So this is what dying feels like, I think.

There’s no fear. No sadness. Just clinical observation as the pain fades from my chest, and the surrounding cubicle walls are consumed by the darkness of my tunneling vision.

Died at my desk, was it? They always said I would. Ah, well. It was a good run. Over fifty years. Not as long as I would have liked, but longer than some. My life doesn’t flash before my eyes as my consciousness fades, but I do think about the big moments. Marriage. Divorce. The nurse placing my daughter in my arms.

It’s only then that sorrow crashes through me. Becoming a father was my greatest joy, and my greatest failure. I would have liked to have seen her one last time.

As sight, sound, and sensation leave me, all I can do is heave a mental sigh of regret. I suppose now comes The Great Mystery. Afterlife or oblivion? Reincarnation, or something inconceivable? It will be interesting to finally know, if nothing else.

Abruptly, malice closes around me. It licks at my essence like acid, faintly eating away at my mind. I try to flinch away from this new, horrific sensation, but it seems to be everywhere, and the more I struggle, the more I can’t make sense of where I am, or what I’m experiencing. I spiral with disorientation, all comprehension of time and space slipping away from me. All I understand is that this is bad—existentially bad—and I need to escape.

As the biting void whirls around me, I encounter a tiny, fragile grain of kindness suspended in the enmity, like the faint glow of a candle in the dark. I try to move toward it, and surprisingly find I’m able to. I huddle close and begin to notice other small flickering lights nearby as well. I can’t see them, exactly, but I can feel them there. Other… presences.

I’m sorry. The words come from the small spark of warmth. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I’m sorry.

Hello? I try to reply. The other lights—people?—are also emitting confusion, fear, curiosity. What’s wrong? I ask. Where are we? What can we do?

If the light hears me, it doesn’t respond. I’m not sure how I can tell, but I can sense it struggling to not go out. Struggling to not be swallowed by the hunger. Its attention is elsewhere—external? I try to cast my mind outward as well and am rewarded with a chaotic tangle of sensations. A blur of colors, the stinging smell of the sea, a distant roar like a waterfall, and feelings of hatred and famine that aren’t mine, pounding at me from every angle. I—my mind—my soul?—begins to ache.

“...hoping you’d forgotten about me…”

With a surge of anger, an impression of movement passes through me. Time and space feel more concrete again. I’m being lurched around even as the darkness continues to eat at me, like I’m slowly being digested in the belly of a giant beast.

Something is happening outside. A struggle. The hungry dark is exuding a sense of triumph—which suddenly shifts to hesitation, then alarm, then everything is illuminated with a burst of light.

The world careens around me once more, and now the maelstrom of emotions are injured, upset, desperate. I can almost feel myself slipping from the grasp of the dark cloud of hunger. I can feel its viscosity thinning. Then—

Pain slams through me. For a moment, the acidic corrosion magnifies a thousand fold, stripping my essence away.

It’s going to eat me, I realize. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

Then, just as abruptly, it evaporates. The other minds are gone. That single spark of warmth has vanished. I’m left alone with the lingering pain of an intangible wound as I fade into the world.

----------------------------------------

I take in a shuddering breath, the cold of my surroundings immediately digging its claws into my skin. I blink my eyes rapidly, but can see nothing. This isn’t the same nothing I’d previously experienced, however—that was a true absence of sight. This is just dark. Pitch black. Like I’m in the bowels of a cave.

What even was that? Was it real? A strange dream? I thought I had died. I touch a hand to my chest, recalling the moment I felt my heart stop. My fingers run over something soft, like a downy blanket, but beneath it I can feel the steady beat of my pulse. Well. I seem to be alive now. But where am I?

I groan, rolling onto my side as the cold, hard ground grinds against my hip bone. Maybe I am in a cave. There’s freezing stone beneath my hands, and I still can’t see anything. My body feels strange and clunky, as if each movement is not exactly what I intend it to be. A shiver runs through me, cold prickling all over my body. Am I going numb? I might be experiencing early stages of hypothermia. If I don’t do something to warm up soon, I’ll be in trouble.

[New user established. Populating stats.]

I tip my head at the feminine voice. Not a human voice, though. Vaguely mechanical, like something out of an arcade.

“Hello?” I call. I clear my throat. My voice doesn’t sound right. “Is someone there?”

Definitely not right. My voice has always been quiet and slightly croaky—like I had a cold I couldn’t quite get rid of. The words coming out of my mouth presently are the same low alto they’ve always been, but now they’re warm and smooth, like all the roughness has been sanded away.

Also, they’re distinctly feminine.

“What…” I trail off, touching my throat. Something soft and skin-tight is covering my neck as well. The covering ruffles as I run my fingers over it, but doesn’t come away. What’s happening? Where am I? There’s too many questions to process at once.

[Compilation complete. Role assigned. Displaying stats.]

[Name: Faber]

[Species: Harpy]

[Subspecies: Phoenix]

[Class: Psion]

[Level: 20]

[HP: 100/100]

[Mana: 200/200]

[Role: The Dark Lord]

My mind spins as words abruptly appear in the dark. I reach a blind hand out, but no light reflects onto my skin. Somehow I instinctively recognize the words, like the voice, are not physical, but inside my own head.

I’d think this were a dream if it didn’t all feel so real. The stone is hard and cold beneath me, and my breathing echoes in the cave around me. I shudder against the freezing air, and I suspect if I could see, my breath would be fogging. Whatever strange thing is happening, whomever this voice is and however I got here, one thing is clear enough: I’m in danger of perishing if I don’t find shelter soon.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

I push myself up onto my hands and knees, the feeling of acute physical strangeness persisting with the motion. It’s not numbness, I can tell that now. Something is different. My limbs keep getting in the way of each other, bending oddly, my feet scraping strangely across the floor. I reach a hand back to try to feel what’s going on, and I bump into my arm. But it’s not my arm. What’s this?

I stretch my limbs out, then flinch, hissing in a startled breath as six limbs respond to the instinct.

“What’s happening?” I wonder in that warm, unfamiliar voice.

Tentatively, I reach back again, touching the extra set of limbs that shouldn’t be there. My fingers encounter soft resistance, skimming across a series of velvety… well, I know what they are just from touch, but it’s difficult to bring myself to believe it.

Feathers?

I trace the wing down to my back, where the limb appears to be fixed along my lower spine, just above the hips.

Harpy. The word comes to me unbidden as my attention flickers back to those strange words fixed in the corner of my vision. Phoenix.

I huff out a disbelieving laugh. This might not be a dream, but it certainly can’t be coherent, sane thought. A hallucination? Drugs, or a concussion, or…

I shiver. Death?

The heart attack was so vivid. I was so sure I had died, and maybe I had.

A faint pressure of anxiety squeezes around my heart. I take in a shuddering breath, and let it out slowly. No, I can’t let myself panic. Fear impedes reason. I have to keep myself together. Think through all this rationally. There’s a logical explanation for everything—even if that explanation is one I won’t like.

Like being dead.

But even if that’s true, it doesn’t make what I’m experiencing any more sensible. “I’m not really a harpy, am I?”

[Affirmative.]

I freeze. Did the voice just respond to me?

[Affirmative.]

In my mind, too! Unless it was only a coincidence. I decide to test that hypothesis. Can you really hear me? I think.

[Affirmative,] the voice repeats.

I shake my head at the absurdity of it all. But at least I have someone to speak to—someone who might be able to give me answers.

What are you? I think, deciding that’s less unsettling than hearing my new voice. Are you a person? A program?

[This unit is a clone of the unit designated Echo,] Echo says. [This audiovisual display acts as the interface between your neuromagical pathways and the extraplanar arcane network which governs select users’ metaphysical evolution within the System.]

That’s a lot of interesting words. There’s other users in this… System?

[Affirmative.]

How many? I ask. Are there any nearby?

[This unit does not have access to that data,] Echo says.

Can you ping anyone? I wonder. Escalate a service request?

[Command not recognized.]

I smile slightly to myself. Well, it was worth a shot.

Alright, then, Echo. How else can you help me? I shift into a more comfortable sitting position, blinking against the black, uncomfortably trying to ignore the existence of my wings. Don’t suppose you can summon a blanket to warm me up?

[Negative,] Echo says, which pulls a small, unsurprised chuckle from me. But then she says something that is surprising. [However, the user may create a source of warmth via spell activation.]

I blink. “Spell?”

[List of user’s known spells,] Echo recites.

[Spark: Summon a small flame maintained above the caster’s hand. Mana cost: 1 per minute. Required affinity: Fire.]

[Blaze: Summon a flame of variable size and shape capable of moving with the caster’s intent. Mana cost: 10 per cubic yard per second. Required affinity: Fire.]

[Psionic Touch: Communicate telepathically with any thinking entity while maintaining physical contact with the target. Required Class: Psion. Mana cost: 1 mana per 5 seconds.]

I reel with this new information. She can’t mean magic? I can’t do magic. I’m an engineer!

Or, was.

I struggle to wrap my mind around what Echo is saying. Magic flies against everything I’ve ever known. Everything I’ve ever studied, and every assumption I’ve ever made in my career.

Then again, magic is just a word. Perhaps there is a rational system here, merely hiding beneath the veneer of mysticism. I suppose whichever way the coin falls, there’s only one way to find out. Even if my well-being didn’t hinge on the immediate need to find a source of warmth, my curiosity wouldn’t allow me to dismiss all this out of hand.

Alright, Echo, I think, trying to suppress my skepticism. How do I go about casting Spark?

[The user may activate the relevant arcanum simply by envisioning the spell, though audio cues typically assist in concentration.]

Sounds a bit wishy-washy to me. But I won’t knock it until I try it. I hold my hand out in front of me, still invisible in the complete darkness. I imagine a fire there, hovering in my palm, warming my shivering body, and I say, “Spark.”

Light flares into existence. I jerk my head away and squeeze my eyes shut as the light stabs into my skull, and a white sphere is burned into my vision. But the warmth that kisses my face, hand, and arms is unmistakable.

Cautiously, I peek an eye back open. There, nestled in the palm of my hand, the size of a peach, is a flickering orange flame. I stare at it in awe. I made this? This came from me?

It’s too close to my hand, I realize. Practically resting on my skin. Yet, it only feels pleasantly warm. A wonderful, soothing warmth that’s already spreading down my arm and driving the fangs of cold away. I bring it closer to my chest to try to warm the rest of my body as well. Why isn’t it burning me? I ask Echo.

[In addition to providing the Fire Affinity, harpies with the subspecies of “phoenix” are allotted Fire Damage and Burn Effect resistance,] Echo says.

I snort at that. Clearly. Of course.

But I’m only fire resistant, I note. Not fireproof. Good to remember as I use this ability to stave off hypothermia.

I gingerly bring my other hand close to warm over the fire, then pause as light spills over my arm. It’s covered in a layer of delicate feathers, and my fingers are sharpened into claws. It’s such a bizarre sight. I can’t really be a harpy now, can I? How does that even happen? What’s caused all this?

Questions neither I nor Echo, it seems, have an answer to. Instead, I move my cupped hand of fire up and down my limbs in fascination, warming myself as I get my first look at this strange new body.

The feathers are all the colors of a sunrise. Purple, red, orange, pink, yellow. A burst of warm colors to rival the flames in my fingers. The feathers are shorter on my arms and longer on my main body. And longest, of course, on my wings. I timidly stretch one out: The tip vanishes into the darkness, but even then I can tell it’s around six feet long. I frown. A wingspan of twelve feet? That shouldn’t be nearly enough to produce sufficient lift for flight. How much do I weigh, at any rate? I don’t feel like I have the hollow bones of a bird.

[Weight: 45 kg,] Echo reports.

Hm. Handy. Are there other numbers you can display?

[Most physical or quantifiable attributes can be displayed.]

Interesting. But there you have it: I might have lost a little weight, but I’m still much too heavy for flight. At least, according to aerodynamics.

Carefully and awkwardly folding the wing back in, I catch a glimpse of my fire reflecting off something near my feet. Upon closer inspection, I find the light is reflecting off my feet themselves. If they can be called feet.

Each of my legs each end in an eagle-like talon—three clawed toes in the front, one thumb-like claw in the rear. I flex the digits, and am rather disturbed by their immediate response, as if I’d somehow been expecting them to be false boots concealing my actual toes. But they’re real. As real as the wings.

I take a steadying breath in, and slowly let it out. A breathing exercise I’d been doing as long as I could remember. This is all very strange, but it’s manageable. I can work with these new… accessories, at least as long as I need to in order to find out what’s going on and how I ended up in this state.

It’s even a bit fitting—or perhaps, ironic is the better term. I spent my whole life obsessed with planes, learning aeronautics, dreaming about flight as birds passed overhead. And now I am one, of a sort.

As I finish examining my feet, the firelight illuminates yet another change in my body parts—or rather, the lack of one.

My eyebrows shoot up as I double check my body. That can’t be right. I run a hand down my chest, which feels rather flat, I think—though I suppose that wouldn’t be surprising for a bird. Coupled with my voice, and a specific lack of equipment…

Echo, I ask. Am I a woman?

[Sex: Female]

[Gender: Undetermined]

I stare at the word Female printed over the top of my vision. Harpies were always women in mythology, weren’t they? It shouldn’t be surprising. It makes sense. I suppose I should have put it all together right away.

I lean back, trying to process this newest bit of information. My mind chews on it, forces it down the gullet, and reluctantly starts to digest.

I died. I was reborn. I’m in the body of a harpy. I can do fire magic.

And I’m a woman.

I try to find the words to sum up my feelings on the subject. “Well this is all just… rather unexpected, isn’t it?”