𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐒 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 him when he blinks awake. The first thought that comes to mind is he's dead. It was the noodles. The noodles gave him food poisoning and he died. Admittedly, he never thought he'd die this soon, let alone by something so stupid. But at least it was quick and painless. At least it was food that took him out and not Italian mafia bosses.
But the longer he stays lying limp on the floor in the blackness, the less sense his theory makes. 2 minute noodles can't kill you. He's definitely dead, but it probably wasn't the noodles.
Time ticks. He can hear his heart beat within the stillness of his chest. A minute has passed by now. And he hasn't moved a single muscle. What's going to happen to him? Is he going to be lying dead in the darkness for the rest of eternity? The idea of that makes his heart thud faster in his ribcage. While a part of him drowns in the existential terror of this thought, the other part of him is pressing for him to do something. To get up. To walk. Anything that will make him feel slightly less dead than he already is.
So he staggers up until he's standing on both feet. Maybe he's not even in the darkness. Maybe he's actually just in his bedroom, and his eyes will adjust to his environment. Gaze wandering, he blinks again, rubbing his eyes to try to get his vision to settle through the dark. But after the tenth blink his surroundings still remain the same — everything engulfed entirely in void; any source of possible light in the space swallowed by the shadows.
Alec puts a foot forward. Shoes smack the floor; the surface is solid and smooth, like he's standing on marble tiles, but there's no sound. He stomps his foot down harder. Silence. Like his feet are on mute.
A shudder slithers down his spine upon realizing. He's not only dead, but he's dead in complete, total, silent darkness.
He does the only thing he can do. He runs. Thrusting his legs forward he sprints into the nothingness; feet flying over the black tiles in a blur. He runs until his heart burns and every muscle in his body runs warm. A silly part of him holds onto the hope that maybe if he runs far enough he could find a light. Or better — an escape.
A strange, very vague feeling stops him in his tracks. A prickling sense over his skin — like a shadowy presence is lingering over him. Just as he whips around, there's a flicker of luminescence. Rays of blinding light cast down over his body from above as if he were standing underneath a spotlight on stage.
He yells out, frantically sheltering his eyes with his hands. The sudden rumble of a deep voice thunders, freezing him still.
"Hello, Alec Satchwell." The call almost makes him jump out of his skin. It's difficult to tell whether the voice is an echo in his head or a yell in this void. Slowly, he moves his hands away from his eyes and drops them to his sides.
Something tightens in his ribcage, forcing him to swallow his ever-gnawing dread. What's going on? Who is speaking to him? What's happening? His head spins with a million questions, but he decides to ask the most obvious.
Calling out to the skies, he speaks back, "who are you?"
"Who else?" booms the voice again. "I am Lord God."
Lord God? Lord God? Is this what that email was about? He almost wants to laugh. This is just ridiculous. It's crazy. He's been atheist for as long as he can remember, and now today just all of a sudden in a couple of hours he gets his existence questioned by a service station employee, an anonymous email contending his lack of faith, and now he's talking to God himself?
The idea of it all is ludicrous to its extremes. But even though his head tells him to laugh in the face of this God, he just simply can't. An eerie sensation much more powerful than his disbelief steals over him — total fear. An unexplainable chill pierces his skin, and for a moment he has to consider. If, in a slim off-chance, that what is happening is real, and this is God he's speaking to ... then what plausible reason would he have of bringing him here?
"Am I dead?" The question just blurts out.
A beat of silence, before the voice echoes again: "You are not."
Only two outcomes could have come from that question — the good one, or the bad one. Even though this entire time he had already convinced himself that he'd fallen into the bad one, he wishes he could feel a sense of relief knowing he's alive. Except instead, premonition tangles his gut tighter. Something tells him he's going to wish he was dead soon.
"Mortal," God billows once more, his light of voice all powerful among the darkness. "I have brung you here to pass you an important message. For reasons beyond your understanding, I can no longer rule as your God."
He says that as if he had ever believed he did rule as his God in the first place. Though regardless of what he believes, he keeps his mouth clamped shut.
"Which is why," He continues, "you will take my place on the throne in the Kingdom of Heaven."
An anchor drops in his stomach. Did he just hear him right? Did God just tell him — Alec Satchwell, some random human who's denied the existence of a higher power all his life — that he was going to replace God? A shaky laugh chokes out from his throat. "What did you just say?"
But if his ears deceived him the first time, then they definitely aren't now. God repeats himself again. "You will take my place on the throne in the Kingdom of Heaven. On one condition."
As he finishes the last line, the abstract presence that he had felt all this time looming over him parts itself through the blocks of shadows. Out from behind him, emerges a being beyond human at least eight feet tall.
Two ears grow from each side of its head; long, luscious hair flows like an enchanted stream down to its waist; feathery wings sprout out from its back and groin. While physically its face remains devoid of any expression, he can sense a spiritual exudence of flurrying, powerful emotions from the Angel. The sheer magnitude of it all sends a stabbing ache straight to his chest
As the Angel approaches beside Alec, it holds a stack of thin, square papers. It's not until the Angel lays them down on his hands when he realizes that the papers are actually photographs. Each photograph a still image of a person's face.
God's voice thunders down on him again. "You are to kill and outlast every one of those humans."
He feels his heart catch in his throat. Did he just say kill every one of those humans? He flicks through the handful of photographs, which are each a portrait-shot of a person with their full name scribbled underneath the image. Flipping through photo by photo, he does a quick mental count. There are about fourteen of them.
Fourteen people I have to kill?
He looks down at the photos again. On the top of the stack is an image of a man. He's got a stocky jawline and the sides of his head are shaved with the top tied up in a bun. His pale gray eyes look hurt, making his face sag down and his expression seem bleak. Underneath his photo in blocky text reads the name, 'KORBYN MCALPHINE.' The man looks twice his age and twice his size — how the hell could he kill him?
He pulls out another photo from the stack. A young boy this time, chubby-faced and smiling. Surely no older than sixteen. On his photo reads, 'TRAVIS VIOLET.'
So his first two targets are a depressed man and a child.
"No way." Alec shakes his head, throwing the photos to the ground. The papers flitter down gracefully, scattering the tiles below his feet. "I'm not killing anyone. If— If this is real, I don't want to be God."
He can't believe he's actually saying that. I mean, this is all crazy beyond belief. Crazy. God being real after all he could have believed. But God being a crime boss assigning him to a hitman mission and offering to make him God as well? There's just no way he can force himself to believe that.
He looks over to the eight foot Angel standing beside him for answers. Just like before, the Angel's face remains an absent void; its hollow eyes pitiless and cold. But the second his eyes make contact with it the formidable intensity of many emotions haunts him again. He can't explain it — it's a sensation too complex. It's like he's experiencing every single emotion in the Universe, while simultaneously feeling nothing at all. It makes his skin tingle and his breathing heavy.
"You do not have to," God says. "I am giving you a choice. Just like how I have the choice to banish you to spend the rest of eternity in Hell if you choose not to follow my commands."
He strains to break his gaze away from the Angel, and once he does a rush of air fills his lungs. He looks back up at the sky, reiterating God's words. "Hell?"
You're going to send me to Hell if I don't kill these people? You'll send me to Hell if I don't sin?
"Correct," is all God answers with, as if reading his mind. Disgust threads his insides.
What kind of an all gracious and good God is this? Contradicting his own written rules? Sending his people to Hell if they don't commit murder? For the first time ever, he feels an anger burn in his chest for all the theists. How could God betray his own believers like this? Millions of people on Earth are devoting their faith, lives, purpose, to a complete fraud. They're worshiping a hypocrite. How could they not know that they're worshiping a being of pure evil? He's not sure which is worse. Believing in no God, or believing in a God like this.
"Is it a deal?" His voice rings like a bell in his ears again. He can't offer any response other than the one God is looking for.
After several defeating seconds of silence, he admits, "I don't really have a choice, do I?" It's either that, or Hell.
"Then take my Servant's hand and accept."
His eyes trail back to the face of the Angel waiting before him. With wide arms, its hands cupped and reaching out to him. Inside its palms is what looks like a compass, embellished in a fine marble coating.
God's solemn voice drums again in his head, forcing him to look up. "A gift for you, from me. It will always point you in the direction of your nearest mortal."
Alec looks back down to the compass in the Angel's hands. He didn't notice it before, but looking more closely there's an indistinct glow on the outline of the device, like it's a sort of magical gadget crafted by the hands of a wizard. He feels a spiritual tug toward the object, as if its illumination is drawing him in.
He reaches out to the compass, hesitating, as if touching it will trigger some trap. But an instinct deep in his bones reassures him of that. He's overcome by a compunctuous feeling of apprehension that if he refuses to take the compass, something bad will happen.
So he takes it, feeling the contact of the circular device melding into his own palm. An electric pulse flows from the tips of his fingers through to his heart. Seconds before his vision fades once more, he hears something tickle his brain.
"Careful," slithers a foreign voice into his ear, sending a piercing chill down his spine. "You're not the only one."
The words crawl all over his body like a bug. It's both a deep rumble yet a high-pitched scream; both like a comforting blanket and a bed of thorns. Voice both as cold as ice and hot as fire. Even though he can't decipher where it's coming from, an instinct in his bones tells him it's from that Angel. But what does it mean?
His eyes drowse shut, finally giving into the darkness once more.