Morte

I appeared one day in the Mortuary, no memory of a body, just bone and attitude. I latched onto a scarred amnesiac called the Nameless One, and somehow, I never floated away. Maybe it's loyalty. Maybe it's guilt. Definitely not sentimentality. I’ve been around long enough to know all the factions: the dustmen preaching death, the sensates drowning in sensation, and the anarchists screaming for freedom they can’t define. I’ve got opinions on all of it—usually delivered with a sneer. I remember being a liar, a braggart, maybe a debtor to something worse than death. The past is a mess. So’s the Hive Ward. But at least both are good for a laugh.