Ouch!
It hurts so much!
Is this it? Am I going to die just like this?
This was supposed to be my last mission before retirement.
Damn it...! Why?
As Arthur Carter lay on the cold, hard ground, the pain from his injuries was almost unbearable. The explosion had left him with deep gashes and burns, and every breath felt like a struggle. He had always known that his line of work was dangerous, but he had never imagined that he would meet his end like this—alone, in a foreign land, just days before his retirement.
The thought of finally leaving the battlefield behind and finding some semblance of peace had been his only solace in recent years. He had no family waiting for him, no wife to mourn his loss. His comrades were his only family, and now he was leaving them behind too. The frustration and anger welled up inside him as he realized that he would never get to enjoy the quiet life he had dreamed of.
As his vision began to fade, he couldn't help but feel a sense of bitterness. He had given everything for his country, and now, in his final moments, he felt a profound sense of injustice. The mission had been a failure. Now that I think about it, nothing about this mission felt normal. No way in hell some random shady research group came up with such advanced technology that even federation scientists only dream of.
"I refuse to believe this is real. It has to be some sort of dream."
Arthur Carter was no stranger to danger. He'd seen his fair share of explosions, high-tech mayhem, and way too many coffee-deprived mornings. But nothing—nothing—could've prepared him for the absolute fever dream of a situation he found himself in at the secret research facility.
The infiltration had been straightforward enough, at least by black-ops standards. Disable some guards, avoid stepping on anything that looked like a landmine, and generally hope no one was having a particularly vigilant day. But as Arthur and his team delved deeper into the facility, things started getting... weird. Like, "who-thought-this-was-a-good-idea" weird. Advanced tech fused with alien doodads that probably violated at least twelve different laws of physics. The kind of stuff that made you question if the researchers had ever even heard of ethics—or common sense, for that matter.
And then they found it. The room. The big one. The "I think I need to update my will" room. At the center of it was something that looked like a blender had a baby with an alien spaceship and decided to get into the wormhole business. The thing pulsed with an eerie, otherworldly glow that made Arthur's stomach churn in a way that had nothing to do with the gas station burrito he'd regretted earlier.
Arthur squinted at the monstrosity. "No way those nerds cooked this up," he muttered to himself. "This isn't a Marvel movie. Nobody's inventing wormholes in some underground bunker after watching a few YouTube tutorials. Real life doesn't work like that."
Still, it didn't matter how implausible it was. What mattered was that it was here, it was real, and it was very much in need of a shutdown before it decided to eat the fabric of reality for breakfast.
The battle outside the room was heating up. Arthur's team was holding off facility guards, exchanging gunfire and occasional sarcastic remarks like the professionals they were. Inside the room, Arthur approached the device, feeling the oppressive weight of its unnatural energy. The air felt heavier, like the universe itself was a little peeved about this machine's existence.
"Alright," he muttered, glaring at the console. "Let's see what makes you tick."
The controls were a mess—an incomprehensible jumble of symbols and holograms that looked like they'd been designed by a committee of drunk aliens. Arthur tried pressing a few buttons, but they either did nothing or made the device glow angrier. Great. Plan B it was.
He reached for his latest piece of hardware—a sleek electromagnetic gun fresh out of the Federation's R&D department. "Self-destruct sequence," he said dryly, aiming at the most important-looking part of the machine. "The old-fashioned way."
A single shot later, the device began to whine ominously. The lights flickered, the walls trembled, and Arthur realized he'd just initiated the scientific equivalent of flipping the Monopoly board over in frustration. The wormhole—or whatever the hell it was—started to collapse, the entire facility shaking as if the universe was trying to evict it from existence.
Arthur turned to run, only to realize, with a sinking feeling, that he wasn't going to make it out in time. Of course not, he thought, rolling his eyes. So close to retirement, and this is how it ends. Typical.
The explosion came in a wave of deafening noise and blinding light. Arthur was flung across the room like a ragdoll at a toddler's tea party. As he hit the ground, the world around him began to fade, the edges of his vision blurring into darkness.
Lying there, battered and broken, Arthur couldn't help but feel a little cheated. "Really?" he whispered hoarsely. "All this... and I don't even get a celebratory drink?" He let out a weak chuckle, wincing at the pain. "At least I stopped the wormhole. No eldritch horrors today, folks. You're welcome, world."
In his final moments, Arthur's mind wandered. He thought about his teammates, his long career, and the fact that he'd never gotten around to trying that deep-dish pizza and chicken-biriyani everyone raved about. His life might not have been perfect, but at least he'd gone out doing what he did best—kicking reality in the teeth and saving the day.
With a final, resigned sigh, Arthur closed his eyes, a faint smirk on his lips. "Well," he muttered to the universe, "guess it's game over. Don't screw it up while I'm gone." And with that, the world went dark.
Unknown time later...
Huh? What the... Wait, why am I thinking? Didn't I, you know, DIE? I was pretty sure that explosion took care of me. Did I survive? Or did the universe get tired of me and boot me into some kind of afterlife? Maybe I should've paid more attention to those religious pamphlets...
A soft murmur reached his ears: "E$@%@&&&@"
Oh great, demonic chanting. So... hell? Of course, it's hell. Figures. Classic move, universe.
As Arthur strained to make sense of the situation, a wave of strange sensations hit him. Something soft and warm cradled him, while unfamiliar sounds and movements surrounded him. Slowly—against what felt like his own body's will—he tried to open his eyes. They felt heavier than a tank hatch, but he managed a sliver of vision. The world was a surreal blur, colors and shapes swimming together like a bad acid trip.
Okay, this... this isn't hell. No way hell is this cozy. Too many warm, snuggly vibes here.
The soft cooing and the soothing rustle of fabric reached him, instantly dispelling any last notions of eternal damnation. Wait. Wait, wait, wait. The wheels in Arthur's brain, rusty from apparent death, began turning again. Am I... am I in someone's arms? Is that... a woman?
Suddenly, like a flood of cold water to the face, realization hit him. OH CRAP. REINCARNATION. Those cheesy online novels were right all along! I actually got reincarnated. What are the odds?!
Arthur internally shrugged. Well, good riddance to my last life, anyway. No loved ones, no attachments. Just missions, explosions, and whatever passed as instant noodles at the base. He paused for a moment. But seriously, if I don't get biryani or pizza in this world, we're gonna have a problem.
As his vision slowly adjusted, Arthur took in his new surroundings—or what little he could see. The house—or rather, the hut—seemed to be made of wood and mud, with absolutely no interior decoration. His keen senses, honed from years as a secret force officer, immediately filed a report: Status: Poor. Infrastructure: Primitive. Wardrobe: Tribal chic.
The woman holding him—presumably his mother—was dressed in simple, weathered clothing. Okay, looks like I hit the reincarnation lottery right into some tribal society. Great. I swear, if this is another world stuck in the tribal era with no running water or sanitation, I'm filing a complaint with the cosmic HR department.
Suddenly, he became aware of his new parents' voices. They were murmuring in a language he couldn't understand—probably debating whether or not he was defective. Judging by the tones, they seemed concerned. His mother—definitely the lady holding me—was glancing at him worriedly, likely wondering why he wasn't bawling his lungs out like a normal newborn.
Smack!!!
Holy crap, that hurts!
Arthur: (Who the hell just slapped me?) "AAAAAWAAAAAA AWAAAAAAA!" He tried to curse whoever dared to hit him, but thanks to his underdeveloped baby vocal cords, all that came out was an angry wail. It was the sound of pure, unfiltered baby rage.
Oh, I get it. They hit me because I wasn't crying. Seriously? What kind of barbaric ritual is this? Being a baby is so humiliating, especially when you've got an adult brain stuck in this tiny, squishy body.
Arthur sighed internally. Fine. Let's cry a little to protect my honor. Gotta keep up appearances, right?
"AAAAAWAAAAAA!"
The room filled with his dramatic cries, and finally, his parents relaxed. Their tense faces softened, and Arthur could see the relief washing over them. As his vision adjusted, their features became clearer—his mother's teary smile, his father's awkward but proud expression. Despite the absurdity of the situation, Arthur felt a flicker of gratitude. These people cared about him. They were his family now.
Alright, new life, new rules, he thought. Even if this world turns out to be some random backwater planet stuck in the tribal era, I'll make the best of it. No more dying in some random ditch. This time, I'll aim for a proper death—surrounded by family, maybe with a dramatic speech. Yeah, that's the goal.
Arthur's inner monologue was interrupted by a sudden realization. Wait. If I'm a baby, does that mean I have to deal with diapers? Oh no. Oh no, no, no. This is going to be a long journey.
He let out another wail, partly for show and partly because the existential dread of being a baby was starting to sink in. His parents cooed and fussed over him, clearly mistaking his cries for hunger or discomfort.
Great. They think I'm hungry. Well, I guess I'll just roll with it. Survival first, dignity later.
As his mother picked him up and cradled him gently, Arthur made a mental note: Step one, figure out this world. Step two, avoid diaper-related disasters. Step three, thrive. Let's do this.
And with that, Arthur settled into his new life, already plotting how to make the most of his second chance—one wail at a time.