Death, Inc.

As Quintal (a mere nobody, you might say) walked past the office door, he couldn't help but to glance inside and marvel at it. Compared to the drafty, stone-walled area where everyone else’s cubicles sat in neat little rows, the office seemed like a little bit of heaven. Its walls and floor were a creamy white color, and its furniture was made of dark, smooth wood and black faux-leather, shining dimly in the inviting light of the room. But Quintal, being an unfortunate neophyte, did not know that an open door to the office was more often than not a bad sign, and his nervous system suffered greatly for it.

Death, in an altogether foul mood, puffed quietly on a cigarette and gave the empty chair before her a smoldering look. She was perfectly content in giving the chair this look before a poor, nervous little office boy caught her attention by lingering by her door for a split-second too long.

"You!" she called, pointing a finger quickly up at Quintal. "Come in here!" Quintal could feel all the bones in his body chill to a temperature that left him with an unpleasant feeling. He gulped and scurried into the office, stopping in front of Death's large desk. "Answer the phone," Death instructed him, putting out her cigarette on a small ashtray near her chair. Quintal, in all his panic, had failed to notice that the complicated looking phone sitting in the corner of the desk was ringing loudly and blinking several lights.

Quite short of breath, the young man picked up the phone. Swiftly, Death stood, picking up the long skirts of her dress with one hand and balancing her weight on her chair with the other so that she was able to climb on top of the desk. Hunched near Quintal, she pressed a button on the phone and grabbed his hand, positioning it between them so that they could both hear what the person on the other side of the line was saying. She waved a hand for Quintal to speak.

"D-D-Death's office," Quintal stuttered. A man had called. Quintal was too nervous to hear what he was saying, but Death had already grabbed a notepad from one of the drawers of her desk and was scribbling furiously on it. She held it up for Quintal to read. "No, I'm afraid she's not here right now," he read slowly. "But she did leave a message in case you called. Uh...yes. Yes. No. She said that--" he cut off suddenly as he realized what Death had written down last. It was a phrase his mother had told him was not suited for polite company. "She said that she is terribly sorry, but there is simply nothing she can do and the General will just have to die like any other human."

Death stuck her tongue out at Quintal for his impromptu editing, and began to scribble something else down. Finding this acceptable, he read that bit off dutifully. "She also said to mention that the act of dying really isn't all that bad, and that the General should stop being a big baby. Oh, and that she still has no idea how you people got this number, and to never call back again." Quintal waited a moment before hanging up.

"What did he say?" Death asked, her expression curious.

"He said that the General would not be pleased at all, and then proceeded to burst into tears," he answered.

Death erupted into a fit of furious giggling before climbing down from atop her desk and falling into her chair. "Who are you?" she demanded abruptly.

Suddenly remembering where he was, Quintal stiffened up. "M'name's Quintal, miss," he answered, bowing slightly. She asked him how long he had been working there. "A week and a half."

Standing to examine the short young man, Death nodded. She walked to the door, shut it to keep the noise of the rest of the building out, and turned back to him. "Quintal. Quint. Q." She erupted into another fit of giggles before sobering up. "My assistant is out for the week. He's attending his sister's wedding. The replacement he sent was that blonde wispy thing, what's her name, Mary-Ellen." She shook her head. "It was stupid of him to send a girl, he knows I make girls cry all the time." When Death noticed the look of horror on Quintal's face, she rolled her eyes. "Oh, come now. I don't do it on purpose, they just weep for no reason. I've no idea why. Anywho, I’ve got this annoying buzzing in my ear, I think a group of witches is trying to summon me or something, so I’ve a bad disposition and I need your help with something.”

“My…help?” Quintal echoed, fearfully.

Death was walking toward a coat rack to grab a long, dark coat. “Yes. I’ve got to collect a soul. Normally, of course, I’d send a reaper out, but this one’s rather important and he’s been evading me for an annoyingly long amount of time, so I’ve decided to just get the job over with. And since I can’t concentrate with this buzzing, I need you to take us there. Do you have a coat?”

Weakly, Quintal shook his head.

“Alright then, off we go,” Death told him cheerfully. Feeling quite sick to his stomach, Quintal started to follow her out of the door. The office workers they passed, each wearing the same drab, dark blue uniform, paused for a moment to bow at Death before continuing with their work.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, miss,” Quintal started quietly, struggling to keep up with Death’s rapid steps, “but I’ve got an awful lot of filing left to do.”

The young woman waved a hand airily. “Nonsense. You can take a break.”

Defeated, Quintal tried to take a deep breath. “Where are we going?” he inquired nervously.

Death frowned as they neared the lift. “Didn’t I tell you? We’re seeing President Waterstone.”

Quintal very nearly cried. If there was one thing Waterstone was known for, it was his liberal use of violence and bloodshed to achieve his goals. And if there was one thing Quintal was known for, it was his tendency to cry at a liberal use of violence and bloodshed.

Before long, anxious little Quintal was standing in the majestically decorated bedroom of a now dead president. Death silently glanced over the old man’s body, to make absolutely sure that she had done the job correctly (it wasn’t often she had to take a soul herself nowadays), as Quintal glanced nervously around him. “Miss, don’t you think we should be going back now? He seems to be dead,” Quintal tried.

Death gave him an annoyed look just as several heavily armed men burst in through the large, gold-colored doors. In an instant, they had surrounded Quintal and Death and were shouting in a language Quintal didn’t understand. “Oh God, I’m going to die,” he decided aloud.

“You’re not doing to die,” Death told him, looking as though she were trying not to laugh.

“No, I’m almost certain that I’m going to die,” Quintal assured her.

The next instance, the men had all frozen. “You’re not going to die,” Death repeated. “Death stops all.” Then, with a wide grin, Death pressed Quintal’s nose as though it were a button and made a beeping noise. Quintal fainted upon the dead president’s Oriental rug.