Searchers, scavengers, hunters- those are just a few of the names they call us. But it doesn’t take away from the fact that we’re really just losers who can’t die.

I trudge through the street to the nearest pub, putting my hand on the massive oak door and wincing at the loud groan of rotting wood on neglected hinges. Coffee grounds, ancient dust and cigarettes greet my nostrils in a mildly soothing aroma of days gone by.

“Be with you in a minute, man,” Douglas is the owner and never realizes that I’m not actually a man until he’s standing right in front of me.

To be fair I do wear a heavy trench coat, hat, chunky boots and the occasional pair of sunglasses- but he should know better by now.

I’ve been coming here for over a hundred years.

I glance to the left of the room where I know I’ll see my only friend, Demarcus, slumped in one of the low chairs. Sure enough he’s there- coat collar pulled high and hands cupped around a tall glass of pink liquid.

“Hey Marc,” I call pleasantly, raising my hand in greeting and simultaneously snagging a toothpick from the counter.

He throws an insouciant shrug in my general direction and tilts the glass towards his lips, dark eyes obscured by the brim of his fedora.

Nobody really knows how long Demarcus has been here- some say a few hundred years, others insist that he started this place. He gets kind of funny acting when I mention it so I’ve never really pressed for details.

It doesn’t matter, anyway. Not really. We’re all doomed to spend an eternity in this dump- unable to find purpose in the time allotted us as humans and now thus destined to float without bodies somewhere between life and death. (We call it the MIR by the way: Middle Intermediate Realm. Technical and lame, I know.)

What I do know is that Demarcus saved my life once, and I’ll never be able to repay him for that. Not many people know our history on earth, and unfortunately you mustn’t know either for the time being. Believe me: it’s for the best.

Douglas brings me my usual cup of Earl Grey and I use the toothpick to absently swish the tea bag back and forth. Marc’s head tilts up slightly when I drop into the chair across from him but he says nothing until I speak first. The air feels oddly heavy.

“Anything new?”

Immediately he leans forward, casting an unnecessarily cautious glance about the empty room. I can tell at once that something’s up- his jaw is tense and his normally dazed eyes are alight with a spark of something I can’t quite place.

For a moment he doesn’t reply; he merely gazes searchingly into my face. Just when I’m beginning to feel uncomfortable he stands, downing the rest of the drink in one silent gulp and stalking towards the back of the room.

He’s extremely tall, his head nearly brushing the top of a doorframe as he disappears through it. He must finally realize that I’m not following though, because his hands snake back and clutch the trim- pulling him partway into the room again.

“Well aren’t you coming?”

I stand at once, my chair scraping the hardwood as I cast a disappointed glance at the untasted mug of tea.

My footsteps are hollow and echo through the room as I hurry to catch up. When I cross into the next room Marc is standing next to a narrow door set in the middle of the floor. Literally: it’s upright and not connected to any walls or anything. Just the door.

“What. Is that?” I hesitate, folding my arms over my chest.

“It’s a portal,” Marc answers nonchalantly, as if it’s an everyday occurrence for random portals to open in the middle of the day.

Everyone knows portals only open to bring someone into the MIR. But if someone new had appeared, we would surely have seen them. This bar acts as a sort of landing pad for those crossing over.

As I stare at the door I begin to feel a persistent tickle at the back of my mind. Something about it is…familiar.

“I know that obviously. What’s it doing in here?” I add, folding my arms across my chest and widening my stance to feel more confident.

“It’s waiting.”

As it turns out: so am I, because that’s where he leaves off and my brain refuses to compute the meaning.

“Waiting for….?” I press, eyes darting from the door to his face.

Marc pulls his hat off, revealing a shock of dark curly hair that is now a trifle askew.

“You.”

In a flash it all stabs my brain- the tumbling, sickening fall through my own portal into this room and Marc standing over me with that boyish grin. The grin I haven’t seen in over a hundred years.

And this door. This particular door is the very same one I fell through all those years ago. As I realize this a sour pain settles in my stomach and suddenly I want to be sick.

“Aries,” he breathes, stepping closer to me and barely brushing my shoulder with a soft fingertip. “Do you realize what this means? You’re going back. You get another chance.”

My mind- nay; my very soul is reeling with the weight of his words.

“Another chance at….” I falter, eyes lifted to meet his in a frightened, tentative plea for answers.

“Life.”