When I died, I expected… I don't know, something impressive.
A golden gate. A staircase to the clouds. Angels with harps.
What I got was an office.
And not a particularly nice one, either. The carpet was a kind of gray-beige that looked like it had been bought cheap in bulk sometime during the Nixon administration. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, bathing everything in the kind of light you'd use to interrogate a hostage. Somewhere, a printer was making an unhealthy clicking sound.
I was sitting in an orange plastic chair with one leg shorter than the others, across from a man in a cheap suit that somehow managed to be both wrinkled and shiny at the same time. He had half-glasses perched on his nose, a tie with a coffee stain, and the expression of someone whose soul had died decades before his body would.
The nameplate on the desk read: CASEWORKER 4B.
The man behind it was gray in the way paperclips are gray — functional, forgettable, slightly bent. He flipped open a manila folder, adjusted his glasses, and said in a voice that could strip wallpaper:
> "Congratulations, Mr. Brightwell. You qualify for the Basic Reincarnation Package—Tier Zero."
I blinked. "Tier Zero?"
"…Tier Zero?" I asked.
"Yes," he said, pulling a form out of the folder and sliding it toward me. "Our most affordable option. Comes with a small boon, standard randomized orphan background, average starting stats, no clan affiliation, and a basic language pack. Common plus three local dialects. You'll be fine."
He turned another page without looking at me. "New-life identity will be issued as Hiro Tanaka. Try to remember it."
I blinked at him. "That's… the worst deal I've ever heard."
"Budget cuts," he said without looking up, flipping to the next page.
"Can I… upgrade?"
He snorted. "Do you have points?"
"Points?"
"Life achievement points. Heroism, martyrdom, self-sacrifice, the usual. You don't have any. Frankly, I'm surprised you even qualify for the Basic Package. Technically speaking, you were below baseline for most of your life."
"Below baseline?!"
He ignored me, rummaging in a desk drawer. "Right, let's get your boon sorted."
From the drawer, he produced what looked like an ancient, beige PalmPilot. The kind with a monochrome screen and a tiny stylus attached with a fraying cord. It looked like it should be in a museum.
He set it on the desk between us.
"…That's a PalmPilot," I said flatly.
"It's your boon," he said, fishing around in a desk drawer until he produced… a clunky, beige plastic brick.
I stared. "Is that… a PalmPilot?"
He nodded. "Mid-tier model. Backlight still works, battery's eternal, stylus included."
He tapped the screen with a practiced flick.
"Came preloaded with a few apps. Calendar, calculator, memo pad. Oh, and this one—Foreign World Translation Services. Interdimensional language translator. You type something in one language, it spits it out in another. Very handy for tourists."
I took it gingerly. It was warm in my hands in a way electronics shouldn't be. The screen flickered, and a cheerful message appeared:
Welcome to Foreign World Translation Services™ – Bridging the Gap Between Dimensions Since [Error: Date Unavailable]
I squinted at him. "So… it just… translates?"
"That's the point. Directions, menus, small talk. Won't help you much with slang, though."
I tapped the stylus against my palm, half-listening as he droned about warranty voids and metaphysical liability clauses. My attention drifted to the home menu. Calendar. Calculator. Memo Pad. Translation.
Old hardware, sure. But I'd spent my previous life in tech. And I knew one thing about old hardware: sometimes, it did more than it said on the box.
The clerk slid a clipboard toward me. "Sign here, initial here, and don't press the calendar button."
"…Why?" I asked.
He just gave me a haunted look and moved on.
I rubbed my temples. "And you just… give this to people?"
"Not usually," he said. "It's technically an old model. We were going to throw it out. But it's what we had on hand."
I glared. "You're telling me my one boon is a secondhand device?"
"Thirdhand," he corrected. "Also, don't drop it. The casing is held together with tape."
I opened my mouth to argue, but he was already pushing a clipboard toward me.
"Sign here, here, and here," he said, tapping the signature lines. "Waiver of liability, acknowledgment of non-refundable package tier, and agreement not to sue in case of catastrophic reality collapse."
"Wait, catastrophic what?"
"Initial here," he repeated, dead-eyed.
I signed.
"Great," he said, gathering the papers. "Right, you'll be heading to… let's see… Naruto World, Land of Fire. Don't cause trouble. Avoid the Uchiha."
"Wait—Naruto like the anime?"
He didn't look up. "I wouldn't know."
Before I could argue, a security guard in a cheap uniform appeared beside me. "Time to go."
"Where exactly am I—"
The guard opened a plain door at the side of the office. On the other side was pure white light. As I was pushed toward it, I heard the bureaucrat call after me:
"Oh, and avoid the calendar app! It's haunted!"
---
The next thing I knew, I was lying in a crib.
My hands were tiny. My legs barely moved. The world smelled like baby powder and warm milk.
In my lap sat the PalmPilot.
The screen flickered to life on its own: Tip of the Day: Always carry a spare stylus.
I stared at it. "…Yeah," I muttered. "I'm screwed."