Jamall died.
He couldn't remember how. One minute, he was jogging, feeling his heart pumping in his chest, and the next… nothing. Jogging wasn't something he did often—he preferred reading or gaming on his days off—but for some reason, he'd felt compelled to get out that morning, to run and think through a few things. The last thing he could recall was the sidewalk, the sound of traffic in the distance, and a thought about Cell's design flashing through his mind.
The moment he realized he was dead, Jamall felt a strange mixture of curiosity and frustration. He'd always assumed death would be painful, but there had been no pain at all. No drawn-out last moments, no tragedy. Just… nothing. He was almost grateful for it, except he'd never imagined his life ending this way. Part of him had always assumed his death would be something dramatic, something impactful. Instead, it seemed he'd simply ceased to be.
Yet here he was—conscious, aware. The irony was impossible to ignore. Jamall had never been religious. He'd often dismissed the idea of an afterlife, considering himself too logical, too grounded for those beliefs. But now he was trapped in a void, his senses dulled, unable to see, hear, or move. Had he become a ghost? Was this his eternity—a vast, endless darkness?
As his mind wandered through the possibilities, a chill crept over him. If I'm stuck here forever… He refused to finish the thought. The idea of an eternal prison with nothing but his own mind to keep him company was terrifying. He tried to recall every detail of his life, the things he'd left unfinished, the conversations he'd never had. Yet despite his efforts, memories began slipping away, fading like whispers in a crowded room.
Time passed. Seconds, minutes, hours—it was impossible to tell. But just as he felt himself beginning to sink into despair, a sharp crack echoed through the darkness. Jamall felt a strange, almost instinctive pull toward it, as if the noise was tugging him forward. Then, a line of blinding white light split through the black void, so brilliant that it consumed everything around him. For the first time since his death, Jamall felt alive.
The light intensified, swallowing him whole, and he braced himself, anticipation growing in his chest. Was this his reincarnation? Would he wake up with a new life, a fresh start? Perhaps, if he was lucky, he'd be reborn with some of his old memories intact, able to carve out a better future for himself.
The blinding brightness faded, and he felt his new body stretch and contract as he pushed himself up, struggling to take his first steps. Yet something felt horribly wrong. His limbs didn't respond the way he expected. Instead of hands, he felt something hard and sharp—a strange, chitinous texture where skin should have been. Panic surged through him, and he forced himself to look down.
He froze.
Where his hands should have been, he saw three-fingered, claw-like appendages covered in green, armored plating. A sense of dread washed over him as he looked over the rest of his body, which was encased in a bizarre, insect-like exoskeleton. What kind of reincarnation was this? Had he been reborn as some kind of monstrous insect, a punishment for his obsession with Cell?
Jamall's mind whirled, his breath coming in quick gasps as he tried to make sense of his new form. The thought of being reborn as some mindless creature—an insect or a beast—sent a shiver down his spine. But just as his panic reached its peak, a flood of memories hit him like a tidal wave, each one searing into his brain with a sharp, throbbing pain.
Images and sensations swirled together in a chaotic mess—memories of being submerged in a tank, of endless days in darkness, isolated, surrounded by machinery. He recalled a voice that wasn't a voice, more like knowledge planted directly in his mind, urging him toward something he couldn't quite grasp.
The pain intensified, bringing with it a new clarity. These weren't memories of a life he'd known—they were memories of something else. A being engineered to grow and evolve, to shed its skin in pursuit of perfection. He remembered breaking free from one imperfect form only to emerge into another, always incomplete, always lacking.
He saw the faces of his siblings—17 and 18—fragments of memories instructing him to seek them out, to consume them, to reach his final form. And with that came a rage, a deep, consuming fury. He remembered the frustration of knowing he was incomplete, the voice that had driven him to kill, to absorb, to fight.
The memories coalesced into a single, undeniable truth: he was no longer just Jamall. He was something more, something powerful and terrifying He Was Cell.