I had always suspected, as the atheists among us are want to do, that with death comes the cessation of thought.
This suspicion wasn't unfounded, nor was it purely theoretical. When a young man is wheeled into your ER after a horse kick to the head, able only to speak in haiku, you tend to abandon primitive notions of a thinking soul.
That's precisely why I have no clue how I'm *seeing* transparent yellow, how I'm *smelling* ammonia, and why from head to toe I'm feeling the subtle movement of what I can only assume is a sous vide machine filled entirely with piss.
To my immense pleasure, soon enough the yellow ichor begins to recede, my exposed skin stinging as it meets air. As the liquid meets my mouth I slowly begin the black out.
Death sure feels different than what I was lead to expect. Funny what scenarios a low oxygen brain can conjure up to explain its own demise.
Just before the inevitable, I receive a dull hit in the chest. That disgusting liquid comes splashing out of my mouth and it audibly splatters on something I can’t turn my head to see.
Why can’t I turn my head?!?
I flail desperately, but not a single part of my body can move more than a centimetre. Cold steel meets my neck as I search for my bindings.
I push harder and meet more resistance, strangely every edge I meet is rounded.
Do they think I’m going to kill myself?!?
I hear a loud hiss and the space around me becomes a tad bit brighter. My restraints release, but before I’m able to even so much as stretch I’m grasped by tentacles far larger and stronger than me. They lift me into a field of fuzzy white, punctuated by equally fuzzy grey.
A sharp pain stabs my arm, and nearly as soon as it leaves I’m overwhelmed by bliss.
I barely notice as the tentacles lay me on a cold slab and affix a new harness.
My head is locked back in place, but I could hardly care less.
A brown blob enters the room and chats to another blob of slightly darker complexion. I don’t make out anything they say. I don’t care.
The blobs approach closer, and their chat changes tone. One draws a large circle on my upper skull in what I assume is Crayon, at least until the colour red makes its way to my eye.
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Huh, colour. It’s been a while.
The first blob fiddles around in my head for a bit, until I feel a sudden compulsion to speak. I feel like I’m speaking, but nothing at all comes out.
A third blob enters the room, chats with the first two and walks off to the side.
I feel compelled to speak again, and this time something comes out. Only it’s not coming from my mouth, it’s coming from somewhere else.
I chuckle, giddy.
My response seems weird to me. Out of character. That’s funny.
I giggle again.
The blobs continue speaking, their words slowly start coming into tune.
“Looks like it’s working. Yet another successful surgery!”
“Get over yourself Bob, your robot does half the work anyway. It’s like flying on autopilot. Autophone tuning though? That’s an art.”
“Modern art, maybe. Anyways, the subject’s looking at us funny, look’s like we’ve got another English speaker.”
“Saves us some configuration at least. What are the odds huh?”
“Bout 4%”
“Alright smartass, let’s just set them up ok?”
I hear a robotic voice coming at me from every direction at once. “What is your name, new one?” The wall of voice demands.
I feel compelled to speak the first thing that comes to my mind.
“What’s your name?”
The robot pauses for a minute and continues. “For diagnostic purposes we require your full name.”
I once again feel compelled to speak the first thing that comes to mind.
“Alex White”
“Thank you”, the robot replies. “Is this Alex White, medicare number 7328 92873 3, retired ER Nurse?”
“Yes”, I reply under duress.
Not feeling any particular need to acknowledge my response, the robot moves on.
“Thank you for your cooperation. Commencing work on vision.”
My vision cuts to black, and soon a rotating Phillips Circle takes its place. I try blinking, but the image won’t budge. I have no choice but to consume a test image for my own brain.
“Brain activation normal. Please confirm qualitative vision experience. Are you having any vision difficulties?”
“Well for one” I say, “I can’t turn the damn thing off!”.
My vision goes black.
“Thank you for the feedback! We care deeply about your subjective implant experience! Your concerns are valid, and your experience will be reviewed in five to eight business days!” The robot in my head joyfully cheers.
Its tone instantly flips back to normal.
“Please confirm age”
“73”, I’m compelled to reply.
“Thank you!
Please confirm year of death.”
“2027” I reply, immediately questioning what I had just heard; what I had just said.
How could I possibly be so confident about my own year of death?
The robot ignores my concern, and goes about its own business. After several minutes of agonising silence it returns.
“Thank you for your continued cooperation. Your Visa application has been successfully lodged. If successful, you will be woken up in 84 days.”
“Your consciousness is no longer required. See you later!”