I never expected my life to end with a cosmic exclamation point—a freak laser from a galaxy so distant its origin story would be laughed out of a sci-fi convention. One moment, I was trudging home, burdened by my usual mix of existential dread and coffee stains, and the next, a beam of quantum-infused light—having meandered through the cosmos for millions of years, mind you—decided to make me its final destination. It struck with all the subtlety of a falling anvil. In that utterly absurd instant, my entire existence was deleted from the grand reincarnation ledger—a one-in-a-trillion glitch that the universe's bureaucracy would probably file under "Seriously, you've got to be kidding me."
Instead of joining the standard afterlife queue, I found myself whisked away to a nondescript office that screamed "bureaucracy" louder than the DMV on a Monday morning. Flickering fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and a coffee machine in the corner gurgled ominously. Behind a desk scarred by millennia of cosmic paperwork sat a being who exuded the bland authority of a middle manager.
"Mr. Ellis," he began, his tone as dry as a stale cracker, "it appears you're no longer in the standard reincarnation system." He shuffled through a stack of interdimensional forms, shooting me a look that screamed, "I wish I could say this isn't my problem." "My boss isn't going to like this hiccup. So, here's the deal: you get to reinvent yourself, and in return, you keep this little... incident to yourself."
He slid a holographic contract toward me, outlining my new life options—a veritable buffet of universes, each more enticing or terrifying than the last. "Choose wisely," he intoned. "Your options: be reborn in Middle-earth, ancient Rome circa 50 BC, the Stargate universe, or that galaxy far, far away... you know the one."
I blinked, my post-laser-fried brain struggling to process the surreal turn of events. "And... what do I get?" I managed to ask.
The Admin blinked, looking almost surprised, then said "You get uhhhhh.. 300 points! to allocate to your new character's attributes. A little heads-up: every year of age costs you 5 points, and each point you assign to Health, Strength, or Intelligence boosts you by 10% over the average of your chosen species. Think of it as your cosmic bribe for a fresh start."
I stared at the endless list of possibilities like a gamer facing the ultimate character creation screen. Detailed sheets for elves, warriors, philosophers, and space pilots sprawled before my eyes. Every attribute, every species, every setting came with its own quirky pros and cons. The sheer scope was as dazzling as it was overwhelming.
The office hummed with the quiet efficiency of a universe desperate to cover up its own mistakes. My mind spun through the possibilities. Middle-earth promised epic quests and enigmatic elves; ancient Rome sounded intriguing but perhaps a bit too... historic; the Stargate universe offered interstellar adventure; and that galaxy far, far away was, well, legendary.
I tapped a spectral pen against the holographic console, my thoughts oscillating between the absurdity of my demise and the surreal opportunity now presented. In that suspended moment—caught between a cosmic error and a new chance at life—I began the painstaking process of analysing every point, every stat, every nuance of these offered universes.
**Admin's Point of View**
I watched Marty with the practiced detachment of someone whose entire career depended on absolute discretion—because it did. Internally, I seethed over the cosmic quantum debacle that had led us to this absurd situation. If my boss ever caught wind of a rogue laser—thanks to my ill-advised game of laser golf—bypassing dimensional barriers and vaporizing a mortal, I'd be reassigned to the Cosmic Filing Department faster than you could say "multiverse audit."
So, when Marty looked up, confusion plastered across his face, and inquired about his new allocation, I panicked. "Uh, 300 points!" I blurted out—the first number that popped into my frazzled mind. Only after the words left my mouth did I remember that most mortals received a mere 10 points. Fantastic. I'd completely botched that detail. But then I rationalized: I was offering him a reincarnation package straight out of a nerd's wildest dreams, personally curated from the multiverse's finest selections, and endowed with thirty times the points of an average case. Surely, he couldn't complain about that.
If he made his choice, it would keep this little snafu between us, perhaps I could sweep the whole incident under the cosmic rug. After all, in a multiverse this vast, what's one tiny glitch?
I stared at the holographic interface, the shimmering options reflecting in my eyes like a jackpot on a slot machine. The Stargate universe—now that would be an interesting place to mess around in. Scrolling through the race options, one caught my eye: Race: Ancient, the idea of being among the most advanced beings in the universe was too enticing, even if it cost me 10 points.
Next, I selected Age: 10. Although not ideal, every cost 5 points and honestly, I would rather spend points on other options, than be spawned in my 20's.
For my Starting Location, I opted for Earth, Florida, year 1995. just before the Stargate Program was in full swing—and came at the modest price of 5 points.
When it came time to allocate my abilities, I made some hard decisions. I invested 165 points into my Primary Attributes: granting myself Healing/Self-Healing, Telekinesis, Cellular Decay Immunity, and Naquadah Infused Blood. These powers were tailored towards self-reliance and being able to use Goa'uld technology.
When I finally arrived at the physical character creator settings, I smiled this would take hours if my previous experience playing CK3 was anything like this, I fine-tuned my appearance and innate traits with Physical Alterations. I chose to make my new body Beautiful, with captivating Purple Eyes, and to stand tall at 6'3" when fully grown. Being Male, Right-handed, Creative, and possessing Good Genetics rounded out my physical and personal characteristics, adding up to a cost of 50 points.
Finally, I locked in my Start State as Spontaneous Creation. This meant I'd suddenly appear out of nowhere pretty much popping into existence. My backstory was a real event added into this universe's history so I would always have an origin.
With my 300 points spent, I looked up at the admin who seemed to look almost stressed by my choices. He gave a curt nod, concern flickering across his otherwise stoic expression.
"Very well, Mr. Ellis. Best of luck in your new life," he said, snapping his fingers.
A bright light enveloped me, and the cosmic office dissolved into nothingness.