Once alone, I got an inexplicable urge to jerk off, but I soon dampened the thought. I didn’t like the idea of some hidden camera somewhere watching me do it. Maybe down the line, if I made it into the next Circle, I’d give old Johnny boy a good tug just to piss off the producers of this shitshow. I’d stand there and spurt my load, shouting, “Stick that in your highlights!” I wasn’t sure how that would go down. Probably not well. Though knowing this place, an act like that would probably earn me a sponsorship from some pervy alien. I could just picture some green-skinned monstrosity steepling their twenty fingers as they stared at me on the screen, going, “Hmm, I like the cut of this one’s jib.” Jesus, this was starting to sound like some twisted fantasy of mine now. What the hell is this place doing to me?
Annalise hadn’t been gone long, but I missed her already. I liked the cut of her jib very much. She was sassy and didn’t take any shit. Though she clearly had her issues as well. I guess we all did—we were human after all. It made me wonder if the organizers of this “show” had access to every player’s psych profile, and if they did, would the viewers be privy to them? Would the gory details of my messed up mind be on display for all the galaxy to see?
Jesus, I knew the world was fucked up before, but I clearly had no fucking idea, did I? This was cosmic horror at its finest. Not so much Lovecraft, but Lovecraft meets The Price is Right on acid. I could almost hear the announcer’s voice: “Come on down! You’re the next contestant on Existential Dread and Despair! Spin the Wheel of Torment and win fabulous prizes like Eternal Suffering, Psychological Trauma, or our grand prize—a slightly less painful death!”
The more I thought about it, the more I realized that if H.P. Lovecraft and Bob Barker had a love child, and that child was raised by a committee of sadistic game show producers and eldritch horrors, you’d end up with something like the Trials of the Damned. It was a terrifying thought, but also strangely hilarious in its absurdity.
I shook my head, trying to clear these bizarre thoughts. This place was definitely doing a number on my sanity, turning my brain into a jumbled mess of pop culture references and cosmic dread.
And the worst thing? As I sat here stewing in my own misery, those bastard Overseers were sipping from my suffering like it was overpriced champagne (or bottom shelf in my case). Those fuckers were growing fat on our pain, like cosmic ticks gorging themselves on the blood of the damned. They were bloated parasites, latched onto the collective anguish of countless souls, draining us dry for their own sick pleasure or sustenance or whatever the hell they got out of this circus of cruelty.
The more I thought about it, the more I felt a spark of something ignite in my chest. It wasn’t quite anger—that seemed too simple for the cocktail of emotions swirling inside me. No, this was indignation, a burning sense of injustice that made me want to tear this whole goddamn shitshow down brick by brick, or whatever the equivalent was in this hellish dimension.
For a moment, I let myself indulge in the fantasy. I imagined storming the Overseers’ control room (because in my mind, there had to be a control room, probably with lots of blinking lights and unnecessarily complex levers), smashing their precious energy-siphoning machines, and freeing all the souls trapped in this cosmic game of survival. I’d be like the John Connor of the afterlife, leading a rebellion against our alien overlords.
But as quickly as the thought came, I dismissed it with a snort. Yeah, right. Me, the washed-up fighter with a penchant for bad decisions and worse hangovers, leading a revolution against beings so powerful they could reshape reality on a whim. That’d go about as well as trying to fight a forest fire with a water pistol.
Besides, I had more pressing concerns right now. Like not dying in this Tutorial Circle. Or figuring out how to peel this layer of bug-encrusted glue off my arm without taking half my skin with it. Or wondering if Annalise was okay out there on her own.
Still, that little spark of rebellion didn’t quite go out. It just sort of... simmered, tucked away in some corner of my mind. Who knows? Maybe if I survived long enough, if I got strong enough, if I found others who felt the same way...
But that was a big ‘if.’ For now, I had to focus on the here and now. On surviving. On playing their game, even as I secretly hoped to one day flip the board and scatter all the pieces.
I sighed. One problem at a time, Kade. One hellish, cosmic-horror-inducing problem at a time.
Like figuring out what I was going to eat. As my stomach growled like a famished beast, it occurred to me that I hadn’t eaten a thing since being brought here. In fact, I apparently hadn’t eaten a single morsel in over a century if Grik was to be believed, as on ice as I was. Going through my inventory, I wondered what I should eat from it. Gluepanzee steaks, perhaps? How about Gopher steaks? Or one of a hundred ‘Nibbles,’ whatever the hell they were? I didn’t fancy of that stuff.
Sighing, my gaze drifted to the brown box TV sitting on a stand across the room. I was about to go turn it on, just to see what channels were on it, when I noticed a small hatch in the metal wall of the circular room. Getting up, I walked over to it, and as I stood in front of it, an info box appeared in my vision.
Food Hatch.
Please state your order.
My order? What the hell?
Shrugging, I said, “Burger and fries. And a coke.”
Order processing…
Jesus. Are they actually doing it? Am I going to get—
Order complete!
Please open the food hatch to retrieve your order. Thank you and have a pleasant day.
Well, shit. Let’s see what we got here…
More curious than anything at this stage, I opened the hatch by grabbing the slightly rusted handle and pulling upward. The hatch slid open with a screeching, grinding noise, as if it hadn’t been oiled in years. And there, unbelievably, was my food.
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As I pulled open the hatch, the most heavenly aroma hit me like a freight train of flavor. There, nestled in a red plastic basket lined with checkered paper, was a burger that looked like it had been crafted by the gods themselves.
The bun was a perfect golden brown, lightly toasted and glistening with a hint of butter. It cradled a thick, juicy patty that was still sizzling, wisps of steam carrying the intoxicating scent of perfectly seasoned beef. Melted cheese cascaded over the sides, a vibrant yellow waterfall of dairy deliciousness. Fresh lettuce, tomato, and onion peeked out from beneath the top bun, promising a satisfying crunch to complement the tender meat.
Beside this masterpiece sat a mound of fries that looked crispy enough to snap at a touch, yet promised a fluffy interior. They were dusted with some kind of seasoning that sparkled in the dim light, hinting at flavors beyond mere salt.
And there, condensation beading on its surface, stood a tall glass of cola, ice cubes clinking invitingly against each other.
My stomach let out a growl so loud it could have scared off a Skull Pecker. I snatched up the burger, not caring that it was almost too hot to hold. The first bite was... transcendent. The flavors exploded across my tongue—the savory beef, the sharp cheese, the fresh vegetables, all in perfect harmony. It was like every great burger I’d ever had rolled into one, amped up to eleven.
I barely paused to breathe as I devoured it, alternating between bites of the burger and handfuls of those crispy, seasoned fries. Each fry was a tiny flavor bomb, salty and spicy and utterly addictive.
When I finally came up for air, half the burger gone and a significant dent made in the fries, I realized I was making noises that in any other context would have been deeply embarrassing. But I couldn’t bring myself to care. This wasn’t just food—it was salvation on a plate, a reminder of everything good and pure in a universe gone mad.
I washed it down with a long pull from the cola, the icy sweetness the perfect counterpoint to the rich, savory meal. For a moment, just a moment, I forgot I was in Hell… or Infernum, or whatever people liked to call this shithole. I forgot about the Trials, the Overseers, all of it. There was just me, this incredible food, and a fleeting moment of pure, unadulterated bliss.
As I polished off the last of the fries, licking the seasoning from my fingers, a thought occurred to me: If this was what passed for food in Infernum, maybe eternal damnation wouldn’t be so bad after all. Then I remembered the Gluepanzees and Skull Peckers, and reality came crashing back. But hey, at least I’d face the horrors on a full stomach.
Satisfied by my delicious meal, I went and turned on the old TV. The ancient box crackled to life, its screen flickering through a dizzying array of channels from across the galaxy. I settled in, ready for some truly alien entertainment.
The first channel that caught my eye seemed to be some sort of cooking show. A gelatinous blob with multiple eyestalks was enthusiastically demonstrating how to prepare what looked like still-living creatures. Its appendages moved with surprising dexterity as it chopped, diced, and occasionally stunned its ingredients. The host’s excitement was palpable, even if I couldn’t understand a word of its burbling language.
Flipping on, I stumbled upon what could only be described as an intergalactic shopping network. A holographic presenter with four arms was eagerly showcasing a device that looked like a cross between a blender and a small particle accelerator. Whatever it did, the scrolling testimonials at the bottom of the screen (helpfully translated into English by the System AI) suggested it was a must-have for any modern household.
The next channel featured some kind of high-octane sport. At first glance, it looked like a mix of rugby, zero-gravity acrobatics, and nuclear fission. The players, each a different species, careened around a spherical arena, chasing what appeared to be a miniature sun. The commentators, a duo of insectoid beings, chittered excitedly as one team scored by somehow compressing the sun-ball into a black hole.
But it was the fourth channel that really caught my attention. It was a soap opera, and to my surprise, it starred what looked like humans. Well, almost humans. These actors had all the right parts in all the right places, but something was... off. Their eyes were just a touch too large, their skin had a faint iridescent sheen, and their movements were almost too fluid to be natural.
Some other human breed engineered by the Overseers? How many sub classes of human are there out there?
The melodrama unfolding on screen was familiar enough—love triangles, betrayals, and over-the-top emotional confrontations. But the setting was pure sci-fi, with sleek, impossible architecture and casual use of technology that would make Earth’s brightest minds weep with envy.
As I watched, fascinated, I realized this must be how aliens viewed us. Close enough to be relatable, but with just enough differences to be exotic. It was like looking at humanity through a funhouse mirror—recognizable, but distorted.
Strangely, there was no sign of any shows about the Trials. No highlights, no commentary, nothing. Either the Trials weren’t being broadcast yet, or this TV was purposely not showing them. Either way, it was a bizarre slice of normality in this absolutely abnormal situation.
I leaned back, munching on the last of my fries, and settled in to watch these not-quite-humans navigate their fictional drama. After all, their problems seemed a hell of a lot more manageable than mine right now.
This lasted until I finished the fries and drained the last of the coke. After that, with only the alien culture to focus on, my mind started having funny turns. The sheer vastness of it all began to sink in—an entire galaxy teeming with life, countless civilizations, each with their own histories, cultures, and dramas playing out across the cosmic stage.
My brain felt like it was trying to stuff an ocean into a shot glass. Every new alien face, every glimpse of incomprehensible technology or bizarre cultural norm, was another drop threatening to overflow my mental capacity. The concept of humanity as just one small player in this grand, intergalactic theatre was simultaneously awe-inspiring and terrifying.
I tried to wrap my head around it all—the countless languages, the unimaginable variety of life forms, the sheer scale of time and space involved. But it was like trying to count grains of sand on a beach while the tide was coming in. Every time I thought I was getting a handle on it, some new tidbit of information would wash away my fragile understanding.
Overwhelmed, I clicked off the TV, plunging the room into silence. The sudden absence of alien chatter felt like a relief, but it also left me alone with my thoughts—not always the best company.
I lay back on the bed, which felt about as comfortable as a slab of concrete wrapped in sandpaper. Sleep, I thought. Sleep will help. I closed my eyes, willing my mind to shut down, to give me a few hours of blissful oblivion.
But my brain had other ideas. It raced like a hamster on a wheel, spinning through everything I’d seen and experienced since arriving in this twisted afterlife. Gluepanzees, Skull Peckers, Grabby Gophers, dead grannies, alien soap operas, cosmic game shows and infomercials—it all swirled together in a dizzying kaleidoscope of weirdness.
I tossed and turned, trying to find a comfortable position on the unyielding mattress. The silence of the room felt oppressive now, broken only by my restless movements and occasional frustrated sighs.
As I stared at the ceiling, my thoughts drifted to Amelia, my sister. I wondered where she was now. Either on ice like I was, or relocated to some other place in the galaxy. I wondered how she died, how long she had lived. Did she end up getting married or having kids? Did she miss me when I died?
I remembered the last time I spoke with her, our stupid argument. God, what I wouldn’t give to see her again, to apologize, to tell her I loved her. A lump formed in my throat, and I swallowed hard against the sudden surge of emotion.
Focusing on Amelia, on memories of home, seemed to calm the chaotic swirl of my thoughts. The alien universe receded, replaced by familiar faces and places. As I clung to these comforting images, I felt my eyelids growing heavy at last.
Finally, mercifully, sleep began to creep in around the edges of my consciousness. The last thing I remember thinking before drifting off was a silent promise to Amelia: Somehow, someway, I’d find a way back to her. Even if I had to punch my way through every circle of this twisted afterlife to do it.
And with that thought, I slipped into a fitful sleep.