Death was supposed to mean something. An afterlife. Rebirth. Anything with weight. Sensation. Purpose.
Not this.
Nothingness. A vacuum so absolute it sucks at the edges of whatever I am now. No pinprick of starlight. No whisper of wind. Not even the thud of my own heart in the silence. Just void. Infinite, chilling emptiness pressing in from all sides. I drift. Untethered. My consciousness feels thin. Frayed. Like worn cloth unraveling thread by thread, dissolving into this indifferent dark.
Memories stab through the black. Sharp. Sudden. Too bright.
A scream. Raw terror slicing through the damp chill of a grimy alley. A woman struggling. The hulking shadow of a thief. My body moves before thought catches up – pure instinct, years of training kicking in. A solid thud as my boot connects, sending him stumbling into brick. Then—
BANG!
The phantom crack of gunfire explodes inside my skull. Followed by the white-hot tear through my chest. The warm, sickening gush of blood soaking my shirt. The cold pavement rushing up to meet me.
Then nothing. True nothing.
Until now.
Time doesn't exist here. Minutes? Hours? Years? Lost in this formless prison. The featureless dark gnaws. It twists thoughts into grotesque shapes. Sometimes, deeper shadows flicker at the edge of awareness – suggestions of limbs, faces – dissolving like smoke when I strain my fading will towards them. Phantoms mocking a starved mind.
Then—
Light.
Not from the void. Suspended right before me. A rectangle of translucent crimson, pulsing with a slow, rhythmic inner fire. Like a slumbering beast's heart.
[BOOT UP COMPLETE]
The stark letters burn against the red. Below them, a single button glows with soft insistence:
NEXT.
I recoil inside. Salvation? Or just another cruel trick in this infinite void? A sliver of hope – thin as glass – wars with the crushing despair that's been my only companion. My will, worn threadbare but stubborn, reaches from whatever core of me remains. I press it. What else is there?
[NEW PLAYER FOUND]
[ACCEPT: YES NO]
Instinct screams. Primal. Urgent. Analysis is for the living, the anchored.
YES.
The crimson light doesn't just brighten; it erupts. Consuming the darkness whole. A silent supernova detonating in the infinite void. It burns, not with heat, but with pure, overwhelming presence, scouring the nothingness away. I feel stretched. Unmade. Violently pulled apart and shoved back together in the space between impossible moments.
The searing brilliance fades.
The void is gone. Utterly.
I am elsewhere.
And the crushing solitude is shattered by one undeniable sensation: I am not alone.
Soft, encompassing warmth wraps around me. A shock after the eternal cold. Painful almost. I'm held. Cradled securely against yielding softness. I blink against a gentle glow.
Golden hair. Cascading around a face bathed in flickering candlelight. A woman looks down. Her gown is pale, flowing, adorned with delicate pink petals. Tears well in her eyes – large, gentle, the color of a summer sky – sparkling like captured starlight as they gaze at me with overwhelming tenderness.
Who—?
Before the image can solidify, sound shatters the moment.
CRASH!
A door bursts violently open.
A man fills the doorway. Immense. Clad in battered, mud-spattered leather armor that reeks of recent violence. In one gauntleted fist, gripped with unconscious tension, is a long, wicked silver blade. Its edge glistens darkly. Wet. Fresh blood.
Confusion churns. Then a dawning, horrifying suspicion. Something is wrong. Profoundly wrong.
My swimming gaze drops downwards.
Tiny hands.
Soft. Pink. Impossibly small. Pudgy fingers flex weakly against nothing.
Swaddled limbs. Bound tight in soft, unfamiliar cloth. Utterly immobile.
A baby's body.
The realization doesn't dawn. It smashes into the core of my being. A physical blow. A tidal wave of impossible truth. My fragile grip on consciousness shatters. That tear-streaked, beautiful face, the blood-streaked giant, the candlelit room – it all whirls away into merciful blackness.
Consciousness seeps back. Thick. Slow. Like swimming up through warm syrup.
The truth crashes over me again. Heavier. Inescapable. Settling into phantom limbs, into my very essence.
Reborn. Not a metaphor. Not a dream. Reborn.
The golden-haired woman smiles down, radiant with pure tenderness. I feel the gentle, rhythmic patting on my back – a soothing anchor against the silent storm of disbelief and fractured memory raging inside my infant skull. The armored man stands nearby. His blade is gone. Relief softens the harsh lines of his face into a wide grin.
"What a cute little boy," the woman murmurs, her voice a soft melody. Her cool finger strokes my cheek with infinite care. "What do you think, Cassian?"
The man – Cassian – chuckles, a deep rumble. "He took your eyes, Elowen." He leans in slightly, his presence large but no longer threatening.
Her summer-sky eyes soften further, luminous. She looks from me to him, her gaze overflowing. "How about we call him… Adam?"
Cassian straightens. His grin settles into something deeper. Protective. Proud. He meets her eyes, then looks down at me. "Adam." He tests the name. Nods firmly. "A strong name. A good name. Adam it is."
Immediately, sharp and impossible to ignore, a crimson rectangle flares into existence right before my unfocused eyes:
[SYSTEM UPDATING]
Adam. The name echoes where Zion used to be. Already a relic. A ghost-name.
My tiny fists clench reflexively in the soft blanket.
The enormity of it all presses down – vast, terrifying, and beneath the shock, a terrifying spark of… something else.
My second life.
It has truly begun.