Between Worlds
No Time
Keshaun Martin always figured death would be like flipping a switch. One second you're here, the next you're gone. Black screen, no credits, no replay.
But instead of nothing, he woke to endless white. The kind of white that hurt your eyes, even though he didn't think he had eyes anymore.
He blinked and looked down. Hands. Feet. Same body, but… not. The last memory was of squealing tires and a blur of headlights—then crunch, pain, silence.
Now he stood in a void, staring at some dude who looked like he just rolled out of a Goodwill bin. Faded jeans, crooked baseball cap, wrinkled T-shirt with "I Heart New York" peeling off the chest. Dude even had flip-flops on.
The man grinned like he'd been waiting. "So… yeah. Truck-kun. Classic. Took you out faster than a Mortal Kombat fatality."
Keshaun squinted. "Truck… what?"
"Truck-kun," the guy repeated, shrugging like it explained everything. "Internet meme. You died by truck. Cliché as hell, but it works."
"You tellin' me I'm dead… 'cause a truck hit me?"
"Bingo." The man clapped, sarcastic and loud in the emptiness. "Winner winner, death by dinner."
Keshaun's jaw tensed. "Man, fuck you talkin' about? Who even are you?"
"Rob," the man said casually, leaning back on air like there was a wall behind him. "Omnipotent, omniscient, omnieverything. God, but, y'know, not the God you're thinking of. More like… HR manager of reality. I don't do prayers or lightning bolts. I handle paperwork."
Keshaun stared, skeptical. "You jokin'."
"Do I look like I'm joking?" Rob spread his arms wide. The void rippled like water, galaxies sparking for a split second before fading back to white. "Normally, you'd be on the afterlife conveyor belt. Heaven, Hell, reincarnation roulette, whatever fits. But…" He leaned forward, grin too wide. "I'm bored. So you get a deal. Three wishes. Plus reincarnation."
Keshaun folded his arms. "Reincarnation where?"
Rob's grin turned sharp. "The Vampire Diaries."
Keshaun's mouth dropped. "The corny-ass CW show with glitter vampires? You serious?"
"Dead serious," Rob said, waggling his eyebrows. "Except—" He snapped his fingers, and a carousel of images spun around them: Jason Voorhees rising from a lake, Jeepers Creepers spreading its wings, the Nun's face cracking into a smile, Paimon's sigil burning red. "—with a little remix. Horror elements from the combined horrorverse. All your favorite nightmares, every slasher flick, every demon possession, every urban legend. They're all real. Picture Vampire Diaries, but rated R and dipped in blood."
Keshaun muttered a curse under his breath. "Man, the fuck you throwin' me into?"
"You'll be fine," Rob said, still grinning. "Now, hurry up. Three wishes."
Keshaun thought fast. If this world had Michael Myers stalking alleys and demons crawling outta attics, he needed more than brass knuckles and attitude.
"First wish," he said carefully. "Unlimited access to the Force. All of it. Jedi, Sith, balance—don't matter. Mine to command."
Rob whistled low. "Big swing. Granted."
"Second wish," Keshaun continued, "perfect memory. Photographic, total recall. And I wanna keep every memory from my first life."
"Boom." Rob snapped his fingers. "Done."
"Third wish…" Keshaun hesitated, then clenched his fists. "Impenetrable mind and soul. No witches, no demons, no psychic bullshit. Nobody's controlling me."
Rob tilted his head, actually impressed. "Kid's got survival instincts. Granted."
Keshaun exhaled, tension leaving his chest. Then he paused, biting his lip. "Last thing… Can I still be Black in my next life?"
For the first time, Rob's grin softened. "Of course."
The void went white again.
Detroit River, Michigan
October 12, 2001 – 11:43 P.M.
Cold. That was the first thing he felt. Bone-deep cold, stabbing his lungs like knives.
Keshaun gagged and coughed up river water, dragging himself onto the muddy bank. His small hands clawed at wet earth until he collapsed on his side, gasping.
The water's reflection showed a face he didn't expect. Not seventeen anymore. Younger. Nine, maybe. Rounder cheeks, but the same dark skin, same brown eyes.
And then—memories. Not his, but crashing into his head like broken glass. An orphan named Keshaun Martin. Beaten down at the orphanage, spit on in the streets, called slurs until he stopped answering. The loneliness, the hunger, the pain… and the night he climbed the bridge railing and jumped.
Tears stung Keshaun's eyes. "Damn… lil' dude ain't even get a chance."
But now he had one.
Abandoned Apartment Building, Detroit
October 13, 2001 – 6:00 A.M.
The cracked windows and rotting walls loomed over him. The boy's memories lingered—empty nights, fists from bigger kids, hopeless prayers unanswered.
Keshaun turned his back on it all. "Never again."
He closed his eyes. Reached inward.
The Force wasn't abstract here. It wasn't just Jedi mysticism. It was a living ocean, humming in his veins, whispering to him like it had been waiting.
He raised his hand. A loose brick lifted from the ground. His heart kicked hard in his chest. He flicked his wrist. The brick shattered midair, shards scattering across the floor.
Keshaun grinned. "Oh yeah. This'll do."
He wasn't just some Jedi wannabe. He was the Force, and it was him.
Rooftop Above the Apartment
October 13, 2001 – 6:42 A.M.
Keshaun climbed up onto the roof, tar cracked under his sneakers, the sun barely cutting through gray Detroit skies. He sat cross-legged, hood up, and let the Force roll through him.
This time, he didn't just feel the brick move. He felt the world breathe.
The Force wasn't just some light side/dark side Star Wars thing. Nah, here it was bigger—realer. It was a current that ran through everything. Warm when folks showed love, cold when they were on bullshit, steady when life was just moving. It wasn't choosing sides; it was all sides at once.
He dug deeper, and the universe unfolded for him. Not galaxies and planets like he remembered from science class. This universe was stacked like layers:
Earth — not just a planet, but an endless dimension. Humans lived in a small piece he called the "Human World," but there were other hidden layers stacked over and under it—haunted blocks, cursed forests, pocket zones where monsters lived. Most people never saw past the surface, but the Force showed him it was all connected.
Hell — not fire and pitchforks, but a place built on deals and control. Every promise written in blood, every soul chained by some demon's grip. He could feel it pressing sideways, like a weight ready to bleed through cracks in reality.
Heaven — calm and clean, like fresh air after rain. No harps, just order and mercy. It felt distant but steady, like a rhythm that never missed a beat.
Then came the truth about spirits. In Star Wars, Force ghosts were all light side Jedi stuff. Here? Anybody could linger—good, bad, or ugly. If you died with regret, rage, or tragedy, you could stick around. Some spirits found peace and moved on, some got pulled into Heaven or Hell, and some stayed behind twisted and bitter. The Force didn't block it—it just remembered.
And the hierarchy? He could sense it. God and the Goddess sat at the top, untouchable, the source of the rules. Below them were archangels, demons, old powers that had been around forever. He was under them for now… but not by much. The Force whispered he was different—he carried a spark that could one day put him above even the angels. Not now, though. Right now, he was still a rookie with training wheels.
What made this Force different from the movies was simple:
It wasn't about good vs evil jerseys—it was about balance and knowing when to use what. Light was for healing, cleansing, and bringing peace. Dark was for momentum, hunger, tearing down what needed breaking. Both were part of the current requiring great mental fortitude .
It wasn't quiet monk business either. The Force here was loud, like the city itself—messy, alive, ready to ride with anyone who is capable and who listened right.
Death wasn't just "afterlife or nothing." It was a hallway with a hundred doors, and most people didn't even know they were walking it until one opened.
Keshaun opened his hand, let the Force pool there. A faint glow sparked across his skin—Force Light. Weak, flickering, but real. It pushed back the chill for a second before fading out.
He sighed, wiping sweat off his forehead. "Alright… I get you now. You ain't just power. You're rules. You're the streets, the sky, and the shit in between. And if I'm gon' survive here, I gotta learn how to play by your code."
The Force hummed back at him, like a beat under his ribs.
Detroit Streets
October 14, 2001 – 9:22 P.M.
The city at night was a beast of its own. Sirens wailing blocks away. Stray dogs howling. Steam hissing from grates.
Keshaun walked the cracked sidewalks with his hood pulled up, oversized jeans sagging, sneakers flapping. He looked like any other kid trying to disappear into the noise. But inside, the Force buzzed, alive.
A drunk stumbled out of a bar, barking something racist under his breath. Keshaun's fists twitched, the Force swelling in his gut. The man tripped on nothing and faceplanted into the gutter.
Keshaun smirked. He hadn't touched him. Not really. But the Force had listened.
Hank's Auto Repair, Detroit
October 15, 2001 – 4:00 P.M.
The garage smelled like oil and rust, like the afternoons Keshaun used to spend in his dad's shop.
A burly white man with grease-stained hands looked up from under a hood. "Kid, this ain't no daycare. Beat it."
Keshaun locked eyes with him. Calm. Steady. Just like the movies. "You wanna give me a job. Under the table. And a place to crash in the back."
The man blinked. His expression went slack. "…Yeah. Sure. Job under the table. You can stay in the break room."
Keshaun smiled faintly. The mind trick still worked.
He rolled up his sleeves, grabbed a wrench, and got to work. The boy's memories might've been filled with pain, but Keshaun's own past came with hours at his dad's side, fixing cars, replacing belts, changing oil.
He tightened bolts, wiped sweat from his brow, and made himself a promise.
"I ain't ever gon' be powerless again. Not in this world."