands and knees, with his warm blood falling on them. He screamed from the pain, and jerked about the floor, the chains that bound his limbs together clanking.

A rough kick set him skidding across the floor. "We're only just getting started, kid!" They descended upon him in the darkness, and Aito screamed until their brutality and the harsh pain at last cut off.

He awoke slumped at a bar, with a red-haired man sneering down at him. A middle-aged woman sat, indignant, beside him, drumming her fingers upon the bar and reminding a cup of rice wine. The bartender, still giving that indignant sneer, slammed it down before her.

In the middle of the game, Aito was straddling that same woman, strangling her. Attached to both of their arms were electric controllers, their holographic kaiju paused before themselves. Each were covered in blood from the blows of each kaiju. He felt as if his organs were ripped loose, from his kaiju, a three-headed dragon, having the opposing kaiju, a woolly purple creature, jamming its hand into its innards. "I won't die, you hear me?! I WON'T DIE!" His voice cracked. "I CAN'T!"

"Disgusting," the bartender, who had introduced himself as Ginti, muttered, his arms folded as he leaned backward against the counter. Aito swung his head up to stare at him, his grip slackening on the woman, and the color returning to her face. Placing his hands to the top of his head, he let out a strangled scream of grief.

Aito lowered his head, his arms falling to his sides as he felt the car descend. Memories were slowly stripped from him, birthdays, a graduation, good times at festivals and parks, and bad, fights, illnesses, and grief. He wept for them all, knowing that he would never get them back.

Long, black hair whirled, and a bright, smiling face turned back to him. He couldn't remember that face and wondered for a moment who she was.

The next thing he remembered, he awoke as a nameless man, his head in the lap of a girl with long blue hair telling him that his name was Decim.

XXXXXX

He never needed to sleep, though lying upon a bed was comfortable.

She raised her head at his footsteps. Pausing in the doorway, he rapped upon the frame. He took care to stand behind the threshold. "Decim?"

She was half-curled upon herself, her dark hair sticking up from being pressed against the pillow. Her legs were stretched out, the pads of her bare feet out toward him. Decim had redressed the discarded mannequins of bodies after their judgments had gone wrong, but without any desire, with it being his craft. For this woman, however, he felt drawn to her, disheveled as she was from a long day.

"My apologies for intruding," he replied with a bow. She smiled, indicating that he was fine. "I fear that I have not been gracious to my assistant. How are you?"

She raised herself from the bed up on her elbows. "You can come in, if you want," she replied, "I'm your guest, here."

"More so that I inquire, then," Decim replied, grapsing the chair at her desk.

She turned her head to follow his movements, and he found himself enjoying her curiosity. Tugging it out, he placed it before her to look at her head-on. She slowly closed her pink eyes, running the back of her hand over one of them. "I feel like I'm on unstable ground."

Decim's eye widened at that. "I don't understand."

"Decim," her hand dropped at her side, "Why am I here?"

"You are my assistant," he replied, holding out a hand, "Judgments must be made. That cannot stop. You are, in many ways, my equal and complement."

"This is to be my life?" She asked.

He nodded his head. "Nona, I believe, informed you of such."

The dark-haired woman nodded her head, her expression becoming humorous. "Then I should be grateful. I have a job, and a place, here."

Decim stared quietly at her before asking, "Do you desire more?"

She placed a hand to the side of her head. Leaning her elbow against the wall, her expression became distant. "I feel pulled, in some way, to discover more," her eyes flicked over to him, "I'm not ungrateful for your having me here. This bar is beautiful, but it's contained."

"Would this not be preferable, however, given what we have seen in our judgments?" Decim inquired.

She shook her head. "We can't compare our lives against those of others."

"Perhaps not, but it does offer perspective."

She dropped her arm to turn her head. "I offer you perspective. What other view are we taking?"

Decim detected the slight rise in her voice and understood that the woman was beginning to become defensive. Humans were quite quick to anger, he noticed, and he had to tread carefully. However, she was not outright aggressive, and the pause he took in formulating a reply gave her the opportunity to settle. "The view that perhaps having a life with a foregone conclusion bodes better than a life where the outcome is unknown. It is less painful, that way."

She shook her head. "Not always." She pointed at the bookshelf behind Decim, who turned to glance over his shoulder at it. "Take that bookcase, for example. There are only books about making alcohol, and operating a bar."

"If you like, I could bring you new books to read," Decim offered.

"Thanks, but that wasn't my point," she explained, "We only extend our thinking to the bar, and its judgments. Nothing changes."

"Would that not be a nice life, however? No harm comes to either of us, here. You are clothed, fed, and have a place to sleep in. What more could be desired?" He offered squarely.

She run a hand through her hair. "Decim, if you are judging the lives of human beings, you can't limit yourself like that. You would fail to understand them."

Decim thought on the first judgment of his that she had witnessed, when his conclusion had been incorrect. "Perhaps you are correct."

As her tired expression began to relax, Decim felt a sense of inspiration. Glancing down at her foot, which was curled on the bedspread from where she had taken off her heels, he picked it up to hold it between his hands. The dark-haired woman's eyes, narrowed in suspicion, slowly widened with pleasure as he massaged it. She groaned, arching her back as he stroked over the sole of her foot. "That feels good," she whispered. Curving her foot into the motion, she lay back over the pillow, her arm behind her head. Decim's hand carefully traced over the pad, marking the imperfections on it, the scars, scabs, and callouses. With a sigh, she added, "Thank you."

Decim gave a nod of acknowledgment and let go. Looking up at her, however, he paused.

She held out a hand to him, and he took it, quietly contemplating her body. "What is it?" She asked.

"You are an attractive woman," he commented.

She slowly smiled at that. Propping her hands on the surface of the bed, she gave a small nod, her eyes closed with a slight smile. "Thank you."

He gave a thought to the question as to whether, by human standards, the woman was acting coy. When she glanced up at him, she was staring up through her eyelashes, and Decim realized that he had been reading her correctly. Falling back onto what he knew, he inquired, "Do you need any further assistance?"

Her face fell, and he wondered what he had done wrong. "No, I'm okay." She shifted, drawing her feet back together, her arms folded over her knees.

Decim stared at the forlorn expression on her face, and commented, "You are lying."

"I know," she replied, "but there's not much I can really do, at this point."

Decim slowly realized what it was. He had seen it before, especially among the younger or the older souls who had arrived at his bar. He sat down upon the edge of the bed, and she glanced up at him. "Would you like me to stay?"

She shut her eyes and placed her head in-between her knees. She gave a slight nod. Decim slid slowly forward and placed his arms about her. She paused in her breathing and muttered a word of thanks. Decim smoothed down her hair, and, for a moment, it occurred to him that the movement was familiar.

Thinking nothing of it, he allowed this strange woman to breathe and sigh against him.