Ruiz madly clutched at his chest, eyes wide, floating in a featureless void, panting, shivering, cold, cold, cold, Ruiz was DAMNED cold, cooler than cool should hence beget, as though his eyes would swell from the expansion of the ice inside and rupture his optics entirely, as though the blood in his veins would superheat and fill the world with red mist, as though a single knock would collapse him from his existential triple point and collapse him into a mystery state.
As though he'd died.
He glanced at his wrist and saw nothing but his bare arm, hairs raised and bumped with goosepimples, no watch, no shirt, no shoes, no service. Damn it all to hell… but then, that's not where he'd ended up. Ruiz reached out into the void and felt…
mu.
Endless, glorious, chaotic, silent, blackened, blinding… mu.
"Welcome to paradise. Nothings upon nothings."
Ruiz turned his head to see himself, older and greying.
"Howdy. I am the light that flashes before your eyes when you go - please, no flesh photography. I am your final death, in a million aeons and at the start of time, and I'll guide you to the next set and setting."
"Where are we?"
"There's no 'we' here, nor where, nor even "are", or tense, or anchoring. It's just us. It's just… you. Welcome to the most dismal of afterlives: a semantic untethering to your own little corner of Meinong's jungle, occupied only by the person you hate the most. Me, you, and the rest of them."
The freshly culled Ruiz pondered, watching his parallel selves pop in and out of death in the distance.
"I thought I'd warrant hell."
"Oh, gosh, no. You weren't evil or cruel, though you sure as shit weren't kind. You were a creature of pure reactionary impetus. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction, and so the end of you… is more of you. Funny, no?"
"Wait, how did I die? The ending is a haze."
"Suicide by shower. Worst way to go. Won't be the last, though! You've many more deaths ahead of you yet, and behind you, in so far as forwards and backwards and futures and pasts have tenses. No, you're just to float here until your… Ruizerrection."
"That's a nice turn of phrase."
"Thanks! A translational readymade of my own volition."
"So what's the return trip, then? Immortality through works and consequent reincarnation, or…?"
"Now, see, you were to ride out of here on an Arc words, but Dark hijacked them - Iris, you'll meet her later - except an alternate Dark, from another timeline, that leveraged the existing semantic framework for cheap power. I guess the words were too obvious, so we'll have to switch boats. She doesn't realise she's headed to the un-mu of screaming silences."
Ruiz and Ruiz glanced around at the world that felt like nothing because nothing was what it was.
"A good thing you didn't end up there, amongst the wolves and serpents."
"So how do I get back?"
"Oh, that's… that's Pico, this time, actually. Well, actually, Overgang by commission? Turns out he sussed soulwork from first principles."
Overgang Dood maneuvered the penny deftly betwixt his fingers. Pico Wilson stood proud but gaunt in the barn, covered in sawdust, having long since taken up carpentry in the tradition of a butcher. (If it helps, envision woodchips as chunky vegetal viscera.) Overgang sighed.
"So you're gonna make Ruiz into a Pinocchio."
The detailed but unpainted wooden simulacra of Ruiz Duchamp was suspended from the roof, dangling from the neck as though hanged by noose.
"Broadly speaking, yes. The animistic mechanism worked with your Trump souls, at least."
Pico gestured at the smoldering orange kindling in the corner and continued.
"Look, I know you and Bohemia Squad in the van are keen to, I dunno, help Ms Frizzle track down Carmen Sandiego or whatever the fuck it is you do on your off days. I have the cash, you have the soul-grabbing mitts. Make with the semantic antics and let's bring my brother back from the grave."
Overgang counted the bills in the stack, then counted the stacks in the briefcase.
"How did you end up this rich?"
"Turns out people love paying me to give them wood."
Pico winked and smirked a half-open grin. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth; he coughed, and wiped it away.
"In honesty, bespoke furniture manufacture is surprisingly lucrative."
"CUT ME DOWN, SHITHEAD"
"Sorry, brother! My snipping days are behind me, of late I tend to whittle."
"PRATTLE'S MORE LIKE IT, DOUCHEBAG"