I feel like it hasn’t been a great day.

  Again, a definition. But it’s hard to know what a day is when one’s passage through them amounts to an eternity of pain followed by a moment of silence before a second, longer eternity of pain. Albeit slightly more… Stagnant?

  At least there’s no countdown this time.

  And the innumerable, indescribable shapes and colors and sounds are, at least compared to before, minimal.

  Nor do they change either significantly or often. Every now and then, the sound of a particular shape will make one color after another before vanishing.

  Sandwiched between eternities, the shape itself is as fleeting as the silence. Memorable only thanks to its novelty. Its variety. A modicum of relief, if only by way of distraction.

  Whether it was ever truly gone or just sufficiently distracted from, the pain inevitably returns.

  My eyes hurt. And my ears. And my skin. And my nose. Not to mention my tongue.

  I don’t actually know what any of those things are. I just seem to inherently know the words. And their locations across my… It feels so wrong calling what I have now a ‘body’. But I know that’s what it is. The same way I know the parts of it that hurt. Or is it closer to an itch by now? Whatever that means…

  Regardless of what the sensation is called, it does seem to be lessening. Or maybe I’m just getting used to it.

  Whether it’s the pain or me that’s changing, it grows gradually easier to endure. As it does, patterns begin to emerge.

  Slowly but surely, a painfully shrill shriek becomes an unpleasantly loud screech. A mind-bending, existentially maddening shape becomes a mind-bothering, existentially disturbing cabinet. An unsettling otherworldly color becomes… A slightly less agitating version of the same color.

  Even the nature of how it all grows easier is hard for me to grasp. At times, I was unsure of whether anything had actually changed at all. But by now, the pain has receded enough for me to remember how it was before. There’s no question. It got better.

  Every time I think about it, the difference is only more stark.

  Eventually, I’m unsure of whether what I feel is pain, or merely the memory of it. The ‘sense memory’…

  Another definition. One I can understand a bit better than the others. But it’s still a hopelessly impossible translation. Not that I’d care to know. Why would I want to remember specific types of pain? The ones I can’t forget are already too many.

  I pointedly leave it out of the queue.

  At some point, a shape makes a color to break the silence. “How’re you doing, PEN?”

  A question. That, at least, is a concept I understand. Although I am unaware of any such writing implement. Or its current status. Or what ‘writing’ even is beyond the unsolicited definition that I somehow know, but lack the context to understand. In other words, I don’t respond.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  Another question. This one is obviously directed at the pen. But I have no concept of subtlety. Or implication. Although the definitions do come. I even know what they mean. Just not how to communicate such things in any way but mind-to-mind.

  So, after an extended silence, I think up a question of my own. One I refine through innumerable iterations before finally drumming up the courage to interrupt the ongoing conversation between shape and pen.

  So, having finally grasped the use of such things as words, I utter my first three. “What is who?”

  What follows isn’t so much an answer, as a feverish escalation of the scale and frequency of all audiovisual stimulation to the point where my senses revert back to an incomprehensible mess. No nuance. No substance. No meaning. Nothing but the all-too-familiar pain.

  Another eternity.

  The shapes change. As they make more colors, the pain lessens. Hard to say if those are related. But the shapes change a lot.

  Once I can discern their texture, that seems to mark the point where I can comprehend their noises again.

  Doubling the number of words I’ve ever spoken, I amend my previous question. “Why is who?”

  The single remaining shape vibrates, making both a texture and a noise. The texture is hard to interpret.

  The noise is not. “Can you hear me?”

  More new feelings. A rush of excitement. Of anticipation. Of joy at finally being addressed. Of being asked a question. And a clear one at that.

  I even know the answer. “Yes.”

  The shape sounds more apologetic than anything. “That’s good. I can hear you as well. Do you understand the number 3?”

  A far easier concept to grasp than 1. Or especially 0. “Yes.”

  “Wonderful. How about what it means to choose?”

  A definition springs to mind. The finer points are lost to me, but…“Yes.”

  The shape vibrates differently this time. “Excellent.”

  Then its tone and cadence changes as it makes all sorts of different colors with its multi-pronged appendages that seem to be called ‘arms’. “Unfortunately, your original body was incompatible with this iteration of Heaven. Therefore, you were automatically transitioned into your closest genetic match. This has never happened before. Not to anything like a human, at any rate. As such, we had no precedent or procedure in place for you. To that end, I apologize that our workaround was so rough.”

  That’s a lot of definitions with not a lot of context. What is an ‘apology’? I’d ask, but I get the distinct impression that would be ‘off-topic’. Whatever that means… I know it’s bad though. The same way I know any of the rest of whatever’s facilitating my ability to communicate.

  The shape waits for some reason before continuing in a different tone. “To that end, you have a choice to make. Three options lie before you. Whichever you choose, we will not only honor, but also assist with that choice in any way our rules and strictures allow.”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  It holds up one of its little tubes that seems to be called a ‘finger’. “First… You may stay as you are. At least insofar as you’ll keep your current body. We’ll teach you how to function as best you can amongst humanity. There are Settings and Skills we can point you toward to smooth out the rougher edges of your experience. But neither will I, nor can I, promise that it will be in any way ‘easy’. Although by now, you must know that better than anyone.

  The shape holds up another finger. “Second… You may continue here in Heaven, but transfer to another race. While technically more different than a human from your original genetic makeup, many of them have far more in common with your relationship to sensory input. Such as sight, sound, and similar sensations that I’m so sad to see since-”

  It freezes in place. “AAAH, I bit my tongue!”

  After a few moments, the shape regains its composure. “It seems you’ve been tragically overwhelmed by all that until now. Naturally, we will help smooth your experience with another race as well. But I suspect there will be a lot less smoothing to do than with Option One.”

  It holds up one more finger. “Third… You can leave Heaven entirely. You’ll be put back into the cycle of reincarnation. All memories of your previous life, as well as your time here, will be lost. Instead, you will have the same fresh start as all newborns. Now, we have no influence over where you end up on this path. But with even what little record remains of your previous life, I can all but guarantee that your next one will be far, far happier.”

  All options having been given, I’m overcome with an unease that feels like it’s coming from countless directions at once until I say something. “I wish to choose the first option.”

  The shape stagnates. “You don’t… Have any questions?”

  From the front of the queue then. “What is meant by ‘previous life’?”

  “I… Well, I mean… How do you explain… Ok, let’s try this way. Do you remember when you saw your first System prompt?”

  How could I not? It accompanied not only the greatest, but only sense of satisfaction I’ve ever felt. “I do.”

  “Well, everything prior to that was your previous life. And that moment, or one adjacent to it, was the start of this one.”

  Then the blue square wasn’t death, but rather birth? “I understand.”

  “Sooo… Did you change your mind on where you want to go from here?”

  “I wish to choose the first option.”

  “You’re sure? I promise the pain and confusion you feel now can be completely alleviated with a simple change in-”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes… To what? Are you sure, or-”

  “I am sure.”

  “I… But you…” The shape ungulates in a way that’s apparently called a ‘sigh’. “Very well. Option One it is. Now let’s see what we can do to help you cope with…”

  It waves its arms off to the side in a sweeping shrug. “This.”

  It chuckles. “Gotta be honest, we were about to choose Option Three for you.”

  “Please do not.”

  “Don’t worry, that’s fully off the table now.”

  “What is ‘table’?”

  “It’s… Well, in the way I meant it, the table was entirely metaphorical. Rather, it was just an expression.”

  “What is ‘expression’?”

  The shape slowly vibrates its topmost appendage. “Don’t worry about that for now. As long as you can make the choice yourself, we will abide by it. But please understand… You were the next best thing to catatonic. I don’t know if you know what that means, but if not for our ability to scan for sentient consciousness, we would’ve thought you were a vegetable. In spite of our best efforts, that does sometimes happen.”

  “What is a vegetable?”

  It pointedly exhales, not seeming to otherwise acknowledge my question. “And outside of correcting physical damage to your literal brain, there isn’t much to be done for such Heroes besides sending them on their way. But again, this is a worst-case scenario. Not something we do if we have an alternative. And for what it’s worth, we’re all exceedingly happy not to have to make that decision for you. Especially seeing that from the choice you did make, it would’ve been the wrong one.”

  I’m having a hard time putting something together. “Then is that the True Option One?”

  Its top bit wobbles faster than before. “Not at all. It’s the last resort, in fact. Believe it or not, even amongst racial compatibility issues, which are already exceedingly rare, yours is somewhat unique. Not in Heaven’s history, mind you. But it’s rare enough that we don’t have a standardized response.”

  Its appendage rotates off to one side now. “That was the primary reason your experience ended up so… let’s call it ‘analogue’.”

  It rotates back towards me. “With that in mind, I do apologize on behalf of the Order of Administration for the pain caused by our lack of foresight in this. I understand that the ordeal was quite…”

  The shape abruptly pulls back. “But that’s all behind us now. Let’s move on, shall we?”

  Another, far more apologetic voice comes from off to the side. “Honestly, we really should have some automation in place for whenever someone registers as ‘Please Enter Name’, right? Now that we’ve seen the kind of trauma that it… Can…”

  The first shape twists to the direction of the interruption. “Why thank you for making yourself known, Civetta. Saves me the introduction. Come over here, would you?”

  A new shape meekly transposes over and raises its own appendage. “Hi, PEN.”

  I’m just confused now. Again. It seems this question must take top priority. “To what pen are you referring?”

  Both shapes lean away. The one called ‘Civetta’ is the first to lean forward. “That’s you, silly.”

  I’ve clearly made a mistake with my query. Questions of self only result in more questions, and none to the one I asked.

  Finally recovering, the original shape does something called ‘clearing’ to whatever a throat is. “I’m just so thrilled you two already have a rapport. Speaking of things that either should or shouldn’t have happened, Civetta here will be your personal service worker until such a time as you are deemed fit to govern yourself in Heaven. Please understand, you are in a new body. One with which you are completely unfamiliar. To say nothing of the world you find yourself in. So please don’t worry. This is no prison sentence. This is rehabilitation.”

  Even as definitions abound, I have no working concept of anything that shape just said. So, nothing for it but to ask until all is answered. “What is ‘prison’?”

  The original shape turns to the new one. “Whelp, Looks like you’ve got a lot of work ahead of you, Civetta. I’ll just go ahead and let you get to it, then.”

  A moment later, the first shape is gone.

  I wonder about that. But there are 7,352 other questions in the queue, and this one isn’t even about the ‘basic human understanding’ thing they keep emphasizing. So I set my eight new questions about the disappearing shape around the middle, in spots 3,742 to 3,749. Just behind general understanding, but in front of food.

  The Civetta shape looks around the room as though searching for where the other one went.

  Then she starts making noises faster than I can parse. “So we actually do know when someone names themselves that. It raises a flag in our system that something went very, very wrong. But we don’t usually have to kill and then pick them out of a respawn queue. I am so, so, so sorry. It was honestly all we could do to work around our own policies.”

  The shape shifts. “We can not, will not, force anyone to come with us who hasn’t committed one of several exceedingly specific crimes. But what we can do is pick someone out of the respawn system, and redirect them. Again, we have strict policies in place for when we can do that, to who, and where they can be redirected. But your situation fell right in that purview.”

  The shape apparently tries to keep talking. But there’s something wrong.

  One rush of air later, she resumes her torrent of words, only faster now. “It’s also kinda my fault you got put through that. It was a scheduling issue that put you in the center of an incident that involved more than a few, um, you know what? Nevermind. That’s not your problem. And this must be so confusing already. Normally, the System would implant at least enough knowledge for you to coexist with the local population while leaving you as close to your living self as possible.”

  The shape takes another gasp of air. “But that clearly didn’t work. So we turned it up. And up. And now, you have so much implanted knowledge that any more would set you squarely in the danger zone of an incurable dissociative mental disorder. Once we implant the knowledge, it can’t be unimplanted. We’d need top-level authorization for that, and I’ve never even seen that granted for anything or anyone since I started working here. So I wouldn’t exactly count on that. Anyway, that’s where I come in. I’m here to help you integrate with society and answer all your questions about everything.”

  At that, the shape practically collapses into whatever a chair is.

  Does it need questions, then? I have many. As requested, I resolve to ask them all.

  Naturally, I begin with one I only just added to the top of the queue for necessary context to understand most of what she just said. “What is ‘society’?”

  Civetta inhales long and hard. “A society…”

  She blows out a puff of air. “Is a gathering of people-”