The Weight of Legacy

The Widow of Hebenstreit’s last day on her misbegotten version of Earth had unfurled about as terribly as most before it—starting with how the chatterbox often referred to as Margaret Smith refused to promptly exit her balcony. Funny how that survived when her own name did not.

“And would you believe it? I heard Peter’s son’s new girlfriend is… you know.”

Moving to a retirement neighborhood had been a mistake.

“Oh?” the widow raised an eyebrow as she fiddled with the hooked needles she was making nothing with, loose yarn splayed over her lap. She’d given up on crochet over a decade ago, but apparently staring off into the distance while enjoying the soothing motions of the rocking chair invited people to interrupt her to ask if she was okay, so she had to improvise. “Is that so, Margaret?”

“Yes! I could hardly believe it myself. I thought Peter had raised that boy right.”

“I mean, if you still need a The Beard in this day and age, Peter’s boy’s probably the best you can get,” the widow said with a nod, needles moving furiously. Not once in her life had she met the gardener’s son. “I don’t know her situation, but if that’s the case, then she’s lucky to have found someone.”

“What?” Margaret blinked, her hands frozen in a gesture involving half-closed fists. “Wait! No! I didn’t mean that! No, goodness, Peter would be livid. I mean, the girl is…”

“Yes?”

Margaret looked in each direction as if she intended to cross a street before leaning closer, hand cupping the side of her mouth as she whispered. “An immigrant.”

Moving to a retirement neighborhood had definitely been a mistake. Perhaps she ought to go to that open house later today, after all.

“Oh, the humanity,” the widow said gingerly, moving to start shoving yarn into the front pockets of the flannel granny nightgown she often lounged outside with. I need an excuse fast.

“‘Oh, the humanity’ is just bloody right!” Margaret finally got the chance to raise her fists in full. “I’ve got a fine young granddaughter myself, you know, and I’d be outraged. If anything, Peter and I were wondering if we should set them up like in the old days, but this came up.”

“You know, Margaret, I’d love to chat some more, but I’m almost late for my video call with my chiropractor, so I have to get back inside.”

“Video call? Bah, doctors these days!” Margaret gave a dismissive wave. “Too lazy to do their jobs. Not that they ever did much in the first place. I’ve gone thirty years without the entropy vaccine and I’m just fine.”

‘Please leave already’ was what the widow meant when she nodded to the side. “Always glad to see you drop by, Margaret.”

The widow locked the doors and shut the blinds as soon as she got inside, almost forgetting to put down the needles she’d been clutching. She might have started admiring how long and stabby they could potentially be, if she’d had to listen to the woman any longer.

“Phew,” she whistled, wiping imaginary sweat from her brow. She slid from the flannel gown into silky two-piece pajamas with long sleeves and booted her computer up. A quick trip to the bathroom later, she checked the connection and clicked to launch Centuries of War Mages: Deluxe Edition, before heading off to grab a snack or ten. Implants were money well spent if that was what it took to never give up on teriyaki beef jerky.

The thing still hadn’t finished loading when she sat back down, but at least she could kill some time now, ankles crossed as her legs landed on the ottoman next to the desk. Chomping down, she went to check some of the groups she was part of in social media, being immediately met by a monstrosity.

Brows furrowed, she stood and poked through her tomes before she grabbed the third and returned to her desk, using a wet wipe on her hands before turning the laminated pages. Having found what she was looking for, she began typing a comment.

Matthew, I’m afraid you may need to revisit your conclusions. You see, on the list of baptisms performed in Vehrmonte on the Summer of 1651, the only Ruth present is listed as the daughter of a James and a Mary. Furthermore, that tree you linked has her as the daughter of Richard and Amalia, who were listed with ages 31 and 22, respectively, on the 1675 Census-Tally of Riches and Denizens sourced there. So either Ruth was born two years before her mother while being absent from the only records book covering that year, or it’s not the same Ruth.

They just kept coming.

Charles, those are clearly four or even five John Millers mistakenly merged into one. It is not the same man with five wives over 97 years.

Because the widow was ancient and had nothing better to do, she kept answering them.

Susan. How do I tell you this? Between the articles in two different newspapers referencing the trial and her death certificate, it’s really looking like your 3rd great-grandfather killed his wife, your ancestor. I’m sorry.

A reply came up just as she was about to recheck her game, from the first person under whose post she had commented. It read: Did I fucking ask?

She almost snapped back, but—after a literal eternity—her game had finally loaded! Her grandson had set her up on a retro server that still carried her preferred rogue-bard hybrid class with a base look that resembled a disheveled cowboy. The widow was not much of a party player at the end of the day, so the nerfed, support-oriented version had put her off the game entirely until her grandson told her about mods and dubiously sanctioned private communities.

Now, she could kick back and solo the new Third Dungeon of the Forgotten Cultivator in peace. How they kept adding new stuff to a retro version of the game was beyond her, but she didn’t question it. After all, youths these days could do basically anything. And when in doubt, blame mods…

Nibbling on the last of her jerky, the widow maneuvered to hit the right notes on one hand while she controlled her character, a small elf that ‘flew’ by using her whip for leverage and sung to use magic. She had to duck under red columns to recover her mana, unwilling to risk a dungeon reset by getting too far from the ruin. Each foul werewolf she had to defeat was an annoyance, but so long as they didn’t group her, she could handle them, if slowly.

With her getup, health was never a problem so long as she had the mana to heal herself, but mana wasn’t endless. It took her trusty buffed hat and durable whip for this to work—and even then, she had to rest every half-dozen fights. There was a small margin of error in case a werewolf picked up on her hostility and went for her, but her time behind the nearest column had come out of necessity.

Finally, with her mana topped off, she rushed the first werewolf on the next platform, casting a spell to restrain it with gleaming silver bindings as she let loose a chain of progressively stronger swings of the whip, slaying the fiend. With the cooldown running, she entered the range of a second one and cast a shield, letting the backlash soften it up. When her shield cracked, the first tier of her combo was already available, with the second clearing up just as she made the whip spin in a drill-like fashion.

At last, the final werewolf was felled, and loot was ripe for the taking. She snickered as she walked past the dungeon’s entrance after dragging the chest’s contents into inventory, the recommendation being for a party of five. It wasn’t lost to her that her beloved hybrid-class cowboy had been nerfed for a reason, having access to basically every form of magic in the game. She wouldn’t have it any other way.

Leaning back on her chair, the widow laughed and returned to her character’s home, a tree-house with stealth wards. Her grandson insisted no one raided in this server, but really? Was she supposed to trust strangers? Once she’d sealed her home shut, she browsed her loot. Disappointment bubbled in her chest. She supposed she shouldn’t have expected much to be of use to her, seeing as the new version of the class was quite unpopular and it seemed newer drops included less and less items tailored for them.

She got a couple potions and a flute—any instrument was useless for a class that cast exclusively by singing—so she supposed she might keep the mana potions and sell everything else. She only had 109 mana potions in her inventory before, so now she had 2 extras to save for a rainy day. A yawn took hold of her, but she wouldn’t go for a nap now, choosing to simply log off.

The widow reached for her phone and dialed her grandson. “Yoyo, the loot was trash.”

An evil cackle was heard. “Told you so.”

“Oh, wise one,” the widow snorted. “Which dungeon shall this foolish one endeavor to next? Please enlighten me.”

“I might be able to get you something tomorrow or so,” her grandson noted. “They usually push new content on Mondays.”

“But no one likes Mondays…”

“Serious question, Grandma: still planning on going to the Nightsky Moon later?”

“Yes? I’ve had second thoughts, honestly, but Margaret showing up was enough to convince me. Why do you ask?”

“Nothing, really. Was just wondering if you could send pics.”

“Ha! Obviously. Want me to check anywhere in particular?”

“Eh, the Nightsky Cave System would be nice if you have time, I could barely find anything about it, and I want some pics for a campaign.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks, Grandma! Safe travels.”

“Bah, what’s the worst that could happen, the spaceship explodes?”

“Grandma! Don’t joke like that! It’s bad luck.”

“Yoyo, please,” the widow snorted. “No use in being superstitious. You know how much money I wasted on séances back when your grandfather died? None of that shit is real. There is no luck, no destiny, no hell.”

“Geez, I was trying to keep you from jinxing it, no need to get philosophical.”

“Just reminding you that if hell existed your grandfather would have had to answer my séance calls.”

“Pfft. You know, most of us believe in reincarnation nowadays.”

“Why, all that New Age crap?”

“No, it’s isekais mostly.”

“¿Y seca qué?”

“Isekai’s a story thing, character dies and gets reborn in a fantasy world.”

“Huh, hadn’t heard that name before. Any good games with it?”

“Eh, I’ll have to get back to you on that, I’ve mostly just read it in web novels.”

“Interesting, let me know if there’s any novel that might be up my alley… Alright, Yoyo,” the widow nodded, even knowing he couldn’t see her as this wasn’t a video call. “I’ll call you when I’m back, open house’s supposed to end at 7 PM.”

“Alright! Cya, Grandma.”

“I’ll see you first, Yoyo.”

Her grandson laughed and hung up first.

With a sigh, the widow got to stretching, her change of clothes at the ready. She’d been too late for life extension to give her anything other than quality of life, so no heavy activity for her. Not that she was ungrateful, as she was still here. Unlike Rupert, the bastard that didn’t exist anymore. A part of her still hoped he was rotting in hell and reception there was just terrible.

Since she had no intention of getting robbed on the moon—promises of flawless security or not—all the widow would take aside from her phone was her card, doubling as ID and payment method. She was sharp like a hawk on the way down the sidewalk, fearing Margaret might return to rain on her parade.

At last, she reached the teleporter, waving her card in front of the scanner to pay the hefty fee. Rupert’s money wasn’t going to burn itself, after all.

With a slightly disorienting buzz, the widow found herself at the boarding station. She was early, so she returned to the teleporter and chose a different destination. Might as well seize the day. No one stopped her as she slid into campus and knocked on Professor Jackson’s door.

“Come in.”

The widow didn’t hesitate at the raspy voice’s answer, entering the room. “Good day, Professor Jackson. Thank you for having me. I’m the former Mrs. Hebenstreit, and I study family history. I was hoping to privately discuss something about one of your articles.”

“…Good day to you, Mrs. Hebenstreit. I’m always eager to discuss my work. Which article are you referring to?”

“An Analysis on the Life and Descendants of François Dupont de Garnier, Professor Jackson.”

“Oh, yes, that’s a recent one. What did you wish to discuss?”

“Well, on the section about Louise Dupont de Garnier, you have her as being born on March 1433 and baptized in the Cathedral, because of the marginal note remaining on a now-missing entry reads ‘Louise’, and there are no other Louises that could match her age born there between 1420 and 1440. However, if you look through the records on the satellite parish for that same period, you can find a Louise, daughter of François Dupont de Garnier and his wife Marie, baptized there on June 21st, 1431. It’s on their first book of baptisms, forty-fourth page as marked on the upper-right corner.”

The Professor had stopped what he was doing, blinking slowly with some scattered papers between his hands. After close to a minute, he finally spoke. “Mrs. Hebenstreit, what are your qualifications?”

“Pardon?”

“I asked, Mrs. Hebenstreit, what are your qualifications?”

“…I have researched professionally for thirty-nine years, and personally for over fifty. I used to publish in a local family history magazine for the ‘finding bio family’ tips section in my hometown in Florida, back when the place still existed. I realize it’s clear I started work late in life, but the cause was how my late husband—” she bit her lip, having crushed the instinct to say why she’d taken so long to pursue her passion for researching in the first place—as if she needed to justify herself.

No, she didn’t need to. Besides, the man had asked for qualifications, not her life story. “I would rather not jump to conclusions, so I wonder why you ask? I just wanted to share the information so you may verify and add to your work on the Dupont de Garnier family.”

The Professor nodded slowly. “It’s so that I may include mention of it on the errata. But no degrees?”

“No, Professor.”

“Look…” he spoke gingerly, not even trying to meet her gaze. “I appreciate the tip, infinitely so. I’ll verify it. Not that I doubt you, but you know how these things work—” she gave him a nod as he continued “—it’s just that I won’t be able to credit you.”

“…Pardon?”

“I mean no offense, Mrs. Hebenstreit, but you know how it is, especially at my level. I’ll make the correction if you’re right, but given the circles I move in, it would reflect poorly on me if I attribute it to someone without an education. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely value the work professional amateurs like you do for the average person, but I can’t risk presenting a poor image to my peers, should they decide to follow up on the names there.”

She didn’t give two shits about credit, let alone the circles he moved in—hadn’t even intended to ask for credit, or so much as thought of it before he brought it up.

Now the widow found her grip seeking the needles she’d left back home.

Instead, she remained as still as she could, trying to hide the clenching of her fists. She’d worked long and hard to keep herself from blowing up in public, after all. There would be consequences. All she gave him was a nod. “Yes, I know how it is. Good day, Professor.”

He said something as she exited his office, but the widow tuned it out. By the time she’d teleported back to the station, the line to board was getting started, so she slid into the back of it and pulled out her phone to focus on the things that really mattered, barely paying attention to the staffer that eventually waved her in.

Y seca ahí, ysecaahí… Y se cae y, ysecaey… Isekai?

She read through the first article with a raised eyebrow as she checked into the spaceship that would take them all to see the newly built villas in the Nightsky Moon’s tenth inhabited base. The idea of ‘character randomly moving to another world’ being an entire genre was initially strange to her, but not unfathomable. It clicked soon enough. After all, characters in video games also just randomly showed up one day, from the perspective of the NPCs.

It seemed like the genre made that a central thing as opposed to just an initial event to be dismissed. Many referenced the characters being directly summoned to a new world, though most she saw involved dying in the real world first. What makes it distinct from the summoned hero trope, though…? Dying?

The reincarnation and reincarnation-adjacent versions were the bizarre ones, however. Taking over somebody else’s body? That was just weird. The version where it would be true reincarnation seemed, well, like reincarnation with extra steps to her. Why did the character need this backstory on Earth if they were just being born as a regular person of a new world? Couldn’t they just have always been from that world? Was this one of those things kids these days did to make otherwise unlikable characters ‘relatable’?

Oh, they keep their memories. That would be so awkward. Imagine being grown then suddenly being a baby. That’d be terrible.

Overlap with other genres was mentioned. She’d read some cultivation stuff before, so she skimmed over explanations on that, but things got stranger the further down the results she got. Systems? Apparently it was surprisingly common for the genre to also include elements reminiscent of video games. Huh. She didn’t trust her phone to have good signal on the moon, so the widow figured she’d have to take Yoyo up on that offer and maybe even get to reading. It was a bit strange, but not uninteresting, and the widow would never run out of free time. She fired off a quick instant message to Yoyo requesting some recommendations for when she got back.

Strapping in when the ship’s dings started, she put her phone away as the loudspeakers blasted notices about takeoff. With the day she’d had, she was almost certain she’d buy a place after the open house. She deserved better than the ‘peaceful’ retirement neighborhood she’d mistakenly believed would actually be peaceful. She might even be able to get one of those pioneer internet service bundles that never actually got discontinued despite the passage of time, knowing each time the ‘buy within the next 24h!’ timer ended, it’d just reset.

Wish I’d brought snacks. Takeoff was taking forever.

She sighed, resting her head on her fist. Everything went strangely bright all of a sudden, which made no sense, considering her eyes were closed. As soon as it had come, it was gone, and darkness enveloped all.

It struck her, in eerie calmness, that she couldn’t feel her body. Goddammit, cramps now of all times? She tried to stretch but found nothing happened.

Uh…

You have died! Commencing rebirth in 5… 4… 3… 2…

…Goddammit, Yoyo.