The truth of the matter is I never truly believed in God. Yes, I did have fantasies of Heaven and eternal happiness, but what human being doesn't? But they were just that: fantasies. There was no utopia, no pearly gates opening up to an expansive castle in the sky. Elysium, Heaven, whatever you may call it: it didn't exist. Humanity didn't deserve such beauty. Earth was our paradise, which we fucking ruined, by the way. Humanity is a disease, set out to ruin whatever good thing is handed to us. It's just in our nature. Earth was our shiny new toy, our chance at eternal happiness, and we broke it. No more chances for us!

Reincarnation, on the other hand… It seems nice and all; a second chance at life, a chance to make things right and learn from your mistakes. But, really, is it? There's no guarantee you actually get to live out that life. You could be reborn anywhere. Your circumstances could be worse. I mean, imagine being reborn in a third world country to a family steeped in poverty. And if we're getting into fictional universes, imagine getting reborn into Hunger Games. Yeah, I said it. See what I mean? It's not all sunshine and daisies. Some universes are better left untouched.

But… Since you're reading this, you probably already know where I'm going with this. Yeah, I got reincarnated. It sucked, I guess. But what do I know? I'm just the result, the person recounting their journey to you after it already ended. Maybe I'm wiser, hardened, a better person than I was before. But if you want the real hilarity and nitty-gritty angsty shit, then you need to visit me at the beginning of the journey, snivelling coward I was, too concerned about "plot" before I just said fuck it. And hey, maybe you'll learn something from them. But like I said earlier: what do I know?

••••••••••••••

Dying was unprecedented, like it usually is. Nobody really plans their time of death and the way they die, after all. Me? I don't remember how I died, but I do remember what came after.

It was dark, but it wasn't cold. Maybe it was, when I could still feel temperature, but at that time, there was none. There was no sound, no light, and I couldn't feel myself breathe, couldn't feel my heart beat. One by one, the color faded away and my senses were stolen out from under me. Which way was up? Which way was down? Was I floating? Laying down? Sitting? Standing? What was happening to me?

What stole my senses starting tearing away my memories too, my emotions. I didn't remember who I was, couldn't recall a single thing about myself. Maybe I was scared, but I forgot was fear felt like. I forgot happiness, anger, forgot everything. I was nothing. Not even a person anymore.

Death strips away your identity. It strips away your humanity, tears your soul and flushes it down the drain. Death is the destruction of the human, all of it: the body, the soul, the identity, the emotions. Nothing is left for you, after death.

I couldn't tell time in that void. I didn't even know what time was. Nothing mattered, because I didn't know everything. There wasn't even an 'I'.

But I woke up. After a while, I opened my eyes to a ceiling, devoid of emotions and memories and any sense of identity.

I was just a child. Maybe coming into a year. But slowly, everything trickled back into me. First were the emotions, untamed and uncontrollable in my soft, young new fleshbag. Then were the memories, fragmented pieces of information and of my identity I guarded closely. By the time I was seven, I had accumulated every last bit of whatever the void of death had permitted me to have. Was I grateful? Not really. I could still feel that nothingness, that loss and destruction in my dreams. I never had nightmares, just flashbacks. Memories of death.

I wasn't sure what this body's name was. I was shoved into a male aligned baby human, sure, but did I think of myself as male? Not exactly. I barely thought of myself as a gendered being. That was a product of my first life, one of the few things I clung to so strongly. I don't think I ever really settled on a name back then, either. So going nameless or by senseless nicknames were fine here, for now.

There was nothing particularly exciting about being a child. After collecting all pieces of my previous life, there wasn't much to do. Languages would've been welcome, but the family I was born into didn't have much money. The mother wasn't there, but the father? He was the only prominent person in this life.

Like my first life, I would have no fond memories of being a child.

The father's heart gave out, luckily for me, and just in time, as well. There was an old man with an offer of his hand, who called himself Bookman.

My first clue to which world I got conned into.

He wasn't too tall, but he wasn't a midget, either. He had the dark makeup around his eyes, but I wasn't sure if that was a trait unique to the Bookman of the series, or if it was traditional for Master Bookmen to wear such makeup.

Nevertheless, I had a sneaking suspicion to exactly when I ended up.

••••••••••••••

"Why do I even have to wear this stupid thing…" I mumbled, flicking an auburn strand over my shoulder and adjusting the mask over my face.

Bookman swatted my hands away from fiddling anymore with the mask, slipping his own into sleeves after ascertaining I wasn't going to raise my fingers to the blank white plate that stretched to cover my entire face. "Tradition," he replied primly, and I sighed.

The clan of Bookman was located in the catacombs of a mountain, at least, the main branch was. Being picked as a successor for the Bookman, the main recorder of history, was a bigger deal than I'd originally figured. I had been told I already "had the beginner's eyes for it", my perfect recall, which was the very reason that compelled Bookman to pick me up in the first, but apparently I needed to reach the "proper level". Shuddering internally, I grimaced.

The clan of recorders was steeped in more tradition than initially thought. Apparently, as the apprentice, I wasn't permitted to truly begin my apprenticeship to the master until my sight was "Bookman standard". I couldn't enter the main headquarters unmasked until I reached my 30th name. I wasn't allowed to look at previous records until I reached my 50th name. On and on, more rules and restrictions I wasn't even given a reason for. Maybe becoming a Bookman wasn't that great of an idea…

"Come, apprentice." Bookman already entering, I hurried to follow behind, tucking away my emotions into the void construct of my mind, determined not to reveal them even with the mask serving as extra cover. But stepping into the catacombs, even the mimicry of the void of death summoned in my mind couldn't contain the instinctive awe at my surroundings. People were sparse, and those around spoke in hushed tones, their voices bouncing off the high cavern. It was a sanctuary, came the thought, unbidden. A sanctuary for history telling of blood and war.

The entry hall rose high in the structure of the mountain, lined with hanging lanterns. The floor was smooth, worn down by thousands of feet eroding away the bumps and curves, and the walls opened up into many passageways. Bookman led me down a hall situated directly ahead and descending gradually, deeper and lower under the mountain. Reaching out with a hand, I brushed my fingertips over the stone as we descended, stepping carefully on the uneven stairs.

We entered a spacious room, with shelves lined with glass vials and hanging lamps.

"Your apprentice, Bookman?" spoke a voice behind me, and I crushed down my instinctive urge to flinch, instead standing still as the speaker emerged.

It was a man, with long grey hair like my master's, but left free instead of gathered with a ribbon. He had a neatly trimmed mustache and narrow, dark eyes that curiously didn't quite land on me.

"Yes," my master replied. "He needs his sight."

The man nodded slowly, stretching out his fingers to press the tips of each one below each eyehole of my mask. I stared him in the eye, until I realized.

He was blind.

"Come." The blind man beckoned me forward to the table, guiding me to lay down face up. Bookman lifted the mask off my face, dropping a cloth over the lower part quickly, careful not to cover my eyes. The other took a vial from the shelf and lifted the cloth slightly to expose my mouth, and poured the contents down my throat after he gestured for me to part my lips. I swallowed, grimacing at the acrid taste, and stared questioningly at him.

"To keep you sleeping," was my master's offer of information, and I nodded. "Your operation mustn't be performed whilst you are still conscious."

Operation. I frowned. He hadn't told me about this— oh. This was for my Bookman sight. Lovely.

Slowly, my vision began to blur out, and my eyes slid shut as I fell into the darkness of sleep.

••••••••••••••

"I will let you pick your first name," said Bookman slowly. "But only your first." He frowned at me, or more specifically, at my adjusting of my new glasses. "Stop touching them, they need to stay on."

I scowled, dropping my hands. "I know, I know. But still… Why couldn't I have gotten the eyepatch, again?"

"You're not wearing an eyepatch."

"That's not an answer."

"The foolish, young apprentice should take heed of his wise, older master's advice."

"That has nothing to do with anything!"

"Do you have a name?" Ah, avoiding the topic, I see.

I folded my arms over my chest, staring down at my feet. My first name… Wouldn't it be ironic if to begin my journey as a Bookman, I used and then tossed away the name given to me at my first birth? Did I want to drag that symbolism into my life? Did I truly wish to discard the name I once thought fit me best, back then?

"Morgan," I said. "I'll be Morgan."

Hopefully I'd be able to discard this name without a fuss.

••••••••••••••

I bit my lip, pressing my face against my pulled up knees. Where was I? When was I? Was I Lavi, strangely without the eyepatch or the defining green eyes? Was I someone far before the period of "canon"? Or was I—

My breath hitched. No, no, no, I couldn't be Allen!

Theories were spun about the past version of Allen, most notably one as Bookman's previous apprentice he lost when they were on the side of the Noah family. But I couldn't be Allen. I wouldn't, I'd die, Allen wasn't—!

Allen was the tragic protagonist. Allen went through hell to get through his life. Allen was a boy destined to die.

And I was too weak for that role. I couldn't fulfill his role, I couldn't walk the same journey he did and come out alive. Anything he went through would kill me. I wasn't strong enough to be Allen.

And what of the plot? If I refused to be Allen, what would happen to the world? The protagonist was the catalyst, the defender and the turning point for so many important events. Allen saved Miranda. Allen saved Kanda. Allen saved everyone from the Ark. Allen was probably the most important player in the act and if there was no Allen, everything would crumble. Sure, people who automatically step in to fill the gap, but they wouldn't be enough. That was the truth of the matter. Only Allen could do the things he did because he was who he was. Nobody could be Allen except for Allen.

And I was so sorely, so obviously, not Allen.

I stifled a sob against my thighs and lifted my head to the sky.

Please. Don't let me be him.

••••••••••••••

The plotline was yet another concern, but seeing as I really had no concrete idea of who exactly I was, I turned to building up my repertoire. Perhaps, if the slim chance that I was not trapped in the role of the tragic protagonist was true, I still needed to defend myself. There were monsters out there, not only the akuma, but the exorcists and the Noahs alike. Humanity was crawling with monsters in human skin, some more literal than expected.

Magic was the first thing I absorbed, sorcery and spells and tags. I briefly toyed with the idea of mimicking a CROW of Central, but resolved it was better not to draw the church's attention to me like this. Magic would be my greatest weapon as I was thrust into a war of titans, of Innocence wielders and monstrous akuma and the grey-skinned Noah. I didn't want to be squashed like a bug under their weights. I was just a small being, a human in the crossfire of a millennia-long war between people who were so much more than human, at least in power levels.

Being a Bookman provided me with a safety net, of sorts. I had access to information and sorcery books and the materials I needed to protect myself. Our code of neutrality protected me, as well. It was an unspoken rule to let Bookmen swarm the battlefield like the carrion birds, undisturbed in our recording of the carnage. Attacking a Bookman, killing a Bookman… perhaps it was allowed, but it was almost taboo to think of.

But then again, war would take everyone. People in war didn't care about laws or rules or codes. An enemy was an enemy, no matter their true allegiances.

The Helix of Life… I flipped the book in my hand.

Perhaps this was a confirmation of my identity, but I didn't want to treat it as such. I simply read it, devoured it, learned it, and moved on.

Or, that's what I should've done. But in the end, I kept coming back. Flipping through. Wondering if I'd meet Mana and Neah, wondering what really happened. Neah's betrayal… Was it truly just that? I didn't live to see the end. I was left in the dark.

How was I supposed to stick to a plotline if I didn't even know what the plotline was?

••••••••••••••

By the time I was at the end of my adolescent years, I had discarded my 87th name. I was powerful, a master sorcerer, although definitely not on the level of being such as the Millennium Earl. But I was confident in my skills, in my research, and most of all, in my chosen profession.

Being a Bookman meant more to me than I ever believed possible. As I aged and saw more wars, more conflict, I festered a love for the unbiased, monotonous journey of history. We traveled all over, encountering new religion and culture and language, but in the end, they were all the same: humans engaging in bloodshed and savagery.

I didn't hate humanity. On the contrary, I found it fascinating. Humans grew and evolved, and yet they were always caught in the same trap that murdered their ancestors: war. Although it was often seen as a mistake, humans never seemed to learn from it, instead repeating that same mistake over and over without ever ceasing. It was the one thing mankind couldn't learn and grow from.

And in the end, being an impartial observer allowed me to see humans make this same mistake over and over. It fascinated me, the entire process of the rinse and repeat of war, and I never grew tired of it. In the end, I was also caught in the loop of war, but as an observer instead of a participant.

But of course, there were some unexpected side effects. Sometimes the persona attached to the new name would grow too far, be kept too long on the face to stay as a mask, an act. It would evolve, shoving me, the Bookman Junior and thus the core, aside, sliding seamlessly into the role crafted for them. It didn't happen with every name. It happened with those too different from the core, or those masks who were worn for too long to not be independent. I never told Bookman, although I do suspect he knows.

Out of the 87 names I have taken so far, only twelve had managed to promote themselves into a separate entity, branched off from myself. They were no longer acts, costumes to slip on. Instead, they were body doubles, seamlessly exchanging with me when their name was called. There wasn't much I could do about it. Not that I was uncooperative, of course. Simply tired of the strange conditions that came with being a Bookman.

Perhaps, one day, this could come in handy. But for now… It truly doesn't seem like it would be useful.

••••••••••••••

Leaning my cheek into the palm of my hand, I slid my eyelids closed and pulled up a memory of a random book, reacquainting myself with the memory. Recently, as a reward for reaching my 80th name, Bookman instructed me on a memory technique, stronger and far more valuable than any other memory recall. It allowed me to dredge up memories from before I had even gained my Bookman sight and reanalyze them, until I was able to recall them with the same clarity of a memory seen with my enhanced sight.

So why, do you ask, would I be so pleased with this ability, knowing my life before Bookman was less than fond?

Because this ability allowed me to recall memories from my previous life in perfect detail. Every song I had memorized, every language I know, every instrument I had played, all these memories were stored away in the depths of my mind, perfectly clear and unable to be forgotten. I never sought memories of my previous family, having an inkling of what I'd find. But the music and the books, the luxuries of the modern age I so sorely missed; I hoarded those memories with a ravenous fervor. Nothing could take these memories from me, and I laughed in the face of the void of death. Even that couldn't stop me from remembering.

"Junior."

I snapped out of my reverie, dropping my propped up arm down, both hands in my lap as I gave my master my attention.

"This war is one unlike anything you've ever seen," he began quietly, and my chest tightened, a sense of foreboding blanketing my consciousness. "We have recorded countless wars known to humans and fought by humans. But this war is not like the previous records. Cast aside any preconceptions you have of the future record."

My throat felt dry. "Yes, Master."

His narrowed eyes landed on me, searching for something in me as he always had, something I could never figure out. "This is a war that has been going on for millennia, unknown to the general population."

My heart dropped to my stomach. No.

"It will be soon reaching its end. I can sense it. It is fought between two sides, both which possess power far greater than anything you've ever encountered. We will be recording on the side poised for victory. Most notable among this side is the Clan of Noah, a clan of superhumans headed by a master sorcerer known as the Millennium Earl."

I could feel the chains of fate slowly tightening around me, anchoring me to this role. I couldn't breathe. I didn't want to hear him speak anymore. But I couldn't stop listening.

"For this record, your name…"

And with these last words, Bookman sealed my fate.

"... will be Allen."