The cool night air caused his trenchcoat to flutter slightly as he walked down the dank, dark sidewalk, his eyes glittering with the reflections of the sparse streetlights. Given the choice, he would rather have been elsewhere, perhaps in a warm bed, a nice comfortable chair with a Nicks game on, or even his office, half way across the globe. But he didn't quite have the choice he remarked to himself, a small smirk creeping into the corners of his mouth. He continued to walk down the filthy street, his longish black hair waving behind him, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his coat. It seemed he never had the choice of his assignments these days, always had to go where he least wanted to, where no one wanted to go. The lost causes, the dead ends, Sobec's Followers, as his callous co-workers called them. Not that it was inaccurate - they ended up right at Sobec's doorstep - but it was a little too disrespectful for his taste. It was probably because he never really liked the threat of Sobec anyway. A small chuckle escaped his lungs. Hell, he'd been a Sobec's Follower once. Way back when, before he got the job he had now. If he hadn't been a Follower, he probably never would have even gotten the job, ended up like ninety-nine percent of the rest of the planet. Life leading nowhere but death. Yeah, turned out he got out of all that because he was slated for Sobec's next meal. But then people always said he was a little different.
He stopped at a cross-street, looking up at the green, slightly bent street-sign, rivulets of rain still trickling down the plate from the recent storm. A calloused hand found its way from his pocket to rub absently at the stubble on his prominent chin, his mouth grimacing slightly as he looked down the street. Another bad part of town at the wrong time of night. He sighed inwardly, and took a left down the street, hoping he wouldn't have to hurt anyone he wouldn't have to. Usually he was lucky in that regard, didn't end up running into anyone who would cause him trouble other than the Follower he was assigned to, but sometimes, especially in neighborhoods like this, he had to divert his attention elsewhere. He stepped over a loudly snoring homeless woman, wrapped in cast off blankets and ca2rdboard, and maintained his casual yet measured stride down the sidewalk.
A few cars passed by, older models with teens hanging out the windows, shouting general obscenities at the scattered homeless. He scowled inwardly at their impetuousness, and almost wished they'd pull over and harass him. Almost. Fortunately for the youths, however, they were too drunk or too preoccupied to notice the short man walking down the sidewalk, his olive-skinned face and dark eyes focusing on the buildings ahead. He kept his hands in his pockets, and watched them all pass from the corner of his eye.
The steps to his Follower's residence were no less than he would have expected - old wood, dilapidated and falling apart. A slightly newer set of planks had been tossed down on the right side of the stoop, provide a somewhat safe ramp for passage. The short man smiled to himself, and planted his boot-clad foot solidly on one of the broken, rotted steps, walking up the stairs with ease, the boards waiting to give way until he reached the top. Sometimes, he thought, his job could have its perks. The front porch on the building was similarly in disrepair - an old swingi bench lay detached from one chain, resting on the broken boards of the porch at an odd angle, broken pots lay in shambles near the top of the stairs, the remains of a shattered window were scattered all across the left half of the decayed wood structure. He shook his head slightly, surveying the neglect. Well, at least he knew had come to the right place.
He stood in front of the door for a moment before knocking, examining the simple wood barrier. Considerably newer, it appeared that perhaps the Follower was attempting to fix up at least some parts of his estate. Not that it mattered all that much, but it was something that the man took interest in. He hadn't always believed in the absolute correctness of his superiors. Well, they'd pretty much screwed up with him, right? So, he always tried to look for some kind of sign that perhaps the Follower wasn't completely lost yet, that perhaps there was still a chance. He hadn't found one yet, but he kept looking nonetheless. After a few centuries, though, it had become more of a bad habit than a conscious effort.
A small cough left his lips as he cleared his throat, his hand withdrawing from the trenchcoat pocket again, moving up to rap upon the door. An unnecessary gesture of politeness, his co-workers had told him when he first began work. So what if he tried not to be any more rude than he had to. He'd never conformed to the rules before, he wasn't going to start then. His knuckles tapped quickly three times on the door, shaking it slightly in the frame. Not as sturdy as it looked, he thought. He waited, and knocked again three times.
"What the hell is it?" he heard a voice mumble from inside, angry and half asleep. "It's three in the goddam morning, for chrissake..." The short man pulled his other hand out from his trench, glancing at a gold watch on his wrist. Seven minutes before 3 actually, he noted. On schedule, which was good. The door opened open a crack, a flimsy chain on the other side preventing it from going any further. A middle-aged man peered through the opening, his grayish-black hair falling about his eyes and nose in abandon, his stout face scrunched up in anger. "Go the hell away," he uttered, his voice deep and sour.
The shorter man smiled to himself. "I'm afraid that's not possible, Mr. Engleton." A placating grin spread across his face. "I've come to make a pickup. May I come in?" His voice was silky smooth, and extremely self-assured.
"A pickup? Of what? And who the hell are you?" Engleton sputtered his words out, his thinning hair flopping about his face as he jerked his head, his squinting eyes filled with anger.
The other man sighed quietly, clasping his hands behind his back. "If you let me come in, I'll explain everything. Otherwise, I can't guarantee that you'll have full knowledge of the events to come before they pass." He paused a little, enjoying the look of stupor on Engleton's face. "And as for who I am, you may call me Ramses." Ramses waited for another moment, as Engleton stared at him in confusion.
"I don't know what the hell you're talking about but it's three in the goddam morning. Good night!" The middle-aged man flung the door closed at Ramses, the frame rattling as the door shut with a bang. Ramses shook his head slightly. Some people were a little easier to deal with than others. He unclasped his hands, placing his right on the doorknob, turned it and opened the door wide. The chain had, somehow, slipped free from the catch, but then Ramses knew it would. Engleton was half-way across the messy living room the door opened into, turned away and heading towards a dim hallway.
"Excuse me, Mr. Engleton," called Ramses, "I haven't completed my business here." The door closed behind him, and he once again clasped his hands in front of him. Ramses stood there, in front of the door, a serene look on his face as he watched Engleton turn around in shock and surprise.
"What the hell?? I fucking locked that door!" Engleton reached to his side behind an old, overstuffed chair, producing a well-worn basebalbat. "I'm warning you, freak, get the hell out now."
Ramses smiled patiently. "Please, Mr. Engleton, don't embarrass yourself. Put the bat away. I can make this very quick and easy, if you'll allow me to." He stepped further into the room, looking about. Standard fare for his jobs these days - a couch that was falling apart, cracked plaster on the walls, trash littered about the floor. His foot flicked aside an old candybar wrapper, his gaze returning to meet Engleton's. "Sit down, relax. You won't have the opportunity again." Engleton returned the stare, irate.
"Get the hell out of my house!" He charged at Ramses, swinging the bat in the air towards the shorter man's head. Pure rage was in his eyes, sweat on his forehead, a little red vein pulsing through the skin at his left temple. Ramses remained looking at Engleton, focusing on his attacker. He noticed Engleton's gold tooth as the man screamed at him, the small tear in his T-shirt on the right shoulder, the tomato stain on the man's jeans. He saw the bat swing downward, Engleton's eyes close involuntarily, his body tense waiting for the bat to impact. Shaking his head, Ramses grabbed a small pendant that hung around his neck, a silver ankh, and watched as Engleton hurtled backwards across the room, a large purple and red wound forming on the side of the older man's head.
"Now," stated Ramses as he moved over to the groaning Engleton, "I won't ask again. Sit down. Listen to what I have to say. Unless you'd rather meet Sobec's jaw with no idea of how you got there." He kept his voice calm and neutral, and unthreatening as possible. Engleton thrashed on the ground, cursing obscenities under his breath, a hand flung over his injured head, his legs trying to push him across the floor. Ramses watched him for a moment longer, then turned around and stepped over a pile of dirty laundry to perch on a nearby couch. His hand moved upwards to brush across his pendant, and Engleton's moans of pain abruptly ceased.
"Wha..? How the hell?" Engleton pushed himself off the floor, confused. His head no longer bore the large wound, the blood that had begun to run down his face had disappeared. He looked towards Ramses, his eyes clouded. "W-who are you? What do want from me?" His hand reached up to tenderly touch the spot on his head that was wounded moments before.
Ramses smiled again, tightly. "I told you, you may call me Ramses. I'm here to make a pickup. Please, take a seat before I go any further." He motioned his hand to Engleton's overstuffed chair, and waited for the overweight man to crawl up and into it. Ramses drew in a small breath, focusing intently on Engleton before he began again. "I belong to an organization called the Order of Anubis. The latter name may sound familiar to you, if you are familiar with Egyptian mythology, but I doubt it. Anubis was responsible for ferrying the dead to Osiris, judging them against the standards of Ma'at, the god of Justice." He stopped, letting this sink somewhat into Engleton's head. The older man was still holding the side of his head, only half-listening. It didn't really matter, thought Ramses, but he had always tried to give the Follower as much information before the next step as possible, even if it was against protocol. It only seemed fair. "Those not of noble ranking would have two choices, depending upon how their lives had been lived. If they were judged worthy, they would have the opportunity to travel to Ametti, the fields of plenty, and work there for eternity." At this, Engleton looked up, having started to listen to what Ramses was saying.
"What the hell does this have to do with me?" He eyed his bat, laying discarded on the floor a few feet away.
"You will find out. And I wouldn't attempt the bat again, I may not feel like healing your wound a second time." Ramses watched Engleton glance away from the weapon guiltily, swallowing. "Those judged not worthy would be given to Sobec, the great devourer, where their Ka, or soul, would be forever destroyed." He paused, staring quietly at Engton.
"What? Don't look at me that way, man."
Ramses continued as if the other man hadn't spoke at all. "It became necessary for Anubis to enlist aides, to help him judge souls upon their deaths, for there were soon too many people for his attention alone. Thus the Order of Anubis was born. Our job was, and is, to process the souls of the dead, to give them either to Osiris, or to Sobec, as is warranted."
Engleton frowned. "You're crazy." He eyed his bat again, his left hand creeping away from the arm of the chair
"I said not to attempt the bat again, Mr. Engleton." Ramses reached up and brushed his hand against his ankh again, causing the bat to fly across the room, meeting his other outstretched hand. He weighed the bat in his hand for a moment before setting it down on the floor next to him.
The color fled Engleton's face at the display. "Y-you're not kidding, are you?"
"No," replied Ramses simply. "I am not. I am here to pick up your soul." He grinned slightly, his eyes resting for a moment on the bat beside him before looking back at Engleton. "You remind me of a client I had in France, around the turn of the century. Of course, he tried to shoot me down, but..." He paused. "The same look in the eyes. The extra ounce of fight that tries to outweigh the fear."
"W-wait a second," Engleton stammered, "I'm not dead yet. You can't take my soul yet, I'm not dead!"
"No, you are not." Ramses smiled politely. "Not yet. However, it has become the practice to help curtail the overload of weighing souls at their death by removing certain souls before that time. Souls whose destinies are not in question. That cannot turn back from the path they have chosen." He paused, watching Engleton's growing fear. "You are one such soul."
Ramses had seen the reactions in his Followers countless times before, was not surprised by the blank stare that greeted him back, nor by the almost imperceivable glint of denial and defiance that he had noticed earlier. He rose from the couch, and took a step across the room towards the voicelessly babbling Engleton. "Don't worry, Sobec is as quick as he is hungry. Your death will be painless." He extended one hand towards the disbelieving man, his other hand reaching up to grab hold of the ankh suspended from his neck.
Engleton looked up at that moment, his face stained slightly with tears, and a speck of awareness seemed to moor itself in his eyes. Before Ramses could take hold of his ankh, Engleton launched a desperate lunge at him, clawing at the short man's chest. Ramses fell under the unexpected attack, the breath forced from his lungs as the hit the floor. Engleton crouched haphazardly above Ramses, the ankh clutched in his hand, the necklace broken free from Ramses's neck. He stared down at Ramses with feverish eyes, waving the ankh above his head. "Painless, my ass. I've got your toy, you bastard. You're gonna do shit without it!" Saliva dripped down from EngleÅton's shouting mouth to hit Ramses in the forehead.
Ramses closed his eyes as the spittle hit him, frowning. He forced himself to remain calm, even though his main vessel of power was in the hands of his Follower. He had wondered for ages why Anubis had made the ankhs as vulnerable and obvious as they were, and was cursing streams at himself for letting the Follower get the upper hand. He knew what desperation could lead a man to, should have never let down his guard. A brief flash of irony hit him as he realized that this was close to the manner of his own induction into the Order of Anubis. Damn close. Did they still take members in this way, he thought? Allowing desperate men to forestall their death for an eternity by killing their would-be killer. He felt no remorse for the Anubite that he had murdered to get the job, but couldn't repress a small shudder from rippling through his spine as the same fate faced him.
He looked up at Engleton and let out a small chuckle, lying through his own fear, leaning his head back onto the floor. "You're all the same. Think that if you grab my ankh, youan corol me. Control my power. Your destiny." Ramses smiled, hoping his voice sounded more confident than he actually was. "Okay then, go ahead. Make me disappear. Reset the balance on your soul." He waited, watching Engleton's red face scrunch up in concentration and anger, holding the ankh before him. He waited until he saw Engleton's eyes close fully with the effort of thought, and then struck out with his left hand, sending a shattering blow to the older man's jaw.
Ramses followed with another strike by his right hand, twisting underneath Engleton, flipping the two of them over. Before Engleton could raise a single hand in defense, Ramses had already unleashed a half-dozen blows to the man's head, the skin cut on his lip and by one eye. Engleton groaned under the sudden onslaught, covering his face with his one hand, lashing out with the other. The hand that still held clenched in it Ramses's ankh.
Ramses met Engleton's blow with his own hand, grabbing on to the man's fist. His face still remained serene and impassive, even though on the inside his mind was rifling through possible outcomes of the situation. If Engleton somehow did manage to tap into the ankh's power, it was over. He strengthened his grip on Engleton's fist, bending the fingers into themselves as he pushed the man's arm down the floor. Engleton darted his eyes to where the chain of the ankh dangled from his closed hand, surrounded by Ramses's.
"Give me the ankh, Engleton. It's obvious you're unable to use it." Ramses kept his voice even and neutral. "Give me the ankh, or I can ensure that Sobec will take his time as he devours you." Ramses actually had no bearing on the actions of the great Devourer, but what Engleton didn't know wouldn't hurt him. Figuratively.
"Like... hell!" grunted Engleton, bringing his knee up to Ramses's stomach. Ramses rolled to his side, releasing Engleton's fist, the air blown from his lungs unexpectedly. Damn him, thought Ramses, next time I'm just going to bag the Follower and be done with it. Engleton tried to follow up with another kick, flailing his foot out, but Ramses managed to catch it with his hand, twisting the lower leg at an odd angle.
Ramses felt the blood pump through Engleton's leg as he held on to the calf, twisting the foot away from the body, Engleton's back arching as the leg turned. He dug his fingers in deeper. "Now, the ankh. Unless you'd rather I tear you into pieces to get it?" To prove his point, Ramses twisted the leg further, tendons stretched unnaturally.
Engleton screamed in pain, his hand opening unconsciously. The ankh dropped from his fingers, the silver chain pooling about it on the floor. Ramses let go of Engleton's leg, both of them scrambling towards the unassuming piece of jewelry. Engleton's hand closed around it first, a curse escaping from Ramses's lips. The older man laughed, out of breath, wheezing. He began to raise the ankh again above his head.
And then, Engleton collapsed.
The ankh fell to the ground with a jingle, falling in a heap next to Engleton's limp hand. Ramses jerked his head around, unsure of what had happened. The room was otherwise empty. He turned back around to pick up his ankh, and saw a woman standing there, having picked up the ankh already. She played with it idly, turning it over with her slender fingers.
"Clea?" Ramses wondered what she was doing here. She was dressed in her usual black leather jacket and blue jeans, the light hues of her face framed by midnight black hair. The familiar Anubite hang hung casually around her neck. A polite smile crossed her lips.
"Yes, Ramses?" Her voice was playful. Too playful, thought Ramses. He didn't like the tone.
"What happened? What are you doing here?" He got to his feet slowly, brushing off his trenchcoat. He kept his eyes on Clea, waiting for her answer. Guessing it before she spoke.
"I took care of your Follower for you, Ramses." She toyed with his ankh some more, twining the broken chain around her fingers. "Seems like you couldn't handle him. That's what you gefor being polite to the joes." She sighed softly, shaking her head.
"I had it under control." A minor problem. No need to send in another Anubite.
Clea shook her head. "I'm afraid you didn't, Ramses. You were a full 15 minutes behind schedule. And any moment that Follower was going to use your ankh to zap you." She shrugged, looking down at the dead body. "We'd have let him, but frankly, he wasn't Anubite material." She smiled. "You were an exception, I guess."
"Yeah, so I was an exception. I could have handled it. I was handling it." He didn't like the implications of this either. Having to send in another Anubite to get his ass out of the fire. He'd probably be stripped of his rank and be forced to man the scales for another century or so.
"No, Ramses, you weren't. This doesn't come as a surprise to a lot of us, either. For the past 80 years, you've been late to appointments, behind schedule, unnecessarily conversant with your Followers." She looked at him directly, her dark eyes focused on his. "You've thwarted the rules of the Order whenever you found it convenient, and this is the end result. I know of some Anubites who are ecstatic that you've finally screwed up."
"Screwed up? Look, it was a mistake. Coulda happened to anybody." He ran his hand through his hair, looking down at Engleton's lifeless corpse. "Can we get out of here? Go back to the office, work this out?" He reached his hand out, "And can I have my ankh back?"
Clea chuckled. "Oh, no. You don't understand, do you Ramses? When I said you screwed up, I mean you screwed up." She held up his ankh by the stem, examining it. "You won't be getting this back. And you won't be going back to the office. This was the last straw. Anubis himself has judged you."
"What?"
"You heard me. Anubis set forth your judgement not five minutes ago." She grinned. "You should feel honored."
Ramses took a step back. "Yeah, well excuse me if I don't call all my friends for a celebration." The odds were stacking against him, and quickly. His mind raced, not liking the different outcomes of the situation. Each one of them ended with his demise. Unless he could get back his ankh. Which he didn't think Clea was going to give him.
Clea chuckled. "Oh, come on Ramses. You don't have any friends. Besides, I doubt anyone would show up at a party were the host got eaten by Sobec."
"Don't have friends?" He faked indignation. "Well, I guess that's the last time I invite you over for coffee."
"Mm. Indeed, but I don't think you'll be inviting anyone over after tonight." She smiled a bit at him, toying again with his ankh. Ramses watched the ankh move about in her fingers, and hoped the plan he was forming in his mind would work.
"Wait!" He stretched his hand out, pleading. "You can't disband me yet... The Follower...." He looked down to the prone form of Engleton, laying still at his feet. "You get rid of me now, his soul will never be processed. He was my assignment, I need to send the soul. Just because you killed him doesn't mean the Ka has reached it's destination properly. That's my job." He paused slightly, trying to gauge Clea's reaction to his words, hoping she took them for truth. "And to do that, I'll need my ankh." No Anubite had ever taken another's appointed Ka before, so there really was no established protocol for the situation. Ramses hoped he could play on that absence of information, using it in his favor. "Let me process his soul, and then you can do with me as Anubis has decided."
Clea stopped, pondering. "Yeah, right. I'm going to give you back your ankh." She smirked. "Anubis made them this way just for situations like this, Ramses. So renegade Anubites would be that much easier to be brought in. I'm not going to let you have your power back."
So that was why they were like that. Lot of good that information did him now. He frowned at Clea. "Look, whatever you and the other Anubites may think of my professional skills, this man's Ka has yet to be properly processed, and I'll be damned," He paused, ipping slightly over the all too literal statement. "I'll be damned if I don't make sure that it is. Now, if you disband me before I can set this order right, the foul up is going to be on your head, and Anubis is going to be coming after you. You want that?" He clenched his jaw, staring straight at her.
Clea frowned, taken aback. Good, thought Ramses, she's going for it. She gave Ramses a wary look, and then glanced at his ankh before looking back up at him. "Yeah, well, looks like you might have a point. But just remember, I've got a few centuries on you in experience, and we both know that I can take you in straight combat. So no tricks."
Ramses nodded once, and then caught his ankh as Clea tossed it to him. He could almost feel the power flowing through it, and bit back a laugh of triumph. Getting the ankh was the easy part. He had no idea if what he wanted to do with it was even possible, let alone against someone as old as Clea. He was testing a lot of things that hadn't been done before tonight. Fooling Clea with the rhetoric about assigned spirits, and now this. An attempt to process the soul of another Anubite. Something that only Anubis had set judgement on. But, what other chance did he have? Clea was right, any sort of combat - physical or mystical, was bound to end with her as the winner. So, steeling himself, he clenched his fist around his ankh, and called upon his power.
She didn't disappear immediately, as he had hoped. He had seen other Anubites receive judgement, both good and bad. Upon the sentence, all had merely vanished. Clea, however, slowly made her way from sight, fading through transparency. It gave Ramses a few minutes of satisfaction as he watched the angry and perplexed look on her face. He wasn't too worried, he knew she was slated for eternal life in the fields of plenty.
When she was completely gone, he opened his hand and looked at the ankh as it rested gently in his palm. He would hate parting with it, but knew that before long the rest of the Anubites would be looking for Clea, and then him, and as long as he had his ankh, they would be able to find him. Another safeguard, no doubt. With a twinge of regret, he began to desensitize the ankh, breaking his link with it. It became, to him, an inert piece of jewelry, and he knew that it was no longer attuned to him. He set the talisman down gently on the floor, and ground it under his heel. A faint shudder passed though his body as he did so, but passed without effect. A bit of a smile crossed his lips, then, and he picked up the discarded bat that still lay by the couch. Another new life, he thought. He walked outside, back into the cool night air, and idly hoped that he wouldn't meet another Anubite for at least another fifty years or so.