"So there ve were, in a soaked trench, watching as the lieutenant crawled in the mud after this huge rat, vith his wristlet tied to its tail." Freidrich laughed. Even in war, there had been some good times.

Freidrich and I had walked in a random direction for the past hour, telling various stories to one another as we progressed forward, though the only change in our surroundings had been the gradual change in the color of the grass. "Not too different from what we did. Before I became a spy, back in the blighty, there was one utter duffer of a sergeant, who did nothing but shout how things were much worse in the trenches. Nobody liked him, so one day when we had time, we replaced his mattress with mud, and covered it with his sheets. The sergeant didn't notice until he jumped in." I chuckled, "Everyone was dragged out of their bunks, and boy did we get punished. But we did it again every chance we had."

We continued walking long after that, coming across nothing and nobody. We'd probably traveled for dozens of miles, and the only reward was a blueish green grass replacing the violet. At least it looked more natural, and reminded us less of our deaths. Though having my attention split between two points of view did that more than enough. We definitely weren't in heaven, both of us had killed after all, but we might be in limbo. Or maybe the eternal meadows in which the ancient Greeks had believed to end up in, though there weren't many flowers to be seen. We kept on walking, as there wasn't anything else to do.

"... Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag

And smile, smile, smile.

Just pucker up and whistle

What's the use of worrying

It never was worth while

So, pack up your troubles in your old kit bag

And smile, smile, smile." I sang as Freidrich did his best to sing along. The Song was one of my favorites.

It had been well over a day since we'd died by then. The sun had gone down and risen to the sky, and my own watch showed it'd been over 26 hours. But neither of us felt tired, thirsty or hungry, so we had decided to keep walking until one of us fell over, and sing songs all the while.

Freidrich had shared one of his favorite songs too, called 'Argonnerwaldlied', saying "It's a gut song, if vars have to be fought, ve fight. But not one of us wishes to remain in battle."

"A sentiment I'm sure everyone who's experienced battle shares. It's a shame. But at least those who die, end up here. Everyone alive will join them some day, and they can rememiss like we have."

"If this grass is all zere is to it, then I don't zink it's all you make it out to be."

We continued walking forward, as the sun fell and rose again, before falling once more. And as we kept moving step after step in the nearly perfectly dark grass field, until, in the distance, we finally could see something else. The flashing lights of a bustling city in the far horizon.

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Two decades of work, all for this one moment. William Francis had done everything he could to seize power for himself, and now he had enough power to face a satrap. He had single handedly fought through a small army of souls to face his opponent, to finally get his revenge and the respect he desired, only to be laughed to oblivion.

William projected his scars from his right hand outwards once more, causing lightning to arc the distance between him and his opponent, whilst giving a quick prayer to God. But God hated William already, he was in hell after all. It became even more apparent when the flash of lightning was stopped midair, caught in one hand.

"You thought this would be enough to destroy me?" The satrap laughed. It was the last thing William heard, before he was slapped with the streak of frozen lightning, out through the building's wall.

When William opened his eyes, he found himself well outside of the city. His right hand was broken, not in the same manner as one would break their arm while alive, but truly kaput. The arm wasn't an arm anymore. It was shattered, void of the scars that had previously covered it. The arm was a part of his physical soul that was now broken. If he got lucky, there might be some lad with a few extra arms, and William could trade something for one, but he didn't have much left. Maybe his sense of smell with his nose, one part of the scars he had left, or either one of his eyes would be worth the trade for someone.

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For a brief moment Williams wished he could cry, grieve for his failure and loss. But he had long since traded his tears for some minor boost in his power, he didn't even remember anymore. Maybe it would be worth it to give everything up, and reincarnate to a new life, a new chance at the afterlife. But he would lose his memories if he did that, which would mean William wouldn't get his revenge, or the respect he deserved. He quickly dismissed the idea. The worst thing that could happen in hell was life, so he might as well try until someone would destroy enough of him that there was nothing left.

After a moment, William took his broken arm firmly in his hand, and threw it away before heading back to the city. He would search for a new arm there. Minutes later, as he was nearing the city, William heard a shout from behind him. Looking behind himself, there were two people waving their arms. They were dressed in green uniforms, the modern military uniforms that the—what had to be— millions of dead soldiers were wearing upon their deaths. Only the left soldier's uniform was drenched in red. It was blood. The soldiers were newly deceased souls, who likely knew nothing about the afterlife. It was something he could definitely take advantage of.

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A few minutes of walking after we saw the city, Freidrich had noticed a person standing up from the ground. For a moment, we discussed whether we should call for him or not. There would be people in the city anyways, so there wasn't that much of a point according to Freidrich, and though I felt differently, I agreed not to call for the person.

Then the person ripped off his own hand, so I decided to call for them. Whoever it was, if they rip their arms off, they either know more about wherever we are than us, or they're mad, which could be entertaining. After cursing at me in German, and giving me a light punch, Freidrich started waving his arms with me, until the person started walking towards us.

"Greetings, Mr…" I said, waiting for the person to state his name. He didn't. "Scar…face?" I finished, naming him based on his appearance. Scarface didn't seem to mind, so I continued. "We're new people here, and are a tad curious. Did you remove your arm just moments ago?"

After a moment of waiting in uncomfortable silence, Scarface finally replied. "Aye, it broke, couldn't use it anymore, so it's better to throw it away. And call me William, not Scarface. Oh, and welcome to hell, though I s'pose most souls don't call it that" The man, William, was mad then. But he wasn't bleeding, so I could only assume removing limbs was normal in the afterlife.

"Quick question, how can you just zrow it away?" Freidrich asked.

"So, you're really new. Well, what you currently are, is your soul, and nothing else. It is just made physical. Everything you consider to be yourself, everything that defines you, is important to you, what clothes you're wearing and such in the moment of your death, become physical here." William explained. "What this means, is your soul is defined by your physical body, since they now are one and the same. And if you, or someone, puts their intent behind an action, they can change what that is. My arm was destroyed, it was useless. It would never heal, never change, just be by definition a broken, shattered arm. So removing it from my soul was simply easy."

I was intrigued, "So why is Freidrich's soul made from paint?"

"I don't know, maybe the paint is his love for art or painting. Ask him."

"I do love painting, I vas an artist before ze war." Freidrich said.

"So, if someone were to skin him, and take away all the paint he's made of, he loses the love he has for painting?"

"Aye, basically. Why do you ask? You have something you want to get rid of?"

"No, no, I'm pretty dilly with who I am. But I am curious." I said, and pointed at the hole in my forehead, "So this represents my death. Would removing it cause my soul to be alive?"

"Unfortunately no. Believe me, I've tried. These scars you see, the ones that look like lightning, they're my death. But you can try if ye want to waste time." William stated.

I poked my finger in my forehead hole, with the intent of taking the hole off. The moment I did, it was like my eye closed. Not my eyes, but the one floating point of perspective miles away from me, it went dark. When I took my finger out, the point of perspective had moved to the center of my forehead. I could see the city in the distance much clearer with it, to the point of making out each brick of all the visible buildings. The hole in my forehead hadn't disappeared, but I could determine that the hole wasn't just a hole, or the cause of my death. It might very well be a real third eye, my abilities as a journalist and spy represented as a hole in my head.

"So how exactly do these traits of people manifest in their souls? Could a person be capable of something otherwise impossible, like a dead carpenter who could tap wood with a hammer that represents their carpentry skills, to instantly change the wood to a chair?" I carefully asked.

The answer was a resounding "aye," as William lifted his only hand up, and moved the jagged scars out of it, past the fingertips, where they turned into lightning, "and that's nowhere near the limit of what can be done." After a short pause to give Freidrich and me time to recover from the shock of seeing the man summon lightning, he continued. "If yer interested, I'd be willing to trade a part of my scars in exchange for something of yours. You know, so ya have something to keep yourselves safe."