“And thus, we decree unto thee the responsibility for bringing forth a hero to the world of Ξ.Γ.149 version b, more commonly known as Corsica,” resounded the voice of the Subcommittee’s High Councilor, Velrasa.

Being a god of songs, speeches, and formality, Velrasa’s meeting took nearly a mortal month of echoes resounding and demi-choirs proclaiming until the meeting could move forward again in earnest. The prophets of the multiverse would surely be waking up with headaches for years with visions of this farce, doubtlessly trying in vain to divine the meaning of the shrill bureaucracy before them. Thankfully, the next party to speak would be far more curt.

“I accept,” announced the goddess, and the meeting had ended. The demi-choirs, rife with angels, demi-gods, demons, and even the occasional minor deity, were scattered to the winds of the realms from which they came, leaving only the committee and its subject remaining.

“Minervica, can I trust you will succeed?” Velrasa asked, a familiar air of disapproval settling onto him in the relative solitude.

“Of course, my lord. I have never failed you before, and I never will,” she uttered with controlled calm.

“Very well. Begone.”

Without a word more, Minervica, Daughter of Athena, the Goddess of Language, Literature, and Trade, She Who Placates Heaven and Earth, retreated back to her realm of stewardship.

*********

It was nothing special, my accident.

An ordinary work accident, the kind that happens everyday across the world, that is what did it. It was far from spectacular, but it shouldn’t be shameful or embarrassing either. That’s what I keep telling myself.

“Are you ready to share, stranger?” a patient voice asked. I hadn’t been counting, but this had to be at least the dozenth time. I decided I couldn’t lurk anymore without things getting awkward. Other people had gone longer without sharing, but I didn’t want to be one of them. Better to get it over with already.

“Hello Limbo-mates, I’m Gregory Falci and I am dead.”

A chorus of “Hi Gregory” with at least half of the participants calling me “Greg” rang out. If I had wanted my name shortened, I’d have said so, but whatever.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

“Thank you for sharing,” the angel running this thing had said. I’d settled on calling him Faucet. Apparently the English language couldn’t handle most angel names without resorting to translations so long and colorful that they resembled poetry.

When the angel had spoken his name, a scene of a babbling creek with palpable sunshine and unnaturally cute woodland creatures flashed through my mind. I may have found the whole thing pretentious, because Faucet was suddenly the only fitting nickname I could think of; it was the worst name I could imagine without triggering the language censorship system present here in Limbo.

I could only nod at Faucet’s words, wanting to say as little as possible while participating adequately.

“And could you tell us about your death? Perhaps even your life?” Faucet politely demanded.

“I suppose. I was just going back to grad school, because I decided a new round of student loans was worthwhile to get a better job, especially if the debt was going to be forgiven like so many people were saying. My poli-sci degree wasn’t exactly what I’d hoped.”

I’d wanted to go into politics. I was under no delusions about who I was; I'm not charismatic enough to be a politician of acclaim or anything, but I thought I could work my way up to a cushy position like superintendent for a board of education, a diplomat, or even just a more influential person’s trustworthy secretary.

Turns out, no such luck. The way to work yourself up in that world still took more people skills than I had. That was how I found myself as a line cook in a local restaurant. No way I was telling them all of that though.

“I died in an unfortunate accident. Excessive lacerations leading to death by blood loss,” I said in monotone delivery like I was a coroner.

“Thank you for sharing, Gregory.” Faucet said, causing a cascade of echoes from the others. At least some of them were corrected into saying my name properly.

“I suppose someone was being a real butterfingers that day?” Faucet added.

Oh no.

“Wouldn’t you say so, Gregory?”

I kept my face blank and did not humor his reply. Hopefully stonewalling him would kill his momentum.

“After all…”

No. No no no no no no.

“...it's not everyday that someone dies by butterknife.”

There it is. My life is over.

Well that was already over, I suppose it’s my afterlife that’s over now.

“I suppose not,” I finally replied, faking a curl that someone might’ve considered a smile. Faucet let it go and moved on, but I could still feel people chuckling to themselves.

It was true, I’d technically been killed by a butterknife. I’d known how that would sound. Maybe I should have just shared the story myself? No, Faucet seemed to enjoy his own joke too much; he would have made it even if I had told more of the story. Still, even that probably would have been less embarrassing.

It had been a normal dinner shift after a day of classes, only one of the other workers had been a bit negligent. He’d started a grease fire. I’d noticed and started grabbing a damp rag to smother it, but I was too late. The idiot had been moving fast in a panic, grabbed an entire bucket of dirty mop-water that was lying around, and dumped the whole bucket into an active grease fire.

The burst of fire that resulted had ignited the fuel within the stove and caused an even greater explosion, sending utensils and kitchenware galore flying outward at devastating speed. One especially viscous butterknife and its little friends had marked me as an easy target, and that was the end for me. My left arm was left hanging onto my shoulder by a thread and bleeding profusely; that’s my final memory before coming here.

Yeah my death sounded a lot better in context. I’ll have to tell the full story myself next time. Oh well, lifelessness and learn, I suppose.

After listening to the mandatory amount of participants remaining, I was free to go, released from the clutches of Afterlife Anonymous. At least, until next week, if I were still here. I’d have to find a way out before then.