[ WP ] You tell Death that you will never tire of living no matter how long you live . It makes you a bet that you will and thus grants you true immortality . You 've just lived through the second death of the universe and show no sign of stopping . Death is baffled .

HE came to visit again during the infinite darkness. I ’ d made a nice little waiting room for myself for this round, stocked with a few imaginary amenities to pass the un-time. I said “ infinite ” before, but “ indefinite ” might work better. There is still so much I don ’ t know, and Universe 2 didn ’ t give me enough answers. 
 
 I know He had been watching me, checking in off and on, but this is the first time I ’ d seen Him manifest, in person, since we made the deal. After all this time ( and un-time ) I kind of got the impression that He expected me to call first. I invented a seat for Him beside my own cozy armchair, blank, unfinished, and malleable for my guest to adjust as he pleased. 
 
 The silence stretched on, but now it was sort of companionable. I missed that. The sense of coziness that comes from being not-alone. As the stars dwindled again, I ’ d isolated myself from the various failing civilizations. I couldn ’ t help them, I couldn ’ t save them. They gathered around the fading twinkles in the void, guttering away like candles. Somehow, I still had it in me to mourn them. It was harder the first time, when I was uncertain, when I felt that the Nothing was permanent, and when I still hadn ’ t quite managed the knack of wrapping myself up in a little world of my own thoughts as my body drifted in the Emptiness. 
 
 Not about to break my habit, I held my tongue; though He didn ’ t fidget, I could sense a certain mounting impatience. I invented a glass of water on the table in front of Him, serving as a silent nudge. I ’ d learned much of patience, but could never sate my curiosity. What did He want, after all of this time and un-time? 
 
 I think He came to the conclusion that I would not speak first. He shifted in His chair, gone from an amorphous idea of a chair to a rigid, uncomfortable thing. 
 
 > What keeps you going? 
 
 I considered the question—and the asker—for some time. Or un-time. It is hard to keep track. My answer gradually shaped itself into a thought. “ Curiosity. Wonder. Improvement. ” 
 
 This did not seem to satisfy my guest. I decided to expand on my answer. The words formed more easily as I spoke. “ I carry over with memories from Before. That means … I introduce chaos into the cycle. One small change cascades through the ages and eons. I have learned so much—I need only find students for that knowledge. That End I just saw—a moment, a year, forever ago—it is a sad, futile thing. Can there be a better one next time? Why does it need to end and start anew? Is it possible to keep things going longer? Forever? ” 
 
 > You, better than anyone, should know that only Nothing is forever. 
 
 “ I ’ ve been doing pretty good so far. ” 
 
 > Forever has to go in both directions. You had a starting point. You will have an ending point. 
 
 “ Maybe so, but by our agreement, it ’ ll have to be when I decide I ’ m good and ready. I ’ m not ready yet. ” 
 
 He seemed a little affronted. I settled back into my idea of a chair and waited Him out again. 
 
 > Fine. Do your little experiments. Call me when you ’ re done. 
 
 “ Sure thing. ” He was gone. I wondered how many more cycles until he came back again. 
 
 My answer, of course, was a lie. As the Death of humanity—and specifically, only the humanity of my own original universe—He couldn ’ t go to his own rest until He reaped the final human. 
 
 Spite is what *really* keeps me going. 

