If a mind is shattered, pulverized into unpatterned dust and then reconstructed into something that resembles its former shape, what continuity remains? Does resemblance count as identity? Does memory, copied like ink stamped onto new flesh, guarantee that the "I" persists? Or is this merely an imitation wearing the costume of a past self?
If the brain is rebuilt, rewired thought by thought, emotion by emotion, what percentage of the original structure must remain for the "self" to survive the alteration? Ten percent? One? A single synapse firing in the same direction as before?
At what point does the ship, plank replaced by plank, no longer know the creak of its own wood?
At what point does the hull forget the sea it once sailed?
At what point does a vessel become a trespasser in its own name?
If the restoration is perfect, indistinguishable from what came before, is the identity authentic? Or is authenticity irrelevant?
If the restoration is imperfect, carrying familiar memories but foreign judgments, does the one who wakes inherit the guilt of the one who died?
If the restoration is biased, rebuilt for purpose, redesigned for value, sculpted to function instead of to feel.
who has the right to call that creature "you"?
Where is the line?
Does the line even exist?
Is the question itself malformed, a desperate defense against the horror that the boundary between self and not-self might be imaginary?
If the "core" is changed, does any continuity meaningfully remain?
If the core is preserved but the edges rewritten, are the edges irrelevant?
If the core is ambiguous, if no one can locate the true center of the self, then what is being protected, mourned, or feared?
If the person wakes with the memories but not the meanings, are they still the same?
If they wake with the meanings but not the memories, which identity do they belong to?
If they wake with neither, but the world insists they are the same, is the world lying or simply comforting itself?
And if all the pieces of a life are assembled but the soul that once animated them is altered. Reshaped into a new logic, a new pattern. Can one still call that a continuation?
Or is it simply a succession?
A replacement that inherited a name?
A stranger wearing the ghost of a past?
If a being is rebuilt and claims "I am still me," who has the authority to disagree?
If it claims "I am not," who has the authority to insist it is wrong?
If the ship drifts back into harbor after all its planks have been replaced, who truly recognizes it?
The sea?
Or
The hands that rebuilt it,
or the ship itself?
And if none of them do…
what was ever there to recognize in the first place?
If the "I" is rebuilt, was the "I" ever anything but a temporary arrangement of impulses pretending to be permanent?
If the self can be altered by chemicals, trauma, time, accident, memory, emotion, or design was the self ever stable enough to claim continuity?
If "I" can dissolve under fever, if "I" can warp under grief, if "I" can vanish in sleep and return wearing a name it does not remember choosing.
How real is this "I" that is so easily distorted?
If the self requires consistency, yet consistently fails to remain the same, is it merely a metaphor that mistakes its own convenience for truth?
A shape drawn in water, insisting it is solid?
A flame pretending it is not flickering?
If "I" is a trick the brain plays to minimize panic.
a story told to avoid the terror of being a process instead of a person.
then can that story ever claim authority over the thing it narrates?
If "I" is a whisper threaded through neurons, a myth woven into flesh, a note struck between the synapses.
Does changing the instrument change the song?
Or was the song always an illusion, and what mattered was only the vibration?
If the "I" is an illusion, does that illusion deserve protection?
Can an illusion die?
Can an illusion be mourned?
Can an illusion suffer?
Can an illusion love?
If the illusion feels real, is that enough?
Or is the feeling another illusion nested inside the first?
If the "I" does not truly exist, then what exactly is being lost—
the continuity,
the memory,
the pattern,
or the comforting lie?
And if the "I" does exist.
if there is a kernel that persists through change.
where is it located?
Where is the atom of the self?
Where is the indivisible?
Where is the part that cannot be replaced?
Where is the one thing that, if altered, ends the "I" forever?
If there is no answer because the question itself might be malformed?
Does the absence of an answer count as a kind of answer?
If the self is a ship rebuilt until it recognizes neither its design nor its destination. Is it damned for losing itself,
or damned for ever thinking it had a self to lose?
A knock tapped against the apartment door.
On the other side stood a young adult.
White hair tied into a long side-ponytail, streaked through with black like ink dragged across snow.
A black suit, immaculate.
A white cloak trimmed in gold, the fabric heavy with symbolism he didn't personally believe in but wore anyway.
A greatsword taller than his torso rested against his shoulder, its golden chains and locked seal rattling faintly with each breath he took.
Between two gloved fingers he held a Prescript.
A small piece of paper.
Its words.
"Ask a fixer with mechanical body parts from a 9th grade office and hold a conversation with them about the true identity of the self."
He read it again.
And again.
It made no more sense the third time than it had the first.
A conversation about the true identity of the self?
With a fixer?
At a ninth-grade office?
He wasn't sure.
He doubted anyone could be.
He wasn't supposed to question Prescripts.
But questioning didn't break them.
Acting against them did.
And he did not rebel as for now.
He exhaled and folded the slip between his fingers, and prepared to do exactly as commanded.
Shmuel opened the door just wide enough to speak through and immediately froze.
White cloak.
Gold trim. Black suit.
A greatsword chained shut by a golden lock.
Index.
One of the Five Fingers.
One of the syndicates that ruled the Backstreets by fear and fate.
He didn't know the rank, but the uniform was enough to tighten every muscle in his shoulders.
"…How may I help you?"
The figure inclined his head politely. "I am here to carry out a Prescript."
Shmuel's eyes widened.
A Prescript? In front of his door?
His brain jumped to the worst-case scenario instantly.
"…Wiping my office?" he muttered under his breath.
His arms went up defensively, both mechanical hands raised. He wasn't stupid; he knew he'd die in the first exchange, but instinct still shoved him forward.
The figure blinked once, mildly puzzled.
"No. It is far more mundane than that."
He lifted the small slip between two fingers and read aloud.
"Ask a fixer with mechanical body parts from a 9th grade office and hold a conversation with them about the true identity of the self."
Shmuel froze again.
This time out of confusion.
"…That's it?" He lowered his hands slowly.
"That is the Will I was given," the figure replied. "Nothing more."
Shmuel stared, processing the absurdity of almost attacking an Index operative because of a conversation request.
"…Alright then. Uh… before we… talk about that… what's your name?"
The Messenger placed a hand on his chest with formal precision.
"Messenger of the Index. Yan Vismok."
A chill shot down Shmuel's spine.
Messenger.
Above Proxy.
A rank that could erase half a street if the Prescript told him to.
Shmuel swallowed hard.
He had been seconds away from throwing hands with someone who could cleave him in half between blinks.
"…Right. Yan. Good. Okay."
He stepped aside, fighting the urge to wipe the cold sweat gathering at his temples.
"Come in. We can… start the conversation, I guess."
Yan nodded once, stepping inside.
His eyes revealed the same uncertainty Shmuel felt.
Two people.
Both utterly unprepared
To talk about a topic.
They sat across from one another with an awkwardness so thick it felt like a third participant.
Shmuel cleared his throat first.
"So… uh. How long have you been doing this?"
"Around two days," came the answer, steady, formal, but strange in its youth. "This is my first prescript as a messenger."
"Two days." Shmuel blinked. "Right. I've been with this office for… maybe two months?"
The conversation began like two gears grinding against one another before finally finding their teeth.
"So," Shmuel tried, "identity."
"Yes," the messenger replied. "The true identity of the self."
Silence hovered. Then the words began to find their flow.
"That the self is built upon free will. The decisions one chooses. The paths one selects. Even if the world is a cage, the movements inside that cage remain one's own. Choice defines the self. And so long as choice remains untouched, the self remains intact."
Shmuel listened.
"I don't think that's enough," he finally said. "Choice can change with pressure, trauma, time. To me, the self is the way the mind arranges itself. The patterns. The tone of thought. The shape of one's thinking."
He leaned back slightly.
"If those patterns shift too far… then the self shifts too. Even if all the memories remain. Even if the choices look similar. A person can become a stranger to themselves without ever choosing to."
Yan considered this with the same intensity he granted his holy directives. "If the shape of the mind is unstable, then identity is unstable."
"Yes," Shmuel said simply.
"And you believe that instability can reach a point where the self ceases to be?"
Shmuel hesitated.
"I think it can reach a point where the self transforms. And if that transformation breaks too far from the original pattern… then maybe it's not the same person anymore. Maybe it's a successor. Or a replacement."
"That would imply that the self is fragile."
"I think it's terrifyingly fragile."
"And yet," Yan mused, "the prescripts assume continuity. They assume the self, even when altered, still bears responsibility."
"That's the scary part," Shmuel replied. "Responsibility assumes sameness. But the mind… doesn't always honor that."
"You define the self by mental structure. I define it by choice. Perhaps the prescript asks which remains when the other fails."
"Maybe the prescript just wanted you to talk to someone."
"…Perhaps,"
Neither of them knew how to continue the philosophical questioning.
Neither of them knew how to pivot the topic gracefully.
So, very humanly, they slipped into mundane talk again.
Yan asked, "Do you enjoy your work?"
"It pays the bills,"
Yan nodded.
Then, gradually, the conversation drifted back toward the question that brought them together.
What is the self?
A choice?
A pattern?
A continuity?
A fiction?
Neither of them knew.
Yan tilted his head slightly, as though examining Shmuel with new context.
"Your insights on the mind… does your office specialize in psychiatry?"
Shmuel gave a small, almost embarrassed snort.
"Not even close. We're more of an odd-job office. No specialty, no gimmick to attract clients. We just take whatever comes through the door. Combat's probably our strongest point, if anything."
Yan blinked once. The answer seemed to surprise him.
"I see," he said, folding the knowledge away.
A quiet settled over the room, concluding the end of a conversation dictated by forces neither of them fully grasped.
At last, Yan rose.
"The prescript's requirement has been fulfilled," he said. "And if this world is not anchored in free will, then perhaps our paths will cross again."
Shmuel nodded, unsure whether that was comforting or ominous.
"Safe travels."
Yan stepped out into the hallway, fading gradually as he descended the stairs and disappeared into the city's labyrinth.
Shmuel exhaled, tension dispersing from his shoulders at last.
A few quiet minutes passed.
Then the door swung open.
"Kid, I bought some hamburgers."
Kamina's voice filled the entire apartment as it was too small to contain him. He kicked the door shut with his heel, balancing a paper bag in one hand. Behind him walked Imogen, sniper rifle slung across her back.
Shmuel blinked at the sudden shift in atmosphere.
Kamina grinned.
"You look like you just barely survived."
Imogen raised a brow.
"…Did someone come by?"
Shmuel just sat back, exhausted.
"You have no idea."
Shmuel rubbed his face with both hands.
"Imogen," he said, "can you hand me one of those?"
She stared at him for half a second, then reached into the bag and passed him a hamburger without comment.
It was six in the morning.
Shmuel took a bite. Grease and warmth grounded him in a way nothing else had managed since the knock on the door.
He swallowed, then looked up at Kamina.
"What do you think the true identity of the self is?"
"You."
That was all he said.
To a simple person, the self was not a puzzle to be dissected or a theory to be debated. It wasn't the sum of past choices, nor was it fate. It was the person standing there, breathing, deciding even when those decisions were small and stupid.
The self did not need permission to exist. It did not need validation from philosophy nor religion. The self was not something granted by birth or stripped away by reconstruction. It was not something that could be fully stolen, copied, or defined from the outside.
The only self that mattered was the one that chose to move forward.
Not what the world said you were.
Not what you had been shaped into.
Not what you were meant to become.
Just you were now.
Shmuel chewed slowly, eyes unfocused, the word echoing in his mind.
Imogen watched him from the side and didn't understand much.
Paper crinkled softly. Grease stained fingers. The city outside began to wake, distant engines humming like something large turning over in its sleep. One burger became two, then the last. Kamina finished his. Imogen ate slower.
When the bag was empty, she spoke.
"Hey," she said, not looking at Shmuel. "That Bruno girl… when's she coming?"
Shmuel froze with the wrapper still in his hand.
"It's been two weeks," Imogen continued, "Didn't she say she'd visit?"
Shmuel set the wrapper down. His mechanical fingers closed, then loosened.
"She did," he said. "She said she'd come."
He stared at the table.
"She's not picking up," he added. "Not once."
The room felt smaller.
Imogen finally looked at him. "That's not like her, is it?"
Shmuel shook his head. "No."
"She would've said something," Shmuel muttered. "Even just one line."
Kamina didn't speak. He leaned back, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded but he was listening. Imogen hugged her knees lightly, expression unreadable.
Shmuel exhaled.
The slam came suddenly.
The apartment door shook in its frame, a flat, violent sound that cut through the quiet like a gunshot. Shmuel flinched first, chair scraping softly as he stood.
"I'll check," he said.
He crossed the short distance then pulled the door open.
Kurt Kotler collapsed into the doorway.
Blood soaked his clothes, dark and tacky, smeared across his chest and arms like he had been dragged through someone else's war. He was still upright only because the doorframe caught him. His breathing came in wet, broken pulls, each one sounding like it might be the last.
Shmuel's eyes widened. "What…"
Kurt's gaze locked onto him and he forced the words out through clenched teeth.
"I want… to hire you."
His knees buckled. He swayed forward.
"I want to kill a person," Kurt rasped, then shook his head violently, spitting blood onto the floor. "No. Not a person. A group. A whole damned group."
Shmuel stared at him, disbelief freezing him in place. This was the same man who had once stood in this very doorway counting protection fees with a bored expression. The same voice that had made his stomach knot months ago.
"What?" Shmuel said.
Kurt snapped.
"I WILL PAY YOU EVERYTHING," he roared, voice cracking into something feral. "ALL OF IT. EVERY LAST BIT I SAVED. JUST KILL THEM…KILL THEM ALL…THEY TOOK EVERYTHING FROM ME!"
His hands shook as he tried to gesture, failed, slammed a fist into the wall instead.
"NINE OUT OF TWELVE IZAN TEAMS," he continued, screaming now, words tumbling over each other. "WIPED OUT. MY TEAM WAS ONE OF THEM, BY ANOTHER IZAN TEAM. MY SUBORDINATES…"
His voice broke completely.
"All dead. All of them."
Kamina was beside him in an instant. One hand clamped onto Kurt's shoulder, the other pressing him down with controlled force, grounding him before he could collapse or explode further.
"Enough," Kamina said, firm, not loud. "Sit."
Kurt resisted for half a second, then the fight drained out of him. He slid down the wall and ended up on the floor, back against the doorframe, head hanging low. His breathing was still ragged, but slower now, like a storm that had spent itself smashing against rock.
Kamina crouched slightly in front of him. "Start over," he said. "Tell us what happened."
Kurt laughed, a short, ugly sound.
"I don't know everything," he said hoarsely. "I was never important enough to know everything. I was a captain, sure but the weakest one. My team wasn't… refined."
He swallowed.
"I didn't like how they do things," Kurt went on. "I didn't like buying people. I hired from outside. People with their own wills."
Shmuel listened, silent.
"I was given a budget," Kurt said. "From [The Fury]. Said it was to 'standardize' my team." His mouth twisted. "They wanted me to buy them from the ChessMaker company."
Kamina and Shmuel exchanged a glance.
"I didn't," Kurt continued. "I was told to buy Pawn Pieces. Only Pawns. That was all I was allowed. I didn't use the money. I thought it was better this way."
His hands clenched.
"It didn't."
He looked up.
"They announced it suddenly," he said. "The Arch Bishop. Told us every team would fight. Kill each other until only three remained. The rest…" His voice dropped to a whisper. "Sacrifices. To give birth to a successor."
Shmuel felt something cold settle in his chest.
Kurt went on, bitter now. "ChessMaker, on the surface, is just a mercenary supplier. You buy Pieces. Pawn, Bishop, Knight, Rook or whatever your budget allows. I only knew that much. I was never allowed to see deeper."
He laughed again, hollow.
"The team that slaughtered mine?" he said. "They were all Pawns. Not a single higher Piece among them."
Silence followed.
Kamina straightened. "We're not taking this," he said. "Revenge jobs don't suit us."
Kurt's head snapped up.
"Then listen to this," he said, voice suddenly sharp despite the blood, despite the exhaustion. "The successor they're trying to create."
He smiled, and it was a broken thing.
"Her name is Bruno."
The room seemed to stop breathing.
Shmuel's face went cold. Imogen's eyes widened. The name hung there.
Kamina clicked his tongue.
Two ships drifted under different names, carrying familiar cargo in rebuilt hulls. Memory stayed aboard, but the compass no longer pointed home. Planks were replaced. When they met again, it would not be as they were, only as strangers piloting what remained.