#short / azrael ❞

[ryn-halo26]

"Where did you 3 go?" "Azrael's room"

@another-lost-mc 's Uriel, Meta, and my oc Azrael all ditched the seraphim party or smth, idk. They're just hanging out drinking human realm alcohol Azrael brought from his last visit

[filmbrainbmb]

New Projector Short! Samara Weaving's famous scream is silenced in the post-rapture action horror Azrael: Angel of Death, set in a world where most of humanity has renounced speech, but this nearly wordless horror film deserves to be talked about.

[hauntedmoon519]

there is a secret i keep buried in my chest next to my heart next to you and is that i would do things unspeakable of for you because love is sacrifice and betterment coupled with smiles and kisses it is staring into the eyes of your other half and knowing youd do anything for them and now you know my secret

[fcllederage-moved]

@azraelblack liked this post for a starter

The queen stood tall, confident - although one could unjustly call that arrogant - and cold, arms crossed over her chest. The smile that usually adorned her soft features was long gone as she faced the man. "I am mine before I am anybody else's," she replied. Stone-walled, that was how one could call her. But she was fighting for herself, for who she was. And for who she did not belong to, and that was anyone.

[nearly-fxllen]

After a long and quite uneventful meeting, Azrael was glad to be home. They had much to do for the animals before he went inside, however. Still in formal attire, Azrael put out hay for the horses. It then fed the chickens, goats, lamas, pigs, and the lynx. Unfortunately, the lynx bit him and it had to wrap their bloodied arm before continuing with chores. He, of course, had to clean out stalls, pick the vegetables from the garden, and weed the flowers before it could finally make its way inside.

Once in his beloved cabin, Azrael could finally relax. With a heavy sigh the angel practically collapsed onto its living room floor. Home was safe, calm, and quiet. All of which were things Azrael valued tremendously. He debated whether to take off his jacket, but that would have required moving and he was far too comfortable with how they were lying on the rug. To Azrael, there were few things better than laying down in a safe space and not needing to think about anything at all.

The candles in their home remained unlit, the curtains closed, leaving the cabin in perpetual darkness. It was a pleasant change from the glaring fluorescent lights in the meeting hall. Darkness felt somehow softer, like a gentle caress in comparison to the punch in the gut that was light. So laying in the soft, quiet cabin was Azrael ideal way of spending is night. Lamentably, this moment of peace and darkness did not last as long as Azrael had hoped it to. With an obnoxiously loud bang, thunder sounded throughout the sky.

While Azrael wasn’t frightened by storms, it did find them to be quite annoying. The strikes of lightning far too bright, the thunder loud enough to leave migraines in their wake. It was certainly safe to say that Azrael despised storms, and he had not been prepared for this one. The angel rolled onto its side with a groan, covering their ears as another bang sounded out. The noise made his ears ring, a headache already forming as lightning struck again over the incessant pounding of rain on his roof. Azrael stood, hands over its ears, and ran to its room. It was too dark to see, but Azrael knew this cabin by heart. They half jumped over the discarded sword in the hallway, barely avoided hitting the bed frame, and grabbed onto their noise canceling headphones like a lifeline.

The angel crawled under its bed, to where a nest of blankets, pillows, books, and stuffed animals was carefully arranged. Feeling a bit calmer in the enclosed space, Azrael picked up a book and a reading light. He was hoping to distract itself from the noise that could still be heard through the headphones. Although reading in the dark might not have been the best idea, he needed something to focus on and books were calming. So, despite the already pounding headache, Azrael opened the book and began to read. The book wasn’t a genre the angel usually read, it was a science fiction of some sort that had been gifted to it by a friend. However, the story had a decent enough plot to take Azraels mind off of the thunderstorm outside.

Slowly but surely, the storm died down. By the time it was over, Azrael was curled up in its makeshift nest, still in its formal attire, and fast asleep. They wouldn’t wake until the next morning when the alarm clock on its nightstand began to play a quiet violin tune. Even then, he slept through almost ten minutes of this before it finally woke him. Azrael sighed and crawled out into the morning rays of sunlight making their way through its mostly closed curtains. And so began another day of work, work, and more work. In the back of its mind, Azrael hoped for a distraction that wasn’t painful or loud. They knew the odds of this were unlikely however, and prepared himself for another dull day of duties.

[chuuyanaurkahara]

holy shit i just realised that azrael is so tall in comparison to dani, he could literally kneel down and still would be some centimetres taller than them😭😭

[azrael-writes]

Father Winter

I stand before the precipice,

Below my window's glare,

For all that ice— an edifice—

A lie beyond compare

Temporary, restless

Beneath my watchful gaze,

Undercompensate regardless,

And go my merry way

I feel the aching hunger,

That maw beneath my feet,

For he's come again— that monger—

To beg for ashen meat

Delicate, somber

Beware it's mourning cry,

As Winter always suffers

And bleeds its victims dry.

[guardianoftheotherside]

Hunter/Strife:*hears a suspicious noise*

Hunter/Strife:*grab Y/N and run away screaming* GRAB SMALLEST FIRST! THEIR SHORS LEGS ARE NOT ENOUGH !!!!!

Y/N:...

Azrael:*looks at Uriel*

Uriel: Don’t...even...think...about...it! 

[azraellytired]

-When they call her name

A story about my thoughts and feelings of my deadname.

———

Sometimes I still hear her name. I used to turn to answer when it was said.

I’d feel like such a fool, answering to a dead girl's name. I’d always say afterwards that one day I won’t turn when they call her name.

I hear her name echo around me, reverberating against the walls and bouncing back into my ears, filling my senses with a sense of joyful grief. Yet I’d still turn when someone said her name.

It’s like a bell calling out for me. Like a whistle getting the attention of a dog. And in the end i'm always the fool who fell for the tricks of a king.

That girl died years ago is what they said. I personally think she’s always been dead. A rotting, walking corpse driven by the strings of those around her.

They saw a lively child while I saw her for who she truly was. She was a corpse, with flesh hanging off her bones. Blood would leak from her heart and teeth would fall from their sockets.

I do not mourn that girl, because she never truly lived. Even if she breathed and walked and slept and ate, that was a dead little girl who didnt know why she didn't want to fit in.

Sometimes they still call her name. Sometimes they forget she’s dead. Some are in denial.

One woman said she’d get a tattoo with her initials on it and not mine. Because she is the one in her heart, and not me.

Some people pretend that I'm her. I haven't been her and never will be her. That girl is six feet under and yet they still call her name and get angry when I don't respond.

Some people have her name. I used to look when they said her name even if it wasn't about her. It would always catch me by surprise every time, like a shock to my system. Like being dipped into ice cold water after standing in a desert. It leaves me shaken and confused.

I know they’ll all rue the day I don’t respond when they call her name.

I don’t think everyone understands. They still hold tight onto that girl's skeletal hand where flesh had peeled off and drained her of her blood.

But her bones are rotting, her eyes have melted, and her brain has been turned to mush. The worms ate away at her pristine skin and her hair has disintegrated into dust. Yet they still hold onto her as if she’ll come back and say she's okay. But that girl's rotten soul fills the room with that rotten smell that leaves me gagging.

But despite her rotten appearance her name still is spoken with such ease you’d think she still breathes. As if her lungs haven’t collapsed and her tongue isn't full of holes.

I feel like they see her in me. But we’re as different as night is from day. We’re as similar as a fly is to a worm. It’s like saying rocks and water are the same thing.

But one day, I suppose something changed. Perhaps it was a blessing, or a gift from whatever otherworldly being is out there. But I did not turn when they called her name.

I guess this means she really is dead and gone, and that I no longer have to worry about her sour ghost following me around. It’s like her spirit finally moved on into the afterlife peacefully, with no argument. She got what she wanted, she’s finally nowhere and nothing at all. And I got what I wanted too.

After years of pain and a rotten stench in my nose;

I no longer answer when they call her name.

———

My names Azrael (or Azie for short) and I’m transmasc with family down in the south who don’t quite understand who I am. I express my feelings and emotions by writing them out in short stories such as this.

[nthflower]

I will read DC pride for midpollo. I am a DC guy now batman solos.

[azrael-the-reaper-demon]

“My ~~lover~~ partner Ares told me to write a “funny” story, so I guess I will for her sakes. I will be completely and utterly honest, death is not very funny to me, no matter how comedic the way it happened is. I’ve seen drunkards get stomped to death by angry mules but I’ve also seen families mourn to the point of infinite misery.

Death is an inherently respectful act; all humans will experience it. Though, since I’m telling a “funny” story, I guess I should end my spiel of misery. Let me set our scene:

There was once a man, I don’t remember his name, but he was in a rather unhappy marriage to a man we’ll call Tina. Tina was an unfaithful woman, and despite his love for her, it was safe to say she didn’t love him back.

One stormy day; he came home from work to see her cheating on him with some strange man. He was understandably upset, as I was when I found my first husband cheating on me, but he held it together enough to make it to the night.

That night, and keep note of this dear mortals, he waited until she was sound asleep (which doesn’t sound good as I write it) and he took one of his shotguns off the wall. I think you can guess what happened next.

I hope that amused all of you. It certainly gave my partner a chuckle. Maybe I’m just a prude.

May god have mercy on your soul, love Azrael.”

[premise29]

"Gets demoted so far down that even azraeil scores higher than him."

Absolutely brilliant line. Why is he still in the system!?!? Like I know this might just be coincidental but I love that his name is uncapitalized and misspelled. Batman has such a low opinion of him that when he considers Azrael's name he doesn't put in ANY effort. Just a step away from "old what's-his-face." BUT- he is still in the system! Just in case.

To anyone who thinks Bruce has a clear and consistent favourite child I raise you this: it is infinitely funnier for Bruce to have a complicated and elaborate “ranking” system of his kids that only he’s privy to.

Picture this: Batman, dosed with truth serum, gets asked as a gag from one of the goons holding him captive who his favourite bat-vigilante is and instead of giving a straight answer, he launches into this whole explanation about the ranking system and who’s in the current lead, who’s hanging behind, etc. At some point (this is a mystery to everyone involved) a whiteboard appears and he starts explaining his system like he’s a football coach before an important match. Out of nowhere he starts pulling out little cardboard cutouts of his kids and pins them to the board. At some point the red string comes out.

Jason hasn’t killed someone in a week? Automatically promoted to favourite. Tim hasn’t caused an international incident in the past month? Puts him a few points ahead that keep decreasing the longer he refuses real sleep (20 minute power naps don’t count Tim! Says powernap inventor Bruce Wayne). Cass gave him a hug this morning and wished him a good day? Favourite until he gets a call from dick telling him (without shouting!!!!) that he’ll be there for this week’s Sunday dinner. Duke accidentally scratches the Batmobile? Demoted to the “in trouble” zone (which, honestly, that’s where his kids spend most of the time in😭). Damian did not attempt to free all the animals in the zoo they visited? Favourite. Until Bruce found out he was just trying to conceal the cat hidden in his room that Bruce explicitly forbade him from keeping.

Dick arrives at the family dinner with a busted shoulder and a bruise the size of Texas on his face? Gets demoted so far down that even azraeil scores higher than him. He’s in the “in trouble” zone for a constant month after that. Oh one of them survived an almost death? Favourite for at least the next week. At least. Multiple people survive an almost death? EVERYONES the favourite. The least favourite is the growing grey hairs on his head.

The end of day results are decided by who bothers to wish him goodnight and if all of them have fucked up in some way the past week then Jon (Kent) becomes the automatic favourite until someone cracks a joke that Bruce actually finds funny.

The favourite child changes daily, hourly even, and his kids are aware this system exists and keep trying to crack the code but he always Knows and just smirks smugly.

[hauntedmoon519]

use your i statements

i bake for you

here, have half of mine

would you like a bite

i squeeze your hand when you're nervous

ive written so many songs and poems and riffs but

i am too scared to show you

i think of recipes for you

knowing that you love red velvet and caramel

i feel that i am so

very truly deeply in love with you

i want to be with you

i want you more than anything

because i know i know

although i am indecisive

i love you

[brieucgwalder]

Archangela

I have had so many names. Malaka al Mawt would be one. Gabriela, Rafaela, Mikaela and me? We were the initial team. They called me Doc* then. Ha! If only I’d known. Way before Time was invented… I am “the one whom God helps”. But as usual with translations, it could be the other way round. Maybe I was the one who helped… Way, way before the beginning of Time, I fought Iblis. I brought back…

[nearly-fxllen]

TW ABUSE MENTIONED/CHILD ABUSE

It was cold outside. Azrael sat, curled up in its blanket, on the balcony out of its bedroom in the palace. The doors to the balcony should have been locked, they were always locked. Not tonight though. Tonight, Azrael had learned how to pick the lock, and had gotten out onto the balcony. They could see the stars. The stars were so beautiful from where they were sitting. These bright, shiny dots in the sky that lit up the night and made everything so peaceful. Nighttime was always Azraels favorite time of day. It was quiet, peaceful, everyone else was asleep. Azrael could go outside without people being around. Well, they could if they were aloud to leave the palace without grown ups.

God was strict on Azrael, as a parent was meant to be. The boy was only seven, of course. Rules and structure were important for children. So, Azrael had rules to follow. No going outside without a grown up, no talking to people unless spoken to first, no leaving their room without permission, no crying, and the list went on. And on. And on. The child had to follow these rules unless he wanted to face the consequences. However, Azrael longed to see the stars at night. To feel the fresh air on his face. So he did. They figured it was late enough to not be caught, probably.

Unfortunately for Azrael, footsteps sounded outside in the hallway, nearing its bedroom door. The angel froze up, eyes wide as they tried to hurriedly get back into the bedroom and lock the window again before father could enter. Just as the window lock clicked, there was a singular knock on the door. They rushed to climb back into bed, pulling the covers over itself just as the door creaked open. They listened as the Father approached, not wanting to leave its cover of blankets. Not wanting to see the Father. There were so many eyes. So many wings. The Father was harsh, and Azrael knew they were in trouble, for the Father to have entered their room at this time of night.

“Son. Did you really believe you could go outside without me catching you? Are you truly that dense? You know the rules more than well enough to know that you can not do this. It is cruel. I have taken such good care of you and you disrespect me like this. You try to sneak around my rules which are fair and just.”

The Father ripped the covers from over top of Azrael, and the angel curled into itself, bracing for whatever the Father deemed a fit punishment. Whatever it was, the angel figured it would hurt. They were correct of course. After all, this was Father. Loving, but unkind. The child was in trouble, and that was scary. The father was angry with them, it was so clear to Azrael. So frightening, to be faced with the Fathers punishments. Though, he knew he shouldn’t have opened the window. They knew going onto the balcony was against the rules. This was its own fault, really. Azrael should have followed the rules. Then this wouldn’t have happened.

A few days later, Azrael was wrapping clean bandages around their arm. It stung, and Azrael had to bite their tongue to avoid making any noise. The gashes in their left arm were still raised and bruised and bloody. But they had gotten lucky this time, really. The father had only lashed their one arm. It was a rather minor punishment considering how angry the Father could have gotten. They were grateful that it had only been their non dominant arm. That he could still write. Writing was a good escape from its life and pain, even though Azrael had to burn everything he wrote before the Father could see it and punish him.

“…it’s my own fault this happened anyways, I can’t be upset about it.”

Once the dreadful task of having to tend to its wounds was finished, Azrael made its way to their wardrobe. The angel took a candle, lit it, and closed themself in the small wooden wardrobe with their scroll and quill. He wrote until their hand went numb, until their knees locked in place, until it couldn’t think clearly. This was freedom, this was happiness to Azrael. Writing, alone, in the wardrobe. This was as much joy and freedom as the angel had yet. Away from the Father, their siblings, the servants. Everyone. This was its escape from life, their only way to be out of view and still get their thoughts out onto something.

Snippet of what he wrote:

ℐ𝓉𝓈 𝒸ℴ𝓁𝒹 ℴ𝓊𝓉𝓈𝒾𝒹ℯ 𝓉ℴ𝒹𝒶𝓎．ℱ𝒶𝓉𝒽ℯ𝓇 𝓈𝒶𝒾𝒹 𝓈ℴ．ℐ 𝒹ℴ𝓃𝓉 𝑔ℯ𝓉 𝓉ℴ𝑔ℴ ℴ𝓊𝓉𝓈𝒾𝒹ℯ 𝒷ℯ𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈ℯ ℐ'𝓂 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝓇ℴ𝓊𝒷𝓁ℯ 𝒻ℴ𝓇 𝓈𝓃ℯ𝒶𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 ℴ𝓊𝓉𝓈𝒾𝒹ℯ 𝓈ℴ ℐ 𝒽𝒶𝓋ℯ 𝓉ℴ 𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓃 𝓌𝒽ℯ𝓃 ℱ𝒶𝓉𝒽ℯ𝓇 𝓈𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝓃ℴ ℴ𝓊𝓉𝓈𝒾𝒹ℯ 𝒶𝓃𝓎𝓂ℴ𝓇ℯ．ℐ 𝒹ℴ𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝓉ℴ 𝑔ℯ𝓉 𝒾𝓃 𝓂ℴ𝓇ℯ 𝓉𝓇ℴ𝓊𝒷𝓁ℯ 𝓇𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝓃ℴ𝓌． 𝒢ℯ𝓉𝓉��𝓃𝑔 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝓇ℴ𝓊𝒷𝓁ℯ 𝒽𝓊𝓇𝓉𝓈 𝓋ℯ𝓇𝓎 𝓂𝓊𝒸𝒽 𝒷ℯ𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈ℯ ℱ𝒶𝓉𝒽ℯ𝓇 𝒾𝓈 𝓃ℴ𝓉 𝑔ℯ𝓃𝓉𝓁ℯ 𝓌𝒽ℯ𝓃 𝒽ℯ 𝒾𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝑔𝓇𝓎 𝒶𝓉 𝓂ℯ．ℐ𝓂 𝓃ℴ𝓉 𝒶𝓁𝓁ℴ𝓌ℯ𝒹 𝓉ℴ 𝓁ℯ𝒶𝓋ℯ 𝓂𝓎 𝓇ℴℴ𝓂 𝓊𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓁 ℱ𝒶𝓉𝒽ℯ𝓇 𝓈𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝓈ℴ，𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓃ℴ ℴ𝓃ℯ ℯ𝓁𝓈ℯ 𝒾𝓈 𝒶𝓁𝓁ℴ𝓌ℯ𝒹 𝓉ℴ 𝒸ℴ𝓂ℯ 𝒾𝓃 𝒽ℯ𝓇ℯ ℯ𝒾𝓉𝒽ℯ𝓇．

[alternity01]

Soul Heir

Prompt: [WP] Your mother sat across from you and let out an exasperated sigh as she said, “Look, I know I told you that I wanted grandchildren, but that didn’t mean that I wanted you to adopt every troubled soul you came across.”

Word Count: 3168

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

“I’m home, Mama.” AJ walks in, scythe in one hand, shoes in the other.

It leans by the door hinges, the tip of its obsidian blade nestling between fresh scratches.

“Is that blood on your shoes?”

“Huh?” he asks.

“Azrael █████ Jr. Is that blood on your shoes?” Mama repeats, never raising her voice.

“Sorry, Mama. I'll”—

“Leave them outside.”

He does exactly that, treading lightly when he re-enters. Six translucent people, as different as they can be, form a single file line behind him. Together they make the short journey from the foyer, around the black leather couches and across the polished marble floor panels to his office.

“Hey, y'all. Why don't ya wait for AJ over there while he and I have a little talk?” She points a finger stripped of flesh at his office.

They look at AJ. He gives them a thumbs up. They follow instructions. Afterwards, he pulls out a chair made from Eden's wood and drops onto it.

Mama sighs. “Look, I told ya I wanted grandchildren. I didn’t say ‘adopt every troubled soul ya come across’.”

“Mama. Mama, I can handle this.”

“It may look fine now, but get too much too early and you'll”—

“Burnout? Relax, Mama. I'm far from lookin’ like Ghost Rider.”

Seconds of inescapable silence.

“Now why ya gotta go ahead and do that?”

“No. Wait. Mama, that's not what I meant.”

“Relax, baby. I'm just playin’ witcha.”

“Oh good. Good.”

“But seriously. Keep pushin’ yourself like that and Imma beatcha a”—

‘Ain’t No Grave’ by Johnny Cash cuts her off with its familiar tune.

“Just a moment, baby.” She picks up her latest phone with ageing, yellowing bones.

His ears tune into the half of the conversation closest to him.

“Hi, Famine.”

…

“Yeah, yeah. I'm about to leave.”

…

“Of course I'm bringin’ potato salad.”

…

“No. Junior's on the job. New souls ‘n’ all.”

…

“I know. We're all proud of him. But he did almost bring blood into the house. On our nice carpets.”

…

“Alright, alright. It's his first day. I'll go easy on him.”

…

“Alright. I'll hand it over. Hold on.”

She puts her phone on speaker.

“Hey, Uncle Famine.”

“Mr. Reaper. My boy. How are things?”

“Things are good. Got myself six new souls waitin’ for me.”

“Six? Wow. Great job. I won't keep you too long then.”

“Thank ya.”

“How does this sound? You tell your mum to come home in one piece, and I'll tell War to make you those lemon pepper wings you like. Extras. Just for you.”

“Okay, you,” she interjects. “That’s enough.”

“And I'll make you some extra chips,” Aunt Conquest adds.

“Alright. Say bye, baby.”

“Bye.”

She puts the phone back to the hole where her ear should be.

“You two. When I get my hands on ya. I swear.” She laughs.

…

“Are ya keepin’ my hubby busy?”

…

“Good, good. Now y'all keep the drinks flowin’, and I'll be back in one piece.”

…

“Alright.”

…

“Alright.”

…

“Bye now.”

Mama puts her phone away.

“Come help me get this potato salad in the car, baby.”

They get a stack of plastic wrapped glass each and place them in the boot of their pitch black station wagon.

“Thank ya, baby.” She gives him a hug before finding her spot in the driver's seat.

“You're welcome, Mama.”

“I'll get War and Conquest to double their offers for ya.”

“Thank ya, Mama.”

She changes her appearance before his very eyes. Becoming the same Afro-Latina who showed up early to his parent–teacher conferences and got a little too excited at competitive school events. The same one who pimp-slapped a teacher for daring to question his lineage and the mortician whose husband did ‘something with numbers.’

“Goodbye, AJ.” She gestures for him to come closer.

He leans down to receive what in reality is a lipless kiss on the already melting skin clumped up and affixed onto his cheek. Mama starts the car, met with the sound of ‘Many Men’ by 50 Cent when the radio turns on. She drives off. After a considerable amount of waving, AJ rests his weary arm.

Returning inside, he sits in the living room. In front of him is a mirror with enough energy to climb halfway up the wall and no higher. Rather than glance at its suffocating presence, he stares at a portrait hung above it such a way that the reflective surface rests right outside his vision. It was his graduation. His hair, the same infinite raven's wing of his father's. His flesh as pale as the bones within him, his hands spindly extensions. And the robes. They look like someone bought king-size sheets for a single bed. Replaced before they could even be granted a second glance.

Head tilted, he removes the threadbare clump of skin from the cheek his mom kissed. If only she told him about this earlier. If only she warned him. Oh well. AJ took the job irregardless. After all, friends he never thought he'd see again were made while his parents were neck deep in paperwork. That's what he gets for being born, he guesses. Being born to the angel of death and the living embodiment of the concept doesn't exactly guarantee him a normal life. While one was given the form of flesh, the other was given the final form all creatures take. Both experience the ageing only known by the ageless. As will he in his own way.

“Who was that?” A young voice asks.

“Ah!” He flinches.

“Sorry,” he says. “Did I scare you?”

“It's alright, Tommy.”

“Okay…” He floats over to the floor in front of him.

“You're gettin’ better at that.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“So that was your mum?”

“Yeah. That’s mama.”

“Is she really a real skeleton?”

“Ha. She is.”

“Whoa!” Tommy flies up. “That’s so cool.”

“I’ll tell her you said that.” AJ gestures for him to come back down.

“Can I ask you one more question?”

“I need to help ya’ll.”

“Please,” he asks with extended vowels.

“Fine.”

“Has she always looked like that? What happened to your cheek? Did someone hurt you?” They leave his mouth like bullets from a semi-automatic.

“Tommy. That was three.”

“Sorry.”

He sighs, “I’ll answer all of them.”

“Yay!”

“She was born that way. Every time I do my job, I lose my skin and muscle till I look like my mama. No one hurt me,” he explains. “Now can I help ya or not?”

“Yes please.”

AJ and Tommy finally enter his office. Also known as his childhood bedroom.

“Sorry about that, y’all. Time for a little role call.” He sits down by his desk.

AJ shuffles a few folders in hand.

“From right to left: Baxter Huntsman.”

An older man whose wrinkles have started making cameos while grey hairs are yet to sign contracts looks directly at him. He leans on his cane out of habit as he nods. In better shape than a man his age should be, his broad shoulders fill his tailored, midnight blue suit. That paired with the bouquet of blood blooming from his chest portrays a harrowing readiness for this moment. A date with new death, even though he’s not AJ’s type.

“Sorcha Durnin.”

Eyes of mouldy emerald meet his, young enough to cling to some shine but old enough to see the absence of light hidden in the pages of this world first hand. She waves an arm drowning in bracelets, rings and glass shards.

“Thomas Shah.”

Tommy’s head darts up from the Rubik’s cube he was fiddling with. Unlike himself and some of the others, his sun-kissed skin remains untouched. His hair of black sheep’s wool manages to shine beyond circumstance.

“Ashton Bennett.”

Mrs. Bennett redirects the smile originally meant for Tommy to AJ. Every fold and pinch in her wedding dress white skin hides a memory. All replayable—whether willingly or unwillingly—wherever she ends up.

“Virgil Clay.”

Virgil raises an arm coated from fingertip to elbow in crimson. His unwashed wife beater is a variable game of ‘Guess That Stain!’. Coffee, gravy, sweat, blood that probably isn’t his and blood that definitely is. All split down the middle by a Titan Arum sized blade currently forcing itself through his spine and ribcage.

“Kaipo Bakó.”

She tips a bright yellow hardhat towards him. Wearing a similar vest to Virgil—although this one’s actually clean—showcases a level of muscle development AJ’s quite frankly jealous of. Even though he’s resigned himself to his losses, seeing how her biceps and forearms stand out under her many tattoos makes his eyes green. He should call Envy after this.

“I’ll send y’all out from oldest to youngest,” he says, leaving all but one folder on his desk.

Mrs. Bennett sits across from him.

He opens her folder and gives it a read:

Name: Ashton Bennett

Age: ██

Occupation: Administrator of Field Day Orphanage

Time of Death: 02/02/20██ (09:45)

Cause of Death: Old age

Positive Impact: Gave thousands of orphans loving homes throughout her career.

Neutral Impact: Ran redlights.

Negative Impact: Indirectly sent a small percentage of the orphans into unsafe homes.

“Everything looks good here, Mrs. Bennett. You'll know where ya are when ya get there,” he says as he puts the folder back on his desk.

“I only wish I could have done more for those children.” She looks back. “I'm so sorry, Tommy.”

“S’not your fault, Mrs. Bennett,” the young one responds.

“It really isn’t, ma’am,” AJ comments. “And you’ve done so much for them already.”

She turns around and kneels, giving Tommy a hug and saying “You grew up to be such a kind young man. You deserved more time. Not me. I was already an old bag of bones when you met me, but”—

“Don't say that about yourself, Mrs. Bennett,” he interrupts.

“I won't. Thank you. I'll just say this: I’ll miss you.”

“I'll miss you too.” He lets go of the hug.

AJ looks around the room, patting his pockets and opening his drawers.

“I left my scythe in the”—

“I’ll get it!” Tommy flies through the wall.

A ring of violet fire appears in the floor next to AJ, and out of it rises both his aforementioned tool and Tommy clinging to its whittled ivory handle.

“Whoa,” he says as he comes through.

AJ sighs, shaking Tommy off of it. Out of his pocket he retrieves a small slip of card paper.

Your sleep disturbed and lungs compressed.

All thoughts conserved and sins professed.

No longer made of bone and flesh,

you now accept eternal rest.

With those words, she disappears. No theatrics or even a hint of where she found herself in the end. Tommy makes a popping sound in response.

Baxter takes her place.

AJ opens his folder:

Name: Baxter Huntsman

Age: ██

Occupation: Assassin

Time of Death: 02/02/20██ (01:00)

Cause of Death: Shot several times in the chest.

Positive Impact: Gave money to the innocent grieving families.

Neutral Impact: Refused to break any laws unrelated to his work.

Negative Impact: Took the lives of countless people, leaving many without guardians and caretakers.

“Your mum has good taste, kid.”

“Hm?”

“Your mum has good taste in music. I heard Many Men as she was driving out.”

“I'll tell her you said that.”

“Good…” He pauses. “So this is the final place I have to look at before my fate is decided?”

“Is there a problem?”

“Oh nothing. I just expected you to be…”

“Older?”

“And a woman.”

“You're too late for that. Mama’s retired,” he says, crossing one leg over the other.

“Any other complaints or assumptions, Mr. Huntsman?”

“Since you asked”—

“Here we go.” AJ puts Baxter’s folder back on the table.

“Do you usually conduct business in what I can assume is your little sibling’s bedroom?” he asks.

“Easy, Mr. Huntsman. I’ve been on campus most of the time, and I’m with my parents until I get my own place. I don’t have any siblings.”

“Sorry. I’ve never been one for bureaucracy,” he explains. “I didn’t realise it would’ve followed me into the afterlife.”

“A lot of things follow ya into the afterlife, but I’m tellin’ ya this ain’t that.” He taps his scythe idly. “Now are ya ready to go?”

“Eh. I’ve had a good run.” Baxter rises with his cane, adjusting his tie with a single hand. “As long as my Hisako is safe, I can burn easier.”

“Who’s that?”

He pulls a locket from under the bloody bouquet, opening the unscathed piece of his past. Inside are a far younger, clean shaven Baxter and two women. One whose appearance can only be compared to an oil painting of a black cloth draped over a snow covered branch. While the other is her reflection through a tinted hand mirror.

“My daughter.”

“Are ya gonna miss her?” He stands and readies his scythe.

A pause. It's not long, but it's noticeable.

“She’ll… she’ll be fine.” His eyes flicker down, before looking into AJ’s again and making a request. “Just let me go already, kid.”

Your sleep disturbed and lungs compressed.

All thoughts conserved and sins professed.

No longer made of bone and flesh,

you now accept eternal rest.

Kaipo replaces the Huntsman.

Name: Kaipo Bakó

Age: ██

Occupation: Construction Worker

Time of Death: 02/02/20██ (12:39)

Cause of Death: Blunt Force Trauma

Positive Impact: Created homes for many disenfranchised groups.

Neutral Impact: Doesn't separate her garbage.

Negative Impact: Consumed by work to the point of neglecting those around her.

“Are you okay, ma'am? You look as pale as… well… a ghost.”

“I still can't believe it.”

“It must be hard,” he responds, “but you're calmer than most. I wasn't there, of course, but Mama told me about this guy who was screaming his nonexistent lungs out. I never understood that part myself.”

“That's good… Not that he was screaming. No. Me being calm. That's what's good.” She sits down.

“How does it feel?”

“Death?”

“Mhm.”

“It’s not as scary as I thought. The dying part. It’s my kids. I didn’t have enough time with them, I didn’t do enough for them.”

“How many do you have?”

“Three. All girls.”

“Did you ever hurt them?”

“No. Not intentionally at least.”

“Did they ever go hungry?”

“Never.”

“Are they getting a good education?”

“Two of them are on scholarships,” she says. “And I promised the other to go clothes shopping. Told me her clothes were too masculine.”

“I don’t have kids, so take my opinion with a grain of salt, but it sounds like ya did as much as ya could, and that’s all that matters.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“Do they have anywhere to stay?”

“Their mother’s house.”

“Ya don’t live together?”

“No, but we’re still on good terms. We both love the kids, and the kids love us too,” she explains. “Sometimes things don’t work out as planned.”

“Like dying?”

“Like dying.”

“They have a place to stay and another mama who loves them. Sounds like they’ll be doing just fine.”

Kaipo pauses, he assumes it's to think.

“You’re right. I think…” She takes a deep breath despite no longer having lungs.

‘Old habits die hard, I guess,’ he thinks to himself.

“I think I’m ready to go.” She stands up, leaving her hat on the table.

Your sleep disturbed and lungs compressed.

All thoughts conserved and sins professed.

No longer made of bone and flesh,

you now accept eternal rest.

Sorcha sits down. They share a look of recognition.

Name: Sorcha Durnin

Age: ██

Occupation: Personal Assistant

Time of Death: 02/02/20██ (10:00)

Cause of Death: Car Crash

Positive Impact: Charitable and kind to those she held dear.

Neutral Impact: Aloof to everyone else.

Negative Impact: Didn’t recycle.

“This whole time one of my freshmen’s been the feckin’ grim reaper.”

“Correction. One of your former freshmen just became the grim reaper.”

“And ye graduated too.” She looks at the diploma above his desk. “Criminology. Does it help with the death stuff?”

“It’s my first day, so it’s hard to say.”

“Well ye got eternity t’think about that. I don’t have t’worry about any of that anymore.”

“Would you say you’re ready to go?” He grips his scythe.

“No, I’m freakin’ the fuck out, but what can I really do now? Ye know?” She fiddles with the glass in her punctured arm. “What’s done is done. I’ll have time to regret wherever the feck I end up.”

“One thing I can promise you is that this process is painless.”

“I guess it is. Now, enough catchin’ up. Take me up or down or spin me right around. Whatever ye need or wherever the feck. Just promise you’ll come visit.”

“I’ll see if that’s possible.”

Your sleep disturbed and lungs compressed.

All thoughts conserved and sins professed.

No longer made of bone and flesh,

you now accept eternal rest.

AJ reads before he can walk forward:

Name: Virgil Clay

Age: ██

Occupation: Video Rental Store Clerk

Time of Death: 02/02/20██ (02:00)

Cause of Death: Stabbed

Positive Impact: N/A

Neutral Impact: ██████

Negative Impact: ██████

Your sleep disturbed and lungs compressed.

All thoughts conserved and sins professed.

No longer made of bone and flesh,

you now accept eternal rest.

Tommy makes a popping sound. “You didn’t even talk to him.”

“His place was decided before he got here.”

“Okay.”

“Come over here, it’s your turn.”

He reads the final folder:

Name: Thomas Shah

Age: ██

Occupation: Student

Time of Death: 02/02/20██ (05:00)

Cause of Death: ██████

Positive Impact: Charitable even when he didn't have much himself.

Neutral Impact: Doodled on the wall besides his bunk.

Negative Impact: N/A

“It's pretty obvious where you're going, Tommy, so let me let you in on a little secret.”

“Okay.”

He shows him the inside of his own folder.

“It’s empty?” Tommy asks. “But there are so many papers.”

“Not empty,” AJ answers. “Only my parents and I can actually read ’em.”

“Ohhh. Okay.” He bites the tip of his thumb, nodding slowly.

“Are ya ready to go?”

“Wait, AJ… Can I ask you one more thing?”

“Go ahead.”

“I want to say goodbye to my parents. One more time. It’s not their fault this happened to me, and I want them to know that,” he explains. “Can you help me do that?”

For the first time in a while, he finds himself silent.

“I can…” He says. “Do ya remember your address?”

“Yep.”

“Think about it really hard, and close your eyes.”

AJ taps his scythe against the floor.

Comfortable suburbia surrounds them, its trees lush and bright, its streets and sidewalks clean and wide. An emergency vehicle peels away from Tommy’s two-storey house.

“Are ya sure you’re ready? I can come in and explain things to them.” Azrael Jr. suggests.

“I wanna tell them myself.”

Tommy floats over to the gate, stopping to wave at him before continuing on.