Death #599

He could tell Death #216 wanted to break the news lightly. Her sallow cheekbones protruded with extra prominence under the unfriendly, corporate lights. After looking at the panel of eight Deaths, he realized a summon to the Committee's headquarters, if nothing else, tended to provide a physical esteem boost. He would certainly need it today. 

"Death #599, thank you for gathering to meet with us. We obviously understand how busy your daily schedule is."

He nodded in acknowledgement. Silent. Elegant. Composed.

Death #216's voice filled the hall with an echoing quality of boredom.

"While we all appreciate the service you have provided during your tenure as Death, we must accept the changing of times." Her breath rattled as she continued, avoiding eye contact. 

"We, as a committee, for the betterment of our world as a whole and our image as the leading and respected office of Death Practices, have decided to replace your post with Death #600." 

Silence, elegance, composure. He had never struggled to maintain the merits of the Death Oath until now.

The changing of times? Had he not performed his duties perfectly? The Industrial Revolution had provided greater lifetime expectancies, but surely they hadn't expected him to maintain the same quotas without an appropriate adjustment…

Death #152 interrupted, eyes narrow as he examined the newly unemployed man with indifference. Serving a tenure during the Bubonic Plague never made anyone the most sympathetic. "Numbers are down. Expectancies are growing. We have quotas to fill, and you served alright, for a time of relative peace. But things are rumbling, and we need some youth."

”Fresh insight, you know? Death's these days are very attuned to the finer ways of mortality." Death #432 pitched in, the youngest of the committee. Even her colorful glasses reeked of youthful hope. "Times are changing. Heartbreak, it's just as deadly as influenza! Love, I mean, come on, what a weapon, right? It truly is an exciting time to be in business, and we need someone on the frontline who has a little more, well, flair."

Flair?

"Investors aren't interested in the same old pox anymore. We're looking for murder, mystery, war. Something bright, you know? We're rebranding, and we can't be held back by tradition."

Death #432 seemed shocked that he wasn't as thrilled as her, celebrating as she flung out his career with a bubbly tone. 

"Death #600 has shown extreme promise. And, the committee has always found your timing immensely impressive. Not a single breath wasted. Impeccable. So, as a sort of symbol of change, you know, old ringing in the new, you've been given the honor of mentoring our new and brightest Death!” She delivered the shameful sentence as though he had just won a shiny Ford Model T. Disgusting. 

Death #322 pitched in, a smart looking man with a tailored gray suit. "You will, of course, receive a generous benefits package for the next 60 days to aid in your transition." 

If he could swing his scythe at other Death's… No. He allowed his breathing to normalize before looking up at the eight panel members. They all looked back at him with various expressions ranging from pity to indifference to excitement. Silence. Elegance. Composure. 

"It's been an honor." You Death damned pox filled idiots. 

He kept that thought bitten down. 

Death #432 clicked her fuchsia nails together, as if everything had gone exactly to plan. "Well, then. Bring her in, folks. Death #600, everybody!" 

Her voice reverberated off the floor to ceiling windows behind the committee table. He thought her gaudy words might be loud enough to squeeze through the pristine paneling and fall down to the Earth below. 

Death #599 turned to see the massive oak doors open to reveal the most pathetic looking Death the Academy could have possibly produced. 

She stood with arms crossed, a muddy and oversized trench coat trailing behind her. Glasses far too thick for her slender face perched on her nose, and she introduced herself with a wheezing cough. 

Apparently, his disapproval met no company. The eight panel members all stood, and came down to greet the little thing with congratulations. 

Seriously?

When the introductions were finished, #600 looked up expectantly at the newly laid-off man before her. 

"Hello." Her voice was meek. She let out a sniffle. He provided no response, and instead pulled out a handkerchief and passed it with two delicate fingers to the girl, who accepted it with a loud blow of snot.

With one last look of derision at the beaming committee, he turned to the door and escorted the young Death into sure failure. 

—--

By the time they reached their first client, #600 hadn't taken her eyes off of the quota handheld. He shook his head. Damn 600's. Rumors had flown through his dignified circle about this generation of Death's. Impatient. Number oriented. Sappy. Sensitive. He had combatted such wide sweeping accusations, offering his worldly opinion to such a consistently captive audience, suggesting the possibility of a brave new youth. But here it was, right in front of him. His mistaken narrative. Clear as blood. 

They watched as the gray haired human below them gasped for air, surrounded by crying family. Some Death's considered such sentiment a mere obstacle to their busy schedules, but he had always chosen to have patience in these moments, even at the cost of quotas. Dignity had no price.

Death #600 was looking at the man below with a look of pained sympathy. Here was her first chance. The older human whispered his final breaths to his small human family.

"I need you to know…." Another gasp of air.

The two Death's started to walk along the hard wooden floor to the four post bed. He saw the young Death shiver as she stepped in pools of ice water, dripping from rags the dying man's wife plunged into a silver bucket and hurried across the floor to his forehead. 

A small fire crackled in the corner, where two young boys sat, tears catching the reflection of the flames. He ignored the odor of oil and onions wafting from somewhere in the room, reminding him of his skipped breakfast. He allowed the scent of decaying flesh to occupy his nostrils instead. It's a good smell, too. Same thing as the smell of a fresh notebook to a sharp lawyer. The smell of productivity. Different business, different odor. 

Death #599 turned to the girl. This is it. "Okay, timing is everything. Remember that. Connect with your clients, and don't be cruel. We're in the business of Death, not taxes."

Death #600 nodded solemnly,

"My dear family…." The man continues to wheeze. "I never told you, but…."

Here it is. The moment. He lifted the golden scythe from his callused hands, lying it across the smooth hands of the expectant young Death before him. 

Bad decision.

She immediately crippled under its weight and watched with disbelief as it slipped into the man's chest below, making contact with a radiating thud. 

Well, damn. 

As the family below cried with shock at the mystery of their father's unspoken words, the young Death looked absolutely stricken. 

Death #599 made no attempt to contain his disdain. "You dropped the scythe?" His voice grew as the handheld beeped with the first fulfilled quota. The name of the man scratched itself into the screen in blue text. Alexander George Jones. "What do they teach you at the Academy anymore? Did you not take scythe training?" 

Her eyes welled. "Well, sort of."

He strained to hear her panicked whisper.

"What do you mean, sort of?"

"Well, we did, but I started vomiting during that class, and had to leave early-”

"You are telling me that this was your first time wielding a scythe?" 

"Well, I, well…" her words trailed. 

He cut her off with silence, interrupted only by the wails below. 

"How did you get this position?"

She looked up at him, a glimmer of pride in those watery blue eyes. 

"I got top marks in Death Theory, History, and Handheld Malfunction Repair." She smirked. "No one else could even guess at which disembowelment techniques were most popular in the 1300s."

—-

Despite her claims, Death #600 showcased nothing other than an impressive tendency for clumsiness. His lecture in accuracy was followed by a thunderous neigh as a horse was killed instead of its cholesterol laden rider. He demonstrated the art of a quick death, and watched with shame as his unskilled pupil hacked at a woman until he grabbed the scythe back and mercifully struck her heart. When he spoke of sympathy, Death #600 even had the gall to interrupt him.

"Remember, we only take lives for physical ailments. There are no quotas for shame, guilt, anything, no matter how much a human might beg, it is-"

"Oh, that is so 500's of you." Death #600 giggled.

"Excuse me?"

"Guilt does kill. Broken heart? It's now included in the criteria of acceptable maladies. The Regulations for Death and Behavior was just updated. Section AM, Heading 5. Version 1914.” Her eyes registered no recognition of her rudeness. She stared at him, dutiful as any student could be, almost as though expecting praise. A deep sigh worked its way out of his chest. 

"I think it's near time we returned."

She balked. "But, the handheld, it's not even showing 60 percent quota completion!" 

Her shock was visible. He wanted to tell her that he didn't give a damn. That it was her problem now anyway, and that she exhausted him more in one day than Napoleon had in an entire decade. Instead, he merely shrugged.

Ignoring her protests, he turned around and started the trudge back up the glimmering stairs to Death's headquarters, letting Death #600 pathetically drag the heavy scythe behind her, too weak to carry it. Her strained breath was ragged with exhaustion, playing a duet of disgrace with her stupid, trailing coat that thumped up the immaculate stairs. 

And then, the thud. It came out of nowhere, and stopped him mid step. The duet buzzed with silence. A sudden premonition rose in his chest as he turned, slowly, to face the wide eyed girl before him. Her hands were empty, and her eyes fluttered down to take in the scene she painted with her brush of stupidity. There was a moment of silence. There always was, before a mistake kill. And then chaos. Always, always chaos. 

His whisper bit as sharp as the scythe, as the handheld began to buzz with fervor. "Who was it?" Anger couldn't hide the amazement that she had dropped the scythe not once, but twice, in her first day. 

"Archduke Franz Ferdinand." She responded. "Heard of him?"

 Admittedly he had not, but he looked through the thin cloud layer to the human world below, and saw the chaos he had so long placated begin to unfold. 

They finished their trek in silence. Worst case scenarios unfolded in his mind. Stupid mentorship. They're going to blame me for this. Not the teachers, not the parents, certainly not her. Goodbye Committee dreams. I might as well apply for organ janitor before my name is entirely defamed."

They reached the tall oak doors, looming before them. They pulled out their timecards. A final punch for him, a first for her. Looking down at #600, he watched as she stared with determination and fear at the intimidating doorframe. He sighed. 

"Alright, kid. Here we go. Just, own up to it, alright? Honesty. Above anything.” She nodded with timid bravery, not taking her eyes off the door. He pushed it open.

Balloons decorated the hallway. Streamers gathered at his feet. Little Death's ran around the cavernous space, blowing small flutes that let out a shriek of noise. He wiped confetti out of his eyes to read the banner above him. 

"Welcome World War One!"

Huh? 

His confusion barely registered as he was pushed aside to see Death #432 hurry up to the young girl, shaking her hand with awe. 

"Genius! Such young promise. You've certainly set yourself up for a busy tenure, but quotas are already through the roof! Welcome to the team, New Death." 

He stood there, alone, one streamer hanging loosely from his top hat in front of his vision, like a pathetic schoolboy with no one left to play with. Before she was shuffled away, the young girl spared him one last shrug. 

"Timing is everything, right?"