If You Think I'm Gonna Come Up With A Title For This, You're Dead Wrong

Chapter 1

Dying is not fun.

I do not know if you knew that until last night. Maybe you figured that since it was romanticized so much that it would not suck as much as it so clearly and obviously did. Maybe you dreamed of dying relatively peacefully, surrounded by your loved ones. Alas, those dreams were dashed last night when you, oh so wise Y/N, decided that you were going to try baking and forgot the most essential step; taking the thing out of the oven. You remember that night so clearly, the screams of your family begging for their lives still bouncing around in your ears like a torturous golf ball that made a habit of forcing itself into your throat, the feeling of your hair catching alight as your skin bubbled and charred, and rational thought became a foreign concept. You do not remember if you had died from a heart attack or hyperthermia or smoke inhalation, but you had a general idea that, yes, that night had been your last on Earth.

So, where the fuck are you?

You pull yourself into a sitting position, your back pressed against something hard as your eyes struggle to adjust to the darkness. The air smells like rotten food and exhaust engines as you pull yourself off the concrete, looking around the alleyway that you had found yourself in. It's small, narrow, unremarkable in every way, with graffiti-covered dumpsters near the entrance. Dazed, confused, and generally out of sorts, you make your way to the entrance, patting yourself down for injuries you did not seem to have.

You rub the side of your face with your hand. 'My head is killing me.' You slip your hand into your jacket pocket, feeling a key and a piece of paper. 'God damn it's cold in this alley.' You zip up your jacket, walking out into the open as you pull the note out, beginning to read.

"Dear Y/N," you mumble as you read, "we are pleased to inform you of your acceptance into our transference program, yadda yadda yadda, whoop-de-doo..." You skim ahead of some introductory jargon before getting near to the point of the note. "From this point forward, enjoy your permanent residence at ten West.. fifteenth street... apartment number six two two... New York, New York?" You blink. 'I... that's not my address.' You pull out the key. 'Wait, hold on.' Your eyebrows furrowed. 'New York? Wait, I was dead, wasn't I?' Your eyes become unfocused. 'I don't live anywhere near NYC. Where am I?' You look around for some sort of landmark, street name, anything to give you some idea of where you are.

You hear a car squeal to a stop on the street corner in front of you, snapping you out of your stupor. As identical men start climbing out of the back of the vehicle, all marching deliberately towards you, a fifteen-year-old girl, your immediate reaction is to run like hell. Unfortunately for you, apparently your speed was not comparable to that of the men who quickly apprehend you, scooping you up and dragging you kicking and screaming into a van. You hear vaguely familiar voices outside, but your focus is less on the mayhem and more on the more pressing matter of getting yourself out of the van. You pound at the door, feel for any sort of locks on the inside, something, anything to get you out of the van, still screaming your head off as you hope whoever was outside had the common sense to call nine one one. You feel your eyelids droop as your breathing slows, your voice dying as your pounding becomes less intense. You slide to your knees, eyes closing even as you mentally scream at yourself to get up, keep at it.

You pass out.

--

You wake up laid on the floor this time, the pulsing of electricity above your head almost soothing as you open your eyes. You stagger to your feet, looking around your well-lit enclosure, pink fluorescent lights lining the ceiling and walls like arteries. After taking note of your new bruises and checking to see if you still have your few personal belongings—you do—you ran over to the door, eyes fixated on the mind-boggling, ridiculous scene taking place in front of you.