“That’s it for today. This is the last one. We process her, and then we’re out of here—I’m beat.”
“Write this down: ‘Protocol fifteen, subsection six ‘A’, thirty-four, eighteen. Human, female, age—twenty-two. Hair—blonde, short; eyes—blue with a hint of green; height—five foot nine; shoe size—eight. Diet—mixed, but kind of all over the place. Magical abilities—none detected; dangerous diseases—none detected; critical injuries—none detected. Damage—minor bruising, two days on regenerative support, and she’ll be good as new. Next: death in her original world—accidental. Add in parentheses that the heel broke.’”
A pause, followed by someone’s muffled chuckle.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah,” the voice replied with a hint of irritation. “Sudden fall, traumatic brain injury, incompatible with life. Don’t get distracted, or we’ll be stuck here till midnight. Profession—more useless nonsense. What do they even do for a living over there? No painters, no seamstresses, no washerwomen—just bloggers, managers, and programmers. Could’ve at least been a doctor or a teacher. So, where do we send her now? Another round of social adaptation, culture and tradition courses, job placement. I’m sick of this.”
“What’s it to us? We inventory, and then we go home.”
Consciousness came back to me all at once. I was alive, no doubt about it—dead people don’t feel this kind of pain in their... well, bruised backside. And dead people probably don’t feel cold, right? They’re corpses, cold, stiff, feeling nothing, and all that. But I was miserably uncomfortable, lying on something hard and incredibly awkward. And, apparently, naked. God, how embarrassing!
“Write down the name: Olena, daughter of Vladimir. Intelligence—average; marital status—single; no children, no husband, no pets, not even a lover, hold on...” Even with my eyes closed and no mirror in sight, I knew I was blushing uncontrollably. “Never had one, either. What a boring life. And the death? Utterly pointless.”
Okay, that’s just rude! Who’s got the nerve to air out all my personal business for public judgment, and with such cynicism? A lover, really? I was busy with school, at a decent university, even if it was just a small-town branch. I barely lifted my head from extra courses: English, German, basics of entrepreneurship. I did everything I could to break out of my dreary routine and find my place in the world! And for what? So someone could drag my name through the mud now?
Wait a second, who even is this?
I tried to pry my eyes open and sit up, but immediately felt a hot palm press firmly against my bare stomach, pinning me back down to the strange surface.
“Stop squirming,” a deep, gruff voice barked. “The transition just finished; the fields haven’t stabilized yet! Get off the altar now, and you’ll get stuck between your old life and the new one. You want that?”
Great! Just fantastic. I’m on an altar. This has to be a dream, right? Or did I really hit my head that hard and now I’m in a coma? Why is it so freaking cold?
My eyes finally opened, but the grand interior with columns and a vaulted ceiling looming above me didn’t clarify a single thing.
“Lie still, I said,” the voice ordered curtly. “At least another hour. We’ll examine you, document everything, map out your past and innate abilities, then decide where to send you. You’ll get a supervisor assigned eventually. Everything will be fine, don’t worry.”
Supervisors, even here, ugh!
I didn’t have the strength to move, but I shifted my gaze to the side to see who I was dealing with. Honestly, I wish I hadn’t looked. Standing beside me was a massive, coal-black, horned figure with glowing red eyes, a gray goatee, and pince-nez glasses perched on his nose. Guess perfect vision isn’t a thing in the local hell. A nervous giggle escaped my chest but died just as quickly—definitely not the time for laughs.