They sat at either end of the table, one sipping at their coffee, the other inhaling a drag of their cigarette. They were Artyom and Raphael, brothers who had the ability to shape shift.
“This immortality bullshit is driving me insane,” Artyom spoke in a choked voice as he held the smoke in his lungs.
“What’s the issue? Can’t die young in a blaze of glory?”
Raphael was gazing out to the street from the second story balcony.
“No, it’s not that,” he sighed, attracting Raphael’s attention, “it’s Georgie. I can’t ever have a normal relationship with her. I can’t get married, have kids and grow old together. She’ll be in her eighties when I still look like I’m in my thirties.”
“But you can still have relationships. Your extended life span gives you the option to live a full human life as one thing then completely start again elsewhere. We did it in Paris and now we’re in New York, who knows where we’ll go next?”
“Yes, I understand that, but it doesn’t help but instill a sense that I am in some way incomplete, like none of my journeys will ever amount to anything because I can’t shrivel up and pass away like a human. It creates this lack of emotion, makes me feel like nothing matters.”
“Be careful brother, you’re starting to sound like father.” Raphael warned.
“And I’ve begun to understand why he did what he did. You can see how life offers nothing in the way of reassurances.”
“But don’t you see? That is the nature of life. There are no assurances, no firm black or white, do this, do that, until you die. You have been given this wonderful opportunity to live many lives doing whatever the hell you want to do.”
Artyom sighed once more and stared off into the sunrise, his heart heavy and his head full of doubts.
“Come on brother. Let’s do something fun tonight, something different to break up the monotony of the job. Let me show you what life is really about, whether you get a hundred years or five.”
Raphael finished his drink and grabbed his coat from the back of the chair.
“For now, let’s get this job done. For those who work hard get to play hard.”
Artyom chuckled, stabbing his cigarette butt into the ashtray.
“You sound like an infomercial.”