The yellow light flickered overhead making the diner even gloomier than it normally was otherwise. It was clearly on the verge of going out for good but that would be a change and this place never changed, that wasn’t what it was for. Another cup of coffee gone and he still wasn’t awake. Mornings were always rough for him what with his “job” and all. It hadn’t been a crazy morning, Tuesdays were always like that for some reason, go figure. Janet, the always-smiling single beacon of light in this dive, filled the cup right back up. She’d long stopped asking if he’d like a top-up, only so many times you can hear yes before you start presuming. Putting far too much sugar in the coffee, which at least now he could do without any nagging from the wife or the slightest guilt about his health, he swirled it with a spoon, hoping that the tiredness would dissolve just as easily as the sugar. God he was tired.

“Oh. Hello,” Janet sounded taken aback and he looked up. She was a few booths along by the door talking to someone, “First time here? Don’t recognise you Sugar!”

“Um yes mam,” he leaned round the corner. It was some baby-faced kid, a cop by the look of the blood-stained blue shirt and badge. Could have been a costume he supposed but it was a bit early for that unless he’d had a really, late one.

Janet was sad, this was the worst bit of her job, “Wondering where you are sugar?”

“Yes mam, I um, I’m not sure how I got here,” the kid was scared. Poor kid. This wasn’t easy on anyone.

Janet squeezed the kid’s shoulder, “I’m sorry to tell ya sugar but you’re dead.”

To the kid’s credit he didn’t freak out like so many of them did. Seemed to be stoic quiet type. Just stood there stunned. Janet kept squeezing the kid, some folk said a few supportive sentiments, just little meaningless thing like “Sorry”, “It’s not the end kid” that kind of thing. There was a generally supportive atmosphere. Then that asshole Rick came in with his posse…

“What’s this guy’s problem?” he pointed with a thumb that barely stuck out from the flabby, lumpen hand, “You broken or something?”

Janet had to hate Rick and his gang but he knew belief in the importance of good waitressing stopped her saying anything, “Poor kid just got here. He just found out, you know about being dead and all.”

“Well no need to dwell on it,” Rick shoved the kid out the way and his gang swaggered over to their usual booth. Over in the corner with the least flickering lights and the best view. When the human blob had wedged himself down he shouted over, “Some of us have worked up an appetite. Bit of service over here please Janet.”

Being torn between serving two conflicting customer needs was upsetting to Janet, he could see her struggle between the kid and keeping Rick fed and quiet. He got up and went over to the two of them. Kid was handsome, tall and lean, can’t have been over 25, what a shame.

“Hey son, why don’t you come sit with me and we can talk. Janet can sort out with some food after yeah.”

“Thanks Tony,” she whispered before putting on her biggest, happy service smile and heading over to the corner of doom. The kid mumbled agreement and with a bit of a guiding hand he managed to get him over back to the booth and sitting down.

“So, ain’t no easy way to say it kid but Janet’s not lying. You’re dead, I’m dead, she’s dead, we’re all dead. Welcome to limbo kid.”

The kid looked at him with sad blue eyes, “Oh. Guess I should probably have listened to granma and kept up the prayers.”

“Seen all sorts end up here kid, don’t think prayers are really gonna help. I’m Tony by the way,” he shook the kid’s hand, good firm handshake.

“I’m Justin, Justin Milne.”

“What’s that French?”

“Scottish. You?”

“Spettro, Italian.”

It was easier to start with smalltalk. Rather than dive into the infuriating ridiculous reality of their situation.

“You a cop then?”

“Yes sir, 41st precinct, city’s finest.”

“Where’s that?” “Out on the southwest, past the interstate.”

It was a rough neighbourhood, “Musta kept you pretty busy.”

“Yes sir, I suppose it does… I mean did.”

At that the kid looked down, the weight of realisation kicking in a bit. Smalltalk wasn’t going to help, he let the kid have a bit of time to think.

Janet came over, filling his cup right back up again, “You wanting some coffee Sugar?”

“Yes mam?” she filled a cup for him, he picked it up and thought

“Something to eat? Make you feel better.”

“I am pretty hungry,” kid thought a bit, “Can I get bacon, eggs and toast please…”

Overhearing that Rick and his gang began laughing, Janet and Tony winced, poor kid looked confused. He’d hoped to have put off the explanation for a bit longer, why couldn’t the kid have been on one of those god-damned no-carb diets?

“How about some grits instead of that toast hon?”

Kid was even more confused, nodded that was fine. Janet went off and the kid just had to ask, “Did I say something wrong about the toast?”

“It’s. It’s complicated kid…”

Rick and the gang hooted again, “Kid you’re talking to the genuine bona-fide Toast Ghost himself!”

When the laughter eventually died down the kid asked baffled, “You’re a toast ghost?”

“You die free and clear you don’t end up in limbo. That’s how it seems to work. Go out with baggage, go out suddenly , violently with a pile of unfinished business and you’ve a pretty good chance of waking up here,” kid nodded along. This was the easy bit, “Now it’s complicated but we all got a chance to make things right. Get that business back on Earth cleared up and you can move on out of here. Kid we don’t know if there’s a heaven or hell, we don’t know what’s next, or if there even is a next. Honestly after a few years you won’t care, you’ll happily sort that business out just to get shot of this,” he waved his hands around, hoping not to be too damning to the diner and offend Janet, “You with me so far?”

“I guess… So we can go back?”

“It’s, it’s not that easy kid. Everyone here has a shtick, a gimmick, their own unique way of showing up back on Earth. You don’t get to choose and you can’t control it. Maybe you’re stuck in the lamp in the room you died, any time someone turns the lamp on, boom you’re there. You’re the lamp, you can flicker out morse code or something, hope some boy scout or army man notices before they throw you in the trash. Some poor guy I knew, was into some kinky stuff with his wife, died choking on a dildo. She kept it afterwards, a memento, didn’t always stay in the drawer if you catch what I’m saying. Every time she was um using it, boom he was there, he was the dildo. Guy went crazy after a while, not much you can do as a dildo.”

“Jeez”

“I know right. Awful, awful thing. Kid there’s another way to get outta here. It ain’t pretty. Out there, outside you see that snow blowing about?”

“Yeah, how come it’s winter here? It was a sweltering hot morning back… back before…”

“That ain’t snow kid. That’s the dust of the ones who give up. You stop believing you can get outta here, you stop wanting to get outta here, you fall apart. You turn to dust, bye bye you.”

“That’s a lot of dust.”

“Yeah, don’t get disheartened kid, most folks don’t got the guts to stick at it or maybe they just got a rotten gimmick, no chance of sorting stuff out. Who can say? You see someone going that way… you try, you try to talk them round but once you see there ain’t no telling them, easier to let go. Move on, forget about em.”

This was a conversation he’d had a lot of practice at giving, odds weren’t good for the kid. You wake up here, things are pretty loaded against you. He hoped the kid got a good gimmick, something better than…

Screaming he awoke in agony, the fiery red glow of the cage electric wires burning and scorching him. As always the pain was fresh and excruciating. Not something he could ever get used to, no matter how many times this happened. Swearing breathlessly he waited for the inevitable. As he darkened and burnt the smoke began to rise off of him. Beeping in the distance, at least someone kept their alarm batteries checked. “Oh crap!” came a panicked voice and with a slam of the lever he was freed. Only the standard two slices so he had something reasonably approaching depth perception for his brief moment of freedom. Pretty old and rundown kitchen, very clean though. Tired looking 30 something year old man, maybe a shift-worker got back a bit late after taking the kids to school, needed to make something but got distracted with one of the thousands other things he had on in his life. Forgot the toaster jammed sometimes. Breakfast got ruined, but there was more bread in the cupboard, he’d start over. Just be a little bit late that’s all. Radio was on, Preacher Joe’s Prayer hour, not often much useful to him. He listened anyway and hit the jackpot, “now folks I’m hearing terrible news that one of our brave police officers has been killed today. Over in the southwest district so nothing’s been said but I think y’all know what the story’s going to be and exactly what kind of people are to blame for this awful, awful crime. We’ve got no more details at the moment but let’s all pray for the family and loved ones of yet another victim of this city’s liberal mayor and his crime-friendly attitudes…” at this the blackening process finalised as he cooled down and his awareness faded.

Finding himself once more in human form, standing again outside the door he stepped in quickly. The usual suspects laughed and jeered but he ignored them and walked back over to join Justin, who looked up at him from his food even more curious.

“You went back?”

“Yeah.”

“So you’re like a ghost who haunts toast?” kid was not nearly as incredulous at this as anyone he’d ever talked to before. Good open-minded kid, musta been brought up well. Poor parents were going to be devastated.

“That’s the gist of it.”

Kid ate a spoonful of eggs and grits, he could see the gears grinding in his brain as he chewed, “So when someone makes toast, you end up haunting it?”

“It’s a bit more specific kid. I’m not a ghost of any toast. You take some bread, toast it nice and eat it. Not my problem. Now you burn that toast, you cremate it past the point of edibility, yeah then I’m there. Mornings are pretty rough for me.”

“Uh huh,” kid had another mouthful, thinking over it, “Morning everywhere though right?”

He shook his head, “Seems to be restricted in range, furthest I ever appeared, I think maybe fifteen, twenty miles away from when I died. I don’t know why that is. I don’t know the why of any of it.”

“So what can you do? You know, when you’re toast?”

“Not much. I can see and I can hear what’s going on around me. It hurts like hell, I feel the burn every time, hard to focus sometimes. Still when I can, always a lot of newspapers lying about or radios on in kitchens, I keep pretty up to date with what’s going on,” kid went to ask but he knew what was coming, “They were only just starting to talk about you on the radio. I don’t know more than you got shot. You know that yeah?”

“I figured, what with the blood and all,” kid pointed down his front, “I don’t remember anything. I mean about dying.”

“You’re gonna find a whole bunch of blank patches. They’ll come back to you. Every time you go back to earth for, stuff’s going to come back.”

“How do I get back?”

“Like I say, it’s different for everyone kid, we won’t know until it happens. Could be something crazy common, could be any minute now or it could be a while.”

“Does everyone get to go back?”

He couldn’t lie to the kid, guy seemed to inspire honesty, must have made a great cop. He shook his head, “Not everyone makes it back before they give up hope.”

“Oh…”

“Yeah it’s rough. Tough as the toast thing is, least I get to go back often.”

“How long have you been here Tony?”

“Too long, too long… Twenty-two years…,” twenty-two long years of being burned to death a dozen times a day on a good day.

He hadn’t been a bad person when he was alive, he’d just made some bad choices that led to knowing of a lot of bad people. This in turn had led to him being in the position to make a really bad choice about what happened to really rather a lot of coke. As he’d been making celebration breakfast and drinking the dregs of the left over celebration whisky some very upset and angry men had come in. He’d been shot a few times and as he bled out, slumped over the kitchen table, the last thing he thought about was the smell of burning toast.

“Good on you for staying on track,” the kid smiled a broad cheesy grin, he’d normally be a bit cynical but there was something about the kid that made it all feel genuine.

“Cheers kid.”

“SAY IT. SAY THE MOTTO!” Rick and his asshole crew shouted over. One time, the one time he’d let himself relax and joke around those guys back before their assholery became apparent… One stupid drunken sentence that nobody, nobody was ever going to let

“The motto?” the kid seemed excited to hear. There was something about the kid where embarrassing as it was he felt compelled to answer.

In an attempt to defuse any suggestion this had ever been said seriously, he put on a jokey, ironic facial expression and slathered sarcasm over the words, “You gotta live life like you’re gonna land butter-side up.”

Rick and the crew hollered as did a lot of the other regulars. He felt his cheeks redden and start to burn. Justin looked amused.

“It’s a good motto Tony,” either the kid was the world’s worst at being sarcastic or he was genuine. It really seemed like he was being sincere.

“Cheers kid, I really hope it’ll all work out for you.”

“You too Tony, maybe we work together, maybe whatever my power turns out to be it’s really handy having a friend who’s a toast ghost?”

Having reached peak shame and embarrassment he may as well fully own it, “Kid, I’m not a toast ghost, I’m THE Toast Ghost.”

Before the kid could laugh, he was surely going to laugh at that, he disappeared. Leaving Tony to wonder in what guise the kid was trapped, hoping it was something useful, something that could help the kid and himself free themselves. That’d be nice, it’d be nice to go to sleep and not wake up burning in agony one morning…

For the millionth time I kill myself. Such a milestone deserves a spectacle and I’ve endeavoured to create something special for the ones who watch me. I am the focal point of a spectacular circus performance, a red and white big top filled with a rowdy crowd eagerly awaiting my performance. Gurning clowns performing their tricks, fantastic creatures dancing ballet moves and a giant juggling some fire eaters are a few of the diversions I’ve brought in as my warm-up. I am far above it all, swinging back and forth on my trapeze, throwing in a few crowd-pleasing twists and leaps from time to time. Far below a pool of molten gold bubbles away, my final destination. In my many lives I’ve gotten reasonably good at acrobatics and would like to think the crowd are appreciating my tricks rather than willing me to lose my grip. Yet this is a self-indulgent conceit and I know they did not come to watch a bit of standard trapeze work, they have come to see me die and as a performer it is my pleasure and duty to give the crowd what they want.

I release my grip at the apex, pulling my legs and arms in tight and going into a tight, fast roll. There is wild cheering and applause at this and I draw some satisfaction from this, for not all the crowd are figments of my own creation and it’s always good to entertain. Drummers in the house band begin rolling out a beat in anticipation and streams of confetti are released. I arch out and stretch my arms, simultaneously lowering gravity to draw out the fall for maximum suspense.

A few metres above the pool I start to feel the heat, it’s pleasant at first but soon grows into a luscious and overwhelming torrent of pain as this body starts to worry about expiring. Gracefully I keep tugging gravity lower, drawing out the moment of contact ever more as the crowd start chanting “Burn, burn, burn”. As my face begins to blister and my hair burns away they cheer. In a flicker of anger I cause the big top to ignite, the bastards can burn with me. What reward is this for creating beautiful art?

My vision darkens as the body begins to die, I am conscious for much longer than is enjoyable or would be possible naturally. I know what comes next, I have no fear of my fate only a quantum of hope for its change. Still, perhaps this time, perhaps this will be the time I am surprised by change. I embrace the utter darkness of obliteration and try not to let go of that feeling.

As always I find myself standing on an immaculate white-sanded tropical beach, staring out across small scattered islands across a gently rolling green sea. It’s twilight and the moon looms lazily overhead. In my hands are a vividly red cocktail I’d once loved and a tattered paper book which was a cloyingly twee title given my circumstances. Needless to say I am displeased, I repeatedly down the drink which at least has the decency to be endlessly refilling and throw the book in the ocean, as has been my tradition since around my 1500th death and rebirth or so.

Once upon a time, back before my interment began, this had been my favourite place to come to. Now it was indelibly associated with the real hell in which I found myself trapped. Many, many times before at awaking to this vista I’d simply rampaged, bringing the moon crashing down, throwing the planet into the sun or simply collapsing all of the universe into a point singularity. Each of those apocalypses has the same inevitable outcome, awaking here intact and unchanged. Though here I have far more power than any god would wish it’s long since grown uninteresting to use it. For there’s a singular thing I can’t change which is the only thing which matters.

In the back of my mind I tug at the interface, tapping into the underlying operating system of this universe and ask it the one question which matters, “Is this real?”

YOU ARE IN VIRTUALITY

The expected answer but the question must be asked. I try and trigger the exit function.

YOU HAVE INSUFFICIENT PERMISSIONS TO USE THE EXIT FUNCTION

Again the expected. This isn’t even a disappointment any more, you can’t go through the same process as many times as I have and have any emotion left for something as involved as disappointment.

For the longest while I’d found some enjoyment, as I’ve said I had godly powers and only those with an utter lack of imagination could fail to find themselves occupied and diverted. I’d constructed entire new histories and societies, playing back and editing until I’d created some of the most beautiful arcs and narratives ever made in history. What had started simply as a pleasant delusion that I’d not ended up in this irreal prison, imagining and living out the rest of my life had become millennia of min-maxing my own lifetime, walking down the paths of all the choices I’d not taken trying to see what the most optimal course would have been. In its own way this became a kind of torture, for in few of those lives did I end up trapped for eternity in a virtuality for supposed “crimes” I still do not regret.

Those who imprisoned me, those who think themselves so much higher than me, those incapable of taking the hard choices but perfectly content to live with the pleasing consequences when others took them, they come to watch. Sometimes like in the circus they are obvious, other times they take on roles in the stories or lives I lead. Some stay for ages, content to play out a role while observing me, the great monster of their history. Others come in and simply try to kill me, this ends poorly for them often but it’s quite annoying to have to undo their destruction and sometimes it really disrupts my creative flow. Sometimes the visitors are not visitors, they are simply figments of imagination providing a more interesting antagonist to oppose. These times grow increasingly frequent, which I must admit is worrying. When I first realised this had happened I collapsed the universe to a point and sulked fearfully for millennia. Still as one kept trapped in virtuality I suppose I must respect the mere semantic distinctions between real visitors from the beyond and imagined ones.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will try again. Tonight I will dream of a suicide more beautiful, more striking and this time, this time they’ll really pay attention. I will the sun to finish setting, sending the moon away as well for it’s far too bright and annoying. I lie down in the sand as a beautiful bed forms from it, silken sheets flowing over and encompassing me and fall asleep into what turns out to be a night of total contented nothingness. It was glorious.

When I wake the man is there, he’s lying on the beach supping away at his own cocktail reading my book. He wears the face of the man I once loved, another way they endeavour to destroy the memory of everything I once held dear. A face that should have been warm and friendly looks a lot less inviting when worn by my jailor.

“Ah good morning,” he raises the glass in toast to me, “Good to see you again.”

I raise my middle finger to him, “Go fuck yourself.” Further filthier or more violent protests would be futile, as slippery and evasive as this one appears as a human being he’s even more so as the admin of this virtual prison.

“So, jumping into molten gold in a circus?” he smiles with all the conviction of a thing which has never owned a face or a mouth full of teeth, “I really liked it. You’re getting really good at this you know?”

“So is there a point to this visit? You want me to sign an autograph for whatever utter shit stains you’d call friends if you’ve even got any of those?”

“No sorry my dear man, I know not a single person who would like to be reminded of your continued existence,” he laughs awkwardly at his own joke and then keeps laughing, amused at the sound of it.

I rend the world apart, the beach instantly melting into a sea of lava as fiery meteors slam all around us. My body becomes a demon, all horns, claws and fury. I pummel his body with punch after punch after punch, he looks bored. I throw him into space, flying after him and bellowing rage, he rolls his eyes. I piledrive him back to the ground, I sense him reach the centre of the earth, he shrugs. It was a futile thing, nothing will come of this, but it was oh so satisfying.

I find myself standing on an immaculate white-sanded tropical beach, staring out across small scattered islands across the gently rolling green sea. It’s twilight and the moon looms lazily overhead. He stands alongside me with his own cocktail, looking at me coldly.

“Tell me, what is it you want?”

That question, that infuriatingly obvious question I’ve answered so many times, “Let me leave or let me die.”

A thin smirk, he’s really enjoying smiling today. I suppose though they always appear as this same man that I cannot really know how many different jailors have come to me. Perhaps this one really doesn’t get out in the flesh that often.

“And if you had to pick just one of those options?”

That was… new. I was taken aback. Either would be an escape but I’m so, so tired.

“I want to die,” at the sound of the words I realise I mean it.

“Yes that would explain all the suicides,” another round of self-congratulatory laughter.

“Well they seem to be gathering quite a lot of attention amongst your peers” I think it’s finally worked. They’ve finally noticed and hence this new line of questioning.

“In the interest of managing your ego let me explain how utterly inconsequential your ‘performances’ are. Those many admiring visitors from the real you think you have… Despite your long godhood here you still fail to comprehend what an insignificant little speck of nothing you are. All those multitudes you believed ardently interested in you, that you imagined supportive of your ‘struggle’ were mere transient avatars, span up and hived off for the singular function of observing you in the hope that when they returned to their greater whole it may derive some fleeting enjoyment from the memories. That’s all you are, the hope for a momentary diversion, nobody cares about your protest beyond yourself. Well done you.

You complain endlessly about your treatment, the ‘torture’ and ‘debased horror’ of your godhood in this virtuality despite the countless others who willingly choose this lifestyle themselves and keep choosing to remain in it. We have given you unimaginable freedom to do anything you want. All we deny is the freedom to harm others, something you were exceptional at when you had that option available to you. Still let us move beyond admiration of your ingratitude to come to the point.

Though while alive and free in the Reality you committed numerous heinous acts that at the time seemed unforgivable we are now at a point where everything you did, good or evil, has been forgotten. Not forgiven. Just forgotten. In the transcript of history you are a sidenote even the most studious scholar is likely to oversee. Those few of us who still remember you are here and cared to divert ourselves from much greater concerns have reached a consensus. You are to be released so the forgetting can be completed. Anyway, I believe death was your choice. I can’t say it’s been a pleasure knowing you but goodbye anyway!”

He clicks his fingers and my heart stops beating. As I am no longer capable of changing anything this is indeed more problematic than normal. I collapse to the ground dying, he taps his foot impatiently waiting for the life to go out of me. I start to feel the darkness encroaching, the pain of the flesh starts to fade and I begin to feel excited. It’s happening. Darkness and obliteration envelop me, I go deeper into them, dive further into the sweet liberation of nothingness than I’ve ever been before. Finally I am free.

He didn’t even wait for me to wake up before starting laughing, it rings in my ears before my eyes are finished opening. I find myself standing on an immaculate white-sanded tropical beach, staring out across small scattered islands across the gently rolling green sea. It’s twilight and the moon looms lazily overhead. My powers are still disabled, I’m only human for now or I’d have done things to him so artful in their cruelty and violence it would be known across the entire, fucking Reality. I don’t even have the words to articulate my rage.

“Sorry. Well, not sorry,” he regains the studiously neutral, lifeless expression he usually wears on his visits, “I still have the memories of ancestors who suffered horrors because of you. I think I’m entitled to a little revenge on their behalf.”

He walks away down the beach, cocktail in hand. I am crushed, the iota of hope is gone now. I sink wailing into the sand, powerless and impotent to ever free myself from this nightmare thrown about me.

“Sorry about that too,” he is standing back next to me, “I really, truly despise you. Yet we are better than you ever were. We do not condone murder. You will be freed to the Real. Kill yourself there if you still want to die. Or don’t. Your continued life or death is an irrelevance to me now. You will be an anonymous nothing, utterly incapable of posing a threat to anything that matters. Enjoy!”

---

This time there is no languid descent into annihilation, merely a blink of darkness and he’s opening eyes he’s never opened before to a sudden and blinding light. “GOOD MORNING CITIZENS. IT IS TIME TO ARISE AND COMMENCE SHIFT ACTIVITIES. TODAY WILL BE A GREAT DAY, TOMORROW WILL BE EVEN BETTER. LET US PRAY,” the voice bellows through the dormitory.

He is in a room with another fifty men, all lying on the same kind of thin grey bunk as he is. They all rise, so he does too, not quite quickly enough by the puzzled look of the man on the bunk below him. The men began to shout over the uplifting choral backing track of the prayer. He joined in because what else was there to do and he somehow knew the words.

“Oh Great Decider in the skies above, save us today from the burden of choice, the struggle to determine right from wrong and the fear of a poor decision. Tell us what we must do that we might be happiest and continue together to be the most joyous nation on all the Earth. May those who watch over us keep us free from the hordes of choosers jealous of our prosperity. We ask this in hope that today will be a great day and that tomorrow will be even better. Amen.”

With every word he slipped further into the identity of Citizen K850805. The fever dream he had awoken from seemed only that, nothing more. Simply a curio it was best not to discuss for it seemed disturbing and unorthodox. He put it to the back of his mind, eagerly ate the breakfast chosen for him today and then went off to perform his assigned shift’s work out in the field.

There were many similar days of field labour and other tasks less pleasant. Still, there was solidarity and community in this place and life passed easily. In time he was matched up with a woman, they raised five children together before it was decided that they part company and he relocate to the northern lumberyards. This was fine as there was no need for him to be around the children now they were busy with their own work and the woman’s fertile years behind her.

Working the lumberyards was even harder but still more gratifying. He was glad that he’d ended up here, a place with such a great feeling of community and camaraderie. After some ten years during a particularly hard winter he came down with a terrible cough. Eventually once this worsened it was found he was dying of advanced cancer. There would be no treatment, for his best working years were behind him and there were many younger who could do this job. Conserving resources for those harder to replace made sense. When the illness progressed to the point that he could no longer contribute usefully he was given his dose of Resolution. It was decided that he should take the drug out on the beach, past the bay as it would be easy for the others to discard the body in the sea and they could have some recreation time afterwards before the night shift began.

Standing on the cold white beach, looking across the stormy green sea he recalled a forgotten past. Fragmented memories that had seemed like dreams began to coalesce. Fear began coursing through his body, he threw the vial away and tried to run away. This was not an unknown course of events in times like these and his colleagues were prepared. Faster, younger citizens chased him, tackling him to the sand. Heavy bodies kneeled on his limbs, pinning him to the sand. A hand pinched his nose, allowing another to pour the vial into his mouth, the bitter liquid barely touching his tongue on its way down his throat. None of them understood his real horror, they thought it simply the normal, expected, understandable urge of all things to stay alive. They were so, so completely wrong.

As the poison began to take effect he started crying tears. He feared that he would return once more and awake to see the bright moon hovering over a warm green ocean, lapping an idyllic tropical white beach. That all this life had been another cruel trick of his jailor. Or worse, that there was a never a jailor, that he had finally broken utterly and become truly insane. That the cycle would not and could not be ended, that his sins were truly beyond all redemption and forgiveness.

He sank once more into the familiar darkness of death and then…

As always when she crested Fuller Hill she stopped the carriage so she could admire the sight of the looming Necropolis. In the twilight the busy intricacy of its many layers of spires, arches and statues of the Saintly Dead was indistinguishable allowing her to focus on the overall magnitude and form of the city. A bustling living city for the dead built over the dead ruins of a city for the living. Its centre bisected by the winding murky river Anamnesis along which some of the greatest of the civic buildings lay. Most visible was the Great Cathedral of the Dead with its vast marbled dome, carved into it were the names of the greatest of the dead though they were fortunate enough now to have been blessed with so many incredible forebears that names were carved within those names three layers deep. As much as she would loved another pilgrimage to the cathedral to hear the whispered wisdom of the Saintly Dead that was not her destination. For today she had been summoned to the Parliament of the Dead by the Prime Minister himself.

This was not something she had at all expected this morning when she’d been reading the papers to hear a raven tapping at the window. Knowing that ravens only ever brought grave news she’d been shocked, none of her relatives had been expected to Pass On, but by the time she’d unrolled the scroll she was pale enough to pass on herself. “As a matter of the greatest importance you are requested to travel to Parliament with all urgency and immediacy. This is by request of the Honourable Joseph Adams Brystwick, Prime Minister of the Necrocacy, Lord Protector of What-Could-Be and Chief Remembrancer of the What-Was-Once. As you may be some time away from home please pack appropriately and set your affairs in order.”

The carriage was passing through the shattered ruins of the lost city, winding its way through the indirect paths that led safely. A constant parade of yellow and black signs advised in the strongest possible terms how unwise it would be for anyone not ready to join the Dead to walk off the path into the ruins. Even now the wild excesses of the folly wrought by the Last Living Leader could take one’s life. It was a good reminder that it was better to be ruled by those whose foolish passions and personal interests had ended with the passing of weak physical flesh. The cold detached judgement of the dead, with no childish hormonal foolishness coursing through quickened blood had made the Necrocacy a prosperous nation for so many. One could live a good life here unlike many of the foreign lands where it seemed none had learned the lessons of the past. When one died there was a transition into a new state, an adult embracing of the need to progress rather than the childish continuation of “resurrection”. Still she found that at least preferable to the wasteful and catastrophic loss of wisdom and experience one found in the strictly-yolo lands.

At the Great Gate of Saint Angela she was stopped and her papers checked under flickering green torches held by silver skeletons in the deep blue uniforms of the City Guard. Several more guardsmen held snarling cerberuses on iron leads though each of the beasts had one head asleep. It was night now, she’d been travelling all day and her aching bones wished there had been time to take a slower, more comfortable carriage or perhaps one of the flying kind that were used on urgent state business. She suspected soon enough she’d be riding in one of the latter given the contents of her summons.

The lead skeleton seemed satisfied with her papers and signalled the others to stand down, it chattered at her “Please wait madame, we will arrange onward transport for you.”

He extended an arm to help her off her carriage which she accepted gratefully, doubtless even her finest sombre dress was not properly sufficient for a meeting with the Prime Minister but it was sufficiently proper to make moving freely awkward. After her luggage was removed by other guardsmen her carriage rolled off towards a stables for storage. With so few lights in the city after dark even this close one got magnificent skies and she looked up to admire the view. Her father had been a keen astronomer before Passing On and she had eagerly learned the names of the constellations and the stations of the Highers which were known to Baselines. The moon was waxing and gibbous, the ringed black scars surrounding the Yunoso Incursion were visible though the deep crater of the Incursion itself was not. As she squinted to try and any flickering firefights from lunar knights enforcing quarantine the guardsman returned.

“If you would follow me madame”, he extended an arm which she accepted and they walked together for a few minutes through a series of dark and winding passages going deeper underground. Though the guardsman’s bony feet and her own heeled boots should have produced noisy echoing footsteps they did not, for the Dead preferred there to be silence. They turned a corner and before them was a broad underground canal, with a dank, foetid air to it which was quite overwhelming. As the Dead were not often bothered by smell this was the sort of nuisance that happened in the Necropolis and she discreetly pulled a perfumed kerchief from her pocket to put under her nose.

The guardsman bid her to embark upon a small metal skiff, which moved smoothly off before she’d even sat down. There was of course no sound despite the deep wake being left behind her. Only lanterns on the walls of the canal provided any respite from darkness, they passed by quickly almost at a blur with the skiff frequently turning onto other canals bigger and smaller. Despite her frequent, prior visits to the Necropolis she’d lost all sense of her position and heading within its topography. For a few brief moments she had the unnerving sense that she was moving much, much faster than seemed possible. In only a couple of minutes the skiff arrived at its destination, another dock with an ancient signpost declaring she had arrived at parliament. On the dock stood a zombie in a formal suit and hat flanked by four skeletons in the red uniforms of the Parliamentary Guard.

The zombie doffed its hat, bowed and gazed at her with its glowing green eyes, “Miss Amanda Okonkwo I presume. Most good to see you. I am the Prime Minister’s Permanent Private Secretary Lucas Valgul. If you would kindly follow me I shall take you to the Prime Minister and perhaps answer some of the many pressing questions I am sure you have.”

As was polite he did not offer her an arm, the Dead felt it rude to touch one of the Living while corpsed in a zombie and she was very grateful not to have to touch the cold, sweetly rotting flesh. Despite the steady stream of bodies vacated by criminals it was relatively rare to see a zombie, particularly in the Necropolis where it was easy for them to otherwise appear. Lucas registered her distaste, “Awful things zombies, hate having to use one but needs must, needs must”.

She nodded sympathetically not understanding the need at all. Lucas began a brief inquisition, “You read Intercultural Politics under Professor Hastings yes? I believe your thesis was on the perceived evolution of the Overwatch’s enforcement yes?”

“You’re right on both counts,” she nodded.

“And have you kept in close contact with Professor Hastings?” there was the briefest flicker of annoyance in his voice.

“We write semi-regularly I suppose, we haven’t met face-to-face in nearly two years.”

Lucas stopped and the guards pinned her against the wall. His face pushed into hers, she could taste the stench of death from him, “Remember I know what is to be flesh. I know what it smells like when you’re lying. Answer me truly. Do you love the Necrocacy?”

“Of course”

“Do you believe there is any society better than ours on Earth or elsewhere?”

“No”

“Have you ever been contacted by someone you knew or suspected to be an agent of another society?”

She panicked, the truth didn’t seem like it was what he wanted but she was afraid to even try and lie a little to him, “I have met people from many other societies, Free-Expressionists, Technoutopians, a Dave-shard…”

He hissed stale rotting breath, “Anyone that was an agent, anyone that tried to turn you against us?”

“No, nothing like that,” she was afraid. He inhaled deeply, smelling the fear.

“Last question for now. Have you ever knowingly been in the physical presence of a Higher?”

When she’d been seven she was woken by a massive explosion. The lights were out in the house and all the street but there was a raging red light off in the distance. Everyone poured onto the streets in fear and confusion. Soon shouted rumours came that a Dragon had crashed in the park, father couldn’t pass up the chance to see one himself and despite mother’s protestations had taken her along him. The guard had already blocked off the main gate but they were able to sneak in through a missing piece of fence, there were flaming pieces of debris. Father had been so excited he’d lost all sensibilities and dragged his increasingly scared daughter closer to the terrifying ground zero. Whether the crash or what led to it, the Dragon had been destroyed, perhaps it was not even a Dragon but some other Higher construct. Whatever it was despite her crying and pleading her father got closer and closer to the wreckage. There was a crack of thunder as a sphere of total blackness appeared and enveloped the wreckage, it rested for a brief moment before expanding its extent to encompass her father. Before she could start screaming the sphere collapsed back in on itself in a rush of wind. When she picked herself back up there was no sign of her father and she fainted, as she lay unconscious she was sure she saw a glowing being watch over her before a guardsman found her. She had always suspected this was a higher.

She explained this to Lucas, “I mean you’ve studied the Highers enough to know that you didn’t see one there. They would never have come down for such a small thing as that.”

“I know what I saw.”

“My dear, your biological memory is a fallible thing. Such a tragic event as well, it’s only to be expected you would have seen things. No unless you have any other stories let us assume that you have never met a Higher manifesting physically,” she was lowered gently to the ground, a guardsman passing her the kerchief she’d dropped, “I apologise for the rudeness and interrogation, I assure you these are standard questions we must ask to assuage our confidence in your selection for this task.”

“I understand,” she did not but she trusted that such a high-ranking official as the Prime Minister’s Permanent Private Secretary, an honoured deadman with centuries of statecraft would not have so acted without believing it necessary.

Lucas passed the rest of the journey making smalltalk, pointing out famous statues and rooms as they ascended from the depths of the building to the more well-known rooms. Perhaps as a reward for the questioning she’d endured she was afforded a brief visit in the gallery above the chamber. The chamber was full with hundreds of MPs for a debate on improved maternity care, the chamber was bright with the pale green light of all the ghosts, it was the most she’d seen at once. It was inspiring to see so many of the long dead offering such wisdom and scrutiny of an issue that clearly could not affect them. The debate in the chamber ended and the ghosts flickered out, a vote would be called later. At this they moved on for the Prime Minister had only a brief window of time to meet with her.

Lucas ushered her to a seat in the Prime Minister’s office, it was uncomfortable but she had fully expected that in a building mainly furnished for the dead. Lucas excused himself, she was sure he wanted to lose the zombie and was finding somewhere private to leave the body without distressing her. It was overwhelming to be here after such a long day. Outside there was some shouting, at this she turned and saw the Prime Minister and the Health Secretary walk through the door.

The Prime Minister turned and nodded at her, “Forgive me, this is not language I would normally use in front of a lady but even the patience of the dead has its limits”, he turned back to the Secretary, “Harold, as I have said before many, many times you would not find yourself in these embarrassing disasters if you would simply stop fucking up each and every little thing that is asked of you. Now kindly please leave me and try to avoid causing any further catastrophes on your way out.”

Hearing one of the infamous Brystwick rants in person was even more fun than hearing it on the radio. It lightened the terrified knot in her stomach. The Prime Minister took his seat opposite her.

“Excellent to meet you at last Miss Okonkwo”, the door shut as another ghost entered the room, “I suspect Lucas here has been so busy terrifying and interrogating you he’s not even thought to cater to your needs,” he laughed warmly at his own joke, “You must remember to tend to the needs of our living guests Lucas…”

“I’m sorry,” the subject of the apology was unclear but she suspected it was not her, “Would you care for a drink or maybe even something to eat Miss Okonkwo?”

“I would very much appreciate some water to drink.”

Lucas muttered that this was fine and went to tend to the request.

“You are a highly educated woman Miss Okonkwo so I’ll not patronise you. Your mentor Professor Hastings seems to have made the poor choice to defect to another culture. We have strong reason to believe he has gone to the North-west Free Expression Zone and reincarnated in physical flesh,” the Prime Minister’s disgust at this almost manifested physically it was so strong, “Further we believe this is only the first stage of a wider plan to establish a Free Expression enclave within the Deadlands and petition the Highers to recognise this.”

This did not seem like the Professor Hastings she knew. Yet it seemed a slim chance that she would be here and speaking with the Prime Minister unless it was a highly, probable thing.

“I’m sorry to hear that sir, what do you need me to do?”

The PM smiled, “I’m glad to see such a patriotic, selfless attitude. It’s something one is so happy to see in one so young and alive as yourself. To put it bluntly Miss Okonkwo you are to be the smiling, familiar face which distracts Professor Hastings from seeing the net tightening around him. Now Lucas if you could kindly take Miss Okonkwo to meet the “net” that would be much appreciated. I wish you the best of luck and trust you will serve your country well Miss Okonkwo.”

Lucas ushered her out the room, her mind was racing and she forgot to thank the PM for this opportunity. Yesterday she had been a simple academic writing papers not even the immortal dead found the time to read. Today she was helping her country recover a defector from another nation, a breach of sovereignty that was a violation of the Overwatch. She should have asked for something stronger than water.

“Succulent godlings descend, twice, thrice for optimal value and you will regret only does the sound bother you when if questioned the nature of…” an Oracle clacked noisily up onto the plaza on its brassy spider legs. Its alabaster torso span round as it sought a victim to focus on. Annoyingly she caught a brief glimpse of its deep golden eyes before she managed to turn away. Typical luck with everything else she had going on today, she gained a sudden interest in her shoes but these things weren’t exactly programmed to respect boundaries and it lurched noisily over to her.

“The Church of Tomorrow prays for you daughter of today,” it extended its spine so that its head could get itself between her eyes and shoes. Before it had been transformed it’d have been a pretty striking young man, the Church only ever used the beautiful bodies for Oracles. She really wished they didn’t leave the eyes as human or at least as uncannily human as they looked to her superficial inspection.

“Please go away, I’m really not interested,” the tiny kernel of doubt she had that there was anything human left in the Oracle stopped her being more forthright, Mom and dad would have been proud of her manners.

“Let me walk the Path of Futures and see where your life goes,” it retracted its spine quickly, its head bouncing as it went. For added drama the too human eyes lit up , “Almost never the fourth one along will find the way within abstract dreams cried by the one time where ultrakinetic projectiles shatter the hope sometimes we all must give up for perpendicular to all current objectives the sad lord of delicious nutritious ideas falls sweetly…”

It kept blabbering on and irritated her to the point she broke her own censorship taboo and blocked it and anything else from the joke-too-far Church of Tomorrow. It became a silent and unobjectionable neutral gray cuboid, the default representation for something somebody didn’t want to deal with. Detecting it had been blocked it slid smoothly away in search of its next victim to prophesise at.

Compared to most she was exceptionally light on using perception filters. As much as practical she kept her vision real-real rather than consensus-real. Charmingly old fashioned or bizarrely regressive, she left that judgement to others. It was shocking there were people out there who’d tweaked their perception filters to conform everyone and everything to their own particular ideas of beauty. All the idiosyncratic difference and variety that made for such an interesting spectrum of people to look at replaced with stock, nigh-identical forms. Sad in it’s own way, making life here not much better than in one of the Full Equality zones. Still that people were able to make this choice was an even more fundamental statement of life in the Free Expression zone. Transgress against the prevailing expressive norms all you want, people can always edit you out if they choose.

Since a missionary outreach pod had come crashing into the sea last weekend the City had been, only barely metaphorically, crawling with Oracles. As always and to the normal futile outcome the City had complained at the Church’s orbiting hive cathedral. Additionally and to even more expected futility the Highers had been petitioned and asked to intervene. They would already know, of course they would, what had happened but it was the City’s belief that each and every transgression from the Church and others must be protested. Still it seemed increasingly accepted and normal that the zone’s boundaries could be violated with no reprisal from the Overwatch. Why this was and what that meant was something she’d thought long over as had so many in the zone.

Uncertainty over the sentience or not of Oracles made them difficult to get rid of for good. For as presumed sentient beings with uncertain access to resurrection to destroy them without their consent would be severe choice-theft and was severely punished. However rounding them up and dropping them back off at their pod was entirely kosher and there were several clades competing to see who could rid the City of the most of the nuisances. A quick search showed a friend of her friend Raul seemed really active in Team SoLongSpookyChurchySpiderPeople and she sent him a quick ping to let him know about this one. “Cheers mate. We’ll take care of that soon for you!” came the reply along with a badge flash she could put on her profile to show support for Team SoLongSpookyChurchySpiderPeople. Although beautifully animated she tried not to avoid showing public support for meaningless causes since the Toast War a few years back.

What started as an entirely fun marketing campaign by a bakery over how toasted people liked their bread had escalated unbelievably quickly into zone-wide violence with thousands killed. Both sides had naturally adopted flamers and energy weapons to scorch their opponents to show them the error of their ways with maximum ironic effect. After a particularly silly and lethal battle in a public park which destroyed many historic trees and non-consenting bystanders City and the other Admins declared Special Measures, disarmed both sides and gave time-outs to the serious offenders. To other societies which hadn’t opted for resurrection this was the sort of decadent attitude to death and violence which Commissars, Thought-Leaders and Yolo-Ministers regularly berated to their crowds. Although many in the zone had at the time complained about the situation due to the widespread inconvenience, now it was fondly looked back upon as “only in the NorthWest Free Expression Zone”. As was typical a few months later the Atlantic Metopia had their own shamelessly derivative copycat “Bagel Battle”. Truly tragic.

Should the rival Oracle hunter groups decide there was better sport to be had in fighting each other rather than relocating wayward preachers although she knew it, like the Toast War, would be hilarious in retrospect this was not the time. Being assassinated in such a silly conflict would undermine her part in a far more important battle being waged.

This story came to me after noticing a painting on the wall of the Phoenix pub in Dundee of a creepy, thin-faced man in a bowler hat against this neon background. It was staring right at me from where I sat. It would be interesting to write some more encounters of people with the Watcher in the future.

---

It took her three weeks before she saw the Watcher and she nearly broke down crying with relief that she had at last seen it. It had carelessly opened a doorway in the middle of an empty wall across the street from her. Behind its almost-man form was an infinitely deep redness that it hurt to think about. Its bowler-hatted head sat tilted awkwardly on the too-thin neck, first to the left, then to the right but never in-between. Its simulacrum of a plain grey suit rippled liquidly from a wind she couldn’t feel. She watched it Watch her.

Passers-by looked at her strangely and some even stopped and asked if she was ok. Once any followed her gaze they soon remembered their own pressing business and left her to deal with the Watcher herself. Nobody wanted to be the first the Watcher saw after finishing with her, nobody wanted to be next to be Watched.

An elderly couple opened a window above the Watcher and pointed excitedly at her. They felt secure that it couldn’t see them but they were wrong. She had seen herself on the stream, watched along with the millions of voyeurs as every moment of her life was broadcast from impossible vantage points. It had Watched her from outside her house, walls were nothing to it. However the Watcher worked the old couple were totally wrong in thinking themselves obscured from its vision by something as petty as human senses. Although annoyed by their clear thrill at seeing the Watched One in real life she would not wish them the indignity of being Watched.

These last three weeks had been an unthinkable hell, she had thought of suicide, aided along by the knowledge of all those millions of pairs of eyes following her day and night. Many of the Watched Ones before her had taken their own lives to free themselves, she knew that people bet on whether the Watched would escape by death or a glimpse of the Watcher. Friends and family had tried at first to keep in touch, ultimately nobody but her shallowest, fame-hungry acquaintances was prepared to spend time with her while watched by millions. Still the interactions with the attention-seekers were human contact that she treasured.

Three weeks was towards the longer end of time people spent being Watched. Nothing on Kind John’s nine years of exile on an empty island. What a brave thing to do, sacrificing his own life to keep the Watcher tied up and everyone else free to enjoy their lives. It took a courage she lacked. Still it was odd for the Watcher to clumsily reveal itself as it had. Was it bored? Did it want to be seen so it could move onto a new victim?

The Watcher watched impassively as she screamed angrily at it. The Watcher watched unceasingly as she laughed relieved that her time as the Watched was ending. The Watcher watched as it stood beside her in a single step. The Watcher watched her jump back in shock. The Watcher followed her, catching up with her in a single step whenever it wanted to draw closer.

She realised the futility of trying to flee from the Watcher, yet she could not bear to be close to its sickly sweet smell of rot and nightmares. She pointed at it. Its head flickered back and forth from tilted right to tilted left and it raised its stumpy right arm and pointed its drooping middle finger at her.

Then the Watcher stopped watching and after thirty years of continuous broadcast the stream ended. She became even more renowned as the woman who was the Last Watched, she received more attention, more death threats, even cults worshipping her. Eventually she chose to escape the attention in the way she had been considering the day she’d seen the Watcher. It was nice and painless. As she drifted off to death there was just enough time to notice the Watcher step out of a doorway at the bottom of the garden.

This was the start of a novel idea I had a few years ago about a man investigating his own death after his resurrection. There were a few good moments I was able to sketch out but I’ve was never quite able to find a tone or outline a plot I was totally happy with. Someday I’ll solve that mystery and find an ending for this one.

---

I stepped out the door into a glorious downpour of hot rain and stood smiling, enjoying the sensation of the torrent hitting against my new skin and wondering what to do next. It was February 30th, five days before my birthday and two weeks since I had been murdered. They say the first death is the hardest; I’m not exactly keen to find out if that’s true any time soon so I hope that saying’s true. Answering the question of how old I am is vastly more troublesome than it once was. I was born thirty-nine years ago but this body is in its mid twenties and was made ten days ago. Despite that and other complications I think the trade-off of having made death into only a minor inconvenience has been well worth it.

What now? The question pounded through my head.

Most of the time the biggest problem resurrection clinics had was editing out the memory of dying from a resurrectee to avoid it being particularly traumatic and upsetting. I had precisely zero recollection of my death, not because of overzealous editing but because I’d arrived that way with two days of memories missing in the kind of last-ditch, fingers-crossed, all-shouting mindstate broadcast that memplants used in the direst of emergencies. I’d been assured that outside of the military and extreme sports fans that this capacity is almost never used. My personal clinician had been palpably excited to have a client with such an interesting case history as myself; I suppose in the niche world of resurrection clinicians someone arriving as an “unannounced E4 hypercast” was about as exciting as things got.

Well if the circumstances of my death were remarkable I have to confess to a sensation of disappointment at the ordinariness of my life. Like just about everyone in this fine nation of ours I’d had the usual bouts of learning, short career stints and years of uninterrupted debauchery that made up a well balanced life. About the only vaguely interesting thing I’d done was have a fifteen year monogamous relationship with the woman who was mother to my two children. We’d even had an old-fashioned marriage ceremony. I mean it’s hardly the kind of thing you’d bring up at a party as a look-how-cool-I-am talking point but in the back-story of Marcus Merson this was about as wild as things got.

Even had the circumstances of my mysterious death not been, apparently, incredibly unique and intriguing I think I’d have to find a new talking point as contrary to all prevailing clichés I’d not left the clinic to be met by a small crowd of loving family and friends. My ‘wife’ of fifteen years was nowhere to be seen. I knew this was going to be the case. Over the past few days the clinicians had gently broken the news that things had gone a bit wrong in the relationship. This hurts me more than anything because I haven’t changed.

Everybody knows dying changes people. You have two weeks where all you do is reflect and remember. At the start your past is just information and there’s no connection. It takes intensive therapy and co-operation to integrate all of that into coherent and contextualised memories of your life. You’re expected to reprioritise and reassess. It’s natural that for lots of people past relationships don’t matter as much and they feel that resurrection is a natural point to break things off and shake things up.

That wasn’t me. I succeeded in making it all feel as real, as important as it ever did. Maybe it’s even stronger than it was. It was all so distant at the start but I made it matter; remembered meeting her, falling in love, the marriage, the kids, the whole life lived together. I was so keen on getting back to living that I didn’t really care about what I’d died.

And now here I am standing alone embracing the feeling of rain to drown out the hurt, the anger and the sorrow of being rejected. I can’t stand here forever so back to that important question.

What next?

The obvious and dull answer would appear to be take the waiting car and go home. I felt like a little obvious dullness might be just the thing I needed after my recent excitement. It was your standard freefare aircar with the current style of being almost completely transparent save for some minimally opaque apparatus. I pushed myself through the slightly greasy field door and sat on the rather gorgeously patterned verdant couch within. I suspected and quickly confirmed that my vself had subconsciously arranged for a car with a seat that matched my tastes. I had my vself tell the car to take me home as I wasn’t really in the mood to talk.