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.
Not even a nice one. The carpet was that gray-beige blend you get when someone buys in bulk during the Nixon administration. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting the kind of interrogation-room glow that made you feel guilty about things you hadn't even done. Somewhere, a printer was clicking like it was dying by inches.
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. Half-glasses perched on his nose. A tie with a coffee stain. The expression of someone whose soul had died decades before his body.
The nameplate on the desk read: CASEWORKER 4B.
The man himself was the human equivalent of a paperclip — gray, functional, 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."
"Tier Zero?" I repeated.
"Lowest option we offer," he said, pulling a form from the folder and sliding it toward me. "Includes: one small boon, randomized orphan background, average starting stats, no clan affiliation, and a standard language pack — Common plus three local dialects."
He turned another page without looking at me. "New-life identity will be issued as Hiro Tanaka. Try to remember it."
"That's the worst deal I've ever heard."
"Budget cuts," he said flatly.
"Can I… upgrade?"
"Do you have points?"
"What points?"
"Life achievement points. Heroism, martyrdom, self-sacrifice, the usual. You don't have any. Frankly, I'm surprised you even qualified for Tier Zero. Technically, you were below baseline for most of your life."
"…Below baseline?"
He ignored me, rummaging in a drawer, and pulled out a clunky beige brick of plastic.
I stared. "Is that… a PalmPilot?"
"Mid-tier model," he said, as if that meant something. "Battery's eternal, stylus included, backlight still works. Comes with a few apps — calendar, calculator, memo pad, and this one—" He tapped the screen. "Foreign World Translation Services. Interdimensional language translator. You type in one language, it spits it out in another."
I took it gingerly. The plastic was warm in a way electronics shouldn't be. The screen flickered, and a cheerful pixel font appeared:
> Welcome to Foreign World Translation Services™ — Bridging the Gap Between Dimensions Since [Error: Date Unavailable]
"So… it just translates?" I asked.
"That's the point. Directions, menus, small talk. Won't help with slang."
I turned it over in my hands. He kept talking about warranty voids and metaphysical liability clauses, but I wasn't listening. I'd worked in tech. Old hardware had a habit of doing more than advertised. And this… this looked like a device with secrets.
The clerk slid a clipboard toward me. "Sign here, initial here, and don't press the calendar button."
"…Why?"
He just gave me a haunted look and moved on.
"You just… hand these out to people?" I asked.
"Not usually. It's an old model. We were going to throw it out."
"This is my boon? A secondhand PalmPilot?"
"Thirdhand," he corrected. "Also, don't drop it. The casing's held together with tape."
I opened my mouth to argue, but he was already pointing at 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."
I signed.
"Good," he said, gathering the papers. "Destination: Naruto World, Land of Fire. Avoid the Uchiha."
I blinked. "Wait—Naruto as in—"
"I wouldn't know," he said, stamping my file.
Before I could get another question out, a security guard appeared beside me, opened a plain door, and revealed pure white light.
"Oh," the clerk added as I was shoved forward, "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. Everything smelled like baby powder and warm milk.
The PalmPilot sat in my lap.
The screen flickered to life on its own:
> Tip of the Day: "Always carry a spare stylus."
Then, just for a second, the words glitched into something else.
A jumble of symbols, and then—Loading: Compatibility Scan…
"…Yeah," I muttered. "I'm screwed."