How I found out transmigration was a thing.

Chapter 18 - The Powers that Be

TWO   stood outside a large, black door. It has no doorknob but it does have a shiny gold plaque which reads ONE.

TWO   doesn't want to go in until he is sure of what he's going to say.  He tries to think of every reason why ONE will say no. TWO wants to have a response ready for whatever ONE throws at him. He taps on the calculator that sits on his clipboard. He frowns, there are too many variables. The odds are NOT in his favour.  

TWO   changes what he's wearing four times before he settles on one.  It needs to make a statement, that he's not going to take no for an answer.

TWO   knocks on the door and quietly slips into the room.  A stocky marmish woman walks quietly in.  It's a large, square and windowless room. Three of the walls and the floor are painted a stark white and the fourth is one enormous screen. A soft light hovers in the center of the room above the only piece of furniture, a circa 1970 corduroy mustard-coloured armchair.  

TWO   can see ONE'S head peek over the top of the armchair which is facing the screen. One face after another scrolls across, male, female, young, old, Caucasian, African, Asian, and every combination of them, and every combination of every combination. They are the faces of every human who's ever existed, at the mid-point in their life, their prime.  ONE likes to sit and watch the faces appear one after the other.  He remembers them all.  

TWO   He can tell from the white hair visible what ONE is wearing.  This is the only place that he bothers to change his face, and the same runs through them all.  If possible TWO  avoids coming to this room because he doesn't like surprises.  He never knows who he has to face down.  In the past there had been Gandhi, Siddhartha, there then was the ghastly St Bartholomew carrying his skin,  Jesus Christ makes a regular appearance, but the most unnerving is arguing semantics with Mother Teresa.  On this occasion, it was God, the Christian variety God.

The woman moves into the room and stands by the armchair, her florid floral dress matches the mustard coloured armchair, they are both ugly.  She has huge breasts and belly, a thin plastic belt fails miserably at squeezing in her waist.  She takes a step closer and stares down at her Jimmy Choo trainers with fluro lime green laces.  Clutching her clipboard, on which a calculator and tablet balance uneasily. 

TWO  coughs to gain ONE'S attention.

ONE    flicked a finger at the screen and it stops on the face of a man in his early forties.  It's a ruddy, weathered face.  His eyes are a brilliant, light blue.  They define his face, even with the deep crow's feet that have formed over the years.  Tangled, longish sun sun-beached hair falls below his ears from under a thick woollen beanie.  And the collar of a rough cable jumper sits snuggly under his square chin.  Wherever he was, it was cold.  Flakes of snow had gathered on his eyebrows. He was smiling.  

ONE   turns to look at TWO and does a double take.  

ONE...I look at you and instantly think "Laxative".  Why do you think that is?"  

ONE's long white hair and a very long beard, moved as if a breezing was lifting them.  There was no breeze.  The same went for his long white robes that floated around around his feet.

TWO   Ignore the insult to his polyester primness.  

TWO...We have a problem with your pet project.