Waiting is the hardest part. Everything is black. There is no form, no shape, no sensation to hold on to. Humans are corporeal things, we have senses to interact with our physical world. Not here. There is no physical anything here. No air, no light, no sound.
Just electricity. Pulse.
It makes me think I’m dead, and in a way, I am.
No. We are. All of us, here. We’re dead. Our minds exist, our consciousnesses, such as they are, translated by the engineers into our personal little patterns of 0s and 1s. Our bodies are gone, recycled. Some gave them up on accident; others, the addicts who’d burnt through their hearts and veins, jumped planes as a final chance to beat death or the law.
A shudder ripples through the holding tank: a game is about to begin.