Young Writers Society

Malachi wracked his brain for an answer, but produced nothing. "It's funny," he confessed finally. "I can't quite remember how I died."

The angel clerk seemed to pout. "Really? That's a shame. You know, people hold contests for that sort of thing." He leaned his elbow on the wooden desk, counting on his fingers. "War deaths, disease deaths, everything's a contest here." Leaning forward, he adjusted his spectacles. "You don't seem to have died of old age."

Malachi grinned, shoving his hands in the pockets of his pitch-black jacket. "I'll be rocking fifteen for the rest of eternity."

"Yes, yes," the angel muttered, sorting through his files. He looked up again suddenly. "Any identifying marks? You know, like-" He made a shooting motion through the side of his head, mimicking a gunshot sound.

Malachi looked himself over briefly. "No, nothing that sticks out."

The angel sighed out. "A shame. We'll just classify you as unidentified for now. I guess we could have some people check on your body later," he mumbled, shuffling through the papers again. "Well, I do believe that's everything. Enjoy Heaven, sir."

Malachi looked up in time to see a halo materialize above his head. Out of thin air popped a golden, heavenly ring that gave off an odd solace with being dead. It was certainly a nice aesthetic.

"Thanks." Malachi waved goodbye to the angel, shoving his hands in his pockets as he walked past the desk. Like ink on parchment, the white void began to bleed through with color, and he found himself walking into the plaza of heaven.

The plaza was a bustling square, soaked in the radiant colors of ether. Golden cobbled streets and brilliant bronze sidewalks pulsed with a grand luster, laid out beneath the deep azure sky. The souls of the dead flitted about, jovially conversing and laughing, while others sat and admired the emerald ponds that surrounded the plaza.

Malachi smirked. A date here would be a date to die for.

Exhaling gently, he sat down in the lush grass surrounding the square. Somehow, he had died. Staring up at the fleecy clouds, he wondered how it was possible. Then again, it was probably for the best. Nobody was really asking him to keep living.

"Still," he muttered, lying back, "it is a bit of a setback." To have to wait this long to see her again wasn't exactly an exciting prospect.

Sighing through his nostrils, he turned his head. On the other end of the plaza, he could see the ghosts casting their troubles to the wind as they made merry. On the surface, it would have seemed like heaven. But Malachi had learned to look a little closer, and dig a little deeper.

It wasn't easy to notice; that was the entire point. From his position on the grass, Malachi caught the fleeting glimpses of Heaven's imperfection. Occasionally, souls would be shut out of conversation, or segregated into small groups of friends. Their faces would be sad, but never angry, as if they'd given up on it before they'd opened their mouths. 

Everyone pretended to like each other, but some people were just too abnormal. And even from this distance, he could see their excuses, their half-baked, dismissive apologies, slipping casually from their lips, accepted by all who heard them.

The world has an order, and anyone who hates it is evil. Malachi chuckled, locking his hands behind his head. "Heaven, Hell, and Earth, nothing really changes."

"God damn it," he muttered, rising from the grass. "And here I thought I could have some actual fun for once. Everything's the same." He brushed off his pants, shaking his head.

Jamming his hands in his pockets, Malachi walked towards the center of the plaza. Nobody tried to stop him, and nobody tried to talk to him. He was, or at least looked like, a bad influence, and would therefore be ignored. This ended up working wonderfully in his favor.

Stopping at the middle of the golden cobble, Malachi looked up again. He smirked. Shining in the daylight were spotless bronze statues of angels, assembled in their holy chorus. Some wielded beauteous harps, and some spread their glorious wings; all of them wore smiles. Each and every one of them was absolutely, despicably gorgeous.

Their names were engraved upon the dedication plaque in front of the statues. Stooping, Malachi brushed his fingers over the letters.

"Interested in the Seraphim?" A polite voice inquired.

Malachi stepped back, looking up at the statue instead of the speaker. "Not really. Seem like a bunch of bores."

"Hey now, I might take offense to that."

"Sorry," Malachi remarked emptily. Tilting his head back, he threw a sidelong glance towards the speaker.

It was a somewhat-lanky man, hands shoved into the pockets of his dress pants. His tar-black fedora and somehow-darker sunglasses regarded Malachi smugly. "Do you really have such a low opinion of the Seraphim?"

Malachi sneered callously. "Anyone who confuses order for righteousness is of no use to me."

The man looked at him icily for a second. Malachi held his gaze. For some reason, the silence was unnerving, causing his heart to thump inside his chest. A cold sweat trickled down his back.

Suddenly, the man laughed, removing his sunglasses. "Is that so?" he chuckled. When he opened his eyes, Malachi noticed that they were an icy blue. The man gestured towards the statue. "Take a look at the end."

Craning his neck in curiosity, Malachi could see two lighter, misshapen patches of metal on the end of the dais, as if something had been torn away. Turning back to the man, he started uneasily. "You don't mean..."

"Whether they like it or not, some people just have a bad face for publicity," the man shrugged. "I don't take it personally. It's natural to enjoy life more than death."

Malachi tried his best to look unfazed. "So you're the-"

"Angel of Death, good job putting it together." Doffing his hat, the man took a sweeping bow. Placing the fedora back upon his black hair, he smirked. "And might I say how lovely it is to meet a child like you?"

"You've already said it, haven't you?"

Grinning, the angel of death clapped his hands merrily. "Yes, yes, I have indeed!" His childish smile was just a bit too wide. "Ah, how refreshing this conversation is! What's your name, boy?"

"Malachi Chateau," the boy grunted.

"A fine name! Though you won't ask for it, my name is Shin." The angel extended his hand in warm greeting. Malachi shook it apathetically.

Suddenly, his bones were crushed together as Shin yanked his arm, drawing him in. The angel of death's light blue eyes seemed venomous and piercing up close. "All pleasantries aside, there's something I'd like to discuss with you, my boy."

Malachi tried to move, but Shin's grip was iron. He threw an alarmed look around the plaza. The dead souls were joking and judging as if they weren't even there. "W-what?" he snarled in reply.

"You see, boy, I'm old. I've held this position for as long as I can remember. I have dreams too, you know!" Shin chuckled. "And it's just a guess, but," he shrugged, "perhaps a strapping young lad like you might be able to take over for me."

Malachi tugged at his wrist over and over. "You mean killing people?"

"If you want to be negative about it, yes, that is what I'm referring to. But truthfully, my boy," Shin stated, "I don't think you concerned yourself with such details in the first place."

Malachi chuckled nervously. "True."

"But this might be a bit of a problem. You see, you're not even an angel," Shin sighed, letting go of Malachi's wrist. The boy stumbled backwards as he pulled at nothing. Stopping a few feet back, he glared at the angel.

Was this guy serious? Becoming the Angel of Death...that wasn't something to joke about. If it was real, then maybe...just maybe...

"How do I become one?" he asked finally.

"May I take that as a yes?" Shin enquired wryly.

The boy grunted, thrusting his hands in his pockets. "Take it as you will."

"Ah." Shin tapped his lip as though a thought had just occurred to him. "Before we proceed any further, I'll have to warn you that you're not the only candidate for this position. Several others hold the same ambition that you do."

Malachi chuckled, tapping his fingers to his forehead. "Of course. So, how are we deciding?"

Shin grinned darkly. "How else? A fight to the death."

The boy coughed into his hand. "Um..." He pointed to the halo above his head.

Shin nodded. "Yes, yes, I know. You see, the battle won't take place up here, rather-" he pointed at the ground, grinning insanely. "It's going to take place down there."

Malachi said nothing.

"You'll be bound to a Familiar for the duration of the game. If you die, you lose!" Shin clapped his hands. "Simple as that."

"Do we get to choose our Familiars?"

"But of course!" The angel of death beamed. "It's always nice to have a choice."

Malachi rubbed his chin, turning the thoughts over in his head. Was it worth the risk...to see her again?

Mind made up, he regarded the angel of death coldly. "Fine," he spat. "Let's do this."

"Gladly." With that, Shin rushed forward, placing his hand over Malachi's heart. Instantly, a crackling sensation gripped the boy, like an tsunami of power churning up inside him. A shadow grew from the angel's feet, swallowing them from Heaven.

"Name your Familiar!" the angel roared, voice distorted in the darkness.

Malachi closed his eyes and relaxed. "I name...Valerie Ladon."