Chapter One: And We’ll Do the Paperwork

If you were to ask Jim Harris where he is at this very moment, he would not answer you. Not out of rudeness, but there are only two ways you can ask him.

            One would be asking his corpse. Corpses are generally not obliged to answer, and Jim is no exception.

            Two would be asking his soul. And his soul doesn’t know where he is.

            He sits in a small, nondescript hallway outside an office door, waiting for something. He doesn’t understand why he’s there. All he knows is to wait.

            Down the hall, other people nervously contemplate outside their own doors, legs bouncing and fingers drumming. Jim thinks he’s rather calm compared to the rest of them, at least on the outside. But the question of how they got here floats in his mind.

            Jim crosses his arms on his chest and feels a draft. He traces the draft around his chest, finds a hole in his shirt he can stick his hand through. Like someone cut through it. This outfit, a plaid gray shirt, black sweatshirt and dark jeans, doesn’t feel like something he normally wears.

            Jim looks up from his shirt and the hallway is gone. Now in a small, poorly lit office, Jim can barely see the desk covered in papers and manilla folders. Sitting behind the desk, absolutely still, is a humanoid figure.

            Even in the darkness, their face obscured by a hood, it’s clear the figure is not human. They stare at Jim, their face white stone like a mannequin, betraying no emotion.

            “Jim Harris,” the figure speaks without moving their lips.

            Jim struggles for his voice. “W-who are you?”

            They tilt their head to one side, almost amused. “You know something? You’re the first person in centuries to ask me that.”

            “Really?”

            “Oh, yeah. Everyone else always asks stuff like, ‘what are you?’ ‘What the hell is this place?’ ‘Do you have a nose trimmer?’”

            “Nose trimmer?”

            “At least once a month.”

            “Hm.”

            Jim’s eyes adjust to the light. He notes the hood is not like that of a horrid priest, but a black-and-orange camo hoodie. And their hands, which seemed pure black, are covered in nail polish.

            “You can call me the Clerk,” the Clerk continues. “Everyone else does. I just have to ask you some questions and then we’ll move you on.”

            “Okay, but what is this place?”

            The Clerk organizes their desk, shuffling papers into drawers and straightening their folders. They do not meet Jim’s eye as they answer, “The Afterlife Office.”

            “…am I dead?”

            “That’s how it works.”

            “And this is what comes next? A cubicle?”

            “This is more of a processing station, really. The final stop before you get where you’re going.” They open a folder, skim its contents. “Paradise suite, most likely.”

            “That’s good?”

            “Very.”

            The Clerk pulls up Jim’s file on the computer, a bulky thing straight out of the nineties.

“I need to confirm some details with you,” the Clerk says. “Sex?”

            “Male.”

            “Gender?”

            “Male.”

            “Age?”

            “Seventeen.”

            “Superhuman?”

            “That a thing?”

            “Yes.

            “No?”

            The questions go on like this for a few minutes, mostly mundane details about his brief time on Earth. If you’re wondering if they keep track of that embarrassing thing, they do, and yes, you have the highest so far.

            Jim finds the process surprisingly enjoyable. He had expected nothingness on death, so while the process is not biblically accurate, it is a nice surprise.

            “And now I need you to confirm the details of your death,” says the Clerk.

            “I don’t remember.”

            “Think on it a second, and you’ll find it. Human instinct makes you forget.”

            Jim nods and focuses on his last moments. Like a freight train though a preschool, the memories hit. His fists tighten.

            “We were doing a prank for our senior year. Me, Eric, Nicole… Katie. Blow up some balloons and fill the cafeteria. Not the best prank, but it was Eric’s idea. We broke in that night, set them up. When the lights went out, I went to see what was wrong. That’s when the Janitor found me. And he…”

            He touches the tear in his shirt. Like someone cut through him. Jim drifts, awash in the memory, sitting with a plunger in his gut, his friends staring at him.

            But the Clerk has a schedule to keep, so they clear their throat and prod him along. “That’s how you died? Murdered by a zealous school custodian?”

            Jim snaps from his daze and continues, “Not immediately. I managed to get up and follow him. He left his weapon in my stomach. When I caught up to him as he was about to kill my friends. So I stabbed him.”

            “And then you died?”

            “Yeah.”

            The Clerk groans, to Jim’s confusion.

            “Sorry. Murders are a lot of paperwork. You got to start a whole new file on the killer and if they’ve killed multiple people, ugh.”

            They study Jim’s file closer. “I just want to confirm this detail on the murder weapon here. Sharpened plunger?”

            Jim nods, though he’s not sure either.

            “How the hell do you sharpen a plunger enough to stab someone?”

            “I didn’t ask. I was bleeding out.”

            “Fair enough. Did you happen to catch his name?”

            “No, I just knew him as the Janitor.”

            The Clerk sighs and types on their computer. “You were a student at Hilston High School. The Janitor is… Arnold Hills. Ah, yeah, we’ve had a few come in because of him. I will take great pleasure in sending him downstairs. Let’s see when he came through.”

            Beep! Beep! The Clerk hums.

            “Well, the good news is, you didn’t kill anyone.”

            “Oh, that’s a relief… Wait. He’s alive?”

            “Looks like it.”

            “But there has to be a mistake! I stabbed him through the back! If he’s still there, he’ll kill my friends… and Eric!”

            “You’re sure it was a lethal blow?”

            Jim nods. The Clerk strokes their chin.

            “Alright. Might be a bureaucratic error. I’ll send some reapers to check it out.”

            “Reapers?”

            “Escorts to the afterlife, handlers of any and all afterlife related problems.”

            The Clerk reaches for the phone on their desk, also straight out of the nineties, and dials a number.

            “Hey, Tom, I’ve got a possible runaway soul. Who’s available for a job?” They pause for the other person to answer. “You’re sure they’re the only ones?” Another pause. The Clerk sighs, mutters an agreement, and hangs up.

            “Alright, that should cover everything. I’ll send you to your suite.”

            “What about the Janitor?”

            “Don’t worry about it. We’ve got reapers on it.”

            “Who did you get? Are they good?”

            “Well…”

            Crash! Jim jumps from his chair. Two strange men enter through the now-open door and stand on either side of him.

            “You wanted to see us?” says the older man with a broad smile. He is dressed like an almost offensive depiction of a biker: leather jacket, aviator sunglasses, and a bandana around his forehead.

            “I wanted good reapers on the job,” the Clerk answers. “You’ll do.”

            From beneath the Clerk’s desk, a printer pings. The Clerk takes the papers, places them in a folder, hands the file off to the older man.

            “I’ve got some paperwork to finish up, then we’ll head down,” he says. The older man passes the folder to his partner. The young man adjusts his glasses as he reads the file, plucks at his suspenders over his bright yellow taco shirt.

            “You must be Jim,” the younger man says as he extends a hand. “I’m James. This is Axel.”

            Axel rolls his eyes.

            “Why’s the kid still here?”

            “I was about to send him off before you came crashing in here and dented the wall.”

            Axel looks at the wall, caved in where the knob was. “It’s not that broken.”

            James says, “So do you want me to start describing him or…”

            “Walk and talk, kid,” Axel says as he leaves. James follows him out, papers slipping from the folder.

            Jim watches them leave, then turns back to the Clerk.

            “So this is it? My life is over? Everything I wanted to do, just… gone?”

            “Yup. Sorry.”

            The Clerk snaps their fingers, and in a bright flash, Jim is gone.

…

            To call the Reapers’ Office Space an “office space” is exaggeration. It’s more a collection of desks haphazardly placed around the room, watched over by Tom, the man by the door reading a magazine.

            Axel opens his computer and types. James studies the file at his desk.

            “Axel, you want to look at this?” he asks.

            “What’s there to look at?” Axel says without looking. “It’s a runaway, same as the others.”

            “But look.” James rolls his chair to Axel. “It says he’s responsible for at least fourteen deaths over thirty years.”

            “I’d go crazy if I had to deal with teenagers for that long,” Axel says. James makes a face, and Axel finally turns to him. “Look, does that folder list anything that might actually change how we go about things?”

            James looks at the page. “Not really?”

            “Then don’t bother. Same story as every other day. Stab him with one of our weapons –”

            To demonstrate, Axel pulls from beneath his desk a sickle, with a long, curved black blade.

            “—and force his soul into the afterlife. We’re doing him a favor, anyway. Who the hell wants to spend their afterlife in Florida?”

            “Aren’t we also there to save people?”

            Axel laughs. “Kid, come on. You think that’s what we do? With weapons like these… where’s your weapon?”

            James pats his pockets, looks at his desk. “Uh…”

            Axel also pulls a dagger. “Answer: you left it in the bathroom. Again. We don’t pee, you know?”

            He tosses the dagger at James. He jumps as it clatters to the floor.

            “What was that going to do? Kill you twice?” He laughs again. “Give me a minute to finish this then we’ll go back to the Clerk.”

            James picks up his dagger and scoots to his desk. He twirls it in his hand and, trying to look menacing, points it at the cat poster above him. The cat is not intimidated.

            James dislikes the way he looks, from his yellow shirt to his suspenders. He dressed like this the day he died, sure, but he would have picked something cooler if he had known he was going to get run over and stuck with what he was wearing. Like aviator sunglasses and a leather jacket.

            He watches Axel practice with his sickle, cut through the air with ease. He sighs and throws his dagger on the desk. Least he can do is study the file.

            Except it’s gone. His eyes bulge out of their sockets.

            “Looking for something?” a voice mocks. He recognizes Shane, which means his partner isn’t far behind.

“I think he’s looking for this.” Quatz leaps onto his desk, in his hand the Janitor’s file.

            James shoots forward, falls off his chair. He stands and reaches, missing by a hair.

            “Oh, he’s getting close!” Quatz shouts. “Shane, go long!”

            He chucks the folder at Shane, and the papers scatter through the air.

            Shane cackles, hard enough that he feels like he’s flying with joy. He opens his eyes to find he is in the air, but a hand is holding him up.

            Axel, nose upturned, growls, “Aren’t you two on guard duty?”

            “Against what, exactly?” Shane says.

            Axel chucks Shane at Quatz. Quatz leaps out of the way as Shane crashes into the desk.

            “Alright, alright!” Quatz yells out. “Jeez, have a little fun!”

            Quatz rolls Shane to his feet, and they stumble in retreat. Tom flips the page of his magazine.

            Axel scoops the pages and hands them to James.

            “Thanks,” James mutters.

            “Don’t mention it,” Axel mutters back. “I’m done, let’s get going. Tom, we’re heading out.”

            If Tom hears them, he doesn’t indicate it.

They journey back to the Clerk’s office, past the sixth dimension and the bathroom.

            “You got all the papers in there?” Axel asks.

            “I thought it didn’t matter?”

            “It doesn’t.”

            “Well, I do.”

            “Good.”

            They walk in silence for a while, until they get to the Clerk’s door.

            “I still don’t understand how runaways work. How is this guy even here?”

            “It happens sometimes. Souls, especially ones with a lot of willpower – or stubbornness – slip through the cracks on occasion. Resist the pull to the afterlife. The people here aren’t always the brightest.”

            “Like Shane and Quatz?”

            “Like Shane and Quatz. And our purpose is to fix it. That is all.” Axel jams a finger on the file. “Not to get involved.”

            “But people are dying.”

            “And we’ll do the paperwork.”

            Axel opens the door gently, and the two of them stand before the Clerk.

            “So –”

            The Clerk snaps their fingers. In a bright flash, Axel and James vanish. They will arrive on Earth, to complete an easy job. But, as you can guess by the word count, things will get complicated, and fast.

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