Operator of Souls (Cynical Grim Reaper Quest)

Ultramandalore · Mar 15, 2018

[x] You always said that your sleight-of-hand was something you excelled in. Turn in a majority of the completed papers in the morning, then complete the rest at a safe, leisurely pace and slip them in when he's not looking.

Night_stalker · Mar 15, 2018

[x] You always said that your sleight-of-hand was something you excelled in. Turn in a majority of the completed papers in the morning, then complete the rest at a safe, leisurely pace and slip them in when he's not looking.

Darth · Mar 15, 2018

[X] Go down to earth, bless a plucky mortal or two with magical insight, tell them to complete these documents, then once the deed is done, return, erase their memories, clean up any and all evidence, and turn in the papers.

Markala · Mar 15, 2018

[X] Go down to earth, bless a plucky mortal or two with magical insight, tell them to complete these documents, then once the deed is done, return, erase their memories, clean up any and all evidence, and turn in the papers.

Checkmate7 · Mar 15, 2018

[X] Go down to earth, bless a plucky mortal or two with magical insight, tell them to complete these documents, then once the deed is done, return, erase their memories, clean up any and all evidence, and turn in the papers

wildman902 · Mar 15, 2018

[X] Fill them out fair and square. If you don't make it in time, that's that. He won't send you to Hell anyway. Right? Right?!

veekie · Mar 16, 2018

[X] Go down to earth, bless a plucky mortal or two with magical insight, tell them to complete these documents, then once the deed is done, return, erase their memories, clean up any and all evidence, and turn in the papers.

krahe · Mar 18, 2018

[X] Go down to earth, bless a plucky mortal or two with magical insight, tell them to complete these documents, then once the deed is done, return, erase their memories, clean up any and all evidence, and turn in the papers.

Accidental Master Necromancers duo when?

Birdsie · Mar 20, 2018

***

Terry and Nicole Smith, on the outside, are no different from their equally British neighbors. They wake up, take two turns at using the bathroom, then proceed to cook breakfast. That is, she cooks, he sits down and waits because of his ineptitude in cooking; Terry Smith is feared for his ability to burn even microwaved popcorn to a crisp, somehow. After that, the pair sits down and eats and Terry departs to go to work. Usually, Nicole spends her afternoon talking with her friends, drinking tea with each meeting. Terry returns at four or five, depending on the day of the week, and when he walks in, the smell of dinner is already welcoming him. They talk about their respective days, then do things together, be it binge-watching TV shows, cuddling upstairs, or a spectrum of other activities that they pick depending on their mood.

The pair got married recently, their honeymoon expired not longer than a month ago, and as far as you're aware, they are making frequent attempts at procreation.

Him, an office worker. Her, a lady of the house.

They are the perfect recipients for the gift of celestial paperwork...

Well, not really. You just searched for a random mortal pair and won the lottery.

The heavens tremble, as light flashes above the clouds, briefly turning the sky in the area of the block into a pale yellow before it recedes back into its natural blue. No one notices as your spiritual essence is delivered to the earth like an ephemeral rocket. You hover in place, lacking a physical vessel and completely invisible save for a certain wavelength of the electromagnetic spectrum.

You find your way into the shed behind the Smiths' house, then hit 'Random' to create a random body, not having the time to play around and create elaborate facial shapes or choosing your gender. You end up in the form of a sixty-seven-year-old, Hispanic male. You are completely bald, have dark brown eyes, dentures, and you're wearing a flannel shirt, jeans, brown shoes, and you're carrying around a staff.

You step out of the shed, immediately discarding the staff which won't be required as you're not here on a covert mission, requiring a disguise. The staff dematerializes before your very eyes, its very existence no longer supported by your magic.

Looking up, you examine the Smiths' house. Two floors, medium size. Approximately seven to nine rooms. You step forward in a jerky motion, then sway to the backdoor that leads to the kitchen. Your walking cycle is sloppy, admittedly because you haven't had a proper body for a long time.

Physics do not work the same in Heaven; the bodies up there are more conceptual and magical constructs that exist to portray relative existence to other beings in a way that is clear and easy to comprehend and calculate. The way it works scientifically would be hard to understand to an uneducated mortal, but someone with mild magical erudition would grasp it promptly.

The fact remains, however, that your walking is sloppy. You're like an infant, learning, or rather, re-learning how to stride forth and use your limbs. You move your fingers in a Mexican wave, then clutch them around the doorknob and turn it, pulling at the door.

It's locked.

Well, that complicates things.

You could try the front door, and knock on it if it's closed. But you can't waste the precious eighteen seconds it will take to circle around the establishment. Instead, you place the palm of your hand on the door and charge its molecules, but prevent the charge from dispersing. The charge increases over the period of eight seconds until you release it. The sudden application of this much energy to the door's structure causes it to literally desintegrate into dust, with a loud sound, more like a grenade or sudden gas release than actual wood being broken.

A foul smell of carpentry permeates the air. You don't mind it, however, as it is a stimulus for you - a passenger in this body - who can ignore it should he want to.

As soon as you step forward through the doorframe, your eyes dart across the kitchen. Empty, but you hear the shuffling of footsteps from above. It must be the Smiths. That they are here is a good omen. You sway forward again, almost tripping on the oven.

You make it to the living room, and that is when you notice Terry Smith stepping downstairs with a shotgun in his hands, aimed at you from the entryway. Another pair of feet moves down slowly behind him ––– a distressed Nicole Smith, with a phone in hand, about to dial 911.

Terry's hands shake. "Oi, who're you?!" he asks, clearly more afraid of you than you are of him, despite the implications that weapons should make one feel safer. You've seen WW1 with your own eyes, and cleaned up hundreds of dead souls from the battlefields. You can tell without magic that he doesn't have the balls to pull the trigger, unless you startle him really badly.

"Greetings, Terry Smith," you answer, a wide, unnatural smile forming on your lips. Control of your nervous system is clumsy, like trying to feel your cheeks after an anesthetic injection at the dentist's office, so the smile is all kinds of creepy.

"You may rejoice, for I am an Angel of the Lord and my name is Ananshael. I am here to relieve you of your momentary distractions and provide you with a venerable task from the Most High," you lie spinelessly, at least near the end there.

Nicole is about to press the button to call 911 when you wrestle the phone out of her hand telekinetically. It flies across the room and lands in your hand. You extend your other hand's index finger to them, swinging it from left to right. "Ah-ah-ah. Do not call the law enforcement, I have enough trouble with them as it is."

You appear to have misjudged Mr. Smith, as he unloads a single 12-gauge into your torso. You fall to the ground.

The man's hands tremble and he becomes pale. He drops the shotgun and tears well from his eyes. He stares with his jaw open, while Nicole covers her own mouth. Neither of them want to believe you were just shot and died, but fortunately, your own magic steps in and regenerates the damage.

You scowl as your upper torso rises from the ground in a zombie-like manner, perpendicular to your legs and the ground. Your chest is bloodied with a black-red liquid that goes through your shirt, but the wound is nonexistent.

"What... THE FUCK... is wrong with you?" you ask, trembling with a terrible rage and furrowed eyebrows as you glare at Terry. Your nervous system is groggy, but you still feel pain. "You'd really shoot a sixty-something-old man?"

"I'm sorry!" he yells, bawling like a child. His wife, surprisingly, seems more composed. She asks, "How are you alive?"

You stand up, slowly, almost tripping. Your head sways to the left and right drunkenly, until you straighten your vision. "As I said, I am an Angel of the Lord." Your back glows yellow light, and in a long moment, a pair of glorious, white, fluffy wings erect from it.

Admittedly, you could make them black to fit in with your Reaper profession, but people tend to freak out at that for some reason. In the past, it was a popular fashion choice among all angels and not just reapers, alongside brown, blue, and red wing colors. It seems that for some reason, white, light gray, and rarely black are the only colors used anymore and even then, white is the dominant one.

They bask in your light. "My name is Ananshael."

Terry's right hand goes from his forehead to his heart, then his left and right shoulder, in that order. His hands then clap together and he begins to mutter apologies and prayers. You smile at him. At least he respects authority once he understands it's standing right in front of him.

You reach out with your hand. "Rejoice, Nicole and Terry Smith! The Most High has a special place for both of you in his Plan!"

Both of them smile with brilliant hope.

"R-Really?" Nicole asks.

"What is it?" he asks after her.

You grin like a supervillain.

***

Your mindless thralls, er, that is, proud servants of God, have begun work on their assignment. They split the paperwork amongst each other, and with the aid of some magical contrivancies of your doing, they can write it about as effectively as you would; enlightened with the knowledge necessary to fill out the forms of celestial bureaucracy.

You decide to chill.

[] You jump onto their couch and begin to watch TV. Maybe Doctor Who is on?
[] You go to their kitchen and grab the closest thing to beer. If they don't have any, go to the store and hypnotize the cashier to give you some.
[] Yeah, no. It's better not to make more of a mess. You already have to replace a door, and two heads worth of memories to remove.
-[] Sit down and wait patiently.
-[] Return to Heaven and come back to reap their work when the time is right.
[] Yeah, no. Not gonna risk it. Get them to give you a third of the documents and help fill them out.

Ave Anathema · Mar 20, 2018

[X] Yeah, no. Not gonna risk it. Get them to give you a third of the documents and help fill them out.

Lets not risk going to hell anymore then we already are

Birdsie · Mar 20, 2018

Rjrulew said:
Lets not risk going to hell anymore then we already are

It's worth noting that what you're doing right now is the celestial equivalent of escaping jail since this paperwork was meant to be your punishment. In a way, it's also tax evasion since every unit in a given community has to contribute. Plus, you're unveiling magic before mortal eyes and--- yeah, if anyone finds out, you're on a highway to Hell.

Markala · Mar 20, 2018