POV Jane Doe.

Fuck me sideways with a rusty chainsaw, this place is a goddamn trip and a half.

Doomstead Abbey? More like Doom's-Day Funhouse of Eternal Mindfuckery. As Raphael drags my ass through these twisted hallways, I can't shake the feeling we're being watched. And not in the sexy, "ooh someone's checking me out" way. Nah, this is pure "cosmic voyeur getting off on our existential crisis" vibes.

The air feels thick, like trying to breathe through cotton candy made of ghost farts and broken dreams. Each step echoes like a gunshot, probably announcing to every celestial dickwad in earshot that Jane Doe, fuckup extraordinaire, is in the building.

And don't even get me started on these shoes. Whoever designed these torture devices clearly had a vendetta against ankles and the concept of walking in a straight line. I'm one wobbly step away from face-planting and adding "died again, this time from sheer embarrassment" to my heavenly resume.

Raphael, that prissy feathered fuckwit, glides along like he's on a Sunday stroll through Prick Park. His constant presence behind me is like the world's worst hemorrhoid - irritating, painful, and making me want to set shit on fire.

Just when I think this parade of absurdity couldn't get any weirder, Feathers McFuckface decides to go all Obi-Wan on me. His voice slithers into my brain like a greased-up eel: "They're watching us, Jane. Watching you."

Well, shit on a stick and call it a popsicle.

I nearly eat marble right there in the hallway. "What the actual fuck, Raphael?" I spit, loud enough to make a bunch of passing souls stop and stare.

And what a freak show they are. To my left, a group that looks like they've stumbled out of a Renaissance Faire gone wrong - all frilly collars and doublets, but with an ashen, just-crawled-out-of-the-grave pallor. One dude's ruff is stained with what I hope is very old wine.

On my right, a cluster of souls that seem to have died mid-Burning Man. One chick's dreadlocks are still smoking, and a guy with more piercings than skin is leaving a trail of glitter in his wake.

Bringing up the rear is a sad sack in a rumpled suit who looks like he died of boredom during a particularly brutal PowerPoint presentation. His tie is still caught in his jacket zipper.

They all gape at me like I've just grown a second head and started singing showtunes.

Realizing I probably shouldn't be yelling at the voices in my head out loud, I switch to the psychic hotline. "Get out of my fucking skull, you celestial cockwaffle!"

"Your eloquence never ceases to astound me," Raphael's voice drips with sarcasm. "Now, if you're quite finished with your little tantrum, I suggest you listen carefully. The donors are observing everything that transpires here. Every move you make, every word you utter - it's all being scrutinized."

I feel my stomach drop faster than a lead balloon. "What fresh hell is this?" I demand silently, struggling to keep my face neutral as we pass more groups of souls, all decked out in their orientation finest.

"This isn't merely a training facility, you obtuse mortal," Raphael's mental voice is sharp with exasperation. "Doomstead Abbey, this orientation - it's all part of a preliminary round. An audition, if you will."

"An audition?" I echo, my mental voice dripping with disbelief. "What is this, 'America's Next Top Sinner'?"

"Your penchant for flippancy is as tiresome as ever," Raphael sighs. "This is far more significant than your mortal reality shows. The donors select their favorites based on what unfolds here. Only the most intriguing, the most promising souls will be chosen to compete in the actual trials."

Holy shit on a shingle, my brain feels like it's been put through a cosmic blender. This isn't just a curveball, this is the universe winding up and pitching a fucking black hole at my head. A preliminary round? Are you fucking kidding me?

I thought I was signing up for the afterlife's SATs from hell, not "Who Wants to Be a Motherfucking Immortal." What's next, a talent portion where I juggle souls? A swimsuit competition with the Grim Reaper?

This isn't just moving the goalposts, this is launching them into orbit and telling me to score anyway. And here I am, armed with nothing but a shitty attitude and a death certificate. Fan-fucking-tastic.

"You've gotta be fucking shitting me," I think back weakly, my earlier bravado evaporating faster than spilled beer on a hot sidewalk.

"I assure you, I am not 'shitting you,' as you so eloquently put it," Raphael replies, his mental voice dripping with disdain. "Everything you do now is on display for their entertainment and judgment. Your reactions, your choices, your ability to adapt - it's all being meticulously evaluated."

I want to scream. I want to find whatever cosmic douchebags came up with this sick game and introduce their teeth to my fist. But I can't, not without potentially torpedoing my chances before I've even started. Instead, I take a deep breath, willing my face to remain as impassive as a botoxed housewife.

"So what you're saying," I think slowly, "is that I need to be the most fucked-up, entertaining trainwreck these divine dickwads have ever seen if I want a shot at the real competition?"

I can practically feel Raphael's eye roll. "Your ability to misinterpret the simplest of concepts is truly remarkable," he sighs. "They're looking for potential, for souls who stand out. But reckless behavior is just as likely to get you dismissed as it is to get you chosen."

Fucking fantastic. So I have to be interesting, but not too interesting. Stand out, but not stick out. It's like trying to thread a needle while riding a drunk bull.

As we approach a set of towering doors, I feel my stomach twist into knots. These aren't just any doors - they're a monstrosity of baroque excess, all swirling gold filigree and twisted figures writhing across obsidian panels. Cherubs with razor-sharp teeth leer down from the arches, their wings dripping with what looks disturbingly like fresh blood.

The handles are fashioned from what appears to be human femurs, polished to a sickly ivory sheen. As Raphael reaches for one, I could swear I see the bone twitch and flex beneath his grasp.

A hysterical laugh claws its way up my throat, threatening to burst free in a torrent of unhinged cackling. I swallow it down with effort, tasting bitter bile and the coppery tang of fear.

"Raphael," I think, pausing just before the doors. "Why the fuck are you telling me this now? What's your angle?"

There's a long pause, and for a moment I think he might have finally fucked off out of my head. Then, quietly, "Despite what you may think of me, Jane, I need you to succeed. And because... against all odds and reason, I believe you might actually have a chance."

With that bombshell dropped, he steps forward and pushes open the doors, revealing a cavernous hall filled with other souls, all looking as lost and overwhelmed as I feel.

I stand there for a moment, frozen in the doorway, my mind a Category 5 shitstorm of thoughts and emotions. Part of me wants to curl up in a ball and disappear into the expensive carpet. Another part wants to flip every fancy table in sight and tell these celestial fuckwads exactly where they can shove their sick game show.

But a small voice in the back of my mind, the part of me that had survived every curveball life had thrown my way - from Penelope's betrayal to my own untimely demise - whispers a different suggestion: Play the game, but play it your way.

I stride into the chamber like I own the place, my expensive new shoes clicking against the polished floor. Inside, though, my stomach is doing somersaults that would've made an Olympic gymnast jealous. The room is a fucking trip - a perfect circle with a domed ceiling that seems to stretch into infinity.

Swirling cosmic frescoes dance overhead, and honest-to-god fireballs float in midair, casting an eerie, pulsating light. It's like someone had taken an acid trip and decided to redecorate the Sistine Chapel with a dash of eldritch horror.

Thirteen pairs of eyes swivel to me as I enter, a symphony of judgment and curiosity. Great. Just what I need - an audience for my grand entrance into the afterlife's most fucked-up reality show. I can practically feel Raphael's disapproval radiating from behind me, but I ignore it. If I'm going to be a player in this cosmic game, I might as well make an entrance.

I scan the faces around the circle, trying to get a read on my fellow contestants. Some look like they're about to piss themselves, while others have the kind of hardened look you'd expect to see in a maximum-security prison yard. But then I see her - Lily.

My eyes drift back to Lily, looking about as out of place as a Pixar character in a Tarantino flick. The little blonde girl I'd met at the ball is perched on the edge of an obsidian chair, its dark surface a stark contrast to her pale form.

Christ on a cracker, the kid is tiny, swimming in that pale blue commando onesie like a chihuahua in a Great Dane's sweater. Her blonde hair is pulled back in tight braids, and those big blues? They're screaming louder than an emo kid at a My Chemical Romance concert. Fuck. Those eyes hold a world of pain and determination that no kid should ever have to carry.

My chest tightens at the sight of her, a protective instinct I didn't even know I had flaring to life. She looks so small, so out of place among this crowd of dead adults. Behind her looms Orpheus, his dark eyes watchful and predatory as ever. I have to physically stop myself from marching over there and telling him to back the fuck off.

Forcing myself to look away, I continue my survey of the room. Behind each soul stands what I assume are their Gatekeepers - a collection of beings that look like they've been plucked from every mythology and nightmare imaginable. I feel Raphael's presence behind me, a constant reminder of my own celestial babysitter.

As I saunter up to my assigned torture throne - a chunk of obsidian somebody decided to call a chair - I can't help but clock the sideshow around me. Some prize specimens in this cosmic freak show, let me tell you.

Captain Bedhead over there, with his designer stubble and "I woke up like this" hair, is lounging in his chair like he's auditioning for "Afterlife's Next Top Douchebag." He has the nerve to throw me a wink and a salute like we're at some fucked-up summer camp. Yeah, keep smirking, pretty boy. We'll see who's laughing when this shitshow really kicks off.

Next up on our tour of the damned, we've got Xena, Warrior Princess giving me the stink-eye from her matching black rock. Her bronze skin gleams like she's been polished with Pledge, and those eyes are darting around the room like she's counting exits and plotting murder. Maybe she is. Note to self: don't piss off the lady who looks like she eats nails for breakfast and gargles with battery acid.

But the real showstopper is the walking lightbulb planted behind a lectern that looks like it was carved out of pure ego. Holy shitballs, if Vogue did an "Afterlife Chic" issue, this bitch would be on the cover. Her skin has this freaky golden glow, like she's swallowed a tanning bed. And her eyes... fuck me sideways, her eyes are something else.

Solid fucking silver, like someone had poured molten metal into her eye sockets. No pupils, no irises, just two silver dollars boring straight through me. I feel like a bug under a magnifying glass, about to burst into flames from her stare alone. Great. Looks like Madam Shiny here is going to be our ringmaster for this circus of the damned.

"Ah, our final participant arrives," she says, her voice cool and dripping with sarcasm. Every word seems to resonate with power. "How kind of you to grace us with your presence, Jane Doe."

I plaster on my best shit-eating grin, ignoring the way my heart is trying to jackhammer its way out of my chest. "Sorry I'm late," I drawl, sauntering towards my seat. "Traffic was hell. You wouldn't believe the backed-up souls on the highway to purgatory."

I hear Raphael's long-suffering sigh behind me as I flop into my chair, stretching out like it's a poolside lounger instead of a cosmic hot seat. As I settle in, I can feel the weight of everyone's stares. Some curious, some hostile, all assessing. The air crackles with tension and unspoken challenges.

Well, if they want a show, I'll give them one. After all, what do I have to lose? I'm already dead.

"So," I say, examining my nails with feigned nonchalance, "when do we start the hunger games portion of this shindig? I've been dying for some action." I pause, then grin. "Well, more dying, I guess."

The silver-eyed woman's lips tighten almost imperceptibly, a flash of annoyance crossing her perfect features. "All in due time, Ms. Doe," she says, her voice as sharp as a knife wrapped in velvet. "All in due time."

When she looks at me, I feel a chill run down my spine. It's like being dissected by a glacier, her stare cutting through all my bullshit and bravado.

She places her hands flat on the lectern, the numerous silver rings on her fingers glinting in the ethereal light. Each ring, I notice, is different - one shaped like a tiny hourglass, another like a set of scales, others I can't quite make out. Her nails are perfect, polished to a mirror sheen that reflects the floating fireballs above.

"Welcome, wayward souls," she begins, her voice resonating through the chamber with an otherworldly timbre. It's melodious yet authoritative, like a choir master who'd kick your ass if you sang off-key. "You stand at the threshold of a new existence, one fraught with challenges but rich with opportunity."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Great, more cryptic bullshit. Just what I need. I glance around, noticing a few others shifting uncomfortably in their seats. The nervous guy looks like he's about to piss himself, if the dead can even do that.

"The path ahead will test you in ways you cannot yet fathom," she continues, her voice dropping to a near whisper that somehow still carries to every corner of the room. "But know this: every trial, every tribulation, serves a greater purpose. You are here because you have been deemed worthy of a second chance, a rare gift in the grand tapestry of existence."

Her gaze sharpens, and I swear the temperature in the room drops a few degrees. The floating fireballs dim slightly, casting longer shadows across the mosaic floor. "But this gift comes with a price, and the currency is nothing less than your very essence."

She pauses, letting her words sink in. The silence is deafening, broken only by the nervous swallow of the sweaty guy and the subtle creaking of the chairs as people shift uneasily.

Then, with a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes, she says, "I am Madam Eterna, your primary instructor here at Doomstead Abbey. I will be overseeing your education and preparation for the trials to come."

Well, isn't that just perfectly ominous? I glance around the circle again, trying to gauge the reactions of my fellow dead people. The guy who'd winked at me earlier - all tousled hair and cocky grin - looks like he's trying not to laugh. At least someone else finds this as ridiculous as I do. The warrior woman, on the other hand, is leaning forward, hanging on Madam Eterna's every word like it's gospel.

Madam Eterna goes on, her voice rising and falling like a tide, explaining that we're one class of souls out of many. Her silver eyes gleam with something like pride or ambition as she declares her high hopes for our group. She seems determined that we'll be the ones to excel in the upcoming trials, whatever the fuck those are.

"It's good to see you all dressed appropriately," she says, her gaze sweeping over us once more. "Your morticians have done an excellent job. They'll ensure you're always prepared for your lessons and potential challenges."

I glance down at my snazzy new outfit, taking in the subtle armor plating and hidden pockets I hadn't noticed before. Then my eyes drift over to Lily in her mini-commando getup. Yeah, nothing weird about dressing a kid for combat class. Totally normal. I feel a surge of protectiveness, mixed with a healthy dose of what-the-fuck-is-going-on-here.

"The entities standing behind you," Madam Eterna continues, gesturing to the looming figures with a graceful wave of her hand, "are your assigned Gatekeepers. They will assist in your education and provide... guidance throughout your time here."

I barely manage to stifle a snort. Guidance, sure. If by guidance she means 'constant surveillance and intimidation'. I can feel Raphael's presence behind me, a mix of warmth and warning that makes my skin prickle.

"Today's orientation," she says, her voice taking on an almost chipper tone that is somehow more terrifying than her usual ice-queen vibe, "is about getting acquainted with your fellow students and understanding the structure of your education here."

As Madam Eterna continues explaining the importance of both cooperation and individual achievement, her words painting a picture of a cosmic curriculum I can't quite wrap my head around, I find my attention wandering. The chamber seems to pulse with an otherworldly energy, the mosaic floor beneath us shifting subtly, like the patterns are alive.

We're all dead - big fucking woo-hoo there - and apparently hand-picked for some cosmic curriculum that'd make Harvard look like a preschool finger-painting class. But why us? What makes this particular gaggle of ghosts so special? More importantly, what the hell am I doing here?

Last I checked, my greatest achievements were holding the record for most tequila shots at O'Malley's and perfecting the art of the Irish goodbye. Not exactly "savior of the universe" material. Unless the universe needs saving from sobriety, in which case, sign me the fuck up.

As I sit there, marinating in my own confusion and the lingering scent of brimstone, I can't help but wonder: is this some kind of celestial clerical error? Did God's intern fuck up the paperwork? Or is there something in this hot mess of a soul that is actually... worthy?

Nah, couldn't be.

Madam Eterna's voice cuts through my wandering thoughts, sharp as a whip crack. "Before we delve into individual introductions, it's crucial that you understand your position here at Doomstead Abbey."

Madam Glow-in-the-Dark's silver peepers sweep the room like a prison spotlight hunting for escapees. I feel a chill run down my spine, remembering Raphael's warning about being watched and judged. Her gaze pins each of us in place with its unsettling intensity, as if she's cataloging our souls for future reference.

"You thirteen souls before me represent one class among hundreds currently residing within these hallowed walls," Madam Eterna continues, her voice resonating with a hint of pride. "Each class is meticulously curated, every soul selected for its unique potential."

Her lips curve into a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "However, I must be clear - not everyone in this room will graduate to compete in the trials."

A ripple of tension runs through the group. I grip the arms of my chair, my knuckles turning white. We'd known we were competing, but the reality of potential failure hits hard. The nervous guy looks like he might faint.

"As your primary instructor," Madam Eterna's voice takes on a note of steely determination, "I have a reputation to uphold. My classes consistently achieve the highest graduate success rate for the trials, and I intend to maintain that standard."

She gestures towards our outfits with a graceful wave of her hand. "Your attire is not mere coincidence. You've been dressed for the challenges that lie ahead - challenges that will test every facet of your being, push you beyond limits you never knew you had."

Her gaze lingers on each of us in turn, as if assessing our worth. "Some of you will rise to these challenges. Others..." she lets the words hang in the air, heavy with implication, "will find themselves woefully unprepared."

I feel Raphael's presence behind me intensify, a silent reminder of the stakes at play. This isn't just some cosmic boarding school - it's a battleground, and we're the soldiers being prepped for war.

"Your Gatekeepers," Madam Eterna continues, gesturing to the imposing figures behind us, "are not mere chaperones. They are your mentors, your guides through the treacherous landscape of your education here. Heed their counsel wisely, for it may well determine whether you ascend to the trials or... face a less favorable fate."

The room falls silent, the weight of her words settling over us like a shroud. I glance around, seeing a mix of determination, fear, and confusion on the faces of my classmates. The warrior woman looks ready to take on whatever challenges are thrown her way, while the cocky guy's smirk has faltered slightly.

"Now then," Madam Eterna's voice takes on an almost chipper tone that sends shivers down my spine, "let us proceed with introductions. After all, you'll be studying, competing, and quite possibly fighting alongside - or against - one another for the foreseeable future."

Her silver eyes glint with something that might be amusement or anticipation. "Each of you will state your name and the circumstances of your demise. After all, one's death can be quite revealing of their character, don't you think?"

Oh, fan-fucking-tastic. Sharing time in the cosmic kindergarten of the damned. Just what I need - a chance to air out my dirty laundry in front of Hell's Next Top Model lineup. My palms are sweating like I've just arm-wrestled Satan in a sauna.

The thought of spilling my guts - figuratively this time - about how I'd spectacularly fucked up my exit from the mortal coil makes me want to crawl into a hole and die. Again. Maybe I'll get lucky and this time it'll stick.

I slouch in my torture throne, trying to make myself as small as my ego after a night of tequila and bad decisions. "Don't pick me, don't pick me," I chant in my head, feeling like a kid desperate to avoid the dodgeball captain's attention. Except instead of a rubber ball to the face, I'm risking cosmic humiliation. No pressure, right?

Her eyes land on Lily, and I feel a mix of relief and guilt wash over me. "Let's start with our youngest, shall we?" Madam Eterna says, her voice dripping with false sweetness.

As Lily stands up, looking like a Polly Pocket doll next to that obsidian monstrosity of a chair, I feel a wave of relief wash over me. 'Thank fuck it's not me,' I think, then immediately want to punch myself in the face. Real classy, Jane. Throwing a kid to the celestial wolves to save your own sorry ass. Mother Teresa can suck it - I'm gunning for sainthood here. 

Christ on a cracker, I'm already failing Afterlife Ethics 101.