Death itself was not dramatic. No blinding light, no tunnel, no slow-motion regrets. He was crossing the street, his mind wandering to lists of things left to be done, to tales left unwritten, and then he was simply nothing—a silence that was clean, complete, absolute. And when awareness returned, it was without pain, without breath, without a body. He was a presence in a void that was less a darkness than a absence of that which had been defined. Time was not, but thought remained. And then something noticed him. The void contracted, as if reality itself were embarrassed to have forgot this thing, and a presence settled into his awareness—a big, tired, and plainly irritated one.
"I see," the entity said, its voice echoing without noise. "Yes… that's on us."
Confusion ignited, soon replaced by a creeping wave of indignation. You? Even as he formulated the question in his mind, the entity persisted, its tone ominously reminiscent of a paper pusher who had lost a document. "Clerical mistake. Timeline mismatch. You were not supposed to die just yet." Then, after a pause, "Apologies."
The word "apologies" had significance in this place. The space trembled, as if the idea itself curved to encompass it. Pictures flashed—a web of destiny, diverging paths, levels of worlds one upon the other. He realized, faintly, that this entity was God. Not a bearded man in a robe on a throne, but a process, a will, a governor of reality that had erred.
"Compensation must happen," God said. "But reinstatement? That cannot happen. Your original life has already made the adjustments."
A fury arose, bitter and hot, but it had no direction. "So that's it?" he demanded. "I just… get erased?"
"No," God answered, for the first time hesitating. "But you will live again. In a different world. One that is more. accommodating."
A world unfolded before him: magic, guilds, dragons, and a bond of combat and meals shared. Fairy Tail. He knew it at once, and that was why God sighed. "Yes. You know of it. That makes things easier."
"Living again takes skills," God said. "The world is a dangerous place. Emotional. Untamed." A pause. "You will have a gift of magic. Imprinted on your soul. Not instructed. Not studied. Your own."
Something opened in him, a door swinging unlocked. He experienced hunger—not a bodily craving, but an idea hunger. An attraction to things closed off, packaged, and branded do not touch.
"Takeover Magic," God stated cautiously. "But not beasts, no demons, no dragons."
The void was filled with shapes. Records, containment symbols, burned into his consciousness. Monsters, things that were no longer monsters. Concepts proven false.
"SCP entities," God confessed. "Anomalies from a discarded possibility. They will be loyal. Completely. They cannot disobey you."
Remorse flared—and was extinguished by the list. SCP-017. SCP-503. SCP-096. SCP-049. SCP-682. Prototypes. Gate Guardians. Things to hold the boundary of existence at bay and deny further.
"Too much, this is," he whispered.
"Yes," God agreed quietly. "That is why you must be careful."
God's presence became weighed down. "Hear me out. Allegiance is not protection. Some of the forms are apocalyptic. World-destroying. God-destroying."
The images flashed before me: Cities were wiped out, laws were rewritten, dragons were reduced
"You will not begin with them," God said firmly. "Your soul is not yet strong enough for that. The magic will choose its own first form for you based on how you are feeling."
"What does that mean?"
"It means," God said, "that your first power will correspond to you."
"The void twisted," he thought, "and out of it appeared this grotesque and absurd thing in his mind: grease-smeared pages, screaming food, laughing knives." "A mascot twisted into blasphemy."
"SCP-3166," God continued, as if weary. "A creature of hunger, parody, and cruelty. A danger—but a survivable
He stepped back. "You're giving me that?"
"I am giving you a beginning," God corrected. "If you can control that, you may live with the rest."
And finally, having been prepared for this moment his entire life, there was a final warning, thrust directly into his soul: "Takeover is not possession. It is invitation."
The void collapsed. Sensation burst back—with lungs aflame with air, with cold stone pressing against his skin, with the pain of a nascent form crying out against a black sky. He was small, insignificant, alive. Magic thrummed inside his chest like a second pulse, contained but aglow. Someone was shouting nearby, picking him up, enfolding him in fabric. Magnolia's stars twinkled overhead, oblivious to something deeply amiss in their universe.
As time went by and his awareness developed, another thing began with him. Hunger. Not just for milk, but for flavor. For overindulgence. For the very act of consumption. Food aromas gastronomically obnoxious. Too sharp. Meats seemed to observe him. At one point, when he cried too vigorously, the stew in the adjacent pot began seething furiously, spilling scalding stew on the hand of the cook. Nobody associated it with him.
He learned to fight the sensation, to swallow it down by will alone. But deep down in him, something chuckled softly to itself, awaiting a kitchen.
The seventh night passed when he slept. He dreamed then, but not of dragons or magic circles, of an establishment that shouldn't be there. Of a menu that shrieked when touched. Of a chef who wasn't a chef, grinning at him through a smudged reflection in a dirty mirror.
We will force them to eat, the dream whispered.
He awoke screaming, his magic exploding unchecked for a moment. Somewhere, far away from Magnolia, ancient powers moved, and a thing long sealed smiled, sensing that it was at last being summoned home.