Death and the VIM Desk — Serial Index

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“A word,” Simien said. “Let's take this to my office.”

Rancor began pulling Death’s chair away from the table until Lydia chimed in. She spoke, looking onto the boardroom. “But, Sir, the agenda?”

Simien removed his glasses, inspecting the smudged lenses and began wiping them against his shirt.

“Performance reviews are due next week,” Lydia said.

The Exitors said nothing, already having done their own math. Soon is soon, no matter the spacetime. But to Death, there was a palpable sense of anxiety and weariness, even among the non-humanoids. The way the Exitor with the marbly eyes slightly faltered, one eye stalk falling limp. And the marshmallow man — that's what Death called it — how all the gas in its casing suddenly stiffened, the soft smoke hardening to cement. Even the ethereal ones, he could no longer hear the fluttering of their paper dresses.

“It's all standard,” Simien said, hooking his glasses on his collar. Death supposed he didn't care to see all the tenuous faces. “Run the leaderboards through the algorithm. Eh. By the way, Lydia, why don't you use some of the time to explain the adjustments to the model.” He scanned the room. “We noticed the tolerances were too liberal. Quality control requires VIM to tighten the bounds.” He turned to Orble and a few others. “Especially for those who earn double, thrice and even quadruple a soul. Souls don't roll over. Just because you collected a million one week doesn't mean you can go easy the next.”

Death glanced out the egg-shaped window, watching the dreamy pink gas wind and swell. He noticed Mercy was doing the same.

Indifferently, Simien waved his pen like a baton at the soul collectors. “Lydia, continue, please. This will only take a moment.”

The sound of irritation, in all their exotic whinnies, bleeps and sighs, touched the air. By the time Lydia moved to the Director's seat, Death and his entourage were already stepping into Simien's office.

Mahogany colored ripples undulated behind Death, as the melting wall sealed. A cool breeze caught his shroud, blowing air at the tattered skirt of black fabric.

Simien's desk was an L-shaped hunk of stone. Only the surface was polished, making it smooth like white cement. The ends and the backside were rough, unsculpted, broken from a quarry. He took a seat at a large black chair, and from somewhere at his side, retrieved a single sheet of paper. He set it down on the polished stone along with his pen.

“The Dial is a mysterious thing,” he said, looking squarely at Death. “I can't let you fill their heads with it. So let's say what needs to be said in private.”

Simien waved at two chairs, black like his own and motioned the group to sit. Mercy swayed in place, moving gently side to side. She called it stretching but it reminded Death of something his mother did while she was pregnant with his little sister. “Mercy, please,” Death said, knowing something must ache. She was a lady, the only lady in his life, how old, he didn't know nor did he care.

Before she could take a seat, Rancor made a sound. A scolding, do-you-not-know-your-place kind of sound. Mercy stepped back and bent her head. “Death. Please, Sir,” Rancor said. With his long fingers pressed together like a fin, Rancor gestured to the open seat and Death obliged.

“Ugh,” Simien said, putting his glasses on. “The decorum with you Exitors. Just sit so we can get started, already.”

Mercy finally took a seat, folding one leg over the other, her crocheted shawl cascading over the arms. Rancor as usual, stood behind Death.

Simien looked human. Very blandly, boringly human. Sitting there in his oversized chair, he reminded Death of an accountant and that was probably right. A role fit to lead VIM Desk. Skinny brown tie, a cream colored button down shirt, features like a stick figure. The shirt, although fitted, had cuffs that drowned his wrists. His nose was set low and pointy, jawline sharp like the deadly etched corners of his desk. If Death met this man in any city on Earth, he would believe his life was defined by schedule and order. He was not a man who chased fun.

“Let's start with your scores,” Simien said. “56.4 thousand average souls per Earth day. That was the mean as of two days ago. Now I can't fault you for that. It is what it is. We're all about the outcomes, after all, not the means and the methods. Leave that to Operations.”

Death saw Mercy squeeze her thigh.

“Don't you think, Mercy?” Simien asked. The way he said it was honest. No ulterior motive or entrapment. “I'm glad we could finish the transfer. I was never able to really see you in Operations, anyway. One day, you'll have to tell me how you withstood it for so long.”

But she didn't and Death knew that. Psychological, emotional operations, crafted to coax one's demise. A thread, gently pulled, drawn taut into the dark muck of self-destruction. The kind engineered to poison a mother's heart, making her suffer her own children. The kind of evil-design that takes innocence and hangs it like a pig, gutting and ravaging the young like meat. The kind dosed with a tonic of seduction, liquids and chemicals and flesh and compulsion, that eventually hollows out hope until all you are is an eighteen year old boy revving his truck in fourth gear, idling at the top of a cliff…

“But at the same time, I was planning to have Lydia schedule a performance improvement session with your team,” Simien said. “I think you're leaving a lot on the shop room floor. That is until yesterday. Now with this business in Nagasaki. Gentlemen and gentle lady, it's just too much. I can't allow it.”

“Director,” Rancor began. “Human souls cost only one point. Don't you think VIM should take that into account?”

Simien raised his eyebrows, three lines wrinkling his forehead. “But we do. It's been weighted for eons, Mr. Rancor. We absolutely do. Perhaps you don't feel the effect because of the inconsistency of Death’s collection strategy. I thought Lydia said you were working on that.”

Rancor licked his lips and sniffed. “Indeed, Sir. You are witness to the strategy.” He motioned to Death. “A complete change in management.”

Simien picked up the pen and clicked it. “As I was saying, inconsistent collection. And now, surfing time to score points. Where was Chronos in all this? What did he say?”

“He said nothing.” Death spoke the words with an unbending, solemn and executive distinction. It was a benefit of being Death. Dressed in this costume conferred transmutations that permanently altered the way others perceived him. In his internal mind, however, he was still young, speaking with indifference, a shrug in his voice.

Behind him, Rancor sighed.

“Nothing?” Simien asked. Now a fourth forehead wrinkle appeared.

“There was no need to consult him,” Death said.

To this, Simien leaned back and tapped his feet. The empty room rang with the clack of his hard-soled shoes. “But you used After Image. You wrote it in the report. You used it. And using it means that Chronos would know what you did.”

“If I may,” Rancor said.

“No, Mr. Rancor, you may not,” Simien snapped and leaned forward. “Let me be very clear. I loathe, loathe, loathe Legal. To have applied the Dial without clearance will be a mess that even I can't explain my way out of. Even Operations with all their nasty mind control, would have an easier time getting out from under the attorneys, than us with the Dial.”

He paused, taking a second to tap the pen against his temple. He continued.

“For some reason, and I fault myself, the Exitors seem to believe that processing souls is the most important factory in our universe. How sacred one's end must be, to preserve it and make a ritual of it. But no, my dear Earth contingent, you could not be farther from the truth. While the Exitors romantically philosophize over the quandries of death, all the universe must maintain mathematical rhythm and precision, beyond death. Because the death, the end, the exit, is just that. The final result. And VIM Desk counts those results so that we may reprocess them in our efficient engine. Forever and ever.”

Relaxing, Simien sank into his chair and crossed his ankle over his knee.

“It is Time, Death and friends, which is the most necessary. Consider this. We always document the time of death, the time of birth. Never anything in between. Correct?” Simien paused and raised his eyebrows.

Mercy spoke for the group and said, “Correct.”

With a slight tilt of the head, the Director of VIM Desk continued. “It seems the journey from cradle to grave is not so relevant. But these two bookends, these milestones, if you will, are. And Time is necessary. And what is necessary is regulated. Highly, highly regulated. Think compliance, standards, protocols, operating plans, agreements. All of this so that fools like you don't abuse the one loophole — quite literally a loophole — that someone in VIM granted the Exitors, so long ago. Without consulting the Chief of Legal you have usurped the foundational manual of VIM.”

Rancor sniffed and dabbed his nose with the top of his index finger. The room grew quiet.

“I will talk to Chronos,” Death said, breaking the silence. His smooth bony face revealed nothing.

Simien rose to his feet, smoothing his tie in a long, thoughtful stroke. “And why would the Chief Legal of VIM bother to see you? I'm sure he knows by now.”

“Because I still have this.” Death reached into his black robes, skeletal fingers vanishing through a dark seam. And when they emerged, he clutched the glassy fisheye lens in his hand like a goblet. For a moment no one said anything. The thick, convex eye glowed with a translucent violet sheen. Shadows of the dead, charcoal, smokey masses floated behind the lens, then vanished.

“The After Image needs adjustment. It will give me an excuse to discuss the Dial,” Death said.

Simien said nothing and shifted to the desk. He scratched something on the cream colored paper. “Mr. Rancor, you first.” He slid the paper forward.

Rancor delicately approached the desk. His thin, white eyebrows pinched together. And as he read the note, he asked, “Director, what does this mean exactly?”

“Just sign it. Please. You're the Deputy, are you not? Handling equipment, resources, and personnel. All that rests on your shoulders. The Chief Operating Officer to the CEO, so to speak.”

“Why, why, of course. But…” Rancor turned, his eyes flashing a rare, nervous glance. “Death, Sir, you should look at this.”

Simien sighed and sat back. “Consensus, hm? Now I understand why you've always been behind.”

It was easy to read from here. Death, a tall black column, towered over the contingent. “We are not ready to return it,” he said, and to this Rancor stepped back. His long face bent upward ever so slightly, and his shoulders relaxed. Meanwhile, Death put away After Image, tucking it in the infinitely deep pockets of an inner robe, the physics of which he never understood.

It seemed Simien was expecting this. He took the paper and scribbled his signature. With a swift peak, valley, and line, the Director swung his pen, and looked up. His face was sour by now. The Director was officially in a bad mood.

“Right here,” he said, tapping the paper, “It couldn't have been any simpler. You could have admitted your ignorance using the Dial, signed the letter, and been done. But unfortunately, you're opting for arrogance over lawfulness.”

Mercy sat up, her eyes narrowing. Somewhere deep inside, behind his skeleton veneer, Death grinned. Underneath the quiet fortitude of her gentle strength, was an unshakable, feisty spirit. Only a few times did she ever let it show. “Director, with all due respect, I think you're making a leap. I'm sure if you allow Death to explain, he has a legitimate reason for keeping it,” she said.

Simientapped the pen against his temple. It clicked against the frame of his glasses. “Mercy, how can you say that without reading the memo?”

Mercy relaxed the tension in her jaw and she sat back, saying nothing. Come on, Mercy, Death thought, wanting her to push back against VIM authority. He could have used mental persuasion, but it would be a cheap trick, and an insult. Rancor returned to stand behind Death’s chair and crossed his arms.

“Allow me to read it so you can fully appreciate the gravity of your situation,” Simien said. “And then, you and Death and Mr. Rancor can consult, to determine if your Exitor’s reason is, as you say, legitimate. Fair?”

He took their silence as agreement and began to read aloud. “The Earth Exitor Contingent hereby returns the Dial, due to their criminally neglectful usage of the temporal switch. Lacking formal training and policy approval, the Contingent used the device to intentionally manipulate the leaderboard. As a result, all souls must be returned immediately. Failure to surrender the device is a corporate offense, subject to action by the VIM Disciplinary Committee.”

It wasn't the Committee that Death cared about. Not even the allegation of criminal misconduct. It was the question of —

“Returned immediately?” Mercy asked. “How do you expect us to return the souls, exactly? They've already been processed.”

Simien, again, a prepared man. It was the accountant in him, the buttoned up books, balance sheets, sheets behind sheets, and still the backups beyond. He stood and slid his giant chair away from the stone slab that served as a desk. As if on a thousand casters, he easily pushed the desk to the right. It swiveled open, unhinging the “L” at its base, pivoting to reveal a perfect, gaping hole in the floor.

It was wide; wide enough for each of them to fit. And from inside, it glowed. The color was pink, a wet kind of light that reminded Death of flesh. The spiral stairs, white and marbly, descended into a far away place below.

“Come on,”Simien said, folding the paper. “They're waiting.”

Rancor put his index finger in the air. Just a moment, it said. But before he could open his mouth, Simien stopped him with a hand. “You’re concerned. I’ve noticed that. Rest assured, the Committee isn’t downstairs.”

At this point, the mahogany walls melted, opening in the place of where the office door ought to be and Lydia came in.

“Ah, just in time,” Simien said.

She stood there, her lips thin and eyes unalarmed. It’s as if she expected this. “I thought you would be done by now,” she said.

“There’s been a change in plans. Give Charlie a call. Tell him to pull out the old handbooks. The Earth Contingent here has apparently missed their training requirements. Oh, and Lydia? It’s individual lessons. We have to split them up.”

But Death, being the new guy, lags behind. When his team, consisting of his Aide, Mercy, and his Deputy, Rancor, engineers a way to climb the leaderboard, they are summoned to VIM Corporate for an explanation. Accused of cheating, VIM forces Death to undo it all or face the alternative — employment of infinite perpetuity. Death always believed he was conned. Sitting in his car, the night of his nineteenth birthday, he wondered what might have been. Eternal damnation wasn’t in the cards.

This and my other "novellas," which I'm trying out in the form of serial fiction, live in a shared universe with my pending indie publications - the Morfyk Trilogy.

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Chapters

Chapter 1 — Death Climbs the Leaderboard

Chapter 2 — Death Meets the Director

Chapter 3 — The Memo

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Death and the VIM Desk — Serial Index

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The VIM Corporate headquarters was a massive egg-shaped structure, made of something resembling chrome. Engulfed in mist, it hovered over an ocean of sparkling pink gas. As Death’s ship approached, a slit in the smooth metallic surface dilated. The vacuum pulled the craft through until all Death, Mercy, and Rancor could see was black.

They were led through winding cement hallways and into a room that always struck Death as anachronistic. Someone at VIM must have traveled to Earth, circa the 1980’s, and stepped into a New York City boardroom. Dark, mahogany walls, panels so polished they looked like velvet. Long, forest green drapes that swept the floors of thin, well-maintained carpet.

There were two windows. In the den of this Earthly corporate aesthetic, the panes looked ultra-modern and out of place. Two glass panes. One bent in the shape of a “U”, the other curved downward. Their ends touched like the tips of magnets. Egg iconography was the symbol of VIM. Through the windows, Death saw the fluid undulation of what moved like water, but was, rather, the toxic fumes of a land only VIM could occupy. Soft and fluffy, they gave the illusion of innocence.

Death and Mercy took a seat at the long, corporate table. Mahogany-like the walls, but so dark, the table appeared black. Even the furniture expressed itself. Clean, callous, and ready for a sacrifice. But whose?

Rancor stood behind Death, as all the deputies are expected to do. His long fingers gripped the edge of the leather highback. “There’s exactly twenty-two chairs,” he said, scanning the room.

And just as he lowered his eyebrows, the double doors opened. In came the rest of the Death Makers. Or, as VIM called them, Exitors.

A squat female-looking entity shuffled to their side of the table. Using an object that looked like a staff, she pointed at the seat next to Mercy. Her hands were fuzzy, a light dusting of white fur that covered the skin like powder.

“Please,” Mercy said and nodded.

The woman, an aide as Mercy was, beckoned to her Exitor, who slowly marched over. Here came the Exitor, a man whose legs were disproportionately long. He shifted towards his seat in short, stiff steps, looking weary like an old tarantula. At Death’s induction, only four Earth decades ago, he had met the Exitor named Orble. For eons, Orble collected his world’s souls, transferring each life here to the VIM Desk.

“Three points a piece,” Orble had said to Death.

Barely an Exitor, and still feeling the waxy, blurry transmutation from human body to demigod, Death shook his head. The heavy black hood sloshed against his bony cheeks. “Points?”

“Just a child, an infant, you are,” Orble said, in his low, whispery scratch-of-a-voice. “How could your predecessor be so callous as to expect you to learn so quickly? It takes time, whatever your world’s time may be, to understand. But know this. My people’s souls are worth more. VIM pays me thrice for their energy.”

“Things are not equal, then,” Death said.

Orble chuckled and leaned on his cane, and bent forward, studying Death. “Equality is not fit for this business. You may not be, either. But it seems you have no choice. Learn, dear boy, else it will be a long and arduous career.”

The aide waited patiently as Orble took his seat. She pushed the chair in, but not so far that the old Exitor could not bend his knees. At this angle, Orble looked like a folded slip of cardboard.

Others came and filled out the rest of Death’s side. There was a young woman with drooping ear lobes, snakeskin, and sharp, curved nails like raptor claws. Rancor stiffened as the woman walked behind their seats. She must make him nervous. Death could hear the leather squeak under Rancor’s clutch. Two figures took seats at the end. If Death had paid only a fleeting glimpse, he would have mistaken them as children. Perhaps brother and sister. And lastly, elegant, ebony-skinned humanoids who wore dresses that appeared to be made of parchment moved down the row. Their fabric crumpled and fluttered as they passed by, giving Death an uneasy feeling of vertigo.

When the entourage sat, the doors shut, then moments later, opened again.

“My, my,” whispered Rancor. “So many we haven’t met.” Orble’s aide seemed to have heard and made a sound of agreement. In a universe of nearly one thousand civilizations, even the longest-serving Exitor could not meet every delegate. One Exitor, their aide, and a deputy for each planet.

As a new group entered, it became clear that the seating order divided the room into humanoid versus non-humanoid species. To Death, the segregation seemed pointless. Energy is energy, batteries are batteries, all are stardust, all are recycled consciousnesses.

Delegations of Exitors, aides, and deputies filled in the opposite side. It became difficult to assign gender, for gender was nothing more than a reproductive module for many of the species, and in fact, a fleeting one at that. All Death could do was observe the appendages, textures and colors, and metallic vessels that comprised the physical corpi of the non-humanoid delegation. A creature with tall stalks atop its head that donned round eyeballs like black marbles sat directly across from Death. Not knowing what the polite custom was, Death sat motionless, waiting for the meeting to begin.

He felt himself beginning to slouch until Mercy prodded him with her elbow. As she cleared her throat, the leather squeaked once more, as Rancor tightened his grip and stood straight. One last individual entered the double doors. This was a woman, a humanoid, and a young woman at that. Her eyes were dark brown, almost black, and her features sharp and thin. Death had only seen her at his induction and that was a long time ago. But having never learned her story, he always assumed she was drafted directly from Earth. In an eerie way, she looked like his mother.

She moved down the table, taking her position at the bottom end. When she said “rise”, everyone stood. She pinned her brown hair behind her ears and stared straight ahead, waiting for the Director.

#

Everyone turned, waiting for the mahogany walls to ripple. The faux wood contorted into a shear that finally melted, making way for a slight figure to step through.

“Sit, sit,” Simien said, the Director of VIM Desk. He had a habit of looking down as he walked, giving off the impression of either annoyance or deep contemplation. So that when he took his seat at the head of the table, it took a while for him to look up. In those fleeting seconds, the room was still. Death mused to himself, as still as death.

“Lydia, tell me which council this is,” Simien said, sighing. He had a ballpoint pen in his right hand that he tapped rhythmically against the table.

“Council ten, Sir.”

Simien switched to flicking the pen against his temple. “Ten? Ten… ten… Ah. Yes.” Then his narrow green eyes popped open in surprise. “Why, this is…”

Death heard the leather squeak again.

Simien turned to Death, Mercy, and Rancor. “Earth Exitor,” Simien said in an impressed, somewhat resigned manner. “It seems you’re in the lead. Lydia, did we model for this scenario?”

A strand of hair was coming loose, so Lydia smoothed it behind her ear. “Yes, Sir, we did.”

The non-humanoids seemed to be growing restless. Eye stalks swayed, the hair on spidery appendages stood on end, and liquids and gases of all shapes momentarily sputtered.

“And, Lydia? And?” Simien wiggled his fingers in the air as if waiting for a sheet of paper to grace his hand.

“They chose to use the Dial. Every delegation may opt to, given their rank.”

“You mean, given their desperation,” Simien said, now scowling at Death.

“My Lord, if I may,” Orble said, barely looking up, his gray, lined face staring at an Exitor made of white gas. It reminded Death of marshmallows. The Exitor was packed into some kind of transparent casing, shaped in the form of a humanoid.

Simien shook his head. “I told you, don’t call me Lord.” He rolled his eyes. “If I had a soul for every time…”

“Yes, my — Yes. Director. But, em, a Dial is not forbidden and from what Fenny tells me…” Orble turned to his aide, who nodded. “Fenny says that the new VIM policy allows the use of the Dial by an Exitor in times of great population crisis, likelihood of extermination, and…” Orble trailed off, furrowing his brows. “And, Fenny, what else?”

Simien drummed his fingers on the table, waiting.

Rancor cleared his throat. “And when energy captures are exceedingly sparse.”

The Exitor with the stalks for eyes let out a sequence of bird-like chirps. “Just a minute, please,” Lydia said, and stood up. She walked to the wall and tapped out a code with her fingers. Death could feel a pinch between his temples, and everyone made a soft sound. Mercy coughed.

“I thought it was on this whole time?” Simien said, back to tapping his pen on the table.

The Exitor across from Death now spoke, and everyone could understand it. Its voice was slow and dry. “Manipulating time is a trusted responsibility. A dangerous responsibility. One does not exercise the Dial without consequence. One must not travel to and fro, gliding across time for one’s own leaderboard.”

“Of course, that is right,” Rancor said, “But the war in our world had already occurred. Death did not change the timeline. He merely revisited where his predecessor left off. There were many more souls to collect. In fact, all of them.”

There was the audible sound of the Exitor’s marbly eyeballs clicking, like billiard balls. “Are you saying that your Old Exitor was —”

Rancor pursed his lips. “Sloppy. Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Simien pulled his chair in. “Alright, so, in a way, the Earth Delegation has cheated? Is that what I’m hearing? That your top place on the VIM Leaderboard is unwarranted? You simply picked up Old Death’s leftovers? Is that right?”

“No, Director, not at all,” Rancor said, and even sitting below, Death could feel the pull of R’s razor grin. He addressed the entire council but turned to Lydia, knowing that it was her favor he had to win. “May I refresh the Director and the Chief Analyst on Death’s history thus far?”

One of the ethereal, ebony-skinned Exitors spoke. “He is but a child. Unfair, do you not think so?”

A unanimous grumble echoed in the room.

“Ah, there is and always has been a slight misunderstanding. For underneath this bony veneer, this costume of scythe and shroud, is not an Earth human boy. He is indeed a man. But he has assumed the job of Death for less than forty-five years. He was inducted when he was eighteen.”

Rancor let that sit as everyone converted the units into their own people’s math. Now, another wave of grumbles. The other ethereal Exitor proclaimed, “Too young!”

Simien rocked in his chair, then, after a while, took off his blazer. Lydia walked over and hung it over the back of the seat. She stayed next to him, waiting for the room to settle.

Simien spoke. “Okay. So, you used the Dial to travel back to Nagasaki to pick up souls that the Old Death neglected so that New Death here could score some points because your delegation is in last place, and just so I’m tracking, Death is a teenager. Is that it?”

Rancor smiled and let out a sigh. “Precisely, Director.”

Death and the VIM Desk — Serial Index

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Even for Death, the charred hellscape of Nagasaki took a while to process.

He stood among the smoldering remains and pulverized cement, taking in the spindly carcasses of burnt trees poking out from scorched earth. Coppery, red flames danced around him. Having stood at Hiroshima only days prior, Death knew that the small fires might merge into a massive firestorm.

His cloak, damned with the char of men, flared in the embers. Oxygen breathed life into his black hood, never catching fire, always the dull matte of lightlessness. Neat and unscathed.

The flood of souls came at him so fast, he had to summon the Afterimage - Death’s special lens. He clutched the thick fishbowl glass in his skeleton palm and sweeped it side to side, panning the destruction.

“Afterimage, old friend. Crafted from the silica of the hourglass of Chronos himself. Take them and give relief.”

It was dizzying to collect them in an orderly manner. But the onslaught stopped after the first few minutes of the storm. The poor souls thought they had a chance to survive after the initial blast. But they were landlocked, legs fractured, snuffed out by flame. Jumping in the river was also futile.

Death took a step forward.

A crack below his feet made him realize he was standing on bone. Its body was scorched beyond recognition. Stepping off it, Death studied its agonized expression. Hands clenched around its neck. Beyond the body were other bodies, carbonized in an ashy, black-gray. A smiling bust of Buddha taunted him. It lay on its side in a pile of combusted wooden beams.

Death craned his skeleton face to the sky.

What sky, he thought.

Just the dusty shower of radioactive snow and its chemical flurry of bone, timber, and rock. They flaked onto his hood. He checked his watch. It was 11:08 AM.

In the powdery haze, a naked child blankly strode by like a ghost. Shellshocked with trauma that pierced his dark eyes. That’s all Death could see of the white, ashen figure. The little boy stopped to look at Death. His small mouth was agape and his cheeks were wet, long lines of tears carved through dust.

The boy looked past Death and stared at the oblong craft hovering over a flattened building. Yes, Death was a sight to behold - a tall specter of flowing black robes with a scythe in his long bony hand.

But the ship.

Oh, the craft was jarring. A black disc in the nuclear winter. Shiny like a marble, polished and hard, with an indented ridge around the rim. The ship waited silently. It has always been dispassionate. Always oblivious to suffering.

The side of the ship began to melt, heat waves dissolving to reveal a red glow from inside. A somber woman, her body full and robust, emerged from the hull. She was wrapped in a camel brown shawl peppered with small crocheted flowers. Stairs liquefied, one step a time, as she marched down to the razed earth. Flecks of white dust scattered over her smooth, bare brown feet.

“Mercy, spare a favor?” Death asked, glancing at the boy.

She immediately walked towards the child and passed her long fingers through his dusty, ash-caked hair. He stood motionless, staring vacantly with his jaw hung open.

“Rest, now,” she said.

Her voice was melodic and matronly. Buttery like the petals of a rose. The boy looked up at Mercy’s gentle face then shut his eyes. He fell to the ground. She smiled and took off her shawl. Mercy laid it on top of the dead boy. The pink, yellow, and purple flowers of yarn began to change color. Their hues burst into deep magenta, gold, and violet, like exotic jungle blooms. Then they desaturated and Death nodded. Mercy fetched her shawl and wrapped it over her shoulders with the grace of a queen.

Another figure walked down the ship’s stairs. Slow and thoughtful. He scanned the nuclear destruction, taking it all in with a bemused, bitter grin. He was a tall and skinny man, not as tall as Death himself, but a commanding figure with a long face and a grave disposition.

“Corporate is really embracing this new strategy with full vigor,” he remarked.

He drew up his collar, patting the dark green fabric around his neck in a vampiric cast.

R, Death thought, almost growled it. But Death stood silently, his cape still and heavy on the ash. Now was not the time to give Rancor the pleasure of his attention. After all, the only thing R was good for was marketing corporate’s new kill policy, the Vim.

“Sir, are you not impressed? Look around,” Rancor said, staring at a dark shadow on the cement. “So many souls. Stamped out by the energy of a star. Absolutely incredible.”

Mercy scowled at R and scoffed a breathy “hmph”. She unhooked a woven hood from the back of her shawl and drew it over her black, curly hair. It covered her face in the same fashion as Death’s.

“It’s come to this. Now they split atoms,” Death said, firmly gripping his scythe and grinding it into pulverized rock.

“Rather Promethean,” Rancor said with lilt. “I would have thought, however, that this one - the plutonium - would have made a greater dent in numbers.”

Death pointed a bony finger in the general direction of the north. “The terrain blunted the bomb’s full destructive potential.”

“So, will there be a third?” Rancor asked, like a child hopeful for ice cream.

Mercy sighed. “Oh. I hope not. But, time will tell.”

“Sir, I could always offer a nudge…”

Death spun on his black boots to meet R. His supraorbital bone knotted together into a menacing warp. R backed off, stepping away and clearing his throat. Satisfied, Death slowly returned to his stance, staring off into the snow.

“Death, you seem, dour,” Rancor said, timidly pedaling forward to catch Death’s gaze. “Allow me to offer some good news. The Vim Desk has shared with me kinetic comparisons, so to speak. For example, Dresden was 3.4 kilotons of ordnance. Hiroshima, 15 kilotons. And on the up and up, here we stand at 25 kilos. The sheer force of immediate destruction should make your job that much easier. Well, of course the logistics to keep up with demand are -”

“Enough, R,” Death said. “How much longer will you be with us?”

Rancor smiled with a toothy grin, his long canines glowing. “Well, I can’t say. Vim is very well funded and so long as the destruction continues and the bodies are culled, and you are, er…”

Mercy crossed her arms and began walking back to the ship. She slipped past Rancor and muttered, “You’re really on a roll, aren’t you?”

“Speak up, R,” Death said. “I am what?”

He could feel his bones, the bones from a man he once was, groan and crackle under his cloak as he unplugged his staff from the dirt. R didn’t have to say it, Death already knew. Corporate thought he was unproductive, careless, sloppy even, in the taking of souls. They needed a company man to be his minder. To keep Death on task, meet quota, stay on target, hit the numbers.

“How much longer?” Death asked again, sternly.

“I’ve been told that with Nagasaki, the campaign will soon come to an end. There’s some scuttle in Manchuria that I have to tie a bow on, but all in all, we are ramping down.”

“Two point three million,” Death said. “Give or take.”

Rancor lifted his eyebrows. They looked like the wings of painted crows. “Are you sure?”

To this, Death chuckled and Mercy stopped at the top of the stairs to watch.

“If there’s anything I am sure about, it is numbers. Two hundred and three have died, since your last breath.”

Rancor didn’t respond. He was already marching towards the ship, his long spidery legs and the tail of his green coat flicking up ash.

Death took one last look at the devastation, thinking back to the boy that fell under Mercy’s touch. Then he thought about the other souls he would have to collect before the day was done. Every second, a dozen more. It’s not me, I’m not the maker of the end, Death thought. It’s Chronos, that cruel, mathematical beast.

He looked up and Mercy waved him on. She pulled down her hood - her eyes are beautiful, Death thought - and put her hands on her hips. Mercy was the only one who could see beyond the ivory bone and pitted sockets of his skull. This time, as he wearily climbed the stairs, letting his cloak ripple against the strange wavy steps, he hoped she would see him for what he was - a young man who was once -

Rancor swooped out from inside the craft, rocking on his heels with a smile that looked like a cat with a canary hidden in its jaws. “Sir! You’re in the lead!”

Death paid him a fleeting glance as he walked past, ready to vanish into the cabin.

“Don’t you want to know your score?” Rancor asked.

Outside the ship, the scene was bare and the ash began to billow into thin, ashen clouds. Far in the distance, spare figures shifted. Survivors.

“Sir, allow me to explain the current situation,” Rancor said. “The deaths today have shattered all records in the Auratope. You are almost 200 percent ahead of the next competitor. And with their Death, why, all she relies on is sheer luck. Plus, their bodies are very low potency. It would take three of their species to offer Aura equivalent to one human. So, as a result, you -”

Death raised his bony hand.

“I’m tired, R, and the day’s not done.”

Mercy wrapped her strong arm around Death’s waist. “Come on, then, let’s get onto the next.”

“You’re forgetting something, Mercy,” Rancor said, crossing his arms. “Remember? Our sync with Corporate?”