Nicholas J. Deady, or simply Nick Deady, is an Australian of South Korean descent who, after years and years of living in a small, monotonous town with few career opportunities, decided to move to the United States and try something different.
His plan was to get a good job and settle down, but he never boarded the plane.
Not because he didn't want to, not because he changed his mind at the last minute, not because he was late and missed the flight—but because something happened that he never imagined would, even in his worst nerves.
Nick Deady was killed at the airport reception, held hostage by a brutal terrorist for a few minutes.
He was not granted any last words.
Crying or screaming was not allowed.
Nick regretted many of the things he had done in life—many mistakes, whether impulsive words or actions. He also felt a little melancholic and frustrated thinking about the things he would have done if he'd had a little more time—things he would now never accomplish.
"More time..." he whispered in his consciousness.
Then, there was an explosion of light.
He woke up again—but not in the hospital he expected.
He was in a strange place, somewhat cramped, with a familiar headache bothering him like a stubborn childhood friend. He opened his eyes, slightly dizzy.
He had woken up in a small bed, his body covered by a blue comforter with elephants and stars.
A strange, glowing blue rectangle greeted him.
|| Basic Entertainment System ||
Nick sighed, his headache worsening as he understood what had happened to him.
"A system. Basic reincarnation stuff. How original," he said sarcastically, rolling his eyes dramatically. His voice sounded a little younger.
"Now, what am I supposed to do with this?" he wondered, moving his head. The floating rectangle followed his line of sight, staying in the upper right corner.
"It says 'Basic Entertainment System.' I think I have a small idea of what I'm supposed to do with it, but that 'basic' part worries me," Nick thought nervously.
One thing Nick noticed was that he no longer felt the overwhelming mental confusion he had experienced in the moments before his death.
His anxiety, nervousness, and fear were still there… but greatly diminished.
"Hm," he murmured, deciding to ignore those thoughts for now.
He chose to explore his new… indispensable tool for his future line of work.
Then, there was a soft knock on the door of the room he was in—a bedroom.
Nick tensed up, looked at the door, and stayed silent.
"...Come in," he said.
A man who appeared to be middle-aged entered the room. His nearly bald head was hidden under a simple cap, and a thick mustache framed his face.
He was dressed in a loose blue uniform, holding a toolbox in his right hand. An orange rag, stained with oil, stuck out slightly from his pants pocket.
The man was sweating, tired—clearly having had a long day of work.
His stern gaze softened as he looked at Nick.
He gently set the toolbox on the floor and sat on a chair near the bed. He took a thermometer from his shirt pocket and carefully lifted Nick's right arm, placing the thermometer under it.
A few awkward seconds passed as the two stared at each other—Nick feeling confused, the man looking worried—until the thermometer beeped, and the man carefully removed it.
He checked the result, his thick mustache twitching, his sweaty forehead seeming to glisten.
"Still feverish," the man said, his sharp eyes narrowing.
He looked at Nick and continued, "Rest. I'll be in the living room. If you need anything, shout."
Nick just nodded, deciding not to say anything. The man put away the thermometer, picked up his toolbox, and left the room, closing the door as gently as possible.
When the door closed, Nick muttered, his expression confused, "Who was that guy?"
Nick shook his head and laid back on the pillow, saying ironically, "No memories of the person who used to live in this body. Great."
His eyes landed on a photograph on the nightstand, which he picked up and examined.
A child who looked very similar to Nick when he was young. In the photo, the child was smiling brightly.
He turned the photo over. On the back was written:
"Nicholas, 6 years old. 1981."
Nick's eyes widened like saucers.
But then he smiled and placed the photo back where he had found it.
Staring at the bedroom ceiling, he said, his voice quieter than a whisper,
"Thank you."