Better Call Kisuke

Darkness.

That was my first and only coherent thought for a span of time that could have been a blink or a geological eternity. It wasn't the familiar darkness of a lightless room or of squeezing one's eyes shut. It was an absolute blackness, a fundamental and oppressive absence of everything. There was no up or down, no cold or heat, not even the lingering sensation of my own body—that physical anchor we take for granted until it's gone. There was only... consciousness. A "self" distilled to its purest essence, stripped of flesh and bone, drifting in an infinite sea of nothingness.

'Am I dead?' was the next logical question, one that arose not with the urgency of panic, but with the calm resignation of someone confirming an inevitable diagnosis. 'Yes, it seems so. I remember the dry pops of the gun, the brutal impact in my chest, the glacial cold spreading from the wounds. I remember the blood, hot and metallic, and then... this. The silence after the noise.'

The panic my mortal mind would have expected never arrived. How can you panic without a heart to hammer in your ears, or lungs to desperately fight for air you no longer need? My existence had been reduced to an endless internal monologue, a solitary echo in a cathedral of emptiness. To combat the madness I felt creeping at the edges of my consciousness, I tried to impose a routine. I began to count. One, two, three... I counted until the numbers lost their meaning, becoming empty syllables. I lost track after what felt like several million, a feat of memory my organic brain could never have achieved.

When counting was no longer enough, I turned to memories. I rebuilt my life piece by piece, with an almost painful clarity. I relived the taste of the stale, bitter office coffee, the feel of the cracked plastic of the bus seat, the woody, spicy scent of my Starwalker cologne. I remembered every movie I saw, every line of code I wrote, every book I read. I relived my death a thousand times, not with the trauma of pain, but with the detached curiosity of a scientist studying a specimen under a microscope.

'In the end, the last song I heard was "Punkrocker" by Teddy Bear,' I reflected, finding a new layer of irony in the memory. 'What an absurdly perfect ending. A guy who spent his life avoiding conflict, a cubicle programmer who dreamed of quiet mediocrity, dying in an explosive act of violence while listening to a song about rebellion. The universe doesn't just have a terrible sense of humor; it's a master of cruel satire.'

My mind, searching for any anchor, clung to that idea. 'Maybe it's like Superman said in the movie, the new punk-rock is being kind and respectful to people. Punk-rock is a song about going against the system. Before, going against the system meant things like anarchism, selfishness, destruction for destruction's sake. But lately, in the world I left, that was the norm. Cynicism was currency, cruelty was entertainment. In that case, being kind, being respectful, defending a stranger... that truly would be going against the system. Maybe, without knowing it, I was a punkrocker in my last breath.'

The reflection provided a momentary comfort, a small spark of meaning in the void. But the void is patient. The void erodes.

'Ah, I wonder how much time has passed,' I thought, feeling the edges of my sanity begin to fray again. 'I have literally gone insane and regained my sanity at least three times that I can count. I remember the first time I lost my mind. It was a silent terror. In a world of darkness, the only thing you have is your mind, and when your own mind becomes the monster, there is nowhere to run. It's terrifying. With no one to talk to, see, hear, or converse with... I can feel myself ceasing to feel things, not on a physical level, but an emotional one. I used to be terrified of being alone; now it's just a fact, an environmental condition during my prolonged visit to the darkness.'

Madness became a tide. It came in waves, dragging the remnants of my identity out with it, then receded, leaving me stranded on the shore of an exhausted lucidity.

'Ah, the beautiful darkness. I wish I were more creative, to write a poem or an analogy for my current situation. But words feel hollow here. They're just more noise in the silence.'

I began to call out, not with a voice, but with a pulse of pure intent, a flare of consciousness launched into the nothingness.

'Hello darkness, my old friend…'

'HELLO... IS ANYONE OUT THERE?'

'Hello?'

'Hello, anyone, please. Even a cosmic entity. I don't care if you want my soul or to corrupt my mind. That would be better than this absolute, crushing, unbearable nothingness.'

'Hellooooo...?'

'Hellooo?...'

'Hello...'

'Hello…'

'llo…'

'….'

'….'

'….'

'Oh, hello again, sanity. I think I lost my mind again. Is this the tenth time it's happened? Or the eleventh? I've lost count of the times I've lost count.'

A sigh that wasn't a sigh, an exhalation of pure mental fatigue, washed through my being. 'Yes, I'm definitely staying here for a while longer.'

Time ceased to have meaning. Boredom became my only companion, a boredom so profound and existential that madness seemed an entertaining alternative. And just when I thought I would dissolve into that nothingness, that my consciousness would simply fade out again, this time for good... something changed.

There was no flash, no sound. One moment I was alone in my personal void, and the next, I wasn't. Before my conceptual "self," a presence manifested. It had no shape, but it had structure. It was a figure made of calm, silver light, a light that didn't illuminate the darkness but displaced it, creating its own space of serene existence. It had no face, yet I felt it observing me with an attention that was both impersonal and absolute.

A voice resonated, not in my ears, for I had none, but directly in the core of my consciousness. It was a voice without gender, without emotion, as ancient as the nothingness that surrounded us.

"Soul 11,231.8-B. Designation: Michael."

'Wow, someone finally answered,' I thought, a wave of relief so intense it almost felt like pain. 'Am I a serial number? Geez, can't escape bureaucracy even in death.'

"Your transition was... anomalous," the voice continued, ignoring my internal sarcasm. "A premature termination caused by an unforeseen intervention. An act of self-sacrifice in defense of a third party. This creates an... irregularity in the flow of karma."

"And what does that mean?" I thought, knowing the question would be received.

"It means an opportunity may be granted. A relocation. A second chance in a new existence, to restore the balance."

Hope. It was a feeling I had completely forgotten, an atrophied muscle that suddenly contracted. Its return was almost painful, a light too bright after an eternity in the dark.

"A second chance? Where?"

"To a different universe. A nexus of realities with great potential for chaos and order. In your terminology, you know it as the DC Multiverse."

The shock of that revelation would have stopped my heart if I'd had one. 'DC? As in Batman, Superman...? Is this a joke?' My mind, which had been adrift, suddenly focused with crystal clarity.

"There are no jokes on this plane of existence. Only causality," the voice replied with its imperturbable calm. "However, the opportunity is not unconditional. You cannot choose your new fate. That would be too direct an interference. Your new starting point will be determined by chance."

Before me, the darkness swirled and took shape. It wasn't a physical roulette wheel, but a vortex of infinite possibilities. I saw faces, symbols, and names flashing by at a dizzying speed. I recognized some: the emblem of a bat, an "S" on a shield, the glint of an iron suit of armor, spiky blonde hair... thousands, millions of character templates from every story my human mind had ever known, from the comics of my childhood to the movies I saw the week before I died.

"This is the Roulette of Souls. A cosmic lottery. Each relocated soul receives a 'template' from a being of power from across the omniverse. It contains their memories, their abilities, their knowledge. It is the starting equipment for your new journey. Spin the wheel, Michael." The voice paused, adding a final warning. "Remember, only one spin is permitted, with no second chances. This is a gift that has been granted to you, as well as to many others. Therefore, one may only spin once per soul."

I felt a strange sense of agency for the first time since I arrived in this void. I focused my will, my entire being, into a single impulse: 'Spin.'

The vortex accelerated into a blinding blur of light and color. The names and symbols merged into an incomprehensible torrent. The sound, or the sensation of it, was like a thousand libraries burning at once, the crackling of a million stories vying to be mine.

Then, slowly, it began to decelerate.

Click. It sped past a red and blue spider symbol. Click. It slid over golden armor set with gems of infinite colors. Click. It grazed a face with a lightning-bolt scar and round glasses.

The whirlwind slowed further, the sound reducing to a series of rhythmic clicks, each one a universe of possibilities discarded. My entire consciousness was fixed on the outcome. My future, my second life, depended on this instant.

Click... click...

It stopped.

A name, written in Japanese characters and instantly translated in my mind, floated in the center of the vortex with an absolute and terrifying clarity.

[ Urahara Kisuke ]

Before I could process the shock, the euphoria, or the sheer terror of that name, the voice of the silver being spoke one last time.

"The template has been selected. May the balance be restored. Commencing transfer."

There was no further warning.

It was as if a cosmic dam had broken. A torrent, an ocean of information, poured into my consciousness. It wasn't just data; it was experience. Over a century of memories. The thrill of inventing the portable Gigai. The cold logic behind the creation of the Hōgyoku. The mastery of every Hadō and Bakudō, not as spells, but as scientific formulae, each with its own mathematical beauty. The feel of Benihime in my hand, its weight, its balance, the connection to the living soul that resided within. The overwhelming, conceptual weight of a Bankai capable of rewriting reality. The bitter betrayal of Aizen, a pain that still resonated with the sharpness of a fresh wound. The pain of exile. The infinite sadness hidden behind a perpetual smile and a paper fan.

My identity, the "me" that was Michael, wasn't erased, but subsumed. Drowned in a flood of genius, power, and a deep, ancient melancholy. I wasn't becoming him. It wasn't that simple. It was more of an integration, a fusion. My consciousness was the scaffolding upon which a skyscraper of knowledge and power was being built. The distinction between Michael and Urahara ceased to matter. We were one.

The darkness dissolved, replaced by the overwhelming sensation of a physical body. I felt the air in my new lungs, cool and smelling of damp earth. I felt the fabric of unfamiliar clothes on my skin, a kimono and a haori that felt as familiar as my own skin.

And then, I opened my eyes.

Not in a hospital, not in a cradle. I was standing in a quiet field, under a starry sky I did not recognize, with constellations my astronomical knowledge couldn't identify. But my new knowledge could.

With centuries of memories in my head and a world of heroes and gods yet to be born, my second life had just begun. And this time, I would not be a spectator.