Afterlife: Oblivion #Wattys2024

05. A Series of Unfortunate Afterlives

POV Jane Doe.

As the elevator doors slide open, I find myself clinging to Raphael's arm like a lifeline as we step out into a long corridor. But this isn't like the sterile, fluorescent-lit hallway from before.

No, this is something straight out of a Gothic fever dream.

The walls are lined with intricate tapestries depicting scenes of heaven and hell, angels and demons locked in an eternal battle for dominion over the souls of the dead. The floor beneath our feet is a polished black marble, so smooth and reflective that I can see the flickering flames of the ornate candelabras that line the way.

Raphael sets a brisk pace, his strides long and purposeful. I struggle to keep up, my heels clicking against the marble like a macabre metronome. As we walk, he leans in close, his voice low and urgent.

"Listen carefully, because I'm only going to say this once," he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear. "There are going to be other people like you at this gathering, all with guides whispering in their ears, telling them how to secure the best donors from both Elysium and Avernus."

I frown, trying to wrap my head around his words. "Elysium and Avernus? What the fuck are you talking about?"

Raphael sighs, his patience clearly wearing thin. "The afterlife isn't just one big kumbaya circle, Ms. Doe. There are factions, each with their own agendas and desires. And if you want to have any chance of winning this little game, you need to play your cards right."

"And let me guess," I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm, "you're the ace up my sleeve?"

He chuckles, the sound dark and rich. "Oh, I'm more than that, pet. I'm the best in my profession. But you won't stand a chance if you just play dead and let me do all the talking. You need to be smart, adaptable, and above all, obedient."

I bristle at his words, my pride warring with my curiosity. "So, what's the deal with these donors, anyway? Who are they? Is Jesus one of them?"

Raphael shakes his head, a wry smile playing at the corners of his lips. "No, Jesus is not one of the deities here. There are many sons and daughters of the gods, but he is not among them. The donors are far older, far more powerful. They are the ones who have shaped the very fabric of the universe, the ones who hold the keys to life, death, and everything in between."

I feel a chill run down my spine at the thought of facing off against such ancient, unknowable beings. What the hell have I gotten myself into?

Before I can ask any more questions, we arrive at a set of towering marble doors. Two guards stand on either side, one clad in pristine white robes, the other in inky black armor. They nod to Raphael, their faces impassive.

"Raphael," the one in white says, his voice like the chime of a thousand bells. "We've been expecting you and your charge."

The one in black grins, his teeth sharp and gleaming. "Fresh meat for the grinder, eh? This should be entertaining."

I shoot them both a glare, my nerves fraying with every passing second. Raphael just squeezes my arm, his grip a silent warning to keep my mouth shut.

The guards step aside, and the doors swing open with a groan that echoes through the corridor. Beyond them, I can see a vast ballroom filled with swirling figures in elaborate gowns and suits, their faces hidden behind masks of every shape and color.

Raphael leans in close once more, his lips brushing against my ear. "Showtime, pet. Let's give them a performance they'll never forget."

As my Gatekeeper practically drags me into the ballroom, I have to do a quadruple-take. This isn't just some tacky prom decorated with crepe paper streamers and plastic punch bowls. Oh no, this is like stepping into an acid trip designed by a committee of angels and demons who had a PhD in mindfuckery and a side gig at Cirque du Soleil.