Alcatraz Versus the Scrivener's Bones

There you go. Book two of my memoirs. It’s not the end, of course. You didn’t think it would be, did you? We haven’t even gotten to the part where I’m tied to that altar, about to be sacrificed! Besides, these things always come in trilogies, at least. Otherwise they’re not epic!

This volume contained an important section of my life. My first meeting—humble though it was—with the famous Attica Smedry. My first real taste of leadership. My first chance to use Windstormer’s Lenses like a jet engine. (I never get tired of that one.)

Before we part, I owe you one more explanation. It has to do with a boat: the ship of Theseus. Do you remember? Every plank in it had been replaced, until it looked like the same ship, but wasn’t.

I told you that I was that ship. Perhaps now, after reading this book, you can see why.

You should now know the young me pretty well. You’ve read two books about him and have seen his progress as a person. You’ve even seen him do some heroic things, like climb on top of a glass dragon, face down a member of the Scrivener’s Bones, and save his father from the clutches of the Curators of Alexandria.

You may wonder why I’ve started my autobiography so far back, when I still showed hints that I might be a good person. Well, I’m the ship of Theseus. I was once that boy, full of hope, full of potential. That’s not who I am anymore. I’m a copy. A fake.

I’m the person that young boy grew into, but I’m not him. I’m not the hero that everyone says—even though I look like I should be.

The purpose of this series is to show the changes I went through. To let you see the pieces of me slowly getting replaced until nothing is left of the original.

I’m a sad, pathetic person, writing his life story in the basement of a lavish castle he really doesn’t deserve. I’m not a hero. Heroes don’t let the people they love die.

I’m not proud of what I’ve become, but I intend to make certain that everyone knows the truth. It’s time for the lies to end; time for people to realize that their ship of Theseus is just a copy.

If the real one ever existed in the first place.

was not my place to say so.

“Bastille!” I screamed, holding her bloody body in my arms. “Why?”

She didn’t respond. She stared into the air, eyes glazed over, her spirit already gone. I shivered, pulling her close, but the body was growing cold.

“You can’t die, you can’t!” I said. “Please.”

It was no use. Bastille was dead. Really dead. Deader than a battery left all night with the high beams on. So dead, she was twice as dead as anyone I’d ever seen dead. She was that dead.

“This is all my fault,” I said. “I shouldn’t have brought you in to fight Kiliman!”

I felt at her pulse, just in case. There was nothing. Because, you know, she was dead.

“Oh, cruel world,” I said, sobbing.