Shoving one last body into the furnace, I switched it on through the control panel.
Click. Hiss. Roar.
The flames always sounded hungrier than I thought they should.
Another family down. Two parents. One kid. All items tagged and bagged. I grabbed the packaging , a recycled cardboard box with "FORENSIC HOLDINGS" stamped in government Helvetica and started folding it together like I was wrapping leftovers.
The case had already been solved it was only right to give back the items and ashes to the loved ones.
They deserved this much. Neat seams. Tight corners. A little dignity in the flame.
Done.
Getting up, I stretched my back with a crack that felt a decade overdue and stepped over to the furnace to shut the panel off.
My hand hovered over the switch. Just a flick was needed.
But something green, wet, not part of the mortal world grabbed my wrist.
I didn't move. I couldn't.
The thing , the green ghoul? slime? it wasn't just holding me. It was peeling something from me.
My soul.
A sharp heat punched through my ribs like my heart had been detonated, and the world cracked open.
A blue light bled out of my chest.
I watched it go for a while.
I watched me go.
My body ragdolled to the floor like someone had just unplugged it, head bouncing softly off the linoleum.
But I, now this glowing, shivering silhouette of electric blue was still being held. Still tethered.
Then, with all the grace of a toilet flushing, I was yanked into the furnace.
---
That's how I got here.
A no man's land.
Endless, oozing green. Thick as envy, cold as congealed fat. The air doesn't move here. The sky's just a blanket of slime above your head, and time? Forget it. No clocks in purgatory.
I floated, mostly.
You'd think I'd panic, right? Scream, weep, break apart?
But… I didn't. My situation just felt odd.
At first, I just drifted. Let the goo push and pull me like a tide without purpose. No goals. No deadlines. Just vibes and neon regret.
I used to be a forensic scientist or investigator. Sort of.
I wasn't a cremation specialist, I'd only been helping out a buddy who was short-staffed — third shift, county lab, temporary transfer. I didn't even like the smell of burnt protein, but I went along with it. Like I usually did.
That's the thing, I guess. I'd mostly been going with the flow.
That's how I got my job in the first place. Fell into it. Good with puzzles, decent at blood work, liked quiet hallways. No one ever questioned it.
But boredom is a scalpel. It carves things open.
Even your own life.
I used to ask myself why I joined. What was I trying to prove? Who was I trying to impress?
The answer came slower than the green slime drift. I didn't hate my job but if felt like something was missing.
Then, like a dropped paint can splattering open —pop— the green burst like a soap bubble, and I fell into black.
Nothing. No gravity. No shape. Just… cold and quiet.
Until I saw something glowing in the distance.
I floated closer.
It was a chest?
Not a metaphor. Could be a hallucination. An actual wooden chest with gold trim and a clicky lock. Every gamer bone in my soul went stiff with instinct.
I opened it.
Inside were three brilliant orange spheres.
To any normal person they could be anything but to anyone whos touched anime they where undoubtedly, Dragon Balls.
No Shenron. No flash of thunder. Just the balls. Glowing. Waiting.
I didn't hesitate.
If this was real — if this meant anything , I knew what to wish for.
First wish? Hmm let's test if it's real.
"To cook like Sanji."
That's right. That Sanji.
I'd always wanted to cook, like REALLY cook. The kind of cooking where flavors sang and knives danced. The kind of cooking that made people cry and then eat more.
I blinked , and just like that, I knew.
Every spice ratio. Every pan flip. Every cut of meat and every temperature curve. It wasn't just muscle memory. It was soul memory. My hands felt hungry in the best way. They ached to saute.
I laughed, a real one. "Yo-hohoho," I sang, "I'm freakin' dangerous now."
And then I stopped.
Because now that I had something I wanted… I started wondering why I hadn't chased it before.
Why forensic science? Why coroner's reports and bone saws? Why did I spend my twenties elbow-deep in the dead instead of the living?
It wasn't the pay. It wasn't the glamor. It sure as hell wasn't the lab coffee.
It was the mystery.
The unsolved.
The question behind the blood. I needed to know why things fell apart.
And I guess… I wanted to fix something. Even if it was just naming the damage.
My second wish came quiet.
"I wish for a Stand."
I'd heard about them , JoJo stuff. A friend, actually the same one, from college wouldn't shut up about 'em. "A power that represents your soul," he said. "Not a weapon — a reflection."
So I wished for one.
Nothing happened.
No spark. No echo. No ghostly punchmen. Just… me.
I stood there, blinking at my hands. Nope no shimmers. I checked my back, no transformation.
Maybe the wish failed.
Or maybe the Stand was just invisible.
Or maybe… it was already there.
I stared down at the final glowing ball. The third wish. My last shot.
I hesitated.
What did I really want?
Money? No. Love? Too easy. Power? Boring.
What did I need?
I exhaled. Deep. Slow.
"I wish to be transported into the Scooby-Doo world."
The words felt strange, like I hadn't said them in a decade but they'd always lived in my throat.
That was it. That was *why* I became a forensic scientist.
I loved mystery. Loved adventure.
I wanted what those meddling kids had: the bonds, the inside jokes, the unspoken loyalty. A crew.
A family.
The glow intensified.
The third ball cracked like porcelain, spilling orange light into the void.
And then —
Pain.
Not fire. Not knives. Just the ache of being rewritten from the atoms outward. Bones warped, skin stretched, voice cracked like it was shifting through puberty in reverse.
I was changing.
---
I woke up hungry.
Like, devastated, rib-sucking hungry.
I smelled… pancakes?
I opened my eyes and found I was looking at an old mirror framed with dusty postcards. My face was not my face.
Thin, long-jawed. Stubble. Wide brown eyes.
**Shaggy Rogers.**
My heart stumbled.
I sat up. The bed creaked beneath me. Dust motes danced in sunlight filtering through crooked blinds.
The room was painfully familiar. Posters of B-movies on the walls. A bean bag chair . A lava lamp. A fridgerator bed.
I was here.
And then I heard someone, a voice.
"Like, you good, man?"
I turned, slowly.
—
Author Note- ooo cliff hanger, anyways expect the unexpected and enjoy, previous chapters are officially deleted. And did you know the older scooby doo is apparently after mystery Incorporated? Who knew??