It is one of life's great ironies that so often, just as one finally has one's ducks in a row, Fate comes along and slaps you on the arse. So it was to be for Fred. He had handed in his notice, turning his back on his classical training and his job, to set sail for distant shores and new adventure. Excitement bubbled in his soul, and at this very moment a ticket to New York rested in his pocket. Flush with happiness he hurried along the dark passages of the theatre, breathing in the heady scent of freedom and blissfully unaware that he was about to die.

While not the sort of attractive you could fry eggs on, Fred had a leanly muscled appeal that, when coupled with his natural brooding charisma, made people want to exist in his orbit. Especially when he was onstage. When he was onstage, the world shifted slightly to accommodate his gravitational pull. When he danced, accountants had been known to weep, elderly spinsters fanned themselves with their programmes, and young children forgot their sweets. Offstage his character and physicality were less imposing. His shoulders hunched, his eyes lost their hawkish intensity in exchange for a dreamy thoughtfulness, and his casual wardrobe made people think that, at a glance, he was a vagabond about to rifle through their pockets for loose change. Likewise, his slow panther tread might, by those lacking in powers of observation, be mistaken for that of a common household tabby. Occasionally he tripped over things.

Fred stumbled now, as he made his way along the dusty corridors that connected the director's office to the great stage of the Royal Opera House. The mop of his dark hair fell in his eyes momentarily obscuring his view of the dimly lit passageway. Smelling faintly of greasepaint and disinfectant, it was the perfect place for a deserted and unloved pair of shoes, their owner nowhere in sight.

"Damn shoes," Fred swore under his breath, but more out of habit than anger, and kicked the offending pair of pointe shoes to one side, "Damn shoes, cluttering up the place. What next! Someone will fall and break their neck!"

But he was too happy to get terribly worked up about it. He bounded down the corridor and leapt up the flight of stairs to the wings. Pausing in the darkness he examined the empty stage before him. A grin crept onto his face and he whistled tunelessly under his breath.

"One last time," he whispered in reverence.

With the same formidable athleticism that had made him famous among balletomanes, he barreled across the stage, circling round and round before coming to a triumphant finish on one knee, one pale, tattooed arm thrust skyward and his face angled toward the sparkle of the great chandelier. It hung resplendent and unlit in the vacuous darkness of the auditorium. As Fred breathed heavily through his nose, enjoying the moment, the chandelier moved slightly and a few motes of dust fell into the plush of the velvet seats below.

Unseen in the wings, Death tip-toed nearer, the morbid rustle of her black tutu unheard amidst the grander, deeper silence of the cavernous auditorium. Not for Fred were the bright lights of Hollywood and Broadway. Not for Fred was old age and a sweet, peaceful passing surrounded by loved ones. The skeletal ivory of Death's fingers gleamed white in the darkness as she picked at the frayed safety rope that held aloft the massive chandelier. And then – it was done. With a whoosh the safety cable snapped, the chandelier shifted and groaned before plummeting down.

The last thing Fred saw was a mass of sparkling lights crashing towards him. He stared up, mesmerized by the sight of seven tonnes of bronze and crystal before it landed on him with a squelched thud. He carried the vision with him into the night, those sharp edged twinkling lights leading him into the beyond.

The pain did not last long.

BLACK.

He floated in the nothing, warm and content. How did he know he was warm? The thought was gone as soon as it arrived. It was enough to know that he was warm. There was a distant memory of pain. There was something about lights, he couldn't quite recall.

Fred opened his eyes. He blinked.

"Name?"

His body was there, whole and sound. He clutched his arms, his face, fingers groping and finding only smooth skin. He patted his chest, his stomach. Everything was where it should be. His tattoos were all still where he remembered them. Why had he imagined otherwise? Why did it feel like there should be a mess of flesh and ragged, bleeding edges?

"Name!"

The voice belonged to a soberly dressed woman seated behind a wooden counter. She glared at him through half-moon pince-nez, her eyes dull and uninterested. Light from a flickering computer screen cast her face in unflattering angles. A giant banner hung up on the wall behind her that read: Entertainment Before Justice. A bored looking teenage girl stood next to her, glaring at him. There was an impatient wrinkle stuck on her nose and she looked down at Fred even though she was shorter than him, as if she knew things he'd never understand. Probably some sort of intern.

Fred looked behind him, down a long line of bemused people. He seemed to be standing in a queue in some sort of post office. Or maybe a government office. The air was stale with the smell of old coffee and bureaucracy. Most of the people behind him were elderly.

An old lady behind him nudged him with her elbow.

"Go on, there's a good lad," she said. "You're holding up the line."

"I can assign you a name, if you like," said the woman behind the counter. She pushed her glasses up her nose with a sigh and glowered at him over the scuffed wood. "Let's see... Kiss-My-Axe is available... Player_ 83, always a classic?"

"Dildo Swaggins," said the intern, from besides her. The young woman snorted into her sleeve.

"My name is Fred," Fred said with some alarm. Frederick, actually but everyone called him Fred. He shook his head, trying to figure out what was happening. Was the stress of the last few days getting to him? That last argument with the director? With his ex-girlfriend? Had he nodded off in his dressing room? Maybe he had been playing too many games. This must be a bad dream. He poked his arm again. The flesh felt warm, it felt real.

"Intelligent Zombie," said the girl, and snorted again.

"Fred is taken," said the woman, peering at her screen. "You'll have to come up with something else. How old were you Fred?"

"Twenty five," said Fred. "Hang on, what do you mean–"

"The Fredinator," said the girl. She squinted at Fred more closely. "Or Plithering Hogbandit."

"Fine," said the woman, tapping away at her keyboard. "The Fredinator is fine. Why don't you go and put the kettle on, Agnes? Welcome to the Reincarnation Station, The Fredinator," she said, turning back to Fred. Her voice flat and monotonous.

"The... what?"

She stabbed a pen at the gold leafed sign on the desk, that he hadn't noticed before.

"The Reincarnation Station. Welcome to your new life, Entertainment Before Justice, we are happy you are here, et cetera, et cetera," she rattled off. "I am the Administrator. It's my job to sort you out. Now let's have a look at your stats."

"My – what?"

"Your stats. Let's see what you've been up to." She stabbed the air and a translucent blue box appeared in front of Fred, hovering in the air and bathing the drab office in an eerie light.

"Oh, you worked in the theatre," she said, raising her eyebrows. "She'll like that."

"She will? Who?"

"The boss," said Agnes the intern, who had come back with two mugs of coffee. She slopped one down on the desk in front of the Administrator and stood to one side slurping noisily and staring up at Fred's stat sheet. "Big on the theatre, the boss is," she said, turning her wide, dark brown eyes on Fred. He didn't like the way she looked at him. It made him feel small and naked, as if she was sizing him up for... he didn't know what, so he turned his attention to the glowing square.

"I was just the janitor," he lied.

"Oh, that's a shame," said the Administrator, turning away. "But let's see what we've got to work with."

She tapped a pen against her cheek.

Lies Told: 34820

Lovers: 1.5

Existential Dread: 85%

Randomized Guilt: 41%

Ice cream consumed: 759 pounds

Condensed Milk Bathed In: 520 gallons

"Now that last one is a stat we don't see often." Agnes and the Administrator turned to Fred with admiring eyes. He shrugged, his cheeks turning rosy.

"It was a phase," he muttered.

"Alright, what class would you like," said the Administrator.

"Excuse me?"

"With these stats you have the choice of Rogue, Bard or..." she squinted at the screen, "...Monk."

"Ouch," said Agnes.

Fred stared at them in confusion. It was definitely a dream. Any moment he would wake up, warm in his bed. This was the universe's way of telling him cheese on toast was a poor choice of midnight snack. At any moment he would wake up. Any moment now. He squeezed his eyes shut and counted to ten. Then he opened them again. Everything was the same. The two women staring at him over the counter. The weird office.

"We haven't got all day," said the Administrator. "What will it be?"

"I can't sing," Fred said, desperately. He felt like he was losing his grip. This was definitely a stress dream. The next thing he knew he would be standing in front of his high school class in his underpants trying to sing the national anthem backwards.

The Administrator looked at him over the top of her glasses, and spoke very slowly, as if to a young child.

"If you can't sing, then I suggest you don't pick Bard."

"Fine, fine," he said, hysteria bubbling up his throat, threatening to overwhelm him. What did it matter anyway? It was just a dream. "Monk," he said.

The Administrator brought down a large stamp across the piece of paper in front of her with a satisfying thunk. The word Monk was firmly stamped across the print out in big red letters. "Wait, wait," he said, suddenly gripped by the thought he had made a mistake. "What can monks do?"

"You'll find out," said the Administrator. She thrust the piece of paper at him and leaned back in her seat. Without breaking eye contact she bellowed. "Next!"

Fred jumped, and fumbled, nearly dropping the piece of paper. The old lady behind him nudged him gently out of the way.

"The Fredinator, you’re holding up the queue."

"But where do I go? What do I do?"

The Administrator sighed.

"To the Prop Master," she said, gesturing to a door that Fred could have sworn did not exist five seconds before. It was labeled EXIT in a flickering electronic light.

"Thank you," he muttered, although he wasn't sure what he was thanking her for, and he went through it.

The Prop Master's room had grimy pea-green walls, and rows of shelving stacked high with battered cardboard boxes. They were labeled with things like 'odd socks', 'new shoes, paired', 'size 11 chainmail' and further down the line the more intriguing 'underpants for bad boys'. It had the air of a large city bus depot's lost and found.

A young man sat in the middle of the chaos, attending to a teetering pile of garments with a needle and thread. He leapt up at Fred's approach and beamed at him.

"Hello, hello," he said. "Welcome to your new life! Busy morning! Did you come in with the earthquake crowd?"

"Um, no," said Fred. "At least, I don't think so." He frowned, trying to remember. Something important, he had been on his way to do something important. At least, it had felt important at the time. Now it felt immaterial and he was having trouble recalling his last moments. Everything was a bit of a blur. At least he felt warm.

"No matter," said the Prop Master. "Let me see what I can do for you."

The Prop Master snatched the paper out of Fred's hand and stared at it intently, his lips moving soundlessly as he read the words on the page. "I see, I see. I have just the stuff," he said, his face brightening and bustled off into a side room.

The sounds of clanging and banging could be heard within and moments later he emerged, carrying a rusty bucket, a pair of sandals that looked like they were held together with bits of string, an old shirt and trousers, and a long stainless-steel ladle. The Prop Master handed them across with great ceremony. Fred stood holding them uncertainly. The material felt odd in his hands. He felt odd.

"You can change over there."

The Prop Master gestured encouragingly to a small, curtained cubicle hung about with moth eaten velvet curtains in the same drab green as the walls.

"This is all I get?" Fred asked, without moving. He stared down at the ladle with curious eyes. This had to be a dream. A nightmare. Any moment his alarm clock would wake him and he would open his eyes to find himself in the familiar surrounds of his London flat. He shut his eyes hopefully, and then opened them again.

"Oh yes, this is also for you." The Prop Master handed Fred a large shoulder satchel. "Thanks for reminding me! We're a bit short right now, but... er yes. Should do you just fine." The man beamed at Fred. Fred stared back at him, torn between numbness and a growing urge to punch the Prop Master in the stomach. But then he looked down at the small satchel, ashamed. After all it wasn't the Prop Master's fault he had died that morning. If he had died that morning.

The satchel was brown and rather battered. Something rattled within and Fred looked inside. There was a small tea spoon rolling around the bottom. He held it up and looked at the Prop Master inquiringly.

"A gift from the previous owner, I assume," he said. "Keep it or not, as you will."

He winked.

Fred stared at the spoon. It was unremarkable and dull. The handle was beginning to tarnish. But it was all he owned in the world besides the ladle and the tatty clothes.

"What happened to the previous owner?" he asked. The Prop Master shrugged.

"Presumably they upgraded their equipment," he said. "Or they died... again." He sucked on the end of his pen for a moment. "Yes, it will be one or the other."

"Died? I thought we were already dead?" The Prop Master looked uncomfortable.

"Well, yes," he said. "In a sense." He flapped his hands at Fred. "Now off you go! I'll have another customer coming through any moment! Busy morning, busy morning!"

Smiling he made a shooing motion with his hands, ushering Fred into the changing room.

Once inside, Fred changed as quickly as possible.

"I don't suppose," he yelled over the manky velvet curtain. "That I could just keep my own clothes?"

"Oh no," said the Prop Master, sounding shocked. "That wouldn't do at all. Against the rules, couldn't possibly, oh no. They’ve got to be incinerated. No mortal clothing in the game, it messes with the stuffing. Nasty business. Keep your clothes and you might end up worse than dead. Might end up... " The Prop Master shuddered. "No, can’t have it. No mortal clothes."

Feeling rather grumpy Fred got dressed and emerged five minutes later in his not-so-fine clothing. He waved his ladle at the man and did that weird knee bend so familiar to all men trying to adjust trousers that don't quite fit. They were made of sack-cloth, he was almost sure of it. They were going to chafe.

"What now?" he asked, feeling ridiculous, but then he had worn worse things on stage. He breathed out through his nostrils and pretended it was a role. Or an audition. Something. Meanwhile the Prop Master gestured to a small, squat, sludge-green door at the far end of a long passage. The words 'Start' were written across in silver script which gleamed in the low light. It was the only lovely thing in the place.

"Okay," said Fred, his nerves getting the better of him. "I just – I don't really understand what is going on."

"What do you mean?"

"I– I'm dead?"

"Yes?"

"So what am I doing here?"

"Playing a game?"

"What on earth do you mean?"

"You must want another go," said the Prop Master, furrowing his brow. "Or you wouldn't be here."

"Another go at what?"

"Life!" said the Prop Master. "This is the Reincarnation Station! Play to Live! Welcome to Your Next Life!" They blinked at each other in mutual confusion. "Surely you must have read the paperwork. There are pamphlets in the waiting room."

"I don't–"

"Never mind!" said the Prop Master, with false cheeriness. He checked his watch and then looked back at the door. "Time to be getting on! Adventures to be had! Lives to be lived, et cera et cetera!"

"But– but how do I know what to do?"

"If you need help," the Prop Master said firmly, propelling him down the corridor. "Ask for Help."

"Is that not what I'm doing right now?" said Fred, somewhat hysterically. "Help! Help! I'm being repressed!"

"Not here," he said, with a chuckle, coming to a stop in front of the door. "When you are in the dungeon."

"The dungeon," Fred repeated flatly. "What dungeon?"

"You'll see," the Prop Master said and pushed Fred through the door marked START, slamming it shut behind him.