Chapter Text
"...zier. Mr. Tozier, are you with me?"
Richie snaps to attention. "Uh. What?"
"We were going over your intake forms, Mr. Tozier," says the woman seated to the other side of the polished mahogany desk. She tilts her head. "Do you need anything repeated for clarification?"
"What was that noise?" Richie can almost still make out the beeping sound—the drum, bum, zap, like a John Bonham solo in a lightning storm—that only moments before had overwhelmed his entire sense of being.
The woman's nameplate reads Marcella, and she bears a non-negligible resemblance to Grace Jones in A View to a Kill. She could definitely kick his ass single-handed. But she smiles at him patiently. "Your medical team manged to revive you for a moment," she says, as if it's the most natural thing in the world, "but we have you back. Now, as I was saying—"
"Wait. Am I—like. Dead?"
"Yes. Again, as of 5:35 AM PST, your soul came into the custody of the Commission for the Great Beyond, a Division of Post-Corporeal Transportation Services."
Richie chews on this for a moment. "Couldn't you have come up with something more—uh. Succinct? Or was 'Heaven' taken?"
"Oh, I assure you, sir. This isn't Heaven." Marcella's smile widens. "Now, if you could please sign here. And here. And one more time... There we are. Thank you, Mr. Tozier. On behalf of the entire CTGB team, I'd like to officially welcome you to your afterlife."
Richie feels his guts churn, which brings on a giggle.
"Mr. Tozier. Are you quite all right?"
"It's just—Um. My stomach feels like it did on rope day in gym class. Or, you know, on the morning after the night before. But do I even have a stomach now? Am I some sort of incorporeal being? Have I been uploaded to a thinking machine supercomputer?" Without meaning to, he's slipped into his old Mr. DNA Voice, a definite nervous tick dating back more than thirty years; but apparently Marcella's a little rusty on her golden age Spielberg. He clears his throat. "Sorry. You said this is my afterlife?"
"Yes."
"So I get to choose the scenery? Can I, like, train with Yoda on Degobah for the next six months? Or jam with Hendrix? Or—" Fuck, but the possibilities are endless. Better start simple. Maybe the 1990 Nintendo World Championship Finals? Yeah, and what is he, twelve? He meets Marcella's gaze and hears himself say, "Um. Skee-Ball tourney... with Buddha, Mohamed, Jesus, and the Flying Spaghetti Monster?"
Because that's somehow more intelligent-sounding? Fuck.
But Marcella just keeps on smiling. The Commission must offer their employees good benefits... Or she's a robot.
Somehow Richie doesn't find either of these possibilities very upsetting. Being dead—really, finally dead after a life full of more pain, more regret, more horror – more demonic fucking space clowns – more love for every little thing he's had and every gigantic thing he's lost than can be reasonably explained – kind of puts things in perspective.
Also: running around screaming doesn't seem to fit the vibe in here.
"While the contents of your afterlife are strictly confidential, I can confirm that you already did make your selection."
Richie resists the temptation to further grill her as she slides a sheet of paper across the desk. It's a wall of text, but he can quickly make out, CAUSE OF DEATH: CARDIOVASCULAR DISEASE and DURATION OF LIFE: 21170.83 DAYS.
"Fuck," he says, softly. Because he's just, like one of those Bonham lightning bolts straight to the frontal lobe, remembered the rest.
He knows: he'd bought the fucking farm two weeks before his fifty-eighth birthday.
Lonely, embittered. Locked in a legal battle with his publisher, any residuals from his last HBO special finally drying up. Quasi-alcoholic, over-medicated. And – mind, body... soul, a term that's always seemed a bit woo-woo, if he's being honest – unwell.
Obviously.
Marcella reaches across the desk to set her long, warm hand over his. "I know it's a lot to take in, Mr. Tozier. But the CTGB strives to make your transition to the hereafter as comfortable as possible."
This sounds a lot like something some whizkid from Marketing puked out during a quarterly meeting. But coming from Marcella, it's pretty reassuring.
"I—Uh. Thanks," he says, surprised to realize he means it. Suddenly, he wonders where the rest of the Losers are right now. He hopes they don't hear about his death on TMZ; but then, what else could he expect? It's not like he had a steady boyfriend.
Besides, it's been five months since the last message on the Loserville video stream: Bev and Ben celebrating their tenth anniversary spelunking in West Virginia, the vid adorned with all the appropriate heart emojis from the peanut gallery. And before that—what, once every other month? Every three?
And after: nothing.
Hell. Maybe Richie can justify starting things off with the Nintendo thing after all. It's kept confidential, right? He meets Marcella's eye: "So. What's next?"
"Simply walk through the door—eternity awaits."
"Door? There's no—oh. That door," Richie pivots, lurching with a sort of sickly Alice in Wonderland vertigo as a dark wooden door appears behind Marcella's padded shoulder.
Sucking in a deep breath, he pushes up from his chair. "It's not locked?"
"Of course not." Marcella extends her hand, and her grip is just as impressive as Richie expected. "It's been a pleasure working with you, Mr. Tozier. Best of luck!"
With that, he opens the door and steps into—
An arcade...?
And he's surrounded by noise and lights and there's a roll of quarters clasped in his palm and sure enough, there's that Street Fighter machine he'd all but spent the summer of '88 glued to, beckoning him like the fucking obelisk in 2001.
Only there's someone in Richie's spot—and he'd know that fanny-pack anywhere.
Yet: "...Eddie?"
Eddie steals a glance over his shoulder, never stopping pounding out combos. "Took you long enough, asshole."