Oh great we’re going up there again.
Why can’t you install clocks in heaven?
Department of Deceased Affairs, Richard’s Office, Heaven
James Moriarty Piddock never really understood the conflicting personality of Richard ‘Elcalim’ Strife. In his more pleasant moods, the specter came as that of a punk goth who had shopped exclusively from whatever was available at Hot Topic; unnecessary chains and buckles, ripped jeans that were all simply synonyms of the word ‘black’ and brand tees that I’m not entirely sure I’m allowed to mention here without getting sued.
Richard’s darker days were even worst. The man became pretty much the atypical depiction of death, a pale man about his thirties that was tall, brooding, and nearly breathed ice as if he were a vile dragon made flesh. Ozzy Osborne would be a good image to put into your culturally minded head, a servant of the nether that you’re not entirely sure whether to laugh at or fear; his suit, the only time he could be seen with one, would become tattered at the hems as the occasional blue flame burst from them, all hinting at the immense power that radiated from cool eyes that changed color depending on the mood.
In his office though? It was actually a pleasant experience, as if all the goodness of Heaven could cure even him of viciousness. Situated on the top floor of a corporate building that made up the whole of the island situated in the middle of a seemingly never ending sea, light was found to be everywhere. Through the windows, in the self-energized lamps, even the people all seemed to beam light, light, and more light.
Or Jack Johnson with a little bit of Norah Jones for good measure, a radio in the office blasting a music at just the perfect volume to be heard without being distracting. This sat upon a chest that was entirely for decoration, simply filled with pictures of the man over the course of many centuries, timelines and worlds. For being Death incarnate, he certainly seemed lively enough in the pictures of him posing with various daredevils and heroes across the legends of myth and folklore.
Moriarty’s favorite was the simple, rugged snapshot of Richard and Izanagi-No-Okami holding a massive komodo dragon over their heads, a beast irradiated to grow to such a point it could have eaten a man whole. Not Godzilla size, but big enough to take down a boat.
That’s missing the point of this little record though. How about we get to the real meat.
“So! Richard… if you were pist, you’d simply chew me out over the phone. I must have done something right.”
“That you have, Mr. Employee of the month. Do you know what you did yesterday?”
James had to scratch his head, oh so casual with his boss given how he’d been under him for thousands of years. Only man who would see him ponder like that, if he focused.
“I killed an anarchist. Does that count?”
“Nope. You’re here today because you’ve met another department milestone. Happy one hundred thousand deaths! You’re now a six figure killer! You don’t need me to tell you how rare that is.”
Mostly because there’s very few people who would actually celebrate something like that, let alone on the light side of the spectrum. James Moriarty was more than pleased with himself to hear the news and, clapping, couldn’t help but give a holler as he finally understood the cake, the soda, and all the other food that sat on his boss’s empty desk. A cause certainly worth raising a toast to.
“Well, then happy one hundred k! Here’s to another four!”
“Here’s to another nine to make it a million!” Death announced, matching his friend’s non-alcoholic drink with his own. No beer in heaven, to the surprise of no one but the Bible Belt.
With a quick drink the two faced each other, wiping their mouths clean of the carbonated fizz that dripped from them before James, wearing a sort of beige suit that was reserved for trips like these, went on to ask
“So. The last time I crossed a company milestone the Instrumentality Project was sitting on two apostles and Malebranche. How are we doing now?”
“Apostles have six, Malebranche are at five. Not too shabby, all things considering. We’re almost half way there.”
“Who’s the new one for Garland’s forces? The FTM killer, Revolver Revenant or something utterly stupid like that?”
“The same. Took the name Scarmiglione, or trouble maker. Ironic, given how he solves most of our problems.”
Well, irony was always to be expected in their line of work. Taking his glass and sipping again, the man swallowed long as he relished the break and the chance to come home, only able to come to such a beautiful place on invitation, before James continued ahead.
“Hm, well, it seems some of these problems we make for ourselves. I’m never one to complain about killing; you know how into it I can get. Some of the names were a bit surprising, even by our standards; the brother to the boyfriend of Sky? Are we getting that precautious now?”
“You heard about the six degrees of Kevin Bacon? Internet and social media is doing that now. If we had let Tommy go, he would have connected the dots and blown the whistle early. No, vampires and monsters, FTMs and everything else needs to stay quiet for seven more years. 2016 comes, we let everyone know the truth.
“Until then, even if it does mean a few earnest people are departing for the afterlife much earlier than they would hope, it’s simply a necessary sacrifice for the plan of god. Not much else to it.”
So it was. Another drink, another bite of chips and chocolate as the two active men loaded up on much needed carbs. Something besides blood had to keep the two going as they invoked the most of their prowess.
Though, this time it was Richard’s turn to ask a question. “So. I haven’t been keeping up. How’s the boy doing?”
“Seth? Oh, taking it about as bad as I expected. He’s far more messed up in the head than he thinks he is, blaming himself for everything that’s happened. It’ll be entertaining to tell him the truth once he’s transformed. You might want to come to that.”
“When is it supposed to be?”
Moriarty did the math. “At this rate, about November 29, maybe 30?”
“Darn. Have to pass. I’ll be processing the fallout of another one of Emperor Pariz’ annual examples. Not that I mind, really; it’s fun to listen to billions of people try to defend themselves when you have the actual record of their lives right before you. Like a school boy covered in chocolate saying he didn’t steal his neighbor’s food.”
“Hm, I’d love to see that for a while. Permission to come and help out after my meeting?”
“Permission granted, given your recent achievement. Just like the old days, right? You and Sherlock.”
“Just like the old days.”
Another toast, more infinite soda disappearing down throats before their glasses filled themselves back up spontaneously. There’s a reason why it’s called Heaven, and not just for whatever etymology I wrote down back in Selective Perception. Everything here is better than you can imagine.
Richard, leading once more. “And the girl? How’s Molly taking to her new state?”
“Better than Seth, but she has a few problems as well. Most people we turn into Monsters or Mutants have some kind of concept of the greater world around them. Molly knew nothing; one day she’s in bed with her wife, the next she finds out indisputable proof that God, Angels, and Demons are all real.
“So, while she’s excited to know she’ll see her parents again, it’s a bit nerve wracking to know that her own wife is languishing in a spiritual prison until she recants her love affair. At least she’s quick to repent; didn’t take her long to get over her lesbian lover once you turn water into wine.”
“So when can we expect her to become an apostle?”
“2022? 2023? The other problem is zero combat experience; she’ll get herself killed, even if she does have Pierre’s genetic pattern. We’ll feed her up and hide her somewhere safe, teach her all the while.”
“I heard rummaging that Paz is going to open an academy
soon. Might consider her as part of the first wave of students.”
“That so?” James asked, all too familiar with the Dancer Empress. “Me and Vicky have dinner with her and Pariz in about three days, for the massacre of his. I’ll see what she says.”
“Then that’s another item to cross off the list. Things just keep on moving, don’t they? Law of exponential growth; centuries of preparation, all resulting in a few tumultuous decades before two final, glorious years.
“Care to know another secret? Vicky and the other Bosses will get this in the next memo, but we actually have an estimate for the completion of the Instrumentality Project. Care to hear the dates?”
“I thought it was against scripture to know of the coming of the lord.”
“This isn’t the second coming, gov. This is the end of the timeline; in 2027, this Earth will end.
“And in 2029? Either someone will become a god and goddess to complete the time loop and secure our existence forever… or we fail, and all life that ever was, is, will and can be ceases to exist.
“So, just another Monday.”