The start of this story is just like many others. Unappreciated, abused, tormented, and deeply distressed, a main character found himself on a late night walk. There was no moon, with even the stars hidden by clouds, and the mist lay thick and curling on the ground.
A truck driver was finishing his run. Nearly done, he thought to himself, relief warming his weary breast. It had been a long haul, and all he wanted to do was go to his warm home and his loving family.
And then the young man stepped blindly into the road, eyes fixed on his phone. The truck swerved, the driver desperately spinning the wheel, but in vain. There was a crash, and the phone went flying onto the road. It shattered outright, broken beyond repair.
Elsewhere and elsewhen, there was somebody else - elsesome - who was equally distraught, and feeling equally abused.
Death once again read the notice in her hands, her face just as incredulous as when first it had been brought to her attention. Bright hazel eyes leaned in close, perusing every sentence - every word - to make absolutely sure that she had not misunderstood something.
She had not.
With a gag of disgust she threw the letter onto her desk, leaning back into her chair. Its velvety softness washed over her as she closed her eyes, hoping the darkness would make the missive feel less real.
The letter, for those who do not have the advantage of being physically present with Death in her cosily appointed private office, read as follows:
Dear Death,
We of the Death Council would like to heartily congratulate you for having passed your provisional exams with the highest score in your generation. As you well know, but one test - the Task - remains before you can graduate from Death School and get your Psychopomp License. This Task is not universal, but is determined by the Death Council with respect to the concerns, complications, and competencies of the student in question.
Normally, the custom is to set the young Death a fieldwork Task related to their main area of interest, to ensure they have relevant work experience prior to collecting souls in their chosen field. With respect to your unique genius, however, the Death Council has chosen to waive this custom and your own area of interest in your other to set you a unique Task in human research.
The Death Council hereby invites you to receive instructions in the nature of your Task, at your earliest convenience. Which is to say tomorrow morning.
Regards,
Death
Head of the Death Council
Death was furious. Research? Research?! What did those old fogies think they were doing, giving her a Task in research?!! It would take her decades, if not centuries, to complete a Task in research. She hadn’t even specialised in research, anyways - the Necroscientific Method had been her worst subject in Death School.
On which point, what did they even mean, “the highest score in your generation”? She was the only Death in her generation - or in the last five millennia, at that. For twenty years now - ever since she was a wee Death in swaddling - she’d been attending Death School all on her lonesome, with a dozen different instructors watching her every move.
There was Death the history teacher, who slapped her wrist every time she failed to remember the correct succession of Fairy Monarchs in the Kingdom of Yore; then there was Death the science teacher, who hurled vicious invectives at her when she got her meridians mixed up; then there was Death the art teacher who… well… why did she even need to take art, she suddenly wondered. It had nothing to do with collecting the souls of the dead.
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And “the souls of the dead” brought her mentally right back to her initial complaint. Death did not specialise in human souls; she specialised in doggy souls. She loved the little adorable fuzzy critters, with their wet noses and floppy ears and licky tongues.
Sure, it would be moderately awkward to be the Death in charge of ending innocent puppies, but still, puppies. Lots of cute little puppies! Dogs everywhere! Being constantly surrounded by furry friends would more than justify the occasional strange looks at parties.
But nooooooo, she had to spend her time gathering the souls of drunk forty year old miscreants, who had passed on after having one too many binges and breaking their livers. Or dying in a feud over money. Or dying because they hadn’t eaten the right decoction of pills before trying to ascend a small realm before bursting a spleen or two. Or dying because they were too arrogant about the arrogance of another. Or dying because…
Really, humans found the silliest ways to die. And she’d have to suffer through their multifarious inanities, for years, while she worked on whatever asinine research Task the Death Council gave her. No adorable fuzzy buddies for her; only people obsessed with courting her, and in the most incompetent of ways.
She vaguely considered running away and joining the circus, but if she didn’t graduate from Death School and get her Psychopomp License then she wouldn’t be able to spend all her days in the company of cute puppies. Faced with such a stark choice - well, it wasn’t really a choice, wasn’t it? The Death Council had her by the balls… (Proverbially speaking.)
It was with such dark and gloomy thoughts in mind that she'd shown up to the Death Council the next morning. The gathered Deaths gazed down at her forbiddingly as she made the customary obeisances. They were meeting in the Great Chamber of Death, a sombre chamber carved into the black rock of the underworld. The walls were tastefully draped in various shades of black, as was the dais on which the Death Council towered over her, draped in black themselves.
There was Death, who was in charge of finance and wore a funny wig; Death, who organised organisation and had shown up all in a flutter, wearing mismatched socks; Death, who managed the underworld aesthetics to ensure that the atmosphere was sufficiently depressing; and another ten Deaths besides, staring starkly and seriously at the young apprentice Death.
It was all, Death decided, very emo.
The chief Death leaned forward, his moulding wig draping in front of his face. “Do I have the pleasure of talking to Death?”
“Yes,” thirteen voices chorused. Death glared at the other Deaths on the Council, then repeated the question to Death.
“Yes,” Death said, trying to hold back a chuckle. She'd shown up in clothes she considered suitably respectful towards the Council - a pink shirt and lime green leggings, with a frilly pink jacket - and had her hands on her hips as she acknowledged Death's question
The chief Death nodded in satisfaction, pretending not to notice Death's many, many bright blue sequins. “Death, do you know why we called you here today?”
“To give Death her Task,” replied a very confused Death. Death slammed his own head on the desk, foppish wig flopping about.
“Yes, that,” said Death, idly checking a pocket mirror to make certain her nose makeup was on right.
The chief Death sighed. “Death, you have been called here for the sake of the Task. Do you understand why that is?”
“Sure do,” replied Death.
“Death, will you accept the Task?” Cried the chief Death.
“No I certainly won't. I did all that tens of millennia ago,” said Death angrily.
“For the last blooming time,” swore the chief Death, “I'm talking to Death!”
“Eh? Why do I need to do the Task?” Asked Death. “I thought that was Death's job.”
“Yeah,” said Death angrily. “If you were going to give the Task to Death, why even call me here?”
The chief Death sobbed.
“Well there's no point crying over it, if you don't know which one of us has the Task,” said Death.
The chief Death finally lost it; his fist slammed on the table repeatedly, his voice was a veritable roar, as he replied. “Enough! She is here for the Task; and she is here before us. Now come, she has acknowledged our purpose - the first step of the rite is done - it has begun - and now we can finish it.”
Death straightened up. Now was the moment - the moment where she would receive her Task. Would it be to study life cycles in newts? Examine the effects of chugging arsenic on the teenage mortal liver? Study what would happen when elves were separated from the forests they frolicked amongst?
The Death Council delivered their verdict, their thirteen voices as one. “Death… bring us the heads of the transmigrators.”
“Enh?”