Imagine the flip of a coin. Suppose that the outcome were truly random, that each side has an idealized one-in-two chance of coming up, uninfluenced by the way you were holding it beforehand and how fast you sent it tumbling through your fingers. Suppose that something crucial hinges on the exact outcome of this coin flip, and that
both outcomes
will occur.
Quantum suicide and immortality is a
gedankenexperiment which frames the difference between the Copenhagen interpretation and the Everett interpretation of quantum—
You disapprove of my analogy? Foolish.
Shortly after acquiring my powers I spent eighteen months living in an uncomfortably small apartment in New York City. There were posters of bands I did not personally enjoy on my walls, inexpensive food in my fridge, and a loaded semiautomatic handgun in the desk. I think I managed four hours a day in front of a computer terminal on most days, in between my job and sleeping. My plan, at first, was simple: select the most volatile stock on the market, exercise my power, and either purchase call options or put options with the same strike price. One of those would be more advantageous than the other, or nothing, and I would subsequently empower that timeline and be on my way.
During this time I did effectively nothing for hours at a stretch, and consequently I was able to reinvent entire (small) branches of mathematics without the benefit of a formal education. I noted, for instance, that my power allowed me to treat causal decisions as a binary tree, where at each node I could ascertain the outcome of either choice. It becomes beneficial to model as many choices as humanly possible in a binary fashion (Call or put? Buy or sell? Black coffee or with cream and sugar? Diplomacy or homicide?) in order to maximize the usefulness of my power.
I was, and am, quasi-limited to using so-called 'greedy algorithms' – for any given node, I must commit to an action before actively considering the benefits and drawbacks of step two. But however limited, this is an advantage that no other human enjoys, and so I was able to out-trade nearly every other agent on the markets (and of those that I could not, I suspect some had advantages of their own). I soon devised additional strategies to maximize the use of my time, and if I told you my ROI over those eighteen months you simply would not believe me.
While a coin is still turning, it rapidly alternates between two states. It would indeed be more accurate to use the polarity of a photon or some other quantum bit to model the state of my mind. Until measured, the q-bit exists in a superposition of both states: it can be said to be polarized both clockwise and anticlockwise simultaneously. The physicist Erwin Schrödinger proposed that if you were to connect a device that reads such a state to another device that executes a cat—
Oh, and this analogy is known to you? Is my explanation too facile, you half-schooled dolt? I am not expounding on the nuances in Heisenberg's conception of wave function collapse. Consider the world from the viewpoint of the cat.
In 50% of the possible worlds, naturally limited to two in a binary experiment, the cat dies. But of course, this does not ultimately matter
to the cat, since the experience of being dead is a null entry in the logbook of the cat's life. Prior to committing suicide, the residents of the fictional island nation of San Lorenzo would declare
"Now I will destroy the whole world!", because from their perspective such acts were indistinguishable. Nearly everyone disputes the truth of this in public, but in the privacy of one's mind it takes a supreme triumph of hope to deny it.
And so for the cat, it is as though each time the experiment is performed, she survives. The cumulative probability can become truly astonishing. After ten repetitions, the odds of survival are less than one in one thousand, and after twenty they are less than one in one million. To the cat, there is only one grand conclusion. For her, it is inevitable.
I moved out of New York City in 2007 for a variety of reasons. It was already populated by Thinkers, many of whom I was not ready to contend with directly. The city was overseen by the most competent branch of the Protectorate, lead by Legend himself. And, though it shames me to admit it, I didn't want to live in the same state as Nilbog anymore.
Brockton Bay was ripe for the taking. With the Protectorate recently decimated by a visit from King and Gray Boy, and the underground suffering from a power vacuum left by the imprisonment of Marquis and the spectacularly violent death of the gang leader who called himself Butcher, I saw my chance. I requested a change of department from my superiors, citing proximity to Ellisburg as my reason, and within weeks I was nominally an employee of the PRT ENE.
I will not recount the beginning of my rise to power. Suffice it to say that city councilors were bribed, young parahumans were dissuaded from joining the Wards, and I hired no less than seven Tinkers. I will instead skip to a particular night that I entertained Accord.
We sat together in the lounge of my secret underground lair (I am proud to say that I own one of those), enjoying the tap water. He was an extremely short man in a tailored pinstripe suit, with a mask made of dozens of interlocking parts. It shifted to mimic his facial expressions with a simple beauty I couldn't help but appreciate. A Thinker like myself, he had the sublime ability to produce plans that were guaranteed to work, provided that they were followed exactly. That was one hell of a caveat. I knew that this awesome power was limited to the possible – no plans for killing any of the unstoppable monstrosities were forthcoming – and suspected that the complexity of the instructions required him to work with others.
I wore my own costume, with the recent addition of a white snake covering most of my body. The colour of the snake was meant only to pair nicely with the existing black, but since there were two popular fairy tales about white snakes, neither of which related to my power, I'd consider the misdirection a nice bonus.
The only other person in the room was my bodyguard, who wore a mirrored face guard that neatly concealed his identity while not appearing to be a cape mask. His name was Logan, and he had two orders.
"Has Doctor Mother deigned to explain why I am still doing business through an intermediary?" Accord asked me mildly.
"No, she has not," I said in one timeline, and in the other, "She wishes to ensure you are... trustworthy. Also, as I would be present in either case, she has elected to be elsewhere right now."
I was forced to keep the second timeline. Either Accord knew something of the truth, or he could tell the lie.
"Understandable," he said in response. "Nevertheless, as this is the second time I have used their services, I will insist on more direct dealings in the future. I do not wish to trouble you, Coil."
"Oh, I enjoy these meetings, my friend. It gives us a chance to keep up."
Accord grimaced, his mask shuffling exquisitely to reflect the emotion. "I am forced to allot less and less time to minor pursuits. My plans are disturbed constantly by this and that. I was the only villainous power in Boston for
three days, before Bullseye gained the loyalty of Animos and Vex. He calls himself Butcher now."
That was unusual. Bullseye had been an assassin, available to the highest bidder, so taking the name of the gang leader he'd slain was unexpected. And how had he earned the loyalty of the Teeth? Accord must have felt the unsolved question like an itch. I raised my hand, signalling to Logan. He left the room.
"Do they plan to return to Brockton Bay?" I asked in one timeline. They did not, so I abandoned that line of inquiry when Logan returned.
"And now we come to the heart of the matter," I said. My henchman placed a solid metal case on the coffee table between us and propped open the lid. Inside was a vial the size of a fountain pen set in cushioning, filled with a liquid the same shade as my suit. "This is the 'Reverse' sample, with the same values as you ordered last time. As promised, I will use my power to assist you."
Accord nodded, and called in one of his minions. The vial was consumed by two people, a man named Geoff and a woman named Linda. Within five minutes, Linda was dead. I abandoned that reality.
"Congratulations," Accord said to Geoff, who recovered admirably quickly. "While it does appear that you can now teleport, at least short distances, the nature of your trigger leads me to believe that your power is something else altogether, perhaps more Stranger than Mover – I see that it is from your face. Worry not, wearing a mask is a required part of the job. Now, Coil, before we take our leave I'd like to discuss the dearly departed Iron Rain, and what you might be able to tell me about the man who calls himself Kaiser..."
Do not presume to lecture me about how life is measured in gradients! I am well aware of my own limitations. If I held so much power as Contessa I might seek to eliminate suffering on the scale of nations, as Accord does. Instead I constrain myself to Brockton Bay, fighting against battalions of racial supremacists of all stripes who have more in common than they would care to admit. Not least of which is that they are unfit to rule. Kaiser, Krieg, Lung, Skidmark, even Faultline. All lack certain qualities – charisma and cunning, caution and courage, and in Skidmark's case all four. But their is a fifth virtue, one so sacred that I have resisted giving it a name.
Indulge me, for I have one more analogy. Consider the humble molecule of deoxyribonucleic acid. Two antiparallel strands entwined, containing the instructions for making proteins. But when the machinery of the cell passes over the strands, only one is copied into RNA. Only one strand's information survives.
I am seated at my desk; it is late, verging on midnight. Most of my employees have gone home, save for those who care for Dinah and Noelle. Dinah's cooperation is not difficult to secure; her power activates automatically when she is asked a direct question concerning possibility, and attempting to conceal pertinent facts induces migraines.
Noelle, on the other hand, is rapidly becoming a problem. Only Francis will put her well being before anything else; the others share a genuine friendship, but their loyalty is being tested by an impossible situation. I stretch myself every day to find a way to deal with her, but even disposal is increasingly becoming a bleak prospect. Dinah has been no help in this regard. I suspect she will only be useful as an engine of destruction, one day to pit herself against an Endbringer or the Triumvirate.
Perhaps someday Scion will come here and liberate her, although the likelihood of that happening is so small as to not be worth consideration. I am certainly not hiding her from his gaze with mere concrete and steel
The calendar on my desk informs me in coded language that my evening is no longer free: I am expecting two visitors. They arrive on time, Grue and Tattletale. Grue is the leader of the Undersiders in public, but behind closed doors they bow to Tattletale. Such a fascinating girl. I was fortunate to find her at all, and since then she has been invaluable. It's a shame that one day I'll have to kill her, but that's simply the way it is. Thinkers don't tolerate one another very well.
They sit across from me, all three of us costumed, and I split the timeline. In the only one that matters, we discuss business. Tattletale and I consider a number of plans to maximize revenue and manipulate the public. It is my end goal, of course, to remove Calvert from the playing field and install Coil as mayor (or ruler) of Brockton Bay. To that end, both the Undersiders and the Travelers have been receptive and capable. Even Grue and Trickster are able to surprise me with their guile.
The other timeline is sustained only by my mind. An entire universe, held in the balance only by my existence. Incredible. Yet, every time it must come to an end.
...
I watched the market's movement, scant minutes before the close. My chosen stock was up twelve percent since opening, the result of a particularly bullish market over the last few days. In this timeline, I had purchased put options, which would have been a spectacularly useless move if I hadn't also purchased an equal bulk of call options in another universe.
For a few minutes, I entertained myself by calculating the amount of money I might have made if I had even greater resources to feed into the market, but this was only idle speculation. The PRT had a division dedicated to watching for Thinkers like myself; making too much too fast would only tip them off.
I picked up the gun and placed the barrel in my mouth.
...
"No she has not."
Accord's face twisted, and his mask followed. "Do not take me for an idiot, Coil. I know you asked her, and Cauldron would have furnished you with a plausible lie
at least."
"Ah. Logan?" I said, and Logan shot me.
...
"Do they plan to return to Brockton Bay?"
"Their activity suggests an attempt to entrench themselves in Boston. They've bought property in Dorchester and Charlestown, along with—"
"Thank you. Logan?"
...
We stared down at Linda, who was writhing silently on the floor. Her eyes were bleeding a murky gray liquid. After a minute, she stopped moving, and after a minute more her chest ceased to rise with breath. Accord crouched next to her and took her pulse.
"Dead," he said sombrely. "Was your power unsuccessful this time?"
"It was not. Logan?"
...
Many would shy away from this. To die in the knowledge that you will be erased can be a terrible thing. Yet I know with certainty that my mind will carry forward, unhampered by my quantum suicide. No matter how many terrible fates I meet, this is the least of the evils that can be laid at my feet. We must strive for absolute victory, no matter the cost. Failure is unacceptable, and less so if it stems from any lacking on your own part. This is the lesson you must learn.
I take my gun from the desk and murder Grue. At this range I can hardly miss, and the bullet scrambles his brain into a chunk of meat with a roar that is barely muffled by the silencer. My decision was dependent on this being an alternate timeline; Tattletale's precognition can't process the change in my intent fast enough to save him.
She's looking at me, slack-jawed with horror. Grue's corpse falls from the chair and hits the ground in an awkward position, leaving no doubt as to whether he might have survived. I'm content to wait for the ringing in my ears to fade.
"What the fuck," Tattletale says. It's not a question. She turns her head towards the door, then back to me. One glance suffices to tell her that it's locked.
"What the fu—"
I point the gun at her, and she shuts her mouth. She probably has a better idea of what's going on than I do, although she definitely knows that this is merely a shadow of the world and that of the two of us, only I am real. Tattletale swallows hard.
"Take off your shirt."
