Soul Chambers

You ask if this place is connected to the Plane of Shadows, and I shrug. “How the fuck should I know.” I use Klava’s glove to open a door. We’re in a meat locker, by the way—or what you take to be something like one? Never mind how we got there. Just go with it, babe.

The door opens at my touch, and we are through to the other side.

Where are we? you wonder aloud or just in your mind.

“It’s a soul chamber,” I say.

Like a tomb? you ask.

“No, it’s before and after that part,” I say, then move deeper into the room, which looks a bit like how you might imagine the inside of a pyramid would look—unless, of course, you actually know.

“Souls are here and then they’re not,” I elaborate, looking at the dials on the glove and trying to find a particular one. “They, you know, leave. And are reincarnated or reborn or whatever.”

If you’re familiar with Judaism, you might ask if this is the Otzar.

“I have no idea,” I say, “which of these knobs is the one I need. I may just have to try a few.” I look at you and ask, “You cool with that?”

You say if you are or you’re not. But either way, I turn a random knob.

An image of a person flickers into view.

“Aw, shit,” I mumble.

What? you go.

“It’s Bill. Let me change the channel.”

I adjust the same knob again until his image has faded.

Who’s Bill? you might ask.

“Bill the King, he’s this pain in my ass. But don’t worry about him, babe. He’s not a real threat, just a nuisance.”

If you know who Bill is already—and more specifically his connection to Klava—you might wonder if he could help us.

“Bill’s a prick,” I say. “He isn’t gonna help us do shit. If he does, it’s only so he can get something from us.”

If you’re concerned for Klava’s safety, you could say something like, Wouldn’t that be okay if we got her back?

I sigh. “Look, bae, Klava can take care of herself. She’s my bodyguard, not the other way around, and there’s a reason for that. She’s, like, a brutal killing machine. She’s fine. I don’t know why she left her shit behind, but if weren’t not finding her, it’s because she doesn’t want to be found. So just chill.”

I exhale once more, then say, “All right, imma try a different one.”

As soon as I do, your chest is filled with a searing pain. If you don’t have the pain discipline secret or something similar, you scream immediately. It feels like how you would imagine it might feel if you were having your ribs separated without anesthesia.

“Shit shit shit! I’m sorry, babe!” I say and turn the dial back to where it was.

The pain subsides, and you find your breathing is completely automatic, the huge gulps and the accompanying head sensations and burning tract and nostrils.

I put my hand out like I’m going to rub your back, but I only touch you if you want me to.

“I’m so fucking sorry. That hurts so bad. She’s done that one to me before. Lemme mark that one.” I pull out some nail polish from my bag and put a dab on that one.

I wait for you to recover some, and do whatever you want me to do to help—including administering pain blockers, which I have in a microharness in my bracelet.

Once you feel able to continue, I say, “Okay. Rule of three, right? This is a piece of fiction, so this one has to be the correct one cos it’s the third one.”

I giggle, and you can, too, if you want to.

With a bit of hesitation at first, followed swiftly by a rip-the-bandage-off-like turn, the last knob does what I wanted.

The room changes colors, and the geography of it becomes looser, less organized.

“Okay,” I say. “I think we can go now.”

Where to? you might ask. Into the light?

“Not unless you want to come back as someone else,” I say.

So if that’s something you want to do, now is a good time. Your current character will cease, and you will come back as another—whoever you like.

“I’m headed that way,” I say, and point with a long finger into the darkness, away from the light.

What’s that way? you go.

I shrug. “The next thing.”