It was a dark, desolate void.
Gene's consciousness was here, in full existential form, but that was about it. No hands, no feet, no face. He had no sense of a physical body. Ah, so this was it, huh? The afterlife. Gene thought to himself, his eternal journey through the abyss of oblivion. Just him, himself, and his brain, on a solo adventure through the endless void of "No Fun Zone."
At first, he was… well, content? If content meant mildly amused that he was still Gene after death. He'd always figured death was just the great cosmic off switch, a final tap-out. Apparently, that wasn't the case. He was still here, but the afterlife wasn't quite the "grand celestial buffet" some religious types had hyped. It was more like being stuck in an eternal waiting room with no magazines and no Wi-Fi.
For a while, he entertained himself with all the thoughts of his earthly pursuits—academic, non-academic, maybe some shameful ones involving junk food, and definitely some questionable Netflix binges. But as the nothingness stretched on, Gene began to realize that maybe a mind full of his own thoughts wasn't the most riveting company.
The great loneliness of it all hit hard, like being stuck in a room with your least favorite relative who won't stop talking about their pet iguana. His thoughts turned toxic, a venom that twisted into self-destructive loops. How long had he been here? Was this it? This was his new life, huh?
How he longed to feel anything. To see anything. To experience anything besides his endless, spiraling internal monologue. He just wanted to be human again.
[Searching for a vacant vessel...]
A soft but utterly emotionless voice echoed across the void. Gene's brain hiccupped, a little flicker of hope sparking. Something, anything, besides his miserable internal dialogue.
[Vessel Located. Confirming compatibility...]
Oh-ho, here we go. Gene's excitement shot through the nonexistent roof.
[Vessel Located. Yes, it's a match. We're doing this.]
[Compatibility confirmed. Initiating soul transfer sequence...]
And just like that, Gene was hooked. He waited eagerly for the next phrase, like a child expecting a magician to pull a rabbit out of a hat.
...Wait, did it just say "Liza"? That name sounded so familiar. Is that his "Liza" from his previous life? Was this some cosmic clerical error?
[Sequence completed. Soul transfer complete. Primary objective achieved. Transferring Liza's data. Data transferred. Secondary objective achieved. Going into sleep mode...]
The voice trailed off into oblivion, leaving only a fading echo. The void retreated.
Gene felt something strange then. A sudden coldness, followed by the intense warmth of a furnace. Then cold again. What was going on? Why was he suddenly being baked and frozen like an oven-baked potato? Make it stop!
Just as quickly as it started, the light overtook the void. White light, so intense it was like his entire soul was about to be roasted alive.
Why is everything so bright? Why is it so hot? Why is it so cold? What is happening?
The light finally receded. Gene blinked. This was it—he could see for the first time in his afterlife. The images were blurry, like someone had smeared Vaseline on his eyeballs, but he could at least tell something was there.
He squinted. What the heck was that? A row of mahogany wood. It looked like furniture, is that the ceiling—he was apparently lying in a fancy room. "Where am I?" he tried to ask. But instead of mature, sophisticated adult words, all that came out was a gurgle.
...What? His hands shot up to his mouth. Why do I have baby hands? This wasn't right. His hands—tiny! The horror. His grown, fully functioning adult self was now trapped in a body that barely knew how to stop drooling. This was fine. Totally fine.
Then, just when he thought things couldn't get weirder, a giant woman—twice, no, thrice his size—picked him up, swinging him around like he was a toy in a child's playset. The woman's excitement was nearly palpable, as she flung him up and down, her dark, wavy hair bouncing in time with her movements. She spoke in a musical, lilting language that Gene didn't recognize, clearly full of joy, while he, meanwhile, was having a full-on existential crisis.
Through all the spinning, Gene managed to get a glimpse of his surroundings—marble walls, arch windows so grand they could double as entrances to a castle, and a fireplace that looked like it was carved by a very enthusiastic intern who had just learned how to use a chisel.
A loud BOOM echoed through the room.
Thunder. How quaint. It's raining outside.
Then, just as quickly as he had been flung, Gene was cradled, face-to-face with a pale, sweaty blonde woman in a bed, looking like she was having a bad day. Gene's new mom, perhaps? Considering everything was already completely ridiculous, this was his best guess. The room reeked of blood, and not in a cool, horror movie way. It was the "oh no, someone should clean that" type of blood.
The blond, his new presumed mother, called out to someone else—an authoritative tone that suggested something was going on. Another person entered, all cloaked in fabrics that could have been from a medieval thrift shop, carrying strange tools.
Great, Gene thought, now he was getting the full mystical treatment. The "psychic" type. Superstitions. Rituals. All the stuff that Gene, in his previous life, would've laughed off as nonsense. But now? Now he was stuck in this bizarre ceremony, pretending to be a baby, while some woman pricked his finger and began chanting to… candles? Seriously?
Wait, what was that? Gene's blood rose into the air like some poorly scripted magic trick. The entire room stared at it in awe, while Gene—having just been ripped from the void—stared at them in complete disbelief. Was this some kind of reality TV prank?
Then, as the blood dropped back into the candle, nothing happened. The whole room deflated, like someone had let the air out of a balloon.
What a disappointment.
Finally, the "mystic" placed Gene's tiny hands on a crystal orb. More chants. More theatrics. More nothing happening.
And just when Gene thought the show was over, the room erupted into a performance of rage between the women. Gene, meanwhile, was treated like an accessory to their drama, being whisked away by the same excited woman to what seemed to be her personal quarters.
Maybe the afterlife was a cosmic joke.