House Call

Death is many things when it comes to different people, but more than anything he is patient. He has waited lifetimes for individuals to be ready, to come to him in earnestness so they can move on.
But in himself, he detests lateness and sloth. Is reviled by any indication of sluggishness or laziness.
So perhaps that is why, as his album spun to its end and he sat in his comfortable chair, he was already beginning to squirm. Though he could not hear it, he could see the phone ringing, on and on, waiting for his answer. For his next job. But had he not earned this rest? Had he not worked tirelessly, for eons? Was this little joy really too much to ask?
But somewhere deep inside him, he knew the answer would be yes, yes it was.
And so, with increasing irritability, he finished listening to his album, staring at the phone. The final song did not even register in his mind, replaced with nothing but the ongoing, unending, unstoppable ring of the phone, calling him back to work. His fingers tightened on the arms of the chair, but he refused to let them take him before he was ready. His stubbornness gave him that much resolve, at least. As much as it pained him, he would not let them interrupt this. This one little rebellion.
Finally, the record played out, the needle silently sliding along un-recorded grooves. He arose from his chair with a sigh, although if it was one of frustration or relief even he was unsure. He carefully removed the headphones, and placed them gently beside the record player, lifting the needle and turning the device off. His ears, or what was once his ears, slowly filled with the interminable ringing that matched the noise in his mind.
He strode over to the phone and stood square before it, making a choice.
A deep breath in, and he lifted the receiver. Slowly, he put it to his head and waited for the instruction.
"You are old enough to be asking questions." The voice on the line said flatly.
Death cocked his head, confused. "Who is this?"
"Why aren't you?"
Death's jaw opened, shut, opened again, and closed once more.
"If not you, then whom?" The voice said with finality. There was a click, and the line went dead.
Death held the phone out to look at it. No-one had ever called him on this phone, save for work. Ever.
He put the receiver back on its hook, and stared at the device. The voice wanted to know why he wasn't asking questions, but right now he only had one in mind. As it played through his head, a shiver ran down his ancient spine.
Who can call Death at home?

Shadrak

He was below decks in his quarters when the shout came up. A flicker of hope filled his mind, but was quickly contained in a cage of rationality. They had been wrong before.  Carefully he put away his inks and instruments, rolled up his parchments, and placed them in their proper containers. Just as he was finishing, the knock on his door came.

"Come," he barked at the door. It swung open quickly but carefully, and in the frame was the bosun.

"Land, sir," the bosun smiled widely, betraying his joy at the prospect of being free from their journey.

"Hmm," replied the captain. He finished calmly putting away his parchments and turned towards the door. Absentmindedly he fingered the large ring he bore on his pinky finger. He nodded, but could not return the smile.

The two of them emerged from the belly of the ship into the bright sunlight of the day. The crew was quietly jubilant, not wanting to disturb their captain but unable to contain their joy. At last his eyes adjusted, and on the horizon he saw it.

The glittering Golden City. At last.

A smile cracked his lips. There was naught it could be but their goal. Freedom at last.

"Start the ritual." He ordered the crew, who immediately erupted into thrilled shouts. They cleared the spell circle in the centre of the ship and rushed to gather the components.

The captain toyed once more with his overlarge ring, and turned to the bosun.

"Would you do the honours?" He asked, pulling out his knife and handing it handle-first to the bosun. His eyes lit up with surprise and respect.

"I would consider it a privilige, sir." He took the intricate knife, and bowed deeply to his captain. The two moved to the centre of the circle.

The two men looked into each other's eyes with the pride of a job well done, and the bosun slit his captain's throat with the blade in a single, vicious, practised strike. As he fell to the floor, blood gushing from his neck, the captain made no action to stem the red tide. Instead, he pulled the ring from his finger, and placed it in the bosun's hand.

The two shared a last look of profound respect, and the captain's blood ignited the arcane circle etched in the ship's deck. Out of the mystic circle came the dessicated face of the Emperor-Dead, gazing down upon the crew with polite disinterest.

The bosun slid the ring on his pinky, and felt it clamp down with an almost living strength. He stood up straight, and spoke to the image of his ruler.

"This is captain Shadrak of the Dereth Pride, and I am pleased to report that we have found the Golden City for you, my Lord." He bowed to the image, which flickered in reds and blues before him, an ancient face that ever so slightly betrayed a sense of excitement at the news.

Mishak

I have loved you for a thousand years, oh Queen mine.

I let my desiccated hand delicately trace the fine lines of your face in the painting once more. The exquisite agony of the memory of your flesh on mine ripples down my arm into my heart, and I am strengthened by it. As I have always been. As I will always be. My eyes take in the burns on your painting, my greatest shame. I could not even protect your image.

But your face remains, and it is enough. A thousand years, I have forgotten not one freckle, not one line. A smile threatens to crack the dry skin of my face, but it is tempered by my patience.

There can be no joy without you. The last ten centuries have proven this.

I fold my arms into my sleeves, and stare into your eyes. Soon.

I do not know how long I spend with you on this day. Or those days? Time has become such a nuisance. An impediment to progress. But I am nothing if not patient. I am patient, for you.

At last, my mind is sufficiently filled with your divine beauty for me to continue my work, and I can turn away from you. For now. The ache settles instantly in my heart, but I can bear this burden for now. As my ancient eyes adjust to the light, I see an assistant scuttling towards me, his boots clicking on the stone floor.

"Sir?" He asks quietly, not sure if I have been roused from my reverie. I nod slowly, to show my attention is on him. He gulps, and holds out a scroll. With a flick of my wrist, it levitates from him to hover before my face. I cannot read it.

Sigh. The glasses.

I reach in to my robes, and pull out a pair of golden rimmed spectacles. A quick polish on my flowing robes, and I place them on my dried face. The words congeal from blurry lines into a flowing, precise script.

The fourth cask has been unearthed. I nod my approval. Soon I will allow myself a smile, I think.

I hand the nervous assistant back his note. He bows respectfully, and begins to back away.

"Mishak," I call his name out, and he freezes. His eyes rise to meet mine, wide and anxious. "It is nearly time. Have the altar prepared."

"Aye sir." He replies swiftly, once again bowing.

"And when you have finished," I continue calmly, replacing my glasses in the cloak. "Bring me your daughter."

Mishak's face brightens visibly, and he stands a little straighter. "Thank you, sir!"

Your painting tugs at me from behind, but I do not turn. I cannot be lost in memories now, not when things are so close. Mishak's daughter has already suffered overlong due to my childish reveries.

"Your service has been impeccable. It is past time she was cured, I can only apologize for my tardiness." I bow my head slightly.

"No apologies necessary, your Worship," he bows deeply, thrilled, before turning to run off and complete his task.

I watch him scuttle out, his zeal renewed by the love of his family and the knowledge that his work will bring them the relief they deserve. My bones ache. You call to me, in the painting.

But I cannot be with you now, my Queen. Soon.

I have loved you for a thousand years, and soon I will tell you so in person.

The Monster in the Mountain

There is a monster, they said.

The mountain has slept for generations, a peaceful reign long enough for the people to prosper and outgrow their town. Long enough for them to spread up the mountainside, and make use of its fertile soil and dense forest.

The people spread and grew like a tide, rising up the mountain, while it continued to slumber. It had slept so long that all said it would never again wake.

It was only grandfather's grandfathers grandfathers fathers that had seen the living mountain in it's rage, and they had died long past. Now it slept the forever sleep. It was obvious.

So when the thing came to the town and was cast out, when it stumbled up the mountainside away from the people, when it disappeared and the mountain woke with thunder and fire, all was clear.

It was a monster, they said.

As I climbed the ten thousand steps, as I crossed rivers of fire that ran through houses that were, as I drew my cloak across my mouth to combat the noxious breath of the mountain, I could not argue. What could cause this much destruction, this much loss, but a creature of the vilest hells.

And here I stand, sword drawn, at the mouth of the cave it has made its home. Bathed in the orange light of the searing earthblood, fatigued by the oppressive heat, swaying with the shuddering earth, I stand ready. I can see the thing now.

It is a monster.

Its body is twisted and hunched in a painful attempt to hide from the scene unfolding around it. Its clothes tatters and rags of singed fabric, barely holding together on its gaunt frame. Worst of all, its face is contorted in a grotesque mask of pain and fear. I can see in its wet eyes the same shame and sadness that threatened to take me, once. And in that moment, I know what I must do with my sword.

I cast it aside, and step towards the boy. He cannot have seen any more summers than I, barely in his teens. He tries to recoil, but I'm too fast. My hand reaches his shoulder, and I bring him to me in a tight embrace. I press him to me, holding him firm.

The heat is almost unbearable, I can feel my skin beginning to burn all across me, but I will not let go. The cave erupts with flame and heat, the mountain shakes, and the cavern echoes with screams of loss and sadness. I grip him tight. It is too much. I drop to my knees. But I will not give up.

The moment comes that I think I might lose consciousness, and in that blistering moment of heat and panic, the mountain goes silent. The fire dies, the earthblood cools back to stone, and the thunder that pealed across the sky is replaced with the quiet sobbing of a boy, cursed to be a sorcerer by an uncaring world.

I open my burned eyes. Everything hurts. I loosen my grip on the young sorcerer, but do not let go. He buries his head in my shoulder, and I do not stop him. I rest my head on his, and pat him on the back reassuringly.

"It's going to be alright," I lie to the boy, in accordance with the Divine Book of the Platinum Dragon.

On the Path

"Aren't you hot in that big bear coat?" she asked, not taking her eyes off the thin ledge the three of them were traversing. A pebble, carelessly kicked, tumbled away and fell the hundreds of feet down the side of the living mountain they were working their way across.

The squire clutched at the fur of his great coat absent-mindedly. "A little. But it reminds me of a time I was colder than cold, and that keeps me content." He replied, stepping with surety across the cracking path they were taking. He reached back, to help his compatriots across.

The first was a tiny young thief-girl. She deftly hopped the crevice, without even acknowledging the offer of assistance.

The other was a ranger, clearly out of place on the burning mountainside. With every roaring eruption she cast her glance upwards to the fiery explosions at the top. Her footing was sure and silent, as it always was, but her eyes moved constantly, betraying her discomfort with the stone and the fire that threatened to end them at any moment. The squire knew she must be truly worried when she took his hand without question or complaint. The Ranger was fiercely independent, and uniquely capable. She had refused every offer of assistance he had ever offered her.

But here, on the edge of the smoking mountain, she placed her hand in his without thinking. He helped her across, and when her surprisingly soft hand left his, the thought of it remained in his head.

He shook himself, and adjusted the sword and shield he bore under his coat, hustling to catch up to the Thief.

"Do you think it's really a Demon?" the Thief called back as she nimbly picked her way over the rocks. The path was becoming increasingly treacherous as the mountain shifted and cracked. A thunderous roar erupted from the top, and a new collection of magma was thrust into the air, carried to the other side of the mountain by the winds. The Squire quietly praised Bahamut for his protection and grace.

"Hopefully it's nothing, Fa'ar." the Squire replied. But he gripped the handle of his sword, remembering the testimony of the townsfolk. They had spoken of a demon that had wandered into the town, crackling with arcane energy. It wailed and wandered, destroying everything it touched, until the faithful of the town were able to drive it out towards the mountain. They had thought themselves finished, until the mountain woke.

Could be a coincidence.

Could be a demon.

The Squire set his jaw, and carried on.

"But what if it IS a Demon?" Fa'ar continued inquisitively.

"Then we do our duty." the Ranger answered, with a finality that Fa'ar understood.

Silence fell, and the three of them worked their way up the increasingly unstable pass, to the mouth of the mountain.

The Moment's Truth

Doe was padding silently through the forest, just as The Ranger had taught her. Her ears stretched out between the trees around her, seeking and searching for the dinner she was supposed to bring back. Her eyes travelled slowly over the foliage around her but she paid little attention to them. They were too easily fooled in the forest.

Too easily wooed, The Ranger had told her.

He was immune, of course. For he had burned his heart and it was black. The forest held no beauty for him, only treachery and death. And it was his job to make sure that the forest claimed no more victims than it had. Keep the trods clear. Shepherd the vicious things from the paths of Men. Rescue the fools that wandered from the path, and became lost.

It was this that Doe was learning from The Ranger. But she refused to learn his hate. She paused in her search for a moment, so that she could open her eyes. Really open, and see. See the forest for what it was.

The colours, the patterns. The life that was, that is, and that is budding to be. The ancient and the new, intertwined at her feet and for miles around. The ever continuing motion, the immemorial stillness. It was beautiful to her. The Ranger could no longer see like this, and she pitied him for it. He had cut himself off from the majesty of the forest so that he would not be consumed by it. But Doe would not be consumed. Doe would walk The Ranger's path, but she would not be bound by it. Doe would not become the hate that The Ranger wanted her to be. Doe would learn all that she could from The Ranger, and she would learn all she could from the forest. And then she would be ready. So she revelled, for a moment, in the beauty around her. The majesty was intoxicating.

But distracting, she admitted. She closed herself to the beauty, and forced her eyes to see only the truth. Her truth, this moment's truth.

The tracks.

Dinner had passed through here not long ago. Doe smirked to herself.

It would pass back this way before long, on her shoulders. Less than an hour out hunting, and she was almost ready to return with enough food for days.

Let him find a problem with that, she thought to herself as she slung her bow off her back and slid silently into the trees in pursuit of her prey.

Grace

"Where's Charon?"

"Guess." Replied Anubis, without looking up from his paperwork. His corner office was magnificently appointed, but the grandeur was marred by his ill mood and the piles of paperwork that had overflowed from his inbox, across his desk and even on to the two comfortable chairs across from him. His fountain pen ran out and he tossed it aside, pulling a cheap Bic disposable from the canopic jar on his desk and sighing at the injustice of it all.

"Don't tell me the Baron got him to-"

"Go on one of his 'adventures' again? Indeed." Anubis growled. "And now my office is short two staff, and everything's backed up. Again." He snorted, and tossed the cheap pen down on the table angrily. The canid-headed Egyptian god leaned back, and pushed his glasses up onto his forehead so he could rub his eyes.

"I'm terribly sorry to add to your workload, but..."

"Death?" Anubis let his glasses drop back as his eyes went wide. "I didn't realize! I'm so sorry!" He lept up from his chair, and made his way around the desk to the door where the black bulk of Death stood. The two shook hands heartily. Anubis smiled widely, exposing his razor sharp teeth. Death politely returned the gesture. Anubis invited him in with a gesture. "What brings you to my humble office?"

"Well, I came to see Charon but he wasn't in his cubicle, so I thought you might know-"

"Yes of course, of course! So sorry about him. I'll talk to him. To both of them. I might move Samedi to another cubicle." Anubis made his way back to his desk, and slumped into his chair. He indicated to Death to take a seat across from him, but Death shook his head and instead fidgeted uncomfortably.

"Normally I'd relish the chance to spend a little more time on a case, but..." Death squinted out the window at the setting sun. "Perhaps I can implore you to do me a personal favour?" and he stepped slightly to the side to reveal Mrs. O'leary. She squinted through her thick glasses at the scene laid out before her.

"My goodness!" She exclaimed under her breath upon seeing Anubis. She crossed herself quickly.

"Not to worry, he's an..." Death swallowed. "Old friend." Mrs. O'leary looked up at Death sceptically.

"Mrs.... hmmm... don't tell me..... O'leary?" Anubis asked, exploratorially.

"Yes, that's me..." she replied, slightly concerned that the dog headed man knew her name. But, Death had been honest this far, so she tried to trust in him.

"I knew it! Please, please, come have a seat." Anubis got up and cleaned the papers off of one of the chairs hurriedly. "So sorry for the delays, ma'am. I assure you, things usually run so much smoother here." He held the chair out for her patiently.

Mrs. O'leary carefully made her way over, and with one last glance to Death for reassurance, she sat. Anubis smiled in his most comforting manner to her. It was not tremendously comforting.

"Good luck, Grace." Death waved to the old woman as he made his way back out of the office.

"Thank you, Mr. Death." she waved back.

Death chuckled. "Please, please... just Death. No need to be so formal."

"Such a gentleman." she smiled, and watched him disappear down the hall, leaving her alone with the ancient god Anubis.

"He really is." Anubis agreed, shuffling some papers and moving them out of the way on his desk. He also retrieved his fountain pen from the floor, and went about refilling it. "Your papers are much too important for a cheap pen, Mrs. O'leary." He winked.

She blushed a little. Her eyes fell across the various items on his desk. Plenty of disorganized papers, most of which read "Phase 2" in some script or another. A few jars filled with office supplies (And perhaps a heart? Mrs. O'leary wanted to be shocked but found she had been simply too surprised this afternoon and decided she would be shocked about it later, when she could really appreciate the shock), a red stapler, a mug with something written in heiroglyphs and a big #1 on it, and a photograph in a nice golden frame. "May I?" She asked, indicating the picture.

Anubis was retrieving the forms for Mrs. O'leary's afterlife, but looked up at her comment. "Of course." he nodded.

She picked the image up. The frame was surprisingly light. It depicted a young girl, no more than eight, dressed in a soccer uniform. She was holding a trophy. Mrs. O'leary couldn't make out what it said.

"My daughter, Kebechet." Anubis announced, with pride in his voice. "She was the team's top scorer that year."

"What a darling." She replied honestly. She placed the photo back on the desk, and found herself quite relaxed now. "When was that?"

Anubis had begun filling out the basic information on the form. He looked up to the ceiling, and started counting on his fingers. "I think... about... four thousand years ago? Maybe four and a half. She was seven when the picture was taken."

And just like that Mrs. O'leary was a little uncomfortable again.

"Now, we shouldn't be here too long Mrs. O'leary, but I do have a few questions I need to ask you so we can get you set up with your afterlife. Is that okay?"

She nodded politely.

"Wonderful. Now..." Anubis paused, staring at the side of Mrs. O'leary's head. "Oh my."

"What? Is something wrong?" she put a hand up to her head instinctively, searching for the problem.

"Not at all, not at all. You just have a piece of straw stuck in your hair." Anubis tried to indicate on his own head where it was for her. It took her a few tries to pluck it out. She held it in front of her and giggled quietly, remembering.

"Oh heavens, I must have looked ridiculous."

"Not at all, I hardly noticed." Anubis shook his head.

Mrs. O'leary twirled the straw between her fingers, transfixed by the memories it held. She placed it gently on her lap. "I saw a Unicorn today." She announced, in that moment deciding that of all the things that had happened to her today, that was the the most important to her.

"Did he bring you in through the stables?" Anubis asked, shocked.

"He did. It was very sweet." Grace smiled to the god across from her. Anubis shook his head and rolled his eyes.

"I hope he didn't show you his horse."

The Pegasus Also Cheats

The mist slowly faded, an in its place was a stable.

It was a very nice stable. Well kept, and clearly very expensive. Top of the line tackle rested on the walls, all immaculately positioned and cared for. The floor was well swept. Everything was freshly painted. An expensive looking digital clock was inset into the wood above the swinging double doors at the far end.

Maurice took the scene in with some confusion. He looked behind himself, and his gaze was met with a large barn door on well-oiled hinges. He squinted at it grumpily. He had just walked through that door.

Or rather, he walked through the space that the door now occupies. Only it hadn't when he'd walked through it.

This troubled Maurice.

A more troubling thought wedged itself in Maurice. He looked up at the black bulk of his travelling companion.

"Please tell me the afterlife is not a stable." he begged.

Death chuckled quietly. "No, Maurice. Not this afterlife, leastaways." he shrugged and began slowly walking down the stable towards the double door.

Maurice breathed a sigh of relief. Maurice had been a mechanic, and never a lover of horses. He moved to keep up with Death.

"That is the spot where I leave you, I'm afraid." Death nodded slightly towards the doors. Maurice tried to check the clock above them, but it refused to be read. He frowned.

"On some farm?" Maurice raised an eyebrow.

"Probably not."

The two fell silent, and Maurice found himself looking into the pens as they passed by. The first held the most stunning example of a Horse he had ever seen. A capital H Horse. Even Maurice had to stop and admire how perfect a Horse it was.

But not for long. He shook his head, and hurried to catch up to Death who was moving with a bored sense of purpose towards the end of the hall.

As he passed by further pens Maurice quickly forgot the Horse from the first. The second contained a group of strange goats, and the one after that had a sleeping Pegasus. Maurice furrowed his brow, but did not stop. The Unicorn did give him pause, and he cleared his throat to attract the attention of Death.

"Hmm? Oh, him. Yes, very beautiful." Death turned to see what had caught his charges attention. "Cheats at poker." He nodded at the pen. The unicorn snorted angrily at Death, who shrugged, uncaring, in return.

"You played poker with a horse?"

"A Unicorn. And don't let him hear you call him that."

The lights of one of the final pens began to flicker. Maurice thought it was odd that the afterlife had a poor power network, but then remembered this wasn't the afterlife. It was something... else.

"She heard my voice and now she's excited." Death smiled, striding towards the flickering stable. He pulled a shiny apple out of his cloak as the lights extinguished completely.

Curious, Maurice tilted his head and followed. He moved to the far wall, trying to get a better view inside the dark pen. Death put his hand on the half-wall, and held up the apple as a treat. The light didn't simply end at the edge of the stable, it was consumed by it. Shadows formed a horrible veil there. Looking into it hurt his eyes, like they were being consumed by the darkness as they tried to pierce it.

"Oho, you're hungry today hmm? Are they not feeding you enough?" Death pulled his hand back out of the shadows, and it held a perfectly cored apple. He tossed it to the floor, and produced a second. "Don't worry, I'm here for you old friend."

There was a snort from the enclosure, accompanied by a flash of flame. Maurice stepped closer, to investigate. He regretted it.

When he approached, it was as though the veil lifted, and he could see into the darkness clearly. What was inside was, and was not, a horse. A dark steed composed of fire and ichor, a thousand legs tangled in an infinity below and a burning mane that screamed in his head. Its dripping eyes bored into his mind and flayed his soul before him, dragging his existence behind it at a thousand miles an hour as they stood motionless in the shining darkness. He crumbled to his knees and fell away from the shining, grasping coat that tugged at his gut.

Only when he had crawled, rolled, and struggled back out of the realm of darkness that the Thing in the pen made was he able to scream. He hurt, in the way that only a lifetime of pain can hurt. His blood was needles of acid. His brain was pressing against his skull ready to pop. His gut writhed with barbed serpents. But none of this did he notice. He was too busy trying to hold together the shredded remains of his soul. He stared at his shaking hands and watched his essence drip through his fingers, horrified.

Death smirked, and bent down next to the shaking Maurice. He placed a skeletal hand on the man's shaking shoulder, and the shaking stopped. Maurice breathed in sharply, and found himself sitting on the floor.

He cocked his head. He was looking up at Death, crouched before him. He looked down the stable hall.

The last thing he remembered was talking about a Unicorn. Had he fallen?

"You should be honoured." Death intoned warmly. "She likes you." He jerked his head over his shoulder to the black enclosure.

The Blue Sky

In the Ur-times, before Grass learned to Grow and before Lightning Bug learned to Glow, there was Blue.

Blue was the youngest of ten billion children of Light, and was often forgotten about. This did not bother Blue, because it gave her time to learn. Blue loved to watch the other colours as they swirled and danced around each other, leaving impressions of themselves on things. She giggled merrily when Green tripped and smeared herself all over Grass. Grass was upset at first, but decided he liked the colour and that he would keep it.

She so enjoyed watching the other colours, and the curious Things that they would run into all day an night, that she was often missing for days at a time. She would climb atop a Rock, or into the beards and hair of Trees while they argued back and forth, and watch as the world blossomed around her in a growing symphony.

The higher Blue climbed, the more she could see with her keen eyes. And so she climbed higher and higher each day. She climbed to the tallest tree, and was unsatisfied (much to Redwood's dismay). She climbed to the top of the bluffs, but still this was not enough. She climbed, with his permission and a promise to be very careful, to the top of Mountain. And as she stood at the summit of his highest peak she sighed.

For it was not high enough.

She could see the Forest, and the Plains, the Ocean and the Beach. She could see all the siblings she had in all these wonderful places, she could see Ferret and Fox, Joy and The Numbness of Cold. She could see so much. But she knew there was more.

Sky was passing overhead at just that time and nearly knocked her off the head of Mountain.

"I am terribly sorry, Blue. I did not expect to see you up so high." He said, picking her up and dusting her off.

Blue smiled back. And that smile changed, with a clever thought, into a sly grin.

"Not to worry Sky, I am fine. How are you?"

"I am well, though very busy. So much to keep track of." And she saw that Sky had the same keen eyes as her.

"Of course, of course. If only you had some help." She ventured.

"If only." Said Sky, already craning his head to keep count of all the Things in the Plains below.

"I wonder, Sky," She said, "Have you ever considered being Blue?"

Sky stopped counting for a moment, and cocked his head. Sky had never been a colour before. And as he looked down at all the colours mixing and playing on the ground below, far away from Sky, he could not think of a more wonderful colour than Blue.

So Sky smiled at Blue, and nodded.

"I had not, but I cannot imagine a better Colour."

So Blue held out her hand, and Sky took it and together they ascended up and up and up. And Blue could see the whole world laid out before her. And she loved it very very much.

And Mountain was profoundly relieved to not have two Things standing on his head anymore.

The Sadness

It was not, in any way, her fault. The car had experienced a freak fault, and skidded out into a two-decade old tree that brought it to an abrupt halt. She had done everything in her power to prevent the crash. The impact had been uncharacteristically cruel. All three occupants of the vehicle had died instantly.

The odds were so astronomically bad that Death had first thought the situation reeked of divine influence. Zeus or Shiva, perhaps. But he could turn up no evidence on his inspection, so had to carry on.

He made a mental note to alert IA, and hoped they did their job this time.

Death stood now a respectful distance from the wreck, waiting patiently for the attention of the driver.

She was transfixed by the crumpled wreck before her, and the three bodies inside. She knelt, unmoving, staring in at the children in the back seat.

There were no tears. She was well beyond them, Death knew. It was not uncharacteristic. He wanted to reach out and provide some comfort, but he was severely limited on what he could tell her and his hand was skeletal. Not often overly comforting to the recently dead.

Slowly, she turned her head to see him.  Her lips worked out a sound with great effort.

"Why?"

Death stood motionless. He considered the question with care. Considered the platitudes humans share with each other in this situation. Considered the truth, as he knew it, incomplete and untrustworthy as it was. He settled on the only thing he could think that was not a complete lie, and not completely horrible.

He stepped forward, and took a knee beside her. Even so, he towered high above her.

"It is life." He shrugged, helplessly. It was not comforting, it was not helpful. But it was as close to the truth as he could manage.

The least he could do for her.

She was not satisfied.

The two of them stared at the car in silence, and time flowed around them. Death would not rush her.

People came. The bodies disappeared, the car vanished. The broken tree was removed. The grass grew, shrank, grew again.

Death and the woman sat.

Occasionally, the man would appear in the window and look down at the two of them mournfully.

Finally, she spoke. Her voice was cracked and dry.

"I would like to leave." She said, without looking at Death. He nodded in response, and held out his bony hand.

She did not look to it, but put her hand in its cold fingers. Death tried to take her away from the great sadness.

But she brought the Sadness with her, and Death realized that there was no escape from this Sadness. His eyes darkened, and he squared his shoulders to heft the load of her Sadness on to his.

He set his jaw, and resolved to have words with the Gods.

What Is Best

In the Ur-times, before Cinnamon found its Spice and before Blade learned its point, the Trees were talking.

"Sister Willow, what is best?"

"Brother Beech, letting long roots drink deep from the foundations of the world is best. Surely you know this." She creaked slowly.

Brother Beech swayed disagreeingly in the wind.

"No, no. To block the sun, and make the ground dark and covered in your leaves, this is best." Brother Beech shifted his swayings and nodded to himself.

"Harrumph." Came the low grumble from Brother Oak. "You youths are fools." it continued. "To grow, and be grand and strong, these are what is best."

Sister Redwood giggled at this, and her branches shuddered with the laughter. "You think yourself strong, Brother Oak? Look at my tremendous height, and ask yourself if you have the strength to grow this far from the ground." Her branches smiled wrly down at her siblings, and she cast her gaze off into the distance, already moving away from the distant conversation.

Brother Oak grunted grumpily.

The Cedar Twins had thus far been quiet, but one of them broke their silence to gain the attention of their siblings.

"Um."

The Trees continued to bicker back and forth, not having noticed the Cedar's interjection.

So Cedar waited. And waited. And waited. Until it could wait no more.

"Um." It said again, during a lull in the conversation. The rest of the trees stopped, and turned to the quiet tree. The Twins did not say much, and they were very young. The Trees looked down at the Cedar Twin that spoke, and waited expectantly.

"Yes, Tree?" Asked Beech at last.

"My brother Cedar felt that what was best in life was to help others. By being shade like Brother Beech or by holding Earth together like Sister Willow. Or by giving of oneself so that others might be happy." The little Tree said.

The Trees thought about this for some time. They were pleased by the notion. Sister Redwood looked down at the congregation below her and shook her leaves confusedly.

"Where is your twin, Brother Cedar?" She asked.

Brother Cedar looked at the stump where his twin had sat, and smiled.

"He is enjoying what is best in life." He said, and looked into the distance at a brand new, beautiful Cedar plank home.

The Flood

Death pulled the keys to his little country home out of his robes, and opened his door.

It squeaked.

He glared at the hinges. He had just oiled them. He opened and closed the door a few times, listening to the squeak.

He sighed and closed the door.

Death rested his enormous scythe on the hat rack, and pulled back his hood to reveal his pearl white skull. He stared for a moment at the scythe.

Today he had taken a young man from his family. The man had died quite peacefully, surrounded by his loved ones. They wept as he was taken away to whatever awaits him.

The man had been very understanding, and very amiable.

Death's bony hand clenched into a fist.

He shouldn't have had to be.

His fingers relaxed and he took a deep breath, exhaled as a stream of cold air. He tried to exhale the memory.

It almost worked.

Death cast another angry glance over his shoulder at the hinges of his front door, and made his way to the kitchen.

He carefully selected his ingredients from the refrigerator, laying them out on the counter just so. And with practiced precision he crafted himself a fine sandwich. Just as he was putting the last ingredient away, the phone rang.

His head snapped up, and his eyes locked on the ancient black phone in the corner of the kitchen. The two brass bells on the wall unit rang sharply, pulsing again and again. He glared at the brass trimmed handle, willing it to stop.

But it didn't.

It would never stop.

There was always another job.

Death finally arose, and closed his refrigerator. He collected his sandwich and moved to the phone, defeated. A bony hand reached out, but paused before reaching the handle.

He remembered his day.

He closed his hand, but did not let it fall.

He had had a long day.

His hand fell to his side, and he stepped past the ringing black phone into the living room. The bells clanged sharply over and over. He placed his sandwich on the little side table adjacent to his favourite chair. He stepped to the bookshelf, and ran his hand along a stack of thin cardboard containers.

Something stopped his hand, and he slipped his bone fingers into the stack, and pulled out one sleeve in particular. He held it up and inspected it, nodding.

He slid the record out of its holder, and placed it gingerly onto his record player. It began to play, and he picked up his headphones.

Death sat in his red leather chair, trying to adjust his headphones to fit on his skull. They had fit last time, so they should fit this time he thought to himself. But at the same time he knew that that never seemed to be true.

After a bit of fidgeting, he got them to sit right, and the music flowed into him like a river into a drought. He closed the black pits that were his eyes, and let the sound flood out the memories, and the bells of the phone.

Death enjoyed his sandwich, and his music, and letting the phone ring and ring and ring.

A Thousand Thousand

"I fell." Dan told the massive shape of Death, towering above him.

"I know." Death nodded slowly.

Dan picked himself up and dusted himself off. He looked up at the cliff face that he had just tumbled down, and rested his eyes on the body that he left behind.

"A shame." he sighed. "I had a date for Friday."

"A shame." Death nodded in agreement.

The two of them stood surveying the scene for a time.

"You know it's not what I expected." Dan finally said, placing his hands on his hips.

Death liked this part.

"I was led to believe there would be a bright light, a tunnel, voices, the whole deal." Dan waved his hands about, dramatically. "But it's sort of just... you." He shrugged.

"Terribly sorry to dissappoint." Death shrugged back.

"Oh, goodness no. Sorry, that's not what I meant." Dan waved his arms in denial. "It's quite nice. Relaxing. I was just told that the experience would be a bit more... pyrotechnic."

"And who told you that?" Death asked, raising what would have been his eyebrows were his face not a skull.

"Hm. People who... weren't dead after all, I suppose." Dan smiled.

Death retuned the smile, and shrugged.

"Well, I think..." Dan started. "I think..." He continued, and another realization dawned on him mid sentence. "I think you've heard this speech before, haven't you?"

Death did not at first reply.

"You've heard a hundred, a thousand people have the exact same complaint, the exact same story, haven't you?" And Dan was mortified at how bored Death must be of... people.

Death plucked some imaginary cat hair of his scythe, absent mindedly, before finally replying.

"Yes. A thousand thousand times."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bore you." Dan was earnestly upset. "It's just... new to me, I suppose."

Death cocked his head. He looked down at his charge, without a hint of condescension.

"The day I tire of hearing what people have to tell me," He intoned, "Is the day I will begin my well-deserved retirement."

He looked up into Death's gaze, slightly befuddled.

"You really want to hear what I have to say?"

Death nodded.

"Even though not a single thing is likely to be new."

Death again nodded his cowled head.

"Oh." Daniel said, surprised.

Death turned away towards their destination, and held out a bony hand.

"Now... you were going to tell me about your lovely dog Max."

He had not. But still, Daniel smiled with the joy of youth, and told Death all about how he had had the absolute best childhood pet.

And Death liked that story very much.

Rehab

Armin looked up in horror at himself, as he, the other he, raised the pistol to his face.  Armin stared down the barrel of the gun with panicked fear. He knew what happened next. He rembered.

But there was more to his fear. A rich milieux of terrors swept about in his mind. His wife, how would she survive? Their child, who would be there to help raise it with him gone? His family, his friends, all cut off from him in an instant.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the memory of silence caught in his throat and he found he could not. He could only gaze into the black hole that was the barrel of a pistol held in the other him's hand.

"Sorry mate. Nothing personal." He said. The other he. The he that he used to be. And just as Armin remembered, he pulled the trigger while he said one final word.

"Business."

And there was a roar, and a flash, and an instant pain, and everything that he had worked for and loved was gone in an instant.

When he opened his eyes he was back in the room. The white room, with the table and two chairs. He was sitting in one of them when he remembered that he never had a wife. Or a child.

Or many friends, for that matter.

And it dawned on him. Not his friends. Not his wife.

HIS friends. HIS wife. The man that he had killed, in cold blood, eight years ago. Without a thought. Without a care. Because it wasn't personal.

It was just business.

But it had been personal to him.

Lucifer, the Morningstar, appeared before Armin with ruined wings and a sad expression. He took a seat quietly.

"Incarceration is not punishment. It is a rehabilitation." He placed a clipboard gently on the table. "You are here to learn. To see why you did what you did, and to see how it hurt. How it hurt those around you. How it hurt yourself."

Armin wanted to speak, to protest. To shout that it was all a dream. But even he could see it was too vivid. To real.

Too deserved.

"There is no fast track here, Armin. No shortcuts. When you are ready, you will know. You will see. And we will wish you well." Lucifer smiled at him a patient smile. Grandfatherly, was the word that came to Armin.

"But that's not today." And he rose from his chair,tattered wings trailing as he made for the door. As he left, Lucifer turned once more and nodded knowingly to Armin.

"Good luck."

And he closed the door, and Armin was elsewhen, staring down a different barrel.

Language

There was a young woman that Death went to meet once. She had just passed away unexpectedly, but unlike many people she was pleased to see Death.

"Oh, you've come!" She said excitedly, which caught Death somewhat off guard.

"I have." He replied, letting the ancient timbre of his voice rumble the very walls with authority.

"So there is an afterlife." She smiled excitedly.

Death let this hang in the air for a moment, looking down at her with the black pits of his skull, letting his bone fingers tense and relax on the scythe.

"Perhaps there is only me." He rumbled.

She mulled this around in her head for a moment, before deciding.

"No, I don't think so. I think you're here to take me to the real afterlife."

Death frowned at her. He wasn't so much upset with her, as perplexed. He'd encountered souls like this before, but... not often. And they always caught him off guard.

"What makes you say that." He asked as nonchalantly as he could.

She grinned coyly. "Because you left the door open. So, where are we going?" She hopped to her feet excitedly.

Death looked back. He had indeed left the door open. It wasn't often he had the luxury of leaving doors ajar, so he took it when he could. When there would be no-one around to notice. It saved a little time.

But not this time.

"I cannot say." He rumbled back.

"Oh." She replied, a little dissapointed. "Well, I appreciate you coming to get me nonetheless." She nodded surely.

Death cocked his head confusedly.

"Well, you didn't have to come." She explained. "I'm dead. I'm sure I have all the time in the world to find my way to the next. But you came all this way to make sure little old me made it safe and sound to the afterlife." She smiled politely.

Death scowled at her. She couldn't really tell. His face was a skull.

She continued to smile back.

Eventually, and much to his surprise, Death's scowl broke into a smile of his own. He offered his hand to her, and she took it without hesitation.

"Come on then, let's find out if you're right." He indicated to the open door with his scythe.

The two of them left hand in hand, and the infinite stretched out before them as they walked.

"You remind me of my Grandpa." She said, and as they walked she leaned her head against his arm lovingly.

And Death was very pleased by this. He placed his skeletal hand on hers while they strode into infinity.

"He was a big softie too." She continued. And then a smile crept across her face. "When he wasn't being scary as fu..."

"Language." Death cut her off, and she laughed as the world slipped away around them.

Restricted Items

Clarice hung upside down in the tree, her parachute lines tangled inextricably about her as she swung back and forth. The dappled light through the canopy was dazzling and beautiful, and almost enough to take her mind off the dreadful realization that she had just passed away.

She swung lazily back and forth, looking up past her feet to the shimmering sun as it worked its way through the many thick branches that had interrupted her trip to the earth. She could see the one in particular that had clipped her head and ended it all.

That branch was a jerk.

But through it all she found herself to be quite serene. Skydiving was not an entirely safe passtime, and she had always known this was a possibility. Everything was accounted for.

And besides, the rush had been worth it.

"Well, that's enough of that I think." She said, looking around for her patient companion.

"After you." Came the low rumbled reply from Death, who was busy enjoying the careful dance of a butterfly that had taken interest in his skeletal hand.

"Hm." Clarice grunted, still trapped by her parachute equipment. She wriggled for a moment more, before clearing her throat to gain Death's attention.

Startled, he shook his skull and looked up at her.

"If you wouldn't mind?" She did her best to indicate the ropes above her.

"Of course, of course." Death replied, apologetically. He swung his enormous scythe in a broad sweeping arc, slicing through the bonds as though they were butter, and she tumbled to the ground more gently than possible. Death helped her to her feet as the ropes fell away.

"Handy." She said, indicating the colossal tool.

"Oh, it has its uses." Death smiled to her, and offered his hand. She took it and they walked out of the forest.

"Any idea where I can get one?" She asked.

No Bars

"Listen you," The man said, prodding Death in the chest with a finger angrily, "I can't be dead. I have a contract. Do you know who I am?"

"I do." Death answered dully.

"Then you know that I'm a busy man. A popular man." The man was spinning around angrily, gesticulating with both hands. "A powerful man! So when I say I want you out of my house, I mean now!" And he gestured sternly to the door.

"We'll be leaving shortly." Death intoned, his frigid voice frosting the windows slightly with his words.

The man frowned at Death. He placed his hands on his hips.

He paced back and forth before the towering image of the eternal force of Death itself.

He turned his back on Death.

When he turned back, Death was still patiently waiting.

"Well go on. Scat!" He gestured at the black mass of cloaks and bones. He pulled out his phone to call his agent, but found he had no signal. Frustrated, he began walking around the home, holding his phone up above his head. "It's no use. I'm not going."

"I understand the desire to remain." Death said, solemnly. And with that, he lumbered his enormous form to the ground, and sat. He crossed his bony legs before him, and began to pick at the cheap carpet with his skeletal fingers. "There is much yet to see, and taste, and smell. To experience." He pulled a fragment of lint from the fibres of the carpet, and held its exquisite fuzziness between his bone fingers. The sensation was divine to him. "It is a shame to miss it."

The man ceased walking about his home, and poked his head back into the living room, where Death sat. Even sitting on the floor, Death was as tall as a man. His scythe lay next to him.

"I was going to get that dreadful carpet replaced. Came with the house. They had cats."

"I like cats." Death said, absent mindedly.

"I don't like their fur." The man said blandly. He moved into the room slowly, watching Death as he ran his hands across the carpet, enjoying the sensation of cheap fibre and old dust.

He watched as Death sat on the floor, and let his senses drink in the world around him. The cheap, the dirty, the expensive, the sublime, each was equal in the black pits that were the eyes of Death. To experience was to enjoy.

The man had never been to a farm. The thought had not occurred to him until this very moment, and somehow... he regretted it.

"So there's nothing you can do for me, huh?" He asked Death.

Death stopped moving his hands across the carpet suddenly. He turned to face the man beside him.

"There is one thing. When you are ready." His cold voice chilled the air, but was paradoxically kind in the ears of the man.

"You're sure."

"I'm sure."

"What if I sign your scythe for you?"

"I'd rather you didn't."

The man deflated. His options had run out. His phone was useless. His fame was no good. What then did he have?

"All right. Let's get it over with then." He moved towards the door.

Death stood, propping himself up with his scythe. Some of his bones creaked and popped as he did, and he realized he hadn't sat down like that in a really very long time. A note for the future. He moved towards the door, and extended a hand for the man to take.

As they joined hands, the door opened. While they exited, the man looked one last time into his home, and saw his life in things. Most of them were very nice things. Some of them were not so much so.

And he tried to hold on to the memories of each, as they passed into the veil.

I Did A Bad Thing

The soldier stared down at his rifle on the ground, and spoke without shifting his gaze to Death.

"I did a bad thing." He said softly.

"I know." Death replied, not moving. He stood a respectful distance away, his black bulk patiently waiting for the soldier.

"I knew better." Still his gaze was fixed on the weapon he had wielded a moment before.

"I know." Death again spoke.

After a silence in which the soldier felt an eternity of turmoil pass, he looked up at the skeletal face of Death itself.

"I'm sorry." He said, earnestly. And Death could see, with the black pits that held in them the despair of mankind he had in place of eyes, that the soldier spoke truly. He stepped forward, his enormous scythe acting like a walking stick, so he could stand just before the soldier, towering above him oppressively.

A skeletal arm slid out of the bulky mass of cloaks, and rested on the soldier's shoulder compassionately.

"I know." Said Death, and the two of them strode across the battlefield, into the forever night.

Not Kingsfoil, You Fools

Edith stared down at her body on the table while those that called themselves her disciples scurried about performing various preparations. Some were crushing herbs over her head, others were assembling candles around her. She sighed.

"It's like they didn't even bother to listen." She said to the hulking form of Death beside her.

He shrugged.

"They're all too young, I think. None of them were thinking about the grave. Not that it really matters, none of it's true. But it's the principle of the matter..." She trailed off, scowling at the people fussing over her corpse.

Death raised his non-existent eyebrows. "Mother Edith, High Priestess of the Thirteen Hives, a non-believer?"

She shrugged back. "And Mother Theresa was an athiest. These things happen."

Death chuckled silently to himself.

"After a while, you realize something about magic." She moved about the table, examining the faces of the people buzzing about her body. "It's not about energy, or spirituality, or alchemy. It's about results." She nodded to herself after looking into each face for long enough. "The thing that matters, when you work a spell or craft a talisman, it not what it is made of or how it is created, but what it does. And if what it does improves the quality of a life, then it has worked. Magic or not."

Death watched quizzically as she moved from disciple to disciple.

"If I had a nickel for every potion of courage I helped some kid brew to ask out their sweetheart, or every curse that caused someone to seek forgiveness from the one they wronged..." She paused in her rounds and looked down at her body. "Well I'd still be dead. But I'd have died in nicer clothes."

Edith and Death shared a smile.

"The placebo effect. It's a wonderful thing." She sighed, and a sense of contentment radiated out from her.

"If you knew it was all a façade, why keep it up?" Death asked, genuinely intrigued.

"Because the façade works." She smirked. "Best one I've found for getting people out of their own heads, and out of their own ways."

"Hm." Death nodded slowly.

"Case in point. I was so disappointed in this lot," she gestured to the disciples currently chanting some ancient ritual almost correctly, "because I felt like they hadn't learned what I tried to teach them. But while they might not be getting it right, you and I both know that doesn't really matter."

Death shrugged innocently.

"What matters is that they're here. That they came, to honour my wishes. To do right by me. And that they miss me." She smiled, and let her hand rest on one of their shoulders lovingly.

Death hefted his heavy scythe, and rested it gently on his shoulder. Edith understood what that meant, and turned to depart.

As they walked away, she cast one last glance over her shoulder to see her disciples consoling each other, and becoming closer for it.

Just as planned.

She took Death's bony hand in her own, and the two of them walked off into forever.

The Rules

"So, where are we headed?" Mortimer asked the oppressive form of Death standing before him.

"Mmm. Can't say for sure, I'm afraid." Death rumbled back. "Depends on a lot of factors."

"Oh." Mortimer looked at the ground, worriedly. His gaze shifted over to his corpse, lying beside him on the bed. He swung his feet back and forth while he sat. "Not even a hint?"

"Sorry." Death shrugged. "Rules."

"Huh." Mortimer had sort of hoped that the afterlife, if there was one, would be lighter on rules than the... regular life. This was a disappointing start.

Death stood with the patience of eternity before Mortimer. Mortimer fidgeted a little.

"So, do you come for... everyone?"

Death nodded slowly. His voice echoed calmly, "Almost."

"One at a time?"

Death nodded again. "That's the rule."

"Oh." Mortimer stared up at the black shape before him, wondering how this one figure could possibly shepherd each death on to... whatever. It was like a grim Santa Clause. "Sounds exhausting."

Death laughed, a single sharp HA cracking out of his skeletal frame. It was a sound that very rarely escaped, and its unpractised shape took on the form of a bark as it erupted from the ancient figure.

It startled Mortimer.

Death smiled at the old man before him. He sat next to the man on the bed, his colossal frame not seeming to have any weight to it.

"Very." was all the icy voice of Death said in answer.

"Hm." Mortimer was profoundly confused.

The two of them sat on the bed for a time before Mortimer mustered up the courage to ask another question.

"Shouldn't we be going?" He indicated to the door.

"Oh yes." Death replied, unmoving.

Mortimer looked from Death to the door, and back again.

"So should I..." Mortimer began sliding off the bed towards the door.

"Patience, Mortimer." Death raised his hand slightly. "Time is something we have in abundance. Despite what they may tell you..." he grumbled.

"O... kay." Mortimer sat again.

"Besides," Death rumbled loudly, "Your wife will be joining us soon, and I thought it would be nice for you two to journey on together."

Mortimer cocked his head.

"I thought you said you took people one at a time?"

"I do." Death nodded.

"That it was the rules."

"It is." again, slowly Death nodded.

Mortimer tried to understand Death's logic, and failed.

Death put a frigid, bony hand on Mortimer's shoulder.

"Some things are worth bending the rules for, Mortimer." He grinned.

And at that moment, Jeanne appeared behind Death, beaming with a beauty that filled Mortimer's soul with the joy that had carried him through life, and he smiled.

The Valley of the Moon

Specialist Mathias Alonso gently placed the binoculars down beside him before picking up his radio. He quietly pressed the activator, and whispered into the mic.

"Numbers, click off."

 He slowly replaced the microphone, and slid the binoculars up to his eyes with patient grace.

The radio began to sound with successively longer groups of clicks. One, pause, two clicks, pause, three, and so on until all the rangers in the valley had signed in, indicating their health and readiness.

"Copy." Mathias finished. Takanome's Rangers were... unconventional. But they were all most refugees had.

He scanned the horizon again, noting no disturbance. It could be a good day. A refugee group was on route to the city, and the Rangers were here to make sure they made it. They weren't always needed. And besides, this was a new route.

Mathias hoped they would not be needed today.

He did a visual check on the Rangers, sweeping his binoculars slowly over each position in turn.

In truth, there was nothing to see. Which was exactly what he was hoping for. Takanome's Rangers had few advantages in the field, but skill with camouflage was one of them. All good.

There was silence and stillness for two hours.

"Four, package inbound." fizzled calmly over the radio. Mathias swung his binoculars over to sniper four with the calm precision expected of one of Takanome's finest. He then began searching for the contact Four had called in.

"Six, confirm." Came whispered over the radio. Mathias gazed into the gap in the foliage between the two snipers, and saw the first hint of refugees.

Before long the column was clearly visible. A few hundred exhausted, ragged survivors marching, defeated, to the Last City. Mathias wondered how long they had been travelling. How far they had come.

They were almost done, at least.

Suddenly the ground beneath him grew a familiar gentle quiver, and his heart sank.

He clenched his fist around the binoculars and hoped it was geological. He held his breath, and scanned the sky. His hope died when the radio spoke.

"Three, dropship. South south east." Sniper three calmly informed the rest of the group.

Mathias swore silently. His binoculars focused on the ship settling down a few dozen feet above the ridge on the southern side. Small drop arms extended from the hatches on the underbelly, and Fallen started pouring out. Four, eight, ten, a dozen. Eighteen, Mathias counted.

He swore silently again before picking up his microphone.

"This is Eight. I count eighteen tangos, confirm." He hoped he had miscounted.

"Three, confirm eighteen tangos."

Damn.

Some members of the convoy had already seen the dropship and panic was setting in. The refugees were starting to scatter. Mathias radioed on an open channel down to the convoy, relaying the number of Fallen and the number of Rangers. The leader of the convoy, between shouting at his refugees, responded with little faith. But he got his people organized, and got them moving.

This was enough for Mathias.

The fallen were starting to work their way down the mountainside. They were a few hundred feet from the refugees, and Mathias realized something. They had deployed behind. They didn't want to cut off the refugees. That wasn't enough.

They wanted to hunt them.

Mathias' blood burned as he called out to his rangers.

"One through seven, weapons free. Stagger shots. Don't give away your positions without a fight. Make your bullets count."

The radio crackled to life as each ranger in turn clicked that they copied his transmission.

Mathias glared into his binoculars at the alien menace of the Fallen, and hoped that the Rangers would be enough.

The first Dreg was almost within weapons range of the back of the stampeding convoy when the valley echoed with it's first thunder clap. In an instant the creature's head was gone, a crackling black mist in it's place.

It's rabid brethren at first didn't seem to notice, but as the valley began to pop with gunshot after gunshot (staggered carefully after weeks of training) and Fallen Dregs two and three collapsed, they scattered.

The creatures began moving erratically, searching for the sources of the gunfire. But still moving ever closer to the convoy. The success that had seconds ago flushed Mathias with pride was quickly evaporating.

Any bullet that didn't find it's way to a Fallen mask seemed almost not to matter. Dregs were taking round after round to their hate-filled alien chests before they dropped to the earth, hopefully for the last time.  Always searching for the source of their attackers. Always making their way towards the convoy.

The refugees were in a full sprint now, but somehow it didn't seem to matter. Even suppressed by the fire of the Rangers, the Fallen were too fast. Too strong.

Mathias watched helplessly through his binoculars as the first Dreg made it to the last refugee.

An arc knife, a scream silenced by distance and gunfire, and the Dreg was ready for it's next victim.

Or it would have been, but it's head erupted in a geyser of oily blood. But it's place was taken in an instant by another Fallen. And another behind. And another behind it. All staring at a particular space in the brush as they ducked and weaved.

It was then that Mathias realized they had found one of his snipers.

"Three, you're under suspicion." He called into his microphone.

"Copy." Came the terse reply.

Mathias watched angrily as Sniper Three's position lit up with crack after crack of sniper fire. The closest Dreg dropped to the ground, dead, and the second stumbled with the impact. But now they were sure.

One of them screamed something in their infernal language, and gesticulated wildly in the air. It pointed at Sniper Three and the rest of them began to charge.

"You're blown Three." Mathias calmly whispered into the radio, following procedure.

"Copy." Sniper three responded mid-gunshot. Her position became a staccato rhythm of gunfire, four shots in a row followed by a silence. And then another four.

The Fallen had all but abandoned the convoy at this point, and the humans were making considerable ground. All the Fallen seemed to care about was Sniper Three. The rest of the Rangers were using the distraction to focus their fire. Maintaining procedure, firing and then waiting. Staying invisible. Staying safe.

"Three it's time to give it up. Get out of there." Mathias ordered over the radio, his voice growling with authority.

"Copy."

The hundred feet in front of Sniper Three's position was littered with Fallen corpses. Five of them had met their end at the wrong end of her, and her companion's, rifles. Mathias quickly scanned the battlefield. Four more had been felled before reaching Three's area of devastation.  Nine of the Fallen remained, two of them Vandals.

"Three I order you to disappear." He practically shouted into his microphone. He checked, the Fallen were still well within range to chase down the refugees, but they were focused on Sniper Three.

"Copy."

Three's position continued to roar with gunfire. Two more Dregs fell before her.

The Vandals, four armed savage monstrosities with incredible rifles and a burning hatred for humanity that dwarfed the Dreg's, were directing their remaining troops around to pincer Three. The jig was up.

"Three you have done your job now move out." It was a lie, as soon as the Fallen realized she was gone they would chase down the refugees. They would be out of most of the Ranger's line of fire. Most would make it. Some would not. By the time they repositioned, the loss would be devastating. But it was a lie that could save a Ranger's life, and Rangers were in short supply.

"Copy." Four more shots rang out, doing little but aggravating the nearest Vandal.

"Three you are going to get yourself killed."

"Copy." Came the emotionless response, in time with the click of a reload.

"Three..." But it was far past too late. The creatures fell upon her position with interstellar fury. Mathias found no reprimand on his tongue. "...Ayane would be proud."

"Copy." sparked the radio, in the half-second before Sniper Three's grenades all went off. Her position was erased, replaced with a thirty foot wide golden fireball consuming all the remaining Fallen. The valley was bathed in a warm red glow for an instant, fading into an orange light that followed the cloud of gas up into the sky before dissipating.

Mathias' eyes burned from the brightness, he told himself. His binoculars calmly, coolly surveyed the battlefield, counting bodies and confirming kills.

Eighteen, at his count.

"Eighteen kills, please confirm."

"This is Four, confirm eighteen kills."

There was silence for a time.

Finally Specialist Mathias Alonso rose from his position, and collected his things. When he was finished, he raised his radio to his lips one last time.

"Sniper Three, Seong Choi. Gave her last full measure in the Valley of the Moon."

As he began the long walk back to the city, the clicks of Takanome's Rangers called out their respect in ascending order.

In Your Own Time

Aldritch awoke laying beside the wreckage of his still-smouldering car. He shook his head a few times to clear the cobwebs out, and realized something terrifically terrifying.

He had just died.

He remembered the accident quite clearly now. The sudden realization. The desperate twist of the wheel. The inevitability of the impact. The feeling of the pole passing through him.

Slowly he felt his chest, searching for the gaping wound he knew was there.

But he didn't find it.

He was dressed in a crisp clean shirt, not a mark on him.

He sat up, and blinked his eyes a few times. The car was there, fire still flickering dimly inside. He thought he could even make out...

His body. In the driver's seat.

Crispy.

He shouted and lept to his feet, scrambling away desperately. As he did, he ran smack dab into a massive black cloaked figure. He tumbled back a few steps, but maintained his footing.

"Terribly sorry." Came an ancient rumble from the shape. It's voice was earnest and warm, while still emanating a mystical cold into every inch of Aldritch's body. He let his eyes drift up to the figure's face.

It was a skull. Aldritch froze.

Death loomed large before him.

"No." He managed to squeak to the titanic representation before him.

"Yes, I'm afraid." Replied Death with an icy certainty.

"No. No! Not me! Not today!" And he began scrambling away from death. Death made no motions to follow.

"Indeed, today." Death sighed, realizing what was happening.

"No! NO!" Aldritch screamed back, before turning his back and fleeing full tilt down the highway.

Death's bony fingers made their way up to his skull, and rubbed the space between the obsidian pits that once held eyes. He shrugged, and made his way over to the car. His huge frame made no noticeable impact as he sat on its ruined hood, and pulled a newspaper out of his robes. He flipped a few pages in.

"Whenever you're ready, Aldritch." He rumbled quietly, his icy voice carrying on the chill wind down the roadway to the burning ears of the running Aldritch Hedgwin.

Erdie's Bakery

The titanic black mass of Death was paused beside a large pane of glass, staring in at the treats arranged on the other side.

The glass read "Erdie's Bakery", a place that Death himself had not heard of until recently. He clicked his teeth together, considering.

People passed by him while he waited, not one of them noticing but each of them deftly avoiding him somehow.

The sun passed slowly over the sky, and Death continued to hum and haw.

A few minutes before the clerk came to change the sign from open to closed, Death slid in to the shop.

The person behind the counter took immediate notice of Death, but somehow failed to see the skull-faced, enormous, becloacked figure for what it was. Cheerily, they asked "What can I get for you? We're just about to close up, I'm afraid."

"Two loaves, please. One cinnamon-raisin, if you've got a fresh one. And one loaf of whatever you have that's stale. I'll pay full price." Death responded, his icy voice covering the glass with a thin layer of frost that evaporated as quickly as it appeared.

"For the birds?" The clerk asked.

"Mm." Death nodded.

"On the house then." The clerk winked. He scurried into the back of the shop, and produced a loaf from the previous day. It still, to Death at least, looked quite delicious. He placed it in a paper bag, along with a sealed loaf of the fresh Cinnamon Raisin bread. "That'll be two-fifty, please. Cash or card?" The clerk beamed.

Death rummaged about in his cloaks, and produced some ancient-looking gold coins. He selected two of them that he was fairly certain at this stage in history were worth a few thousand dollars each, and placed them on the counter. "Cash." He stated, his ancient voice rumbling the walls gently. He picked up his bread, and was about to leave when the clerk asked him an unusual question.

"So, how did you hear about us?" He asked in his chipper tone. "We have a Facebook page, twitter account, Google maps pin..." The clerk had a clipboard and a pen out, eager to take down Death's response.

He paused by the door, holding it open and letting the last few beams of the setting sun slide into the shop before he answered.

"A friend of mine told me about you. Mr. Edgwin."

"Oh Mr. Edgwin! Wonderful guy. I do deliveries to his place." The clerk ticked some box on his chart. "I always look forward to chatting with him."

Death looked deep into the clerk's eyes, and found only earnestness. The cold, ancient holes that Death uses for eyes softened slightly, and he replied sadly.

"As did I."

And he left for the park with his bread.

Proper Currency

" 'Ow hard ees it to get buried wit' a decent cigar, ees all I am aks-ing." The Baron demanded. He was leaning over the top of his cubicle, looking but not really seeing into Charon's little corner of the afterlife. He let one hand dangle into Charon's cube and played with the other Psychopomp's toy boat. "De ones we got up 'ere are terrible, I tells you." He bemoaned.

Without taking his wild eyes off his new client, Charon deftly took the toy boat out of Baron Samedi's hand and placed it on his desk.

"One moment please, Madam." He apologized to his client.

"At least de rum is not so bad." The Baron's other hand came up from behind the wall, bearing an over full tumbler of rum that he began happily to sip.

Charon sighed, and rolled his mad eyes eyes to look at the pallid, skull like face of Baron Samedi.

"What do you want, Baron."

"Noting!" He replied innocently, swirling his drink around and leaning heavily on the cubicle wall. "Noting, dat is, that you shouldn't want yourself mon ami." And he grinned wickedly.

"I am not going out drinking with you again, Baron." Charon stated coldly, before adjusting his rust-coloured tie.

"Awww, come now... We won't drink so very much dis time, I swear..." The Baron gestured eagerly with his drink before realizing the irony and putting it down on Charon's filing cabinet. "You are such a great wingman, Charon... I need you, mon ami!" And he opened his arms wide, eyes pleading.

"Absolutely not. The last time I went out for an evening with you, Baron, I wound up spending two weeks in the Diyu. Alone. No thank you."

"Ahh, but dis time I promise not to abandon you for some qualitee time wit' Hausos." The Baron looked at Charon's client, a clearly confused young woman, and gave her a wink. "Even eef it was totally worth it, I assure you."

Charon's wild gaze bore in to Baron Samedi with renewed ferocity. His face was a statue of contempt.

"So yes den?" The baron asked, eyebrows high.

"No."

"Hmm." The Baron looked crestfallen, but not not defeated. "Are you sure there ees nothing I can say to sweeten the deal, wingaman?" And he began to crack the knuckles on one hand using only his thumb.

"Certainly not." Charon stated firmly. "Now if you don't mind, I have a fair amount of paperwork to get through here so..."

"Nothing... at all?" The Baron smiled and produced, seemingly out of thin air, a single Obol. He rolled the ancient greek coin across the backs of his fingers, letting it flash in the fluorescent light.

Charon was transfixed. "Where did you get that?"

"Oh, I been hanging on to dis for a while now, wingman. Shall we say seven o'clock?" He grinned, holding the coin out to Charon.

Angrily, Charon snapped it out of his hand and examined it. He turned it this way and that, felt its weight. He slumped slightly. Definitely authentic.

"Fine." He growled at the Baron. "Until then, could you kindly shove off."

"Sure, sure." The Baron cackled, retreating back into his cubicle. Just as his top hat was about to dissappear (much to Charon's relief), he popped back up. Charon slumped.

"Forgot my drink, mon ami." He grabbed his rum from the top of Charon's filing cabinet. "And since I'm in such a good mood..." He casually flipped a second coin to the young woman waiting to be processed by Charon. "Make sure you get a nice afterlife, eh madam?" He winked at her, and vanished back into his cubicle.

She held the weighty, ancient coin in her hand. It was silvery, and had an engraving of an insect on it. When she looked up, Charon was eying it hungrily.

He cleared his throat, and with a sweep of his arm slid the huge pile of paperwork he'd pulled out for her to complete into the trash. He pulled out a single sheet, without taking his eyes off the coin, and asked her a single question.

"So, do you prefer penthouse, or ground floor terrace?"