Abo floated in darkness. Not the comforting void of blindness—this was true nothingness. No scent of swamp rot, no distant cries of gulls, not even the phantom pain from his scarred eyes. Just... silence.
Huh, he thought. Turns out death's just like being stuck in Katio's cellar. Dark. Quiet. Boring as hell.
A flicker.
Then—
Memory Fragment: The Book of Threads
He saw it all again: Init's trembling hands, Kalayo's rage, the way the bolo slid between his ribs like it was coming home. But this time, the scenes played out like one of those tacky morality tales village elders told children. Complete with dramatic lighting and a narrator who sounded like he'd swallowed a bag of gravel.
"Hello," said a voice that wasn't a voice. It vibrated in his skull like a gong struck by a particularly passive-aggressive spirit.
Abo recoiled—or tried to. Turns out being dead(ish) meant having all the mobility of a soggy coconut.
"Holy fuck. Am I hallucinating? Did Kalayo's blade give me brain rot?"
System: Greetings, Subject 'Grey.' You are now linked to the System—function classified, parameters undefined.
Abo: "…The what now? And who the fuck is Grey?"
System: 'Grey' is the name assigned to this corpse. For now, I am sustaining and monitoring post-mortem activity. Full operational purpose pending higher review.
Abo's eyebrows shot up—half the words lost on him.
"So... you're like a very chatty ancestor spirit? Did I forget to leave an offering at the shrine again?"
System (ignoring him): Status: Deceased. Cause of Death: Impalement via sibling rivalry. Current Location: Buried six feet under. Odor: 'Regrettable.'
"Wait, buried? Am I alive or not? Pretty sure the dead don't get existential crises."
System: Correction: Your biological functions have ceased. By all physical definitions, you are a corpse. However, a god has taken interest in your… colorful life story. As a result, your existence now warrants a second run.
"A god, huh? So he took one look at the mess that was my life—all the trauma, the fraternal murder—and thought, 'Damn, this needs a sequel'? Great taste."
System: Reviewing your records in the Book of Threads... Subject 'Grey' was classified as sarcastic, yes, but far less... goofy than you are now. The tone was more somber, reflective. This discrepancy is... unexpected.
Abo's incorporeal smirk tugged at nothing.
"Yeah? Those records are a load of bull. They don't show half the story—definitely not what was really going through my head."
He glanced around the empty void like it might answer.
"Honestly, the System should be thanking me—the only reason you get to hear the real deal is because I'm still talking. Imagine how boring it'd be if I was all pious and tragic. Yawn."
System: Duly noted. Logging update: Subject displays elevated sarcasm, unfiltered cognition, and... inflated sense of self-worth.
"Wait, hold up," Abo interrupted. "Why are you taking notes on my personality like I'm some kind of exotic beetle?"
The System's response dissolved into muffled static as something new hit him—
Not a sound.
Not a thought.
Not even pain.
Light.
Not warmth, not the feel of it—actual light. He couldn't process it at first. It was like someone had flung open a window in a cave he'd been born inside of. Colors burned across his mind like fire.
Motion jittered in wild, terrifying contrast.
Shapes.
Faces.
Eyes.
"Oh you've got to be kidding me," he thought, dazed.
"This is what sight feels like? What the fuck—this is horrible. How do you people not go insane?"
His new eyes—a foreign set of organs he had no control over—jerked and rolled on their own, taking in a moonlit sky, the silhouette of gnarled trees, and—
A woman's face —too large, too close. Brown-skinned, framed by tangled dark hair. Her eyes were wild, sunken from sleeplessness. Grave dirt clung to her cheeks, lashes, and the shaking hands that reached in—
And lifted a tiny, lifeless body.
Him.
Abo's stolen senses overloaded. Moonlight seared like acid. The woman's face loomed—huge, trembling, her pores cratered, lashes twitching like spider legs, breath thundering like a forge bellows.
[SYSTEM NOTICE]
"Sensory overload expected. You're piloting a decaying nervous system. Try not to vomit—infant stomachs rupture easily."
Abo groaned mentally.
"Fuck's sake! My my head feels like a clay pot smashed and glued back together by a blind potter."
"This some kind of sick joke? You couldn't just shove my soul in the baby and call it done?"
Then he felt it.
A change in the air—subtle, but enough to cut through the noise in his head.
Her hands moved to the infant's neck.
Not cradling, not soothing—just hovering, stiff, fingers twitching like they might close around it.
For a second, Abo tensed.
Was she about to—
Two fingers pressed gently to the side of the throat.
A pause. A breathless moment suspended in frostbitten air.
Her eyes widened.
"A... pulse?" she whispered, voice cracking like glass. "How can you still be alive?"
"Funny," Abo thought dryly.
"I don't know, giant lady—you tell me. Although, uh. Pretty sure this is a one-sided conversation."
Abo felt her cradle the body—careful, reverent. His lungs drew in air they didn't need. The chest rose, fell. A heartbeat echoed faintly in the ribs, hollow and mechanical.
This isn't living, he thought. This is puppetry.
System (clinical): Correction: Posthumous habitation. The original soul has vacated. You are merely… borrowing the hardware.
He focused on her face—or tried. The eyes were too sharp. The contrast too violent. But there was desperation in the lines, in the way her mouth moved around a prayer or maybe a name.
"You sure do answer everything I say—even in my head," Abo muttered internally.
Then, warier: "So… that her? My mother?"
System (flat, immediate): Analyzing... Matching subject's skeletal and facial structure against adult female specimen... Match confirmed. 100% probability: Biological mother. No prior recorded interactions. Updating logs: First maternal contact initiated.
Huh, Abo thought. The word came slow. Heavy.
He'd never known a mother's touch. Never felt warmth that wasn't laced with pity or obligation. He and Baga had raised themselves, clawing through childhood like feral dogs in the dirt.
And now this stranger held him like he mattered.
System: A reminder: This body is a facsimile of life. Pupils will not dilate. Skin will not warm. Should you choose to traumatize the woman by, say, staring unnaturally or ceasing to mimic breath, that is your prerogative. But I advise against it.
Abo blinked—figuratively—then settled into the body's rhythm. Let the tiny chest rise and fall with deliberate, careful breath. Let the limbs go slack. If it brought her peace, why not play along?
She wrapped him in a threadbare shawl. Whispered something. Touched her forehead to his.
And for the first time since dying, Abo felt something like warmth. Not from her skin, but from her need. Her fragile, overwhelming hope that maybe—just maybe—this wasn't a trick.
Maybe this isn't such a bad deal, he thought. If this is what the second run looks like... I'll take it.
Then—something shifted.
The hands that had cradled him so gently began to tighten. Almost imperceptibly. A bit too much pressure beneath the chin. Fingers tensing against his throat.
Abo blinked.
Uh… System?
Silence.
The pressure increased.
The woman's face twisted—not into horror. Not grief. Something worse.
Blank. Empty.
Her hands clamped around the infant's neck.
System (glitching, delayed): ...Error. Unexpected aggression detected. Analyzing...
Abo couldn't move. Couldn't scream. He was just along for the ride—trapped in a body too weak to fight, too small to resist.
Okay—what the fuck?!