That guy didn't even give him a countdown. No "3, 2, 1, blast off." Just a snap of those fingers and a shit-eating grin.
One second, Adrian was floating in a psychedelic void arguing with a glowing hobo; the next, he was being crushed.
And not "crowded elevator" crushed. This was "hydraulic press" crushed.
The world was suddenly tight, wet, and rhythmic. His entire existence was being squeezed through a tube like the last bit of toothpaste in the roll. Panic, raw, primal panic flooded his brain. He tried to thrash, to kick, to tell whoever was squeezing him to knock it off, but his limbs felt like jelly.
'Oh, you have got to be kidding me,' Adrian thought, the realization hitting him harder than the red car did back on Earth. 'Reincarnation? Seriously? We're doing the whole birth thing? Skip the cutscene, dammit!'
But there was no skip button.
Suddenly, the pressure gave way. Cold air hit his wet skin like a slap in the face. And then came the light. It wasn't the divine light of heaven; it was the harsh, blinding glare of a surgical lamp that burned his retinas.
He tried to gasp, to say something cool like, "I'm back, bitches," but his lungs felt like they were glued shut.
Then, a giant hand grabbed him by the ankles and hoisted him upside down.
'Hey! Put me down, you giant maniac!'
A massive, gloved hand came down on his ass.
Smack.
The shock of it forced his lungs open. He didn't want to cry—he was a thirty-two-year-old man, for Christ's sake, he had dignity—but his body betrayed him. A shrill, piercing wail erupted from his throat. It was the most embarrassing sound he had ever made, and he had once squealed during a scary movie on a first date.
"It's a boy!" a booming voice announced.
'No shit, Sherlock,' Adrian mentally screamed, flailing his useless, tiny arms.
Everything was blurry, loud, and smelled like antiseptic and iron. He was covered in slime. He was naked in a room full of strangers. This was, objectively, the worst day of his life. Even worse than the day he died.
They wrapped him in something scratchy hospital blankets, the universal fabric of misery and the sensation of being swaddled was surprisingly... okay. Like a straightjacket, but warm.
"He's got a set of lungs on him," the doctor chuckled, passing him off like a football.
Adrian was lowered into a pair of arms that felt different. Softer. Warmer. The shaking stopped. The smell of antiseptic faded, replaced by the scent of sweat and something flowery.
He blinked, trying to focus his useless newborn eyes. The blurry shape above him coalesced into a face. She looked exhausted hair plastered to her forehead, face flushed, eyes heavy but she was looking at him like he was the only thing that mattered in the universe.
It was disarming. One minute he was ready to curse out the universe, and the next, he felt this weird, instinctive calm wash over him.
"Hi there," she whispered. Her voice was raspy, tired, but sweet.
'Hi,' he tried to think, but all that came out was a wet gurgle. 'Great. Eloquent. Real smooth, Adrian.'
"You did good, Elena," the doctor said from somewhere in the background. "He's healthy."
Elena. Okay. That was her name. His mom. That was going to take some getting used to. He looked up at her again. She was young, maybe late twenties? She had kind eyes.
Then, the door creaked open. Heavier footsteps.
"Is he... is everything okay?" a male voice asked. Nervous. Tight.
Elena shifted Adrian in her arms, turning slightly. "Come see him, Thomas. He's perfect."
A face loomed over him. This guy, Thomas the Dad, looked like he'd just run a marathon. He had that classic "new dad panic" written all over his features. He reached out a finger, hesitating, before gently touching Adrian's cheek. His hand was rough, calloused. A working man's hand.
Adrian stared up at him, trying to convey a look of intellectual superiority, but he probably just looked like a potato with eyes.
"He's so small," Thomas whispered, sounding terrified. "Did we... do we have a name?"
Elena looked down at him again. She smiled, and for a second, the exhaustion left her face.
"I was thinking... Adrian," she said softly.
Adrian's mental ears perked up. 'Wait. Seriously? I get to keep the name? Okay, maybe that guy isn't a total dick after all. That saves me so much identity crisis trouble.'
Thomas tested the name on his tongue. "Adrian. Adrian Marsh. Yeah. It sounds strong."
'Adrian Marsh,' he thought. 'I guess it could've been worse. I can live with that.'
Thomas leaned down and kissed Elena's forehead, then looked back at the bundle in her arms with a grin that was equal parts pride and terror. "Welcome to the world, Adrian."
Adrian let out a small sigh, nestling into the crook of Elena's arm. The adrenaline of being squeezed through a biological juicer was fading, replaced by an overwhelming urge to sleep for a week.
He was in Derry. He was a baby. He had to relearn how to walk, talk, and not crap himself.
'Alright,' Adrian thought, closing his heavy eyes as the darkness took over again. 'Let's see what this hellhole has to offer. But if anyone tries to play peek-a-boo with me, I'm biting their finger.'