Article D, Subsection 6.66 || ONC 2021

thinking there is someone in heaven to blame

A/N: for the Open Novella Contest 2021, prompt 57: "Death has records of everyone's existence. Except - according to Death - your records don't exist."

Master Death, as they are known amongst the living and dead alike, is not unkind. They're not even temperamental unless the situation calls for it - dealing with murderers and traitors and manipulators is so very tiresome. They are a fair and just ruler of the afterlife and they pride themselves in keeping everything just so.

Knowing this, one could perhaps forgive Master Death for turning sharply to the meek shade drifting after them and blabbering on, and baring their teeth savagely. "What do you mean there's a soul unaccounted for." It is not a question. The very foundation of the main office trembles.

The shade squeaks and cowers behind the clipboard clutched tightly in its hands. Nearby souls dissipate with startled poofs. The green firelight that normally gives a calming atmosphere flare to life behind them. "The staff in Office 1D can't find the file for a stray soul that was just admitted, my lady," the shade repeats nervously. It adjusts its bowtie.

Master Death stares incredulously. Never, in all their years of existence, has there ever been a lost file. Misplaced, yes. Overlooked, most certainly. Both have been very simple to remedy with a little assistance of more eyes and hands. This time, though, they have a feeling it's going to take a lot more time and effort to get this all sorted.

Master Death fights the undignified urge to put their face in their hands and scream.

"Well, take me to them, then," they say briskly. The shade jumps and squeaks again before turning and hurrying off. Master Death glides after it, taking care to bend so they won't knock their head against the significantly lower ceiling. Maybe that's something they need to have renovated next; higher ceilings to accommodate taller souls?

Workers stop their jobs to turn, stare, and bow hastily as Master Death and the shade pass. They offer a warm smile to those that dare reach out and touch their flowing green silks reverently. Whispers ebb and flow like a tide as more and more take notice of their passage. Master Death makes another note to touch up the tapestries that line the stone halls. They're fading and dusty, and they like it when their domain is up to their own standards. Never mind that not many stop to appreciate the artwork anyway.

The shade pushes open the door that has 1D engraved on a silver plaque. Master Death takes a slow breath to steel themselves (though they don't need to breathe they like the sensation of it), and follows it in. The office is in chaos.

Papers are strewn about as at least two workers pour over them, muttering to themselves and pushing each other aside to get another look. Even more hover around the globe that sits in the center of the room, tediously counting each and every light on it that indicates a life. Some are just floating around in a daze, fiddling with their hands anxiously.

In the middle of it all sits a man, average height, dark skin, and brown eyes. His hair is a mess. His hands and jeans are caked in dried blood. He stares at the pandemonium around him with the air of someone who is so out of their depth that they can do nothing but sit still and wait for the storm to pass.

Master Death raises their hands into the air. "Silence in the office space, if you please." They say calmly. All commotion freezes. The man turns to blink at them blearily. They are aware that to a freshly dead soul, they are nothing more than a hazy outline and muted voice. It comes with the shock of having abruptly ceased living and all that. It's really rather tedious.

Master Death sighs heavily and props their hands on their hips. It greatly drains their energy to shift into their woman form, but they do so anyway. It's easier to converse if the participant can actually hear her directly instead of a slow back-and-forth between shade and human.