Chapter 1: Inauspicious Beginnings
You ever wonder, with different choices, how we might have ended up?
No, I like the hand we've been dealt.
Despite his relatively few years of formal education, Nathan always knew he was smart.
Which is why when he died the first time and woke up as an infant, he rightfully freaked the fuck out.
Everything stung: the lights, the far off voices, the harsh grip as he was pulled and prodded and wrapped. He was born Nathan Morgan, for a second time, to a loving mother, a distant father, and a conflicted brother.
And so it began again.
In his first lifetime, Nathan Morgan witnessed a mere 15 years of life. His mother had divorced his father after one too many glasses of bourbon were thrown at her head. Nathan was only 2 at the time and didn't remember much of the man, but his brother, Sam, would scowl with echoes of conflicted anger and would hastily change the subject if the man's name was so much as mentioned.
It was too bad Sam inherited the man's tendency to drown himself in alcohol.
Sam had swung by to pick up Nate from a late night school event an hour late with alcohol on his breath. They argued, each accusing the other of being selfish and stupid. This was the third time in as many weeks, and Nate felt slighted and was worried for his brother.
The last time Nate saw Sam, his eyes were blood-shot, his breath was putrid, and spittle flew from his mouth as he turned to shout at Nate. There was the blinding white of headlights, the obnoxious blare of a truck horn, and the crunching screech of twisting metal.
They didn't last long on the two lane freeway, not with the way Sam was driving.
The next time he saw his brother, Nate was a newborn infant that could hardly keep his eyes open and any change of environment elicited a sudden urge to cry. The world was out of focus, the lights too bright, the noises sharp and thunderous, and it was all too much. Later, his mother would remark with a sad smile that Nate didn't stop crying for two whole days except to eat and sleep.
It would be mortifying if Nate wasn't so confused.
"Here, Sam, say hello to your new brother." Cassandra Morgan placed the 3 day old baby in Sam's arms gently, carefully coaching the 5 year old on how to hold a baby. She turned to her husband and they spoke in low tones as Sam took a few steps away for privacy.
Sam peered down at his brother, face an ugly blotchy red with tears threatening to spill. Nathan wanted to scream and cry. You did this, Nate thought viciously, you took my life from me.
"Hi, Nate." The five year old whispered hoarsely, "hi again. I'm sorry. I swear I won't screw up this time, I swear." Sam leaned down and kissed Nathan's forehead, "I'm so sorry, Nathan."
The words were slurred and indistinct in a typical child-like fashion, but Nate understood. He turned his face away from his brother and fought the urge to cry.
This was the same Sam as before, and just like Nate, he remembered. Nate didn't know if it was for better or worse.
And so began the second lifetime of Nathan Morgan.
Nate hated the feeling of utter helplessness. He kept track of his true age as each year passes, 17 years of memories and unable to wipe his own ass. It was utterly humiliating, but Nate learned to deal with it even through Sam's gentle teasing.
It took some time, without the help of teeth for communication and general baby weakness, to get any message across to Sam. It didn't help that Nate's emotions ran right under the surface like a normal child, leading to alphabet blocks thrown against the wall in frustration and spontaneous crying. Those same multi-colored alphabet blocks were a form of slow communication for many weeks until Sam found an old book on morse code.
Sam was a surprisingly good older brother this time around. Randomly alternating between over-protective and distant at times, as if he couldn't stand to be around Nate, but he cared and loved and wasn't jealous or hurtful like before.
Nate never was one to hold a grudge, but it still took years to forgive Sam and let go the blame for his first violent death.
In retrospect, it helped that Nate's second lifetime only lasted six years.
Cassandra Morgan did not divorce John Morgan in this lifetime, the gradual erosion of self-esteem beneath his words and growing depression left her too vulnerable.
Instead she took her own life in the dining room when Nathan was five.
Guiltily, at his lowest point in this lifetime, Nate thought her weak and selfish.
"Nathan, hide in the closet, don't come out." Sam pleaded breathlessly as the cursing and stomping echoed up the stair outside their shared bedroom. Nate did as he was told, fear clenching like iron bands around his chest; even if he's seen 21 years of life, his childlike emotional state skewed his perception and made his terror more pronounced.
The door slammed open, punching hole in the wall opposite with the loose door knob.
Nate blocked his ears as best he could and curled in on himself among the dirty laundry piled in the closet, waiting for it to stop. It usually only took a few minutes before John grew bored and stumbled away, with one or both of the brothers left worse for wear.
This time was different. Sam screamed in pain, and Sam never reacted beyond a pained grunt; always said he didn't want to give the bastard the satisfaction. Then there was only silence. Without a moment's hesitation, Nate burst out of the closet, kicking and shouting at their father as he loomed over Sam, a fist clenched around the neck of a bottle.
"Sam!" Nate screamed, his voice raising to a high-pitched screech of panic. He pushed his father away from his older brother, unmoving and curled into the fetal position on the carpet, a tumulus mix of fear and anger gifting Nate with the strength to knock his father off-balance. "Stop it! Get away from him!"
He crouched over Sam's motionless body, a trail of blood dripping from his forehead. Fear and the pounding of blood in his ears drowned out his father's cursing and yelling as Nate shook Sam's shoulder.
"Sam. Sammy, come on, wake up!" Nate shouted, shaking him harder. But there was no rise and fall of breath, no life in the body beneath his hands.
Nate didn't notice his father raise the bottle again.
And so began the third lifetime of Nathan Morgan.
"Do you ever wonder…" Nate trailed off, staring at the smattering of stars from his reclined position on the roof.
This was their third lifetime, and it had gone much better than the second and much the same as the first. Cassandra escaped John Morgan and started a quiet life as a single mother to two surprisingly well-behaved and considerate children. This time she contracted out as an expert historian and amateur archeologist several times over the years, leaving on week long trips, trusting them to take care of each other. She always brought trinkets home as gifts, and that was enough for their little family.
Nate was fifteen again, skipping school for the day and hiding on the roof of their home until dawn. Sam found him a few hours later, and joined him in silence. It was the day they both died in the first lifetime, Nate didn't know whether to celebrate making it further than before or grieve a life he lost.
"Gonna finish your thought, or did ya fall asleep on me again." Sam muttered quietly beside him, perhaps hoping his little brother was asleep.
"Do you ever wonder why we're here?" Nate asked.
"Well, you went all moody teenager on me and I couldn't leave poor little Nate to freeze to death on the roof by himself." Sam replied with a thin smirk that was lost in the near darkness, purposefully misinterpreting the question and hoping Nate would get the hint.
"No, I mean, with what happens to us, every time we di—"
"I know what you mean. We've talked about this." Sam interrupted with a weary sigh, reluctant to speak about it again.
"I know, I know. But I just think, is this right? Are we making the right choices and doing everything right this time?" Nate wondered idly aloud, reaching upward and barely discerning the silhouette of his open hand in the moonless night.
"We're not dead yet, so we gotta be doing something right." Sam assured with a derisive snort.
"Yeah, but why us? Why not some other kids with shitty lives to fix? And why now? With the infinite possibilities in repeating a lifetime, that first life couldn't have literally been our first. Does everyone repeat and start over once they die, but just forget their previous life? And why both of us? Why—"
"Aw, come on." Sam groaned in exasperation; he should have expected an angst fest and existential crisis on this day. Sam could more or less happily motor along without thinking about their condition, but Nathan was too much of a thinker (obsessive, their mother would say) to simply accept it and move on.
"I mean, you have 51 years of memories, and I have 36. I remember two violent deaths to have nightmares about," Sam flinched minutely, but Nate didn't notice and continued to speak candidly into the darkness. "I remember what it's like to be born, twice. I remember three different lifetimes, and sometimes it's hard to tell the difference between them all. And this is the first time I've ever made it past fifteen years, where's the fairness in that?"
"When have our lives ever been fair?" Sam bit out harshly. He hated these conversations; left to his own devices, Nate could talk himself in infinite circles trying to make rhyme or reason to their situation.
"But—" Nate attempted to continue.
"No, Nathan. Our lives aren't fair, they're not supposed to be fair. Because that's just the hand we've been dealt, and we gotta keep going and try not to screw up so bad." Sam said firmly, dropping an arm over his eyes in exasperation.
"Yeah…" Nate trailed off, still staring intently at the smattering of stars piercing through millions of lightyears of empty space to reach their eyes as if they held the answers. There were only a couple dozen Nate could see with the light pollution when living on the outskirts of a city, but he was always enamored by their steady light.
They both knew that wouldn't be the end of it.
It could have been hours or mere minutes they lay in silence, in darkness, listening to the wind rustling the leaves and the soft sound of steady breathing, "Hey, Nate?"
"Hmm?" Nate acknowledged, barely awake as dawn broke over the treetops, staining the sky red and orange like dye dropped on tapestry. It was a new day, one Nate or Sam had never seen before in any life time.
"Happy First Death-day, little brother." Sam said with a unsteady smirk, reaching across the distance between them for the first time to ruffle Nate's long mop of hair. A smile quirked Nate's lips at the action, a feeling of rekindled warmth settling deep within his gut after a night beneath the stars.
Nate quickly swatted the hand away and punched Sam's arm in retaliation, barely allowing himself a moment to relish in the light-hearted comfort. Sam chuckled in response, the vulnerable expression was replaced by a real smile that crinkled the skin around his eyes in mirth.
"Right, Happy Death-day, Sam."
…
Nate completed public school and immediately enrolled in college, stretching his brain muscles as a historian of ancient civilizations and a part-time archaeologist, just like his mother. He enjoyed it: teaching seminars part-time, contracting on dig sights, spending days in the sun and hours rambling stories to dozens of fresh-faced students. But there was always a nagging feeling, a itch beneath his skin, that he wasn't quite there yet.
Sam bought a motorcycle soon after that day on the roof and would vanish for weeks at a time, settling for a few months at a job until he had just enough money to jump on his bike and disappear again. They kept in contact, but neither wanted to live in the other's pocket anymore. He learned to repair his bike when it broke down and took an interest in working on cars, but the restlessness refused to let him settle down.
Nate turned 32 and married a long-time girlfriend, Venessa, because that's what was next on the agenda and he hoped it would calm the itching restlessness that crawled beneath his skin like countless ants in long moments of inaction. She was a good person and an excellent friend; it was years before Nate realized he loved her but wasn't in love with her. He stayed with her, because they were happy enough when together, but the wanderlust refused to be stated.
Sam died in his 48th year, 79 years worth of memories at his disposal, and he died alone in a filthy gas station bathroom with bruises on his ribs and too much heroine shooting through his veins. He hadn't checked on his little brother in three years. Nate got the call and disappeared for months overseas, burying himself in work to drown out the guilt and anger.
Nathan Morgan was shot and killed at the age of 62 when a band of mercenaries ambushed his archeological dig site, hired by some rich douchebag to clean out the ruins. Nate didn't know why he was surprised, after he bled out with a couple holes in his gut, that he emerged in a vulnerable state once more between one blink and the next.
And so began the fourth lifetime of Nathan Morgan.
Sam wasn't there when Nate was born. Nate found it odd that neither John nor Cassandra mentioned him when they took him home from the hospital. There was no older brother meet and greet like all the lifetimes before, no joyful or sad reunion between the two.
Sam wasn't there at all. The bedroom that once held band posters, pirate paraphernalia, and random kid nik-naks, was empty and converted to a impersonal guest room. It took years of snooping in his father's office when he was at work, and sneaking away from his mother while she was busy to figure out what went wrong.
Sudden Infant Death Syndrome; Sam never made it one year.
Nate would never see his brother in this lifetime.
As the years passed in a haze, Nate never realized how he depended on his brother in the early years. Rooted in the understanding of shared lives between them and the unconditional support that helped him get through those horrifying and humiliating early years, Nate felt alone and trapped in his own head without Sam.
Cassandra committed suicide early than in the second lifetime, a result of a guilty conscience and depression over Sam's death, Nate's abnormal behavior, and the constant verbal abuse.
Nate was left alone with his Father.
John blamed Nate for his wife's illness, blamed him for Sam—the perfect son in his eyes, oh how Sam would laugh—, blamed him for looking too much like her, blamed him for the abuse. He accused Nate of everything and anything wrong with the world when John caught sight of him.
The first ten years were always the hardest, in any lifetime, and without Sam as support, a friendly face to reassure Nate that he wasn't utterly insane, it was almost impossible. Nate ran away for the first time when he was 12, and within a few days he was caught by police and returned home with only dirty clothes and a bruised face to show for his troubles. It was five more tries, with plans and preparations, until he finally got away and left the state with the help of some unsavory characters.
The gang did not take kindly to Nate trying to weasel out of the deal when they crossed state lines.
The next year was not the best. Nate attempted to tough it out for months, waiting for an opportunity to cut clean and run. But if he couldn't escape his father and the police without help, it would be impossible to disappear from the gang's far reach.
They had him pickpocket and drop off packages in random locations across the new city, sometimes watching for cops a couple streets over when a transaction was occurring in a warehouse, but the longer he stayed the more they pushed. They put a gun in his hands and were amused to find he was a good shot. Nate was terrified of what they had in store for him, and had ditched jobs and ignored orders several times. Always taking the punishments silently when caught, the other kids just stared or turned away. Some sneered at him, he will break soon, they thought.
He saw things he would never speak of again. Nate did things that would sear the script of sin deeply in his soul; he will never mention them willingly.
Then the gang grew impatient with his shit and shut him in a room with a man, tied up, and obviously tortured, with the command to finish him off or they would put a bullet in Nate's head. Either he would put an end to his games, or they would.
Nate didn't know how his choices could lead him to this point. He surveyed the rolling table which held multiple deadly tools with a wince of distaste, all stained and dented from use. Nate picked up a knife at random after one of the gang leader barked a command behind him.
"No, please, stop!" The man begged, struggling against the ropes as Nate approached, large knife clutched tightly in a trembling grip. "I have a wife and son. Please, don't do this!"
Nate's breath came heavy and fast, eyes wide and dilated as he held a knife to the man's throat.
This wasn't him, this wasn't Nate. He didn't want to do this.
"Hurry up and kill him." The gang member sneered in a bored tone and the seconds ticked by, his hand loosely resting on the pummel of his pistol, both a threat and a warning.
"No. no-no-no-no-no. please." The man begged quietly, swallowing heavily, tears and sweat and blood mixing on his face. Adam's apple bobbing beneath the pressure of the blade, a thin line of blood beaded to the surface as Nate's hands shook unsteadily.
He couldn't do this.
If Sam inherited John's addictive tendency, then Nate received his mother's weakness.
Left on his own, he had no reason to stay anymore.
The shock on the imprisoned man's face shuttered for an instant, and Nate sent off a brief prayer to see his brother again, before he was back to the beginning.
And so the fifth life of Nathan Morgan began.
Years passed in childhood until Nate was able to moved past his fourth lifetime. He never told Sam what happened, despite his incessant questions. Sam learned to let it go after being stone walled time and time again; it was a shitty lifetime for the both of them. Their 3rd and 4th lifetimes continued to hang between them like a great weight suspended by a frayed thread, it turned their teasing comments caustic and their bond, more than 100-years strong, became strained.
It was easier to pretend that the hundred years of brotherhood didn't exist, even of it was impossible to erase the memories and history between them.
"Sam! What the hell are you doing up there?" Nate shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth to project his voice as he stared incredulously at his brother clinging to the side of a building by his finger tips.
"Nathan? I— uh, Nothin'!" Sam called back quietly, slightly out of breath as he heaved himself around the precarious handholds of the building to the rusty fire escape.
"Get down from there! You're going to break your neck!" Nate yelled, crossing his arms in irritation as he waited for Sam.
"Shut up. You're gonna blow my cover." Sam half-whispered as he made his way down to Nate from the fire escape.
Nate peered up and down the deserted street, noting the burned out streetlights, scratched parked cars, dented stop signs, and the cookie-cutter brown apartment buildings that remain silent and dark in the dead of night. He'd just wanted to go on a walk without his Mother's incessant coddling or Sam's caustic teasing. Nate loved his mother, but with 106 years of memories under his belt it was frustrating to not be allowed anywhere alone.
Sam kicked down the fire-escape ladder and it landed at Nate's feet with a resounding clank that echoed down the empty street. He slid down with a self-satisfied grin on his face even as he panted from exertion; dusting himself off and shrugging his shoulders arrogantly, he said, "What do ya think, little brother? Pretty sweet moves, huh?"
"Right," Nate responded dryly with a roll of his eyes, "Do you want to get yourself killed?"
"Wouldn't be the worst way to go." Sam shrugged, still grinning he turned back to the three story apartment building, "Besides, from that height I'd only break a leg or two, nothing a few months won't fix up."
"Yeah, or you could break your spine and be stuck in a wheelchair the rest of your life." Nate remarked, then sighed after seeing his older brother wasn't listening to him and had instead begun to stroll down the street. "What were you doing up there, anyway?"
"Ah, well, you know, climbing and stuff, much more fun than trees." Sam said easily, turning away to avoid Nate's gaze.
Nate's eyes narrowed as Sam's voice wavered minutely. Sam should know that he could never lie to Nate, they've know each other too long for that to fly.
"Uh-huh, best time to climb, 2 am." Nate said sardonically and looked up at the building, noticing the scuff marks along the window sills from Sam's boots, the window propped open with a board, and the bulging pack slung across Sam's shoulders. Nate's eyes widened in realization as he ran to catch up with his brother sauntering down the road without a care.
"Sam! You didn't just —" Nate started to say.
Suddenly a shout of rage echoed down the street as the ajar window was slammed all the way open, cracking the scuffed wood along the frame, and light spilled out onto the dark road.
"Aw shit," Sam cursed under his breath, "come on, Nate, we gotta go!" Sam snatched Nate's wrist and pulled him down a side alley just as a flashlight beam illuminated the main road. They could hear thundering footsteps reverberate down the fire escape as the man cursed up a storm behind them.
"What did you do!" Nate accused as he finally yanked his hand away from Sam's tight grasp and came to a halt. Sam spun around, trying to pull his brother into a run again; his eyes tight with simmering frustration and fear.
"I'll explain later, we gotta go now!—"
The sound of a gun cocking echoed loudly from the mouth of the alley, silencing the two as an uneasy chill shot up Nate's spine. "You fucking kids! I'm gonna kill ya!"
Nate's breath quickened, and he didn't resist when Sam grabbed his arm again and yanked him deeper into the labyrinth of dim alleyways. Within minutes of running further and further without a care in which direction they turned, they reached a dead end. A filth incrusted brick wall in a narrow alley, too tall to climb over, with two story buildings on either side.
"Damn it." Sam cursed and turned around to dash down a different alley, but he could still hear the man in pursuit behind them. Only hesitating for a moment, Sam hauled himself onto a nearby industrial sized air conditioning unit, and used a windowsill to climb to the roof of the building, "Come on, up here."
Nate struggled to follow. He was only 10 years old in this body, and the childlike panic was wiping away the years of tempered experience and cool-headed logic. He pulled himself on top of the air conditioner, having to kick his feet in open air to get leverage, but the windowsill was too far to reach even if he jumped.
"Sam, wait, I can't get up there." Nate whispered, fear making his childish voice come out as a squeak, just as Sam got to the roof.
"Okay, okay… uh, different plan." Sam said to himself, dropping down beside Nate, boots clanking on the metal loud enough to make Nate flinch. Sam took a knee and laced his fingers together to make a foot hold, "here, I'll boost you up."
Nate nodded, climbing up as fast as he can as the cursing and stomping grew louder, blood pounded in his ears as Nate planted his feet on Sam's shoulders and he stood to his full height. The edge of the roof was still a few inches out of reach.
"Hurry up." Sam called uncertainly below him as he turned to watch the mouth of the alley. He could just make out the edge of a flashlight beam illuminating the litter and garbage along the walls like glittering jewels among the filth.
"I can't reach it!" Nate said, reaching as far as he can with his chest scrapping roughly against the brick wall, but his fingers only brushed the edge.
"Jump for it!" Sam demanded.
Nate took a deep breath, bent his knees, and jumped; his fingers gripped the edge and he was about to pull himself up when one of his hands slipped. His feet kicked uselessly in the air for a moment under his shoes found purchase on the brick. With his pounding heart drowning out the fear and Sam's panicked voice, he scrambled onto the roof and away from the edge.
Sam was close behind; he didn't say a word when he grabbed Nate's wrist to pull him to crouch behind a concrete barrier. Adrenaline brought the world into hyper focus and his chest heaved from exertion, but Nate listened closely with anticipation as the man turned down the alley and saw his vanished quarry. There was cursing enough to make his mother's ears bleed, and a bang echoed suddenly from below from the man kicking the air conditioner in frustration. The stomping retreated back down the alley to one of the forks, and a shocked silence followed, only broken by the chirping of summer crickets.
It could have been seconds, minutes, or hours later, that Sam heaved a sigh of relief and collapse back against the concrete barrier for support. Nate followed suit, trusting his brother's instincts over his own in the moment, even as his heart still beat a wild tattoo against his rib cage.
"Whatever you stole…" Nate started, curling in on himself as his breathing finally returned to a normal pace, "it better be damn good, because we're not doing that again."
Sam snorted, then chuckled, and started actually laughing; those chest deep guffaws that made his stomach cramp, that laugh that violently reminded Nate of when they actually enjoyed spending time together. Nate tried to scowled in response, but the adrenaline rush and sudden relief gave him a giddy feeling he wasn't used to; Nate couldn't stop the desperate laughs that snuck their way out. Sam slung an arm around Nate's shoulders, pulling him in for a one armed hug and a quick hair ruffle, like they were a couple of normal delinquent kids getting in over their heads.
"Well, you can't say life ain't interesting." Sam said quietly in the low light, a few rogue snickers still filtering out from behind his wide grin.
"Definitely not for us." Nate agreed, enjoying the feeling of his brother beside him and the years behind them wiped clean for a moment.
Even as the euphoria died away and blood beaded on his palms from being mercilessly scraped against the gravely roof, Nate never felt more alive.
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A/N: The concept of repeated lifetimes is from The First Fifteen Lives of Harry August by Claire North. I haven't read the book yet, and know very little about it other than the summary found on goodreads.
I don't really know why I wrote this, but there will be a few more chapters, although this is by far the least planned of any of my stories. I know this isn't my best work, sentence structure and imagery wise, but I had fun writing it. I am just writing this for my own enjoyment, perhaps as a stress reliever during finals, but I hope the few of you who read this, enjoy it also.
If you have any suggestions for some of Nathan Drake's lives, then let me know! Comments and Critiques are welcome.
Thanks for reading,
Rezz
