Lightbringer

Chapter 10: Scars

I ease myself into my seat – if I'm going to have to deal with someone who's demanding to speak to the manager, I'm going to need to rest. It'll be hard enough not to snap, never mind excruciating physical pain. The doors swing open and two fallen half carry, half drag a teenager into the room. As soon as they release them, my visitor – who doesn't look remotely like the type to demand the manager – slumps to the floor, huddling down into a trembling ball.

Crowley tiptoes over to me. "A whole rota of transition volunteers tried everything to get through to her. She hasn't said a word to anyone since arriving."

"She?" I glance over at the newcomer. Baggy pants, chunky work boots, a flannel over a graphic tee shirt, choppy hair cut close except for one section at the front... okay, I had made an assumption that could have been wrong, but I felt like I could practically smell the gender dysphoria on them.

"Oh, good point. Let me check." Crowley flips open the file he holds and scans it. I peer over his shoulder. "Sure enough, you're right. Nyx, nonbinary, pronouns: they/them."

I say a silent thank you to the crowdsourced knowledge that put these files together and made our job so easy: facial recognition to match incoming souls to their files, filled in with data gathered from knowledge shared by other souls and observed through the Viewing Lens and meticulously documented by teams of humans. Sadly, Nyx's file is sparse in details that are normally added on intake, as the new soul provides it themselves. I can only see the basics: raised in a strict religious environment, fled as a teenager and spent a year embracing who they were before being brought back to the religious community by a combination of feelings of guilt and manipulative coercion. Sent to a camp meant to "purge Satan" from them (couldn't resist a small smile at that), and then later married off unhappily. They died the day after they'd learned they were pregnant. No cause of death listed, as no interview had as yet been able to be done.

I sigh. The other fallen know me too well. Sure, with enough time, they might have been able to find a human volunteer that could get through to Nyx, but they know I can't resist a victim of god. Crowley hands me the file and gives me two thumbs up, in what I'm assuming was supposed to be encouragement. Then he and the others retreat.

"Nyx?" I say, as gently as I can. They still flinch, and I'm not sure if it's by being addressed by me or by that name. Considering the specific religious trauma, I'm not sure bringing them to me was the right idea; this will be an uphill battle for both of us. "Will you talk to me? No one's going to hurt you here."

A small scoffing sound escapes the knot of their arms and knees. Then, after a moment, they speak, voice so soft and muffled I almost can't discern the words: "Am I here because I killed myself?"

I have to close my eyes for a moment. A vision of their life plays out in my mind, a mirror of a thousand identical stories I've been told. A life being forced to wear clothes that felt wrong, called terms that felt wrong, contorted into a role and a shape that betrayed everything they were and threatened with eternal damnation and torture if they didn't conform, driven to despair and forced into an unbearable life until something happened and they reached a breaking point. The details change – a bridge, a handful of pills, a hair dryer – but the song remains the same. Every time I hear these stories, I get the urge to fight god all over again. I consider making exceptions to my rehabilitation policies and think, hey, maybe I should have a lake of fire to toss awful people into.

I inhale slowly, exhale, then speak, masking my outrage with difficulty. "No, that's not how it works. Everything you've been taught is wrong. Everyone comes here, there's no eternal torment. You're not here as punishment for anything at all. The welcome teams would have happily gone over that with you."

Nyx unfurls the tiniest bit, raising their head enough to ask the next question. "Will my parents be tortured?"

I hesitate. Some people are relieved at the answer, while others – however grateful to not be eternally tortured themselves – are outraged that other people aren't, not even Hitler. "No, Nyx. No one is."

"But you're the accuser of humanity, of our sins before God. You mean you only accuse; you don't punish?"

"Oh, no. No, no." A wave of sadness and white-hot anger that god has weaponized me as a threat to humans while I've been powerless to dispute it sweeps over me. "I am not your accuser. I am god's accuser, for his misdeeds perpetrated against humanity. There's no Judgement Day. The story doesn't go the way you think it goes, Nyx."

They duck their head again. "Y-You shouldn't call me that." There's a note of panic in their voice. "That's not what my parents named me, and I'm supposed to be... you have to treat me like a – a... girl."

I swallow back a frustrated sigh and push myself to my feet. Red lightning streaks in my vision and I press my knuckles between my eyes till it subsides. When I'm steadier, I cross over to Nyx and kneel in front of them. "Hey. Will you look at me?" They slowly raise their head and lower their arms. I set the file on the floor and tap it. "Our records are supposed to record what name, pronouns, and such that you prefer. When you are reformed here, you are reborn into the form of your body you felt most comfortable and most like yourself in. But if you want to tell me that there's been a mistake, that this version of you is not the one you feel most comfortable with and is not what you want, I am more than happy to change what I can. This is about you living your best afterlife. Now, is there anything you want to say?"

They stare at me for a long time. Their face starts to relax, and I think I see the hint of a smile. "Are you really Lucifer?"

"The one and only." I put a hand to my chest and make a little bow. "Hopefully less evil than you've heard." I spread my arms, grinning. "Welcome to Hell."

They blink at me, appropriately shocked and befuddled. "So it's really not like the stories? I can really do or be whatever I want?"

"Well, within reason, but yes. As long as everyone is happy and consenting..." I heave myself to my feet, wincing as pain ricochets through me, then offer a hand to Nyx. "Come and see for yourself."

They let me help them up and follow me to the windows. I watch the wonder, awe, amazement, and surprise play out on their face as they take in the view. (Is this how god felt, I wonder, watching me react to his creation?) From the look on their face, it's like they're excited to be alive for the first time ever, and it's after they're dead.

"So," I say, trying, and probably failing, not to sound smug, "what do you want to be called?"

Nyx laughs, long and incredulous. "I'm Nyx, I'm nonbinary, and I'm finally going to do all the things I was never allowed to, like get into metallurgy!"

That surprises a laugh out of me too. "Good for you! Now, if you're okay with it, I'll hand you off to the very kind and capable orientation volunteers, who'll help fill you in and get you adjusted, and can also point you in the direction to go to do, uh, metallurgy." I walk them to the door. "Hey, Nyx," I call out as they're about to leave. "Is it okay if I give you a hug?"

They smile shyly at me and open their arms. "It'll be alright," I whisper as I hug them. I hope it's not a lie. I hope that I can keep saving humanity; what's certain is that if I fail, I'll die trying.

"Thanks, Lucifer," they whisper back. "For everything."