[ He doesn't even flinch when she says Earth. But now that she's looking for it, she might see the flicker of anguish, the there-and-gone tightness around his eyes.

It's a hell of a story. Metaphysically fascinating, raises as many questions as it answers; there's a lot to unpack. His eyes track the movement of her hands, the curves of sleek black metal. But he just raises his drink and says: ]

To ghosts, then. And learning to live with them.

[ He drinks, while her final question hangs. Finally, when God sets down his drink with another too-real click of glass on wet wood, he looks at her again. ]

That one's an even worse story. [ It's not even really a smile, now. The curve of his mouth is bleak and remote. It highlights the black and empty eyes; it makes him look less human. ] I'll make it short: I got up again.

[ Again, the silence hangs. ]

I seem to collect titles. The First Reborn... The First Necromancer. I learned how to wake everyone else back up, too. And we built something new in the ashes.