John Terence Clark had lived a long life. This, more than anything else about him, was surprising.
He had spent most of his days, from the dark jungles of Vietnam and urban hellscapes of the American South, to the deserts and quaint European towns of his counter-terrorism years, in a state of near constant peril and danger. All things considered, it was astonishing that he had made it to the ripe old age of ninety with only a crippled hand and rapidly weakening joints to serve as evidence of his exploits.
But all of that was very clearly coming to an end, his regular stringent warnings from his cardiologist; a short, Polish immigrant who spoke through a bushy mustache and never seemed to question how easily John understood his occasional ramblings in his native language, made it clear that father time had his number, but unlike the draft lotteries of his distant youth, he was more than content to wait his turn.
John's own father had died suddenly while serving as a firefighter, a heart-attack taking him right after he had saved two children from a burning building. John had often wondered if his own end would be that climactic. He had been throughout the world and; learning intimately the cruel and often random ways that good and faithful men were often torn from it, wondered what exactly was in store for him.
It happened suddenly one night, laying awake in bed in contemplation of some nonsense on the news which had clearly only been included as fuel for habitual worriers, when he suddenly felt a sharp pain inside his skull, and lost feeling in the right half of his body quickly thereafter. Saying a brief prayer of thanks that he had not lived to see yet another woman taken from his life, John forced himself to relax. Sandy was still asleep, in his half-conscious state, he was glad he would not be waking her. The veteran nurse would surely snap right into action upon the discovery of her husband's condition, and he knew that their rural setting, their advanced age, and the severity of the stroke were likely to render her efforts futile, emotionally draining, and hazardous to her own well being. In the quiet hours of the early morning, John Terence Clark, at the ripe old age of ninety, opted to take one for the team one last time.
It was dark, and it was no surprise to look up and see a massive figure of blinding golden light. He had spent the latter half of his life a Catholic, and had initially found it a great relief that he had not been placed into the vast crowded waiting room that constituted purgatory, or simply condemned to Hell as he had occasionally suspected in his quieter moments.
"I am not who you believe, John Kelly"
The burly man had not gone by that name for just over half a century, but he had suspected he would be known by the name his father had given him, not by the new identity made as a means of evading the law. It was strange, in many ways it no longer felt like his true name, but it was not his place to argue with the almighty, or in this case, judging by the figure's statement, perhaps a saint or angel. Before he could ask, the figure tilted its head and opted to clarify.
"I am not a representative of the one you worship, nor his opponent, I am another altogether, and I seek an agent. I have made compact for one of this world to play this role. You are the most promising candidate."
Trying desperately to maintain his composure, he went for the closest thing to a diplomatic route he could find. "Why me?"
"When you see the task before you, you will be unable to help yourself. Your nature precludes any alternative. You have my apologies for the spiritual inconvenience, but I assure you your reward for a lifetime of duty, and nearly five-score years of faith remains unchanged."
"Than why would I risk it? Again, why me?"
"We both now your words are empty, you have never been able to stop yourself from helping others. That has not been from fear of consequence, as you have repeatedly placed your life, liberty, and reputation in jeopardy. Instead it was from the power of your own conscience. Even in times of widespread violence, you have mostly kept your head,-"
Behind the figure, as if projected into the air, images of a man writhing in a diving bell replayed more clearly than even John's worst nightmares.
"-with notable, and rare exceptions. Which qualify you further, the previous appointee has proven reluctant to take the initiative in his battle with evil. You will have no such predisposition, not when the scope of the malevolence is made clear to you."
"Is this all good with the man upstairs? I was expecting a final judgment."
"I have already answered too many questions regarding the theology of your world, any more would be in violation of the terms that have made this possible. The only reason I will not be erasing this conversation from your mind is because the world you are traveling to already has means whereby a normal man may ascertain the existence of the soul. The reason the Power in control of your reality has agreed to this is because it believes the cause of righteousness may be advanced by your efforts. You should feel flattered."
"Okay, where do I sign" The former spy smiled, hoping desperately that some humor could alleviate some of the tension; the being of light having no face, gave no direct response. Its only reaction was to extend out its hand to shake.
"Find Ozpin, if he does not know your purpose, he will surely obstruct your path, tell him the Lord of Light has sent you."
John, after giving a long look to the outstretched golden palm, shook it, and the darkness was no more.
