The Last to Comment Wins

[AmbreaTaddy]

blep

 

[Jun_Sakazuki]

Skibidi rizz

 

[Hsinat]

lololo

 

[AmbreaTaddy]

blep

 

[Anonjohn20]

lololo

That signature is too large, Tony won't like it.

 

[Tempokai]

Want to read what I was cooking up today in words? If so, reply "I'm winning currently" to this post

 

[AmbreaTaddy]

blep

 

[Anonjohn20]

Want to read what I was cooking up today in words? If so, reply "I'm winning currently" to this post

I'm winning currently

 

[Tempokai]

I'm winning currently

Spoiler: Top secret

I am a simple man. In theory, at least. I don't need much out of life—some peace and quiet, a comfortable bed, and a roof over my head. And, you know, some good friends and a purpose and whatnot. I've never wanted a whole lot more than that.

So, when WW3 kicked off, the world unilaterally went bonkers, and the apocalypse was pretty much a certainty; it wasn't that big of a deal. It wasn't like I was going to survive.

But the world didn't end. Well, okay, it kinda did, but I didn't start the fire and it was always burning since the world's been turning. We'll go with that. The borders didn't change, but now it had a dozen or so more countries than before, and the apocalypse didn't happen, much to the chagrin of every doomerist out there whose internet got cut off because of The War.

Instead, I got to finally retire from my first sergeant duty with dignity and grace and everything else I didn't deserve, which I appreciated.

Imagine me, laying my ass down on some land in the Midwest, sipping some iced tea, watching cat videos—which I missed for so long after the internet was severed, hard—and listening to the wind rustle the grass and the bees buzz around. Then, boom—my brand-new Sangsung, which I bought using my first (meager) retirement package, rings, interrupting this precious, serene time.

Gosh, why wouldn't I answer the phone?

"Yes?" I replied, rubbing at my head as if to assuage the oncoming headache I was going to have.

"Yo, sergeant! Enjoying your retirement?"

I almost hung up.
Then, I realized I should've never given any of these punkass privates my contact number.
I sighed and slumped further onto my favorite recliner.

"It was fine until you called, Tony. What the hell do you want now?"

"Well, the old dudes are gathering to pay homage to the Lehynerd Skainerd band, so I thought I'd call you. I remember you saying you could shred that guitar like nobody's business, yo."

Lehynerd Skainerd... Ah, that band whose plane crashed almost a hundred years ago? The original famous one? Was that right?

Tony continued speaking.
"So we thought, we're paratroopers, right? So let's jump down from the plane and shred their 'Freedom Bird' song like no tomorrow for the 100th anniversary in 2077."

"...So, a tributary performance," I clarified. "In midair."

"Right! And it is almost that date!" Tony cheerfully answered.
The more I learned, the less I knew about his thoughts, as it should've been. This young champ Tony was from Texas and it showed in the way he spoke. Always slow and relaxed, confidently cocky... and always irreverent. I mean, who thinks that commemorating a plane crash is a great idea? I certainly didn't, at least, back then.

"Okay, not the strangest request ever, Tony," I conceded, ready for this call to be over. "I'll join, just prepare the whiskey. The usual."

Tony sighed with disappointment.
"Oh, sergeant, really. You really got to give it up with the booze. Especially after our recent meeting—"

And I hung up.

The trees on my property started to turn orange, and I sat there, staring at the changing leaves. And I was peaceful. At the time, the thought of honoring Lehynerd Skainerd brought upon good feelings (after discarding the absurdity of it), good feelings all around (aside from me looking at the overcast sky all the goddamn time, God, I hate autumns here). What could possibly go wrong?

***

In fact, many things could go wrong. I didn't know at that time. When you put me together with some guys to “jump and shred a guitar,” what do you think is gonna happen? Nothing good, surely.

Oh well.

So here we were, two days after our meeting, somewhere near Chicago. The sky was deceptively free of clouds.

"Any questions?" asked the base coordinator.
The fourteen or so of us waited, tittering on our toes in anticipation.
Not mine though. I was here just for a cheap laugh and free booze.

It was quite the hodgepodge group. No one knew me, and I didn't know anyone except Tony, who's been running around like an organizer-of-sorts. There was a retired sniper in our midst, someone who had lost their feet due to a landmine incident, a couple of guys fresh out of boot camp (who were not needed due to the war ending), an obese private... it was hard to tell whether they were seriously trying to do a tribute for L. Hell, I wasn't serious either.

Whatever. I was ready enough. I already drank three cans of beer.

The sky was already an ominous color of purple. I glanced over at the freedom bird that was slowly and quietly landing, an old-class bomber that had been retired for at least 30 years. Some kind of brave pilot was gonna fly this rust-bucket. Heh, whatever. This was America, the land where anything goes. That meant anything, even that shitty band.

We hopped in the bomber, already wearing everything we needed, carrying our respective musical instruments. Tony started to give out the parachutes for each. Then, as bureaucracy kicked in, the old man started to speak about what to do and not to do during the flight, safety precautions, et cetera, et cetera...

I zoned out. I didn't care. My eyes stared ahead at the ugly brown ceiling, and I daydreamed. Sort of. It was hard to do when the engine was roaring outside and people were shifting about everywhere, noisily and unproductively.

I wasn't nervous. I had done this so many times, there was no more fear nor thrill to it.

I am a simple man, and I was good at my job.
This, on the other hand...

"If your parachute fails, be sure to use the second one," Tony and that old dude repeated what I already knew. "It's the protocol. Keep the safety and integrity of your comrades in mind and everything should be peachy! If you can't hold on to your instruments, drop 'em! All right, everyone here?"

"Solid!" we roared as one voice.

"Parachutes are connected!"
"Connected!" we repeated.
"Double check your parachutes again."

As the process of checking was finished, the ramp on the back opened with a hydraulic sound, and the wind blasted at me.

Then, without being aware of much else, we were pushed off.

Wind swept over my ears and vision blurred for a moment, but I cleared my mind and forced myself to focus.

Right, I needed to shred. That was why I was here, right? Yeah, yeah, that's right. The dude with a camera was focused on me, waiting for it. Tony and the others were already whipping their instruments out, consisting of a bass, rhythm guitar, acoustic guitar, and deconstructed drum set (played by 4 people, because safety reasons, duh), ready for the festivities to start.

The signal was given and I started to play the second part of the song, as discussed. The wireless guitar sure is great, letting me play whatever I want without restraint.

And I went with something suitably chaotic. My fingers raced and raced; I tumbled and tumbled; the music was the most important thing right now.

Falling alongside the others, I felt the music surge through me. I'm pretty good at playing the electric guitar, and though this is definitely a weird place for me to be, it was worth it. At least the solo of "Freedom Bird" was easier than that of melodeath—especially at this speed and force.

The free-falling music, wind, and voices—this scene was the peak of youth and adventure. There was a purpose to everything, I thought at the time. Freedom Bird. What could go wrong?

After the four minutes of shredding and the earth coming closer, we pulled on the parachutes. I waited. Everyone else waited, hands pulling on the ripcord. I braced for impact as well.

One second.
Another.
It didn't open.

At that moment, right after Tony screamed and the others yelled something incomprehensible, a sudden spike of post-solo clarity struck me:

"Ahhh. I was gonna get wasted tonight," I said, mumbling to myself in realization and disappointment. Emergency parachute!

I pulled the lever with my drunken might. It didn't budge.
Fuck.
Double parachute failure.

In this instant, a shock ran down my entire body as the ground rushed up to meet me, the freest fall making everything feel surreal. For some reason, my arms wrapped tighter around my beloved guitar. The radio was screaming my name, and Tony was screaming that he's sorry, and the earth rushed up faster.

I guess I'm not a simple man after all. They say that your whole life passes before your eyes before you die, but I didn't feel anything. The only thought that came up at this time was,
I was having fun...
Shit.

Thud.

My vision went black. Afterwards, I got isekai'd.





***

I'm neither religious nor atheist. I'm somewhere in the middle, believing my own thing. I'm like those cavemen of old, creating my own belief out of nowhere, through observation and sheer dumbness. What I've seen from my life—the choices, the sheer possibility of anything happening—made me believe that the afterlife is a joke. The best possibility (not an actual thing I believed in) was that it would be some kind of void where my mind is unconscious for eternity+++, stuck until something truly destroys it.

People die. People die stupidly. People die tragically. And I just followed the same trajectory as everyone else.

But because I feel my body, my thoughts, my unopened eyelids, a heartbeat machine beeping in rhythm, a fan that is too loud for no god damn reason, I think that I was isekai'd. The trend that emerged during my grandfather's era—and still is (yes, even when the proto-AIs started producing better novels than humans around the 2060s) popular to write and read.

Like hell I wanted a second chance. Those who need second chances are those who don't live their lives to the fullest or have regrets. But who am I to say that?

I finally opened my eyes. A "modern" patient's room, all in that light blue color I hated seeing after my operations. A single room, with one door and zero chances of escaping. What I found wrong was the lack of outlets. Where the hell am I?

And my lower body was covered in a cast. Huh, so that's why I felt uncomfortable. Cool. But where's my square-shaped body? Why am I so... thin? This certainly isn't my body, and that's terrifying.

At least I can move my limbs, barely. That's good. While trying to move them, a nurse entered the room, wearing a deeper blue gown. I didn't see her face, and she immediately left screaming, "He's awake!" like a madwoman. Cool, at least I'm my own gender. I'm at least not a pervert, even if I think that every soul is equal upon the void.

A few minutes later, she returned with a doctor. I believe he's the one, because if he didn't have a staff with freaking giant gemstones on his hands, he'd be 100% a doctor with a stethoscope and calm demeanor. His eyes were wide enough not to believe what was happening—no delight at seeing a patient recover, more like a mix of pity and a strange sort of clinical detachment. He opened his mouth, and out poured a flood of words that meant nothing to me.

"You're awake. You've been in a coma for a week. Do you understand me? How many fingers am I showing?"

Four. When I wanted to speak, I realized that my neck was in a cast too, but it was loose enough that I could move my head around. There was no noise coming from my vocal cords, so I just shook my head, closing my eyes, trying to say "no." He nodded and started a basic checkup, while continuing to speak.

"We were worried you wouldn't wake up. You had quite the fall, but you seem to be recovering well. Your sister will be so relieved."

Here it comes: the sheer realization that there's someone waiting for this body. The connection that I probably severed. The connection that I must sever. The sheer intent came from my core, and it finally moved my cords.

"I'm not him."

A garbled, guttural voice of a teenager escaped from "my" body. The doctor stopped the checkup and just looked at me.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm not him," I repeated, louder this time, as if sheer volume could make the universe take me seriously. "I don't know who he is, but it's not me. Just... just leave me alone."

The doctor, whose ID card read "Albert" in plain old English, was not impressed. He had certainly seen dozens of weirdos and was not impressed with me. He continued the checkup.

"Well, sorry, I just can't. If you're not 'you,' then who are you?"

"First Sergeant. Retired. 82nd Airborne. I jumped out of planes and led soldiers. Went from island chain to island chain, dodging drones, getting more wounds than any reasonable soldier could sustain. Died while performing Lehynerd Skainerd solo while being airborne. That’s all you really need to know."

"That's... interesting. What's your name?"

"Morgan Wyatt."

"Then I'm the Healer Hero of the West, Albert Murke. Nice to meet you."

And then Albert suddenly lost interest in me. Why? I would've said something more, but this body has no energy to do so. What can I do, lash out? Scream to the void? That takes energy. Albert finished checking the casts, uncomfortably touching the body and my neck, then left me alone. He walked to the door, staff jiggling on his back, and looked at me again.

"I'll call your guardian, your sister. Given her job, she'll come in a few hours. Food will come after an hour. Rest well, Morgan."

And he left, leaving me alone with a loud fan and the uncontrollable beeping of my heartbeat. Fuck.

 

[AmbreaTaddy]

blep

 

[ElijahRyne]

I am currently winning.

 

[AmbreaTaddy]

blep

 

[Anonjohn20]

Spoiler: Top secret

I am a simple man. In theory, at least. I don't need much out of life—some peace and quiet, a comfortable bed, and a roof over my head. And, you know, some good friends and a purpose and whatnot. I've never wanted a whole lot more than that.

So, when WW3 kicked off, the world unilaterally went bonkers, and the apocalypse was pretty much a certainty; it wasn't that big of a deal. It wasn't like I was going to survive.

But the world didn't end. Well, okay, it kinda did, but I didn't start the fire and it was always burning since the world's been turning. We'll go with that. The borders didn't change, but now it had a dozen or so more countries than before, and the apocalypse didn't happen, much to the chagrin of every doomerist out there whose internet got cut off because of The War.

Instead, I got to finally retire from my first sergeant duty with dignity and grace and everything else I didn't deserve, which I appreciated.

Imagine me, laying my ass down on some land in the Midwest, sipping some iced tea, watching cat videos—which I missed for so long after the internet was severed, hard—and listening to the wind rustle the grass and the bees buzz around. Then, boom—my brand-new Sangsung, which I bought using my first (meager) retirement package, rings, interrupting this precious, serene time.

Gosh, why wouldn't I answer the phone?

"Yes?" I replied, rubbing at my head as if to assuage the oncoming headache I was going to have.

"Yo, sergeant! Enjoying your retirement?"

I almost hung up.
Then, I realized I should've never given any of these punkass privates my contact number.
I sighed and slumped further onto my favorite recliner.

"It was fine until you called, Tony. What the hell do you want now?"

"Well, the old dudes are gathering to pay homage to the Lehynerd Skainerd band, so I thought I'd call you. I remember you saying you could shred that guitar like nobody's business, yo."

Lehynerd Skainerd... Ah, that band whose plane crashed almost a hundred years ago? The original famous one? Was that right?

Tony continued speaking.
"So we thought, we're paratroopers, right? So let's jump down from the plane and shred their 'Freedom Bird' song like no tomorrow for the 100th anniversary in 2077."

"...So, a tributary performance," I clarified. "In midair."

"Right! And it is almost that date!" Tony cheerfully answered.
The more I learned, the less I knew about his thoughts, as it should've been. This young champ Tony was from Texas and it showed in the way he spoke. Always slow and relaxed, confidently cocky... and always irreverent. I mean, who thinks that commemorating a plane crash is a great idea? I certainly didn't, at least, back then.

"Okay, not the strangest request ever, Tony," I conceded, ready for this call to be over. "I'll join, just prepare the whiskey. The usual."

Tony sighed with disappointment.
"Oh, sergeant, really. You really got to give it up with the booze. Especially after our recent meeting—"

And I hung up.

The trees on my property started to turn orange, and I sat there, staring at the changing leaves. And I was peaceful. At the time, the thought of honoring Lehynerd Skainerd brought upon good feelings (after discarding the absurdity of it), good feelings all around (aside from me looking at the overcast sky all the goddamn time, God, I hate autumns here). What could possibly go wrong?

***

In fact, many things could go wrong. I didn't know at that time. When you put me together with some guys to “jump and shred a guitar,” what do you think is gonna happen? Nothing good, surely.

Oh well.

So here we were, two days after our meeting, somewhere near Chicago. The sky was deceptively free of clouds.

"Any questions?" asked the base coordinator.
The fourteen or so of us waited, tittering on our toes in anticipation.
Not mine though. I was here just for a cheap laugh and free booze.

It was quite the hodgepodge group. No one knew me, and I didn't know anyone except Tony, who's been running around like an organizer-of-sorts. There was a retired sniper in our midst, someone who had lost their feet due to a landmine incident, a couple of guys fresh out of boot camp (who were not needed due to the war ending), an obese private... it was hard to tell whether they were seriously trying to do a tribute for L. Hell, I wasn't serious either.

Whatever. I was ready enough. I already drank three cans of beer.

The sky was already an ominous color of purple. I glanced over at the freedom bird that was slowly and quietly landing, an old-class bomber that had been retired for at least 30 years. Some kind of brave pilot was gonna fly this rust-bucket. Heh, whatever. This was America, the land where anything goes. That meant anything, even that shitty band.

We hopped in the bomber, already wearing everything we needed, carrying our respective musical instruments. Tony started to give out the parachutes for each. Then, as bureaucracy kicked in, the old man started to speak about what to do and not to do during the flight, safety precautions, et cetera, et cetera...

I zoned out. I didn't care. My eyes stared ahead at the ugly brown ceiling, and I daydreamed. Sort of. It was hard to do when the engine was roaring outside and people were shifting about everywhere, noisily and unproductively.

I wasn't nervous. I had done this so many times, there was no more fear nor thrill to it.

I am a simple man, and I was good at my job.
This, on the other hand...

"If your parachute fails, be sure to use the second one," Tony and that old dude repeated what I already knew. "It's the protocol. Keep the safety and integrity of your comrades in mind and everything should be peachy! If you can't hold on to your instruments, drop 'em! All right, everyone here?"

"Solid!" we roared as one voice.

"Parachutes are connected!"
"Connected!" we repeated.
"Double check your parachutes again."

As the process of checking was finished, the ramp on the back opened with a hydraulic sound, and the wind blasted at me.

Then, without being aware of much else, we were pushed off.

Wind swept over my ears and vision blurred for a moment, but I cleared my mind and forced myself to focus.

Right, I needed to shred. That was why I was here, right? Yeah, yeah, that's right. The dude with a camera was focused on me, waiting for it. Tony and the others were already whipping their instruments out, consisting of a bass, rhythm guitar, acoustic guitar, and deconstructed drum set (played by 4 people, because safety reasons, duh), ready for the festivities to start.

The signal was given and I started to play the second part of the song, as discussed. The wireless guitar sure is great, letting me play whatever I want without restraint.

And I went with something suitably chaotic. My fingers raced and raced; I tumbled and tumbled; the music was the most important thing right now.

Falling alongside the others, I felt the music surge through me. I'm pretty good at playing the electric guitar, and though this is definitely a weird place for me to be, it was worth it. At least the solo of "Freedom Bird" was easier than that of melodeath—especially at this speed and force.

The free-falling music, wind, and voices—this scene was the peak of youth and adventure. There was a purpose to everything, I thought at the time. Freedom Bird. What could go wrong?

After the four minutes of shredding and the earth coming closer, we pulled on the parachutes. I waited. Everyone else waited, hands pulling on the ripcord. I braced for impact as well.

One second.
Another.
It didn't open.

At that moment, right after Tony screamed and the others yelled something incomprehensible, a sudden spike of post-solo clarity struck me:

"Ahhh. I was gonna get wasted tonight," I said, mumbling to myself in realization and disappointment. Emergency parachute!

I pulled the lever with my drunken might. It didn't budge.
Fuck.
Double parachute failure.

In this instant, a shock ran down my entire body as the ground rushed up to meet me, the freest fall making everything feel surreal. For some reason, my arms wrapped tighter around my beloved guitar. The radio was screaming my name, and Tony was screaming that he's sorry, and the earth rushed up faster.

I guess I'm not a simple man after all. They say that your whole life passes before your eyes before you die, but I didn't feel anything. The only thought that came up at this time was,
I was having fun...
Shit.

Thud.

My vision went black. Afterwards, I got isekai'd.





***

I'm neither religious nor atheist. I'm somewhere in the middle, believing my own thing. I'm like those cavemen of old, creating my own belief out of nowhere, through observation and sheer dumbness. What I've seen from my life—the choices, the sheer possibility of anything happening—made me believe that the afterlife is a joke. The best possibility (not an actual thing I believed in) was that it would be some kind of void where my mind is unconscious for eternity+++, stuck until something truly destroys it.

People die. People die stupidly. People die tragically. And I just followed the same trajectory as everyone else.

But because I feel my body, my thoughts, my unopened eyelids, a heartbeat machine beeping in rhythm, a fan that is too loud for no god damn reason, I think that I was isekai'd. The trend that emerged during my grandfather's era—and still is (yes, even when the proto-AIs started producing better novels than humans around the 2060s) popular to write and read.

Like hell I wanted a second chance. Those who need second chances are those who don't live their lives to the fullest or have regrets. But who am I to say that?

I finally opened my eyes. A "modern" patient's room, all in that light blue color I hated seeing after my operations. A single room, with one door and zero chances of escaping. What I found wrong was the lack of outlets. Where the hell am I?

And my lower body was covered in a cast. Huh, so that's why I felt uncomfortable. Cool. But where's my square-shaped body? Why am I so... thin? This certainly isn't my body, and that's terrifying.

At least I can move my limbs, barely. That's good. While trying to move them, a nurse entered the room, wearing a deeper blue gown. I didn't see her face, and she immediately left screaming, "He's awake!" like a madwoman. Cool, at least I'm my own gender. I'm at least not a pervert, even if I think that every soul is equal upon the void.

A few minutes later, she returned with a doctor. I believe he's the one, because if he didn't have a staff with freaking giant gemstones on his hands, he'd be 100% a doctor with a stethoscope and calm demeanor. His eyes were wide enough not to believe what was happening—no delight at seeing a patient recover, more like a mix of pity and a strange sort of clinical detachment. He opened his mouth, and out poured a flood of words that meant nothing to me.

"You're awake. You've been in a coma for a week. Do you understand me? How many fingers am I showing?"

Four. When I wanted to speak, I realized that my neck was in a cast too, but it was loose enough that I could move my head around. There was no noise coming from my vocal cords, so I just shook my head, closing my eyes, trying to say "no." He nodded and started a basic checkup, while continuing to speak.

"We were worried you wouldn't wake up. You had quite the fall, but you seem to be recovering well. Your sister will be so relieved."

Here it comes: the sheer realization that there's someone waiting for this body. The connection that I probably severed. The connection that I must sever. The sheer intent came from my core, and it finally moved my cords.

"I'm not him."

A garbled, guttural voice of a teenager escaped from "my" body. The doctor stopped the checkup and just looked at me.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm not him," I repeated, louder this time, as if sheer volume could make the universe take me seriously. "I don't know who he is, but it's not me. Just... just leave me alone."

The doctor, whose ID card read "Albert" in plain old English, was not impressed. He had certainly seen dozens of weirdos and was not impressed with me. He continued the checkup.

"Well, sorry, I just can't. If you're not 'you,' then who are you?"

"First Sergeant. Retired. 82nd Airborne. I jumped out of planes and led soldiers. Went from island chain to island chain, dodging drones, getting more wounds than any reasonable soldier could sustain. Died while performing Lehynerd Skainerd solo while being airborne. That’s all you really need to know."

"That's... interesting. What's your name?"

"Morgan Wyatt."

"Then I'm the Healer Hero of the West, Albert Murke. Nice to meet you."

And then Albert suddenly lost interest in me. Why? I would've said something more, but this body has no energy to do so. What can I do, lash out? Scream to the void? That takes energy. Albert finished checking the casts, uncomfortably touching the body and my neck, then left me alone. He walked to the door, staff jiggling on his back, and looked at me again.

"I'll call your guardian, your sister. Given her job, she'll come in a few hours. Food will come after an hour. Rest well, Morgan."

And he left, leaving me alone with a loud fan and the uncontrollable beeping of my heartbeat. Fuck.

Needs more smut. LOL JK that was great.

EDIT: We know he has military training (so he's used to the cleanly, organized highly disciplined lifestyle) and he's good at the guitar (in case he ever finds another chorded instrument) so I hope we get to see more of that in the story.

 

[Hsinat]

Spoiler: Top secret

I am a simple man. In theory, at least. I don't need much out of life—some peace and quiet, a comfortable bed, and a roof over my head. And, you know, some good friends and a purpose and whatnot. I've never wanted a whole lot more than that.

So, when WW3 kicked off, the world unilaterally went bonkers, and the apocalypse was pretty much a certainty; it wasn't that big of a deal. It wasn't like I was going to survive.

But the world didn't end. Well, okay, it kinda did, but I didn't start the fire and it was always burning since the world's been turning. We'll go with that. The borders didn't change, but now it had a dozen or so more countries than before, and the apocalypse didn't happen, much to the chagrin of every doomerist out there whose internet got cut off because of The War.

Instead, I got to finally retire from my first sergeant duty with dignity and grace and everything else I didn't deserve, which I appreciated.

Imagine me, laying my ass down on some land in the Midwest, sipping some iced tea, watching cat videos—which I missed for so long after the internet was severed, hard—and listening to the wind rustle the grass and the bees buzz around. Then, boom—my brand-new Sangsung, which I bought using my first (meager) retirement package, rings, interrupting this precious, serene time.

Gosh, why wouldn't I answer the phone?

"Yes?" I replied, rubbing at my head as if to assuage the oncoming headache I was going to have.

"Yo, sergeant! Enjoying your retirement?"

I almost hung up.
Then, I realized I should've never given any of these punkass privates my contact number.
I sighed and slumped further onto my favorite recliner.

"It was fine until you called, Tony. What the hell do you want now?"

"Well, the old dudes are gathering to pay homage to the Lehynerd Skainerd band, so I thought I'd call you. I remember you saying you could shred that guitar like nobody's business, yo."

Lehynerd Skainerd... Ah, that band whose plane crashed almost a hundred years ago? The original famous one? Was that right?

Tony continued speaking.
"So we thought, we're paratroopers, right? So let's jump down from the plane and shred their 'Freedom Bird' song like no tomorrow for the 100th anniversary in 2077."

"...So, a tributary performance," I clarified. "In midair."

"Right! And it is almost that date!" Tony cheerfully answered.
The more I learned, the less I knew about his thoughts, as it should've been. This young champ Tony was from Texas and it showed in the way he spoke. Always slow and relaxed, confidently cocky... and always irreverent. I mean, who thinks that commemorating a plane crash is a great idea? I certainly didn't, at least, back then.

"Okay, not the strangest request ever, Tony," I conceded, ready for this call to be over. "I'll join, just prepare the whiskey. The usual."

Tony sighed with disappointment.
"Oh, sergeant, really. You really got to give it up with the booze. Especially after our recent meeting—"

And I hung up.

The trees on my property started to turn orange, and I sat there, staring at the changing leaves. And I was peaceful. At the time, the thought of honoring Lehynerd Skainerd brought upon good feelings (after discarding the absurdity of it), good feelings all around (aside from me looking at the overcast sky all the goddamn time, God, I hate autumns here). What could possibly go wrong?

***

In fact, many things could go wrong. I didn't know at that time. When you put me together with some guys to “jump and shred a guitar,” what do you think is gonna happen? Nothing good, surely.

Oh well.

So here we were, two days after our meeting, somewhere near Chicago. The sky was deceptively free of clouds.

"Any questions?" asked the base coordinator.
The fourteen or so of us waited, tittering on our toes in anticipation.
Not mine though. I was here just for a cheap laugh and free booze.

It was quite the hodgepodge group. No one knew me, and I didn't know anyone except Tony, who's been running around like an organizer-of-sorts. There was a retired sniper in our midst, someone who had lost their feet due to a landmine incident, a couple of guys fresh out of boot camp (who were not needed due to the war ending), an obese private... it was hard to tell whether they were seriously trying to do a tribute for L. Hell, I wasn't serious either.

Whatever. I was ready enough. I already drank three cans of beer.

The sky was already an ominous color of purple. I glanced over at the freedom bird that was slowly and quietly landing, an old-class bomber that had been retired for at least 30 years. Some kind of brave pilot was gonna fly this rust-bucket. Heh, whatever. This was America, the land where anything goes. That meant anything, even that shitty band.

We hopped in the bomber, already wearing everything we needed, carrying our respective musical instruments. Tony started to give out the parachutes for each. Then, as bureaucracy kicked in, the old man started to speak about what to do and not to do during the flight, safety precautions, et cetera, et cetera...

I zoned out. I didn't care. My eyes stared ahead at the ugly brown ceiling, and I daydreamed. Sort of. It was hard to do when the engine was roaring outside and people were shifting about everywhere, noisily and unproductively.

I wasn't nervous. I had done this so many times, there was no more fear nor thrill to it.

I am a simple man, and I was good at my job.
This, on the other hand...

"If your parachute fails, be sure to use the second one," Tony and that old dude repeated what I already knew. "It's the protocol. Keep the safety and integrity of your comrades in mind and everything should be peachy! If you can't hold on to your instruments, drop 'em! All right, everyone here?"

"Solid!" we roared as one voice.

"Parachutes are connected!"
"Connected!" we repeated.
"Double check your parachutes again."

As the process of checking was finished, the ramp on the back opened with a hydraulic sound, and the wind blasted at me.

Then, without being aware of much else, we were pushed off.

Wind swept over my ears and vision blurred for a moment, but I cleared my mind and forced myself to focus.

Right, I needed to shred. That was why I was here, right? Yeah, yeah, that's right. The dude with a camera was focused on me, waiting for it. Tony and the others were already whipping their instruments out, consisting of a bass, rhythm guitar, acoustic guitar, and deconstructed drum set (played by 4 people, because safety reasons, duh), ready for the festivities to start.

The signal was given and I started to play the second part of the song, as discussed. The wireless guitar sure is great, letting me play whatever I want without restraint.

And I went with something suitably chaotic. My fingers raced and raced; I tumbled and tumbled; the music was the most important thing right now.

Falling alongside the others, I felt the music surge through me. I'm pretty good at playing the electric guitar, and though this is definitely a weird place for me to be, it was worth it. At least the solo of "Freedom Bird" was easier than that of melodeath—especially at this speed and force.

The free-falling music, wind, and voices—this scene was the peak of youth and adventure. There was a purpose to everything, I thought at the time. Freedom Bird. What could go wrong?

After the four minutes of shredding and the earth coming closer, we pulled on the parachutes. I waited. Everyone else waited, hands pulling on the ripcord. I braced for impact as well.

One second.
Another.
It didn't open.

At that moment, right after Tony screamed and the others yelled something incomprehensible, a sudden spike of post-solo clarity struck me:

"Ahhh. I was gonna get wasted tonight," I said, mumbling to myself in realization and disappointment. Emergency parachute!

I pulled the lever with my drunken might. It didn't budge.
Fuck.
Double parachute failure.

In this instant, a shock ran down my entire body as the ground rushed up to meet me, the freest fall making everything feel surreal. For some reason, my arms wrapped tighter around my beloved guitar. The radio was screaming my name, and Tony was screaming that he's sorry, and the earth rushed up faster.

I guess I'm not a simple man after all. They say that your whole life passes before your eyes before you die, but I didn't feel anything. The only thought that came up at this time was,
I was having fun...
Shit.

Thud.

My vision went black. Afterwards, I got isekai'd.





***

I'm neither religious nor atheist. I'm somewhere in the middle, believing my own thing. I'm like those cavemen of old, creating my own belief out of nowhere, through observation and sheer dumbness. What I've seen from my life—the choices, the sheer possibility of anything happening—made me believe that the afterlife is a joke. The best possibility (not an actual thing I believed in) was that it would be some kind of void where my mind is unconscious for eternity+++, stuck until something truly destroys it.

People die. People die stupidly. People die tragically. And I just followed the same trajectory as everyone else.

But because I feel my body, my thoughts, my unopened eyelids, a heartbeat machine beeping in rhythm, a fan that is too loud for no god damn reason, I think that I was isekai'd. The trend that emerged during my grandfather's era—and still is (yes, even when the proto-AIs started producing better novels than humans around the 2060s) popular to write and read.

Like hell I wanted a second chance. Those who need second chances are those who don't live their lives to the fullest or have regrets. But who am I to say that?

I finally opened my eyes. A "modern" patient's room, all in that light blue color I hated seeing after my operations. A single room, with one door and zero chances of escaping. What I found wrong was the lack of outlets. Where the hell am I?

And my lower body was covered in a cast. Huh, so that's why I felt uncomfortable. Cool. But where's my square-shaped body? Why am I so... thin? This certainly isn't my body, and that's terrifying.

At least I can move my limbs, barely. That's good. While trying to move them, a nurse entered the room, wearing a deeper blue gown. I didn't see her face, and she immediately left screaming, "He's awake!" like a madwoman. Cool, at least I'm my own gender. I'm at least not a pervert, even if I think that every soul is equal upon the void.

A few minutes later, she returned with a doctor. I believe he's the one, because if he didn't have a staff with freaking giant gemstones on his hands, he'd be 100% a doctor with a stethoscope and calm demeanor. His eyes were wide enough not to believe what was happening—no delight at seeing a patient recover, more like a mix of pity and a strange sort of clinical detachment. He opened his mouth, and out poured a flood of words that meant nothing to me.

"You're awake. You've been in a coma for a week. Do you understand me? How many fingers am I showing?"

Four. When I wanted to speak, I realized that my neck was in a cast too, but it was loose enough that I could move my head around. There was no noise coming from my vocal cords, so I just shook my head, closing my eyes, trying to say "no." He nodded and started a basic checkup, while continuing to speak.

"We were worried you wouldn't wake up. You had quite the fall, but you seem to be recovering well. Your sister will be so relieved."

Here it comes: the sheer realization that there's someone waiting for this body. The connection that I probably severed. The connection that I must sever. The sheer intent came from my core, and it finally moved my cords.

"I'm not him."

A garbled, guttural voice of a teenager escaped from "my" body. The doctor stopped the checkup and just looked at me.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm not him," I repeated, louder this time, as if sheer volume could make the universe take me seriously. "I don't know who he is, but it's not me. Just... just leave me alone."

The doctor, whose ID card read "Albert" in plain old English, was not impressed. He had certainly seen dozens of weirdos and was not impressed with me. He continued the checkup.

"Well, sorry, I just can't. If you're not 'you,' then who are you?"

"First Sergeant. Retired. 82nd Airborne. I jumped out of planes and led soldiers. Went from island chain to island chain, dodging drones, getting more wounds than any reasonable soldier could sustain. Died while performing Lehynerd Skainerd solo while being airborne. That’s all you really need to know."

"That's... interesting. What's your name?"

"Morgan Wyatt."

"Then I'm the Healer Hero of the West, Albert Murke. Nice to meet you."

And then Albert suddenly lost interest in me. Why? I would've said something more, but this body has no energy to do so. What can I do, lash out? Scream to the void? That takes energy. Albert finished checking the casts, uncomfortably touching the body and my neck, then left me alone. He walked to the door, staff jiggling on his back, and looked at me again.

"I'll call your guardian, your sister. Given her job, she'll come in a few hours. Food will come after an hour. Rest well, Morgan."

And he left, leaving me alone with a loud fan and the uncontrollable beeping of my heartbeat. Fuck.

Dude when are you not spitting facts

 

[Hsinat]

That signature is too large, Tony won't like it.

Is it ok now?

 

[Navillus]

I am winning-nya~

 

[Hsinat]

I am winning-nya~

nvr gng gg u p

 

[Navillus]

I am winning-nya~

 

[AmbreaTaddy]

blep

 

[Anonjohn20]

blep