The Swift Anomaly

Third Pulse: Deal With Death

Near Death's Door

June 1st, 2030

3:00 A.M.

"You cannot actually sock him, you know" smirks an eight-foot-tall man with an evergreen Mohawk, clad in a navy suit with a red checked tie. His face is not visible: it is concealed by a green and white skull mask. Theresa guesses he is about thirty or so. Or, at least appears to about that age. He takes his well-muscled arms and yanks the katana out of Theresa's delicate hands. She shakes, removes one of the hundreds of ribbons tied into her billowy dress. She selects an aqua one from the front and rips it right off, leaving jagged bits of fabric behind. She tosses the ribbon into the air and it curls, shudders, grows, then wraps itself around the Skull-Masked Man.

The frayed silk ribbon ends delve into his mind, digging around for answers. Theresa suddenly understands this man's purpose for approaching her: this is the famed Typhon, one of Death's soldier-children. He plans to reconcile a sour history with Death by taking on the Grand Position as Theresa's apprentice. Typhon knows nothing of her line of work, but is willing to do anything to win Death's favor. He is quite the arrogant Skull-Masked Man, Theresa considers with some chagrin. Yet, I doubt he can handle it. Still, she has obligations to fulfill and cannot turn him down without Death's permission.

She phases through Typhon's massive frame and scampers through a bit of rust-red brush that could not technically conceal much of anything. Though, Theresa is well aware of what it did conceal: arching sugar maple trees that give off the slightest bitter honey aroma. Their tangerine orange and cardinal red hues only manifest to those seeking out Death. Theresa assesses the Pull: the frightening drawing-in an object of the Phantasmal Lands can exert on a spirit or demon.

Or, even a phantom. She considers dismally, this time withdrawing a parasol from a large dress pocket sewn into the left side of her dress and fastened with safety pins. She keeps the parasol closed, but taps the left-most tree with it. The parasol reaches out about half Theresa's height and consists of hand-drawn maps. She painstakingly painted on each realm with ink she concocted from Where Beetles: insects that change shape depending on the terrain they traverse to. Here, in the molten lava lands, the Where Beetles sport scorpion tails (that sting just as viciously as ordinary scorpion tails) and miniature lobster claws. They vary in color from blues and greens to burnt oranges and maroons.

"Make it as if it never was" murmurs Theresa, not realizing she is voicing her opinions out loud in a strained, breathy voice.

As the parasol smacks into the maple tree, its branches turn inward, making visible the true nature of the maple tree: the leaves morph from cardinal and tangerine to scarlet and navy. Then, curiously, the dinner-plate sized marble-like eyeballs zoom up from their hiding spaces in the thick bundles of leaves. It is like when someone attempts to cover a scar with a bald spot ponders Theresa, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow. The eyes all consist of varying hues: the aquamarines and verdant greens of the merpeople and elves, the rubies and sapphires of the vampires and were clans, and the midnight blacks of the undead clans: the zombies, the ghouls, and the mummies. This is where fantasy dies, and for good reason. Those things- the Fantastics- should not run amok, tainting worlds designed for spirits.

Theresa glances up, staring at the eyes, thinking of the barbecue skewers humans relished in munching on. Yes, the eyes were anchored to the thick branches by skewering them. They still blink-some redden and produce silken tears, others even shoot out infra-red beams of light. Theresa cautiously evades them with halfhearted leaps and backflips. She then watches as the orchids bloom from the treetops, and braces herself.

"My daughter!" shouts a frail being clothed in a faded white and navy plaid shirt, worn denim, and dark brown scuffed work boots. It is clear that he is abnormally thin, with sticks for arms and legs, and moves hunched over with a distinctive limp. He leans on a large purple scepter embedded with opal jewels.

His posse marches after him: a clan of what appear to be five men and two young women (though Theresa knows better: only men are allowed the privilege of joining Death's clan) each clothed in a thick winter navy cloak, despite the midday heat of summer. All stand at exactly the same height and each wear a skeleton mask with a distinct impression, which Theresa labels by their emoji look-alike: Thinking Face, Zany Face, Unamused Face, Smirking Face, Pensive Face, Woozy Face, and Upside-Down Face. She grins at this strange connection as Death meanders towards her. He reaches out a clawed finger and brushes her folded dress sleeve. She shudders as the half-numbness wracks her body, tingling with heat, as if trying to thaw out.

"And how might I aid you, Child of the Beating Heart?" inquires Death softly, hoarsely. His posse marches in front of him, each with katana-shaped devices holstered to their belts, now visible beneath their billowing winter ensembles. Woozy Face nervously shucks his katana at Theresa's shoulder, now exposed and vulnerable, for the dress is far too large for her and slides partly off. The katana tases her, jolts through to her heart, nearly. A near-fatal vulnerability laughs Theresa hazily. Death wields his scepter shakily and beats Woozy atop the skull with it, cracking his mask and revealing enormous bundles of shaggy midnight fur and not much else. Death waits patiently for Theresa to recover, then prompts her.

"I am waiting" he spurts out, not the patient type. Death is not one to wait, to punish, or to forgive. Death reserves little time for family squabbles and considers duty and work his top priorities.

"I do not wish to take on Typhon as an apprentice... if possible" she concedes, not wanting to add on that last bit yet knowing it is not wise to push Death past his kindness. He grumbles, though relaxes a bit.

"It is past decided already. He is but the most perfect candidate" remarks Death coolly, with a barely discernible wink. Theresa knows she should take Death's word for it, but she managed to wind up chained to Death as his reluctant underling because she attempted the unthinkable: to outsmart Death. After that bitter defeat, which still keeps her from tasting anything else, Theresa cannot help but wonder what he is plotting now. Typhon ducks his head, his mask teetering to one side, as if he knows exactly what Death is referring to.

"I told this damn kid, 'if you crash my durn Chevy one more time, I'm gonna make you Theresa's apprentice.' Then, he comes home all drunk from some wild night out and smashes a gaping hole through the kitchen! The kitchen, of all places!" Death sobs, now hysterical. He is quite the chef and considers the kitchen sacred. Everyone in Death's clan raves about his cooking despite the fact that every steak, soup, and sandwich constructed with his gnarled fingers is soaked in nerve-killing poison and consists of ice chunks and ice chips. Theresa cannot help but smirk at his strange use of language. He is trying to learn all the dialects of the world, but is terrible at such things, as well.

"So, why should I care about your kitchen? Wrecking kitchens and trashing trucks are not tasks included in the job description" Theresa argues, losing her patience. What a waste of time.

Now, Typhon speaks up in a mere whisper, "the gap opened up, and I fell...through it. Took me ages to get from Phantasmal City back to here. Had to take six buses and a tram to get back." This caught Theresa's interest-portals were her specialty, and the technique was not something to be learned or taught.

"Alright, I'll take him on" Theresa gives in, her expressive butterfly hands falling to her waist. She adds, "on one condition: I expect a pay raise and an extra-long vacation next month." No, that is not quite right muses Theresa. She seeks answers, clues, words of wisdom regarding where he is and why Death chose to spare her. She needs to put an end to that skulking head and all the pain he brings upon her narrow shoulders. Death winks knowingly, and mouths: anything for you, dear. Just keep my brat out of trouble.

Death knew she would be greedy, but did not seem to mind too much. Gotta keep those children busy before they blow up my kitchen and give me a heart attack, he worried. Then, he remembers that he does not have a heart that can attack him.