I awake to an aching neck and contorted back, drool slowly making its way from my mouth most the way down my neck. I instinctually wipe it off with my sleeve, only to then notice that I have nothing of the sort, and that all I’ve achieved is to spread to cover roughly twice the area it did before.

I look at my arm, searching for the sleeve that ought to be there, and discover something slightly more concerning. This isn’t my body.

The world starts spinning around me.

I see an arm moving in front of my face but I know it’s not mine. I control it through a proxy, my real arm surely stuck somewhere in the ether, waiting to take this fakes place. I begin to heat up, and an unpleasantness makes its way up my throat.

I beckon the hands to touch my face, and they faithfully obey. What they touch though, is a face so clearly not my own that I’m hardly even sure how to process the signals coming back. It’s bony; my face was never bony; and the chin feels like a low grit sandpaper.

I hurriedly check the rest of my body.

First with my eyes: I see skin far darker than I’m accustomed to seeing on myself, a body of thin stature, small breasts, and a layer fine hair on my arms and down the middle of the chest. Further down, I see thin legs, a wooden chair, and a silky white skirt blocking my view.

With no regard to my surroundings, I peek under the skirt and give myself mild shock. For the first time in my life, I’ve managed to give myself an unsolicited dick pic.

I close the eyes and my vision goes dark.

This body is many things: it seems fit enough for one, it’s much more supple than my aging body could ever hope to achieve; but it’s not mine.

Is the brain even mine? Is my brain rotting in a field somewhere with the rest of my body? Am I already dead?

I cross the legs, my legs and breathe. MuMu taught me to meditate, and if it’s ever going to come in handy it’s going to be now.

I breathe in and out.

In comes my dissatisfaction, my dysphoria, with this new body of mine.

Out comes acceptance.

In comes confusion, chaos born from signals my brain can’t possibly understand.

Out comes understanding, coherence.

In comes anger.

Out comes peace.

No matter how upsetting this might be, no matter how much my brain wants to reject this full body transplant, it’s better than where I thought I’d be a minute ago.

If I’m alive right now, no matter what else, it’s better than rotting on the ground.

And if these are my dying thoughts, there’s not anything left I can do about it anyway.

I open my eyes, take one more deep breath, and have a look around.

I’m in a large open room. To my front is a large projected number, ticking down every second. It’s currently at 600, so I should have a bit to compose myself for whatever’s coming.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

To my left and right are people of a similar complexion to my new own. Some asleep, some in a state of panic, and a few having a good peek around like myself. One of those last few was the neighbor to my immediate left.

“Any idea what’s going on?” I ask them, my voice noticeably deeper than it should be. I try saying it again with a higher pitch but fail miserably, my voice cracks.

They look at me a bit weird, then seamlessly transition into a flailing reply.

“You tell me! I just turned on my gas stove, and poof, I’m here!”

They pause for a minute, point to their abs, then continue: “Can’t complain though! Whatever happened I’m in the best shape of my life!”

I chuckle for the first time in god knows how long. “I guess that makes both us of then. Dead fit and most probably dead.”

“Dead..” they mumble, thumbing their chin. “I figured I was just hallucinating.”

Their face goes dark for a minute before brightening back up.

“Well whatever we are, we should be grateful that we’re both still alive...ish.”

“And whatever happened to our bodies, at least we’re not like those poor saps.” they say pointing behind themselves. “I reckon we should let ‘em out, ay?”

I turn to follow their finger. Behind us are rows and rows of people, most in various states of shock, some crying, but seemingly in the same situation as us.

But right down the back, in the final row, sit a group of people physically chained to their chairs by their necks. A few were wildly thrashing against their chains, but a few were sitting eerily still; faces disengaged.

We stand up, and wordlessly head towards the back. Just before we can approach the chained people, two men in armour approach us.

They both stand far taller than my acquaintance or I, perhaps even twice our height. Each of them were clad in glistening gold armour and held a pearly white mace. Strangest of all, protruding from their backs were a pair of what appeared to be bright green wings.

“Step back sir, these citizens are none of your business.” The one on the left grunts in what had to be their deepest voice.

“Of course this is my business! Those people,” I yell staring the guard straight in the eyes, “Are being unsafely restrained! I’m a nurse, and you’re going to get these people killed!”

“And I’m a software engineer!” My acquaintance yells, “But those guys are clearly in pain!”

The guards turn to each other and laugh in baritone synchrony.

“How many this week Stephany?” The guard on the right asks.

“Fourth I think, never stops being funny.” The other one chuckles.

They turned back to use, and put on a more serious tone. “They’re like this for a reason. Please take your seat and get ready for the presentation, everything will be explained there.”

They point their maces at my seat, and although I disagree I hardly feel like arguing with two people twice my size at macepoint.

We trek back to our seats, and plant our butts firmly in them. Before long, the countdown hits zero and the room dims.

The display flicks to an amateurish powerpoint slide: “A New You: Life in Atagon” and a large woman in a suit struts into the front of the room. She ruffles through her front coat pocket, finds a remote and clicks; the projection goes blank.

“You’re not missing anything, trust me” she promises the crowd.

“Anyway, let’s talk about why you’re here.” she starts, gesturing wildly.

“It’s because you’re dead. Ka-blamo. Real done fucked up.

That could be for any reason: Some of you died bravely rescuing children from burning kindergartens, some of you died strapping AR-15’s to your dogs for a selfie, and one poor bloke died in a surprise gender reveal bush fire; but however you died, rest assured that your precious gym gains are out there rotting somewhere on gods green earth.”

She waits a minute as if expecting some type of response, but the crowd mostly seems deep in thought and/or shock.

“Bloody secularization, that one used to get way more of a reaction. Call me when there’s another caliphate, that’ll be good for some laughs!”

The room stays silent, she moves on awkwardly.

“Ok, look. You’re dead but alive, wonderful, real thought provoking stuff. But we’ve got brass tacks to get to, yeah?

One: We live in a society. Turns out you pay taxes in heaven too, who’da thunk it. Please don’t go shoving your holy books in the council workers face, they get enough shit from central already. Take it up with their manager if you think you’re a corporation or whatever the craze is nowadays.

Two: These things-” she says, pointing at the bright blue wings on her back.

“-Are purely decorative. Don’t jump out a building unless you’re going for a hat-trick.

Three: You’re gonna die again. We’re a bit smarter than those dumb apes down on planet earth, so you get an extra few decades this time around; but don’t get me wrong, you’re still slow release worm food.

I’d tell you more, but I find you people just forget it all anyway. Call it shock or the reverse Flynn Effect, I dunno, but you people are dunces.

Any questions? Hint, I’m a busy woman and won’t be answering any of them.”