A Lame End and a Grim Beginning
It was, by any measure, a profoundly lame way to die.
One moment, Mark was a 42-year-old data analyst, leaning too far over his balcony railing to dislodge his neighbour's stubborn cat from a precarious perch. The next, there was a sickening crack of cheap wrought-iron giving way, a brief, flailing sensation of flight, and then the final, unforgiving meeting with the pavement three stories below.
His last thought was not of his life, his loves, or his legacy. It was: "You have got to be kidding me."
Then, nothing.
---
The nothing was not an emptiness. It was a corridor of howling light and silent sound. He was a speck of consciousness hurtling between realities. In the maelstrom, two vast, impersonal forces brushed against his soul.
From the universe he was leaving, a final, almost apologetic gift: a foundation of vitality. A biological rewrite, a promise etched into his very cells. He felt it not as a sensation, but as a knowing—a potential for a century and a half of life, where his prime would stretch out for decades and decline would be a gentle, distant slope.
From the universe he was entering, a tool for navigation: a system of knowing. Not a voice, but a function, like a cosmic search engine with a painfully limited data plan. He understood its rules instantly: one query answered. Then, a silence lasting anywhere from one to six moons, the timing dictated by a logic he could not comprehend.
Then, impact.
---
The first thing he felt was the rain. A fine, cold English mist that soaked into the black wool of a suit that didn't feel like his. The second was a wave of disorienting sensory input—the smell of wet earth and grief, the sight of two coffins, the sound of a vicar's droning voice.
Alexander David Charles Drago Montagu. The name arrived in his mind, fully formed, along with a cascade of memories that were both alien and intimately his. He was eighteen. He had just managed a lower-second class degree in English Literature from St. Bride's College, a mid-level institution known for its tolerable academia and robust rugby team. He had no prospects, no drive, and as of a week ago, no parents. A car crash on the M1. The 11th Duke and Duchess of Manchester were gone.
And he, the unremarkable heir, was now the 12th Duke.
The weight of the title, the suffocating grief of the boy, and the disorienting shock of the man named Mark collided behind his eyes. He felt the world tilt, his knees trembling with a weakness that was both physical and spiritual. This body, this young body, felt foreign and fragile. He clenched his hands, the short, clean nails digging into his palms, using the sharp pain to anchor himself. He would not faint. He would not give the handful of mourners that satisfaction.
He was Xander. The fusion was messy, painful, but absolute. Mark's cynical, strategic mind was now housed in the body of Xander Drago Montagu, cushioned by the profound vitality of his new biology and armed with that one, silent, cosmic query.
The final prayer was said. The dirt was thrown. It was over.
A hand settled on his elbow. It was the solicitor, Abernathy, a man whose face was a permanent mask of subdued crisis.
"Your Grace," Abernathy murmured. "Shall we? There are matters to discuss."
Xander nodded, not trusting his voice. He allowed himself to be led away from the graves, the wet grass soaking into his shoes. He didn't look back. The boy, Alexander, was buried there too, in a way. All that was left was him, and the long, long road ahead.
As they walked towards the black car, the silent, glowing prompt in his mind was the only thing that felt real.
[SYSTEM READY. AWAITING QUERY.]