1 Identity

It is a man's own mind, not his enemy or foe, that lures him to evil ways.

Gautama Buddha

I carry a dead man's soul in my chest.

They could have put it anywhere, I suppose. But the more I think about it, and I have thought about it, the chest does seem most appropriate. Secured behind my ribcage in a heavily shielded chamber, it's certainly the safest place for it.

You should know that he was a rapist and a murderer, sometimes only subjecting his victims to one of these horrible crimes, but usually—brutally—they suffered through both.

This soul is heavy with sin.

The inhuman monster met his end in a hail of laser fire, flesh and hair melting into an impossibly small ball of human remains. I know this because I felt it.

And it hurt.

You see, I have his memories—all of them. And I remember with overwhelming clarity every emotion he selfishly indulged in, the barely controlled madness of everything Fallon Gent ever did.

The orgasm inducing sadism he so relished while torturing his victims; the thrill of hearing a woman choke to death with his/my hands around her neck—thrusting myself into her repeatedly until she finally lay motionless…quiet…dead.

I remember the overwhelming pleasure of the act itself, but recall gaining even more satisfaction from the palpable, building fear; the intoxicating smell of sweat and impending violence; the anticipation of bringing death to a living being.

I felt it all intensely. And I loved it.

But I also know that it wasn't me, it was him. The methodical yet impulsive killer—who despite a private life spent living out sick, violent fantasies, was a famous entertainer, often in the public eye.

And wealthy enough to buy redemption.

It's not for me to say, in fact, I was constructed to do just the opposite, but I really don't think Gent deserves to be reborn. He should just stay dead like most of his victims—those who couldn't afford a new body. But that's just my opinion. And if they discovered I was even capable of having it, I would be destroyed immediately.

You see, I am a Series 9 Atonement Monk, designed to house the souls of those who've transgressed in their former lives—to serve penance for them while their clones grow into new shells, becoming vessels for a better and more pure existence.

My task is to cleanse away their sin through good deeds and restitution. To wipe the slate clean while they're still dead, before the soul can be transferred into the new body. Then, I will be destroyed, my death cutting the final thread linking the past life to the present.

I am a cyborg. And I am not supposed to be sentient.

But I am.

And I don't want to die.