/* AN: Some characters inspired from Discworld. However, this is NOT about that nice snowglobe upon four elephants which stand upon a turtle which flies around in an astral plane which has never been meant to fly.  This is just about … well… the Dearth of Death! Some names may seem familiar… but I LIKE those names. So there.

*/

Death laced his bony fingers on his vintage teak desk, a gift from the famous carpenter, Joseph E. Teak, made especially for the Grim Reaper himself to commemorate the latter's long stay in office. The skeletal figure frowned at the silence (Death, being Death, had mastered the fine art of skeletal frowning many eons ago), and gazed pointedly upon his five-ball pendulum, a gift from his granddaughter, Susan, last year. The little steel balls, chagrined at being caught napping on the job, leapt to work. Soon, the study was filled with the rhythmic clacking of steel upon steel. That settled, Death turned his attentions onto his trademark scythe, lying forlornly against the door. His hollow gaze caught sight of a spider, industriously attempting to forge his new home in the space between the doorjamb and the scythe. Alarmed at the attention, the spider jumped and scampered away, wisely deciding to shelve his intentions for a new home until much later.

Death sighed. Something was amiss in the world of Man; it had been a long two weeks since he and his subordinates made their last house call. His minions had taken the unscheduled break in their stride, and were currently carousing till the dead of night (not that it made any difference in the Abyss, whose clocks stayed constantly at one minute to twelve) at the local bar (not that local meant anything either, unless you considered everything in the Abyss as 'local'). There would be Hell to pay when the Auditors see this, Death reflected, staring at his poker-faced reflection in his mirror (another gift from Susan. The girl had insisted that a man look proper when going about his job).

A bell boomed sonorously in the vast emptiness of his mansion. Igor, his specially imported butler from Igorian, knocked politely on the door before peeking in.

"Mather," Igor lisped deferentially. "The one whom you are theeking hath arrived."

"EXCELLENT," Death replied. The Grim Reaper had since long given up on trying to correct the butler's self imposed lisp and had learnt to interpret Igorian (after many laborious hours at his desk reading "Getting to know YOUR Igor"). He sat up in his chair, a relic from the 14th century. It was a gift from the then reigning king, who decided that he wouldn't be needing it anymore, where he was going. His bones creaked gratefully against the old wood. Oh how they made furniture then! "SHOW HIM IN."

Igor, who prided himself in coming from a long line of successful Igors (he still had his great, great, great, great grandfather's heart ticking proudly in his chest), bowed his scarred head and backed out of the room, in respectable Igor fashion.

Death reached out and fiddled with the hourglass on his table while he waited. The resident sand, as it was wont to do since a fortnight ago, continued its strike and stubbornly refused to heed the entreaties of gravity. The black-cloaked skeleton sighed again.

"The Mather will thee you now, thir," Igor said, careful to keep his eyes fixed firmly on the floor. He was uncomfortable around the cloaked stranger. In fact, his good old heart gave an unhealthy lurch every time he had to deal with one of Death's Angels™ (it was the aura, he firmly believed). Igor had oftentimes reflected on this, and considered giving up the job to his cousin's son, Igor. The youth could most certainly stand the chill emanating from Death's visitors. But, old Igorian pride remained and he resolved never to leave his job until he had to be given over as spare parts.

The tall figure (almost everyone was taller than Igor (except other Igors), who stood, like all Igors, at little over five feet) merely nodded in response. His leather wings shifted slightly.

"Pleathe come with me," Igor said, as he turned back towards the steps he had climbed down from. He had long given up on the age-old tradition of asking the visitors for their cloaks. The first (and last) time he had insisted, he had to be returned to Igorian to change a new pair of eyes. In fact, his eyes still itched when he thought of that horrendous encounter.


The stairs complained long and loud as the stout Igor climbed it, but stayed wisely silent towards the visitor. Unlike Igor, the house, which had seen more of Death's visitors, was much wiser, and knew how to treat them. Angels as a lot were extremely weight conscious, and were known to be (sometimes) violently displeased when they perceived that their surroundings thought them as heavy. However, the house was not pretending this time, for the angel it bore now weighed as much as Death on a good day.

Igor took a left turn when he reached the top and presently stopped before Death's door. He gave a no nonsense Igor knock (Grandfather Igor would have been proud) and, at the boomed "ENTER" response, turned and bowed, gesturing at the same time for the visitor to enter. The Death Angel™ inclined his head slightly in thanks, black robes whispering in response to the movement, and stepped over the threshold. Igor waited for a moment, and leaned in to pull the heavy door shut.

"Good morrow, Master Reaper," the angel said when he stopped at a respectable distance before Death's table. "Thou seekst me?"

Death waited for a beat before answering. It was taboo to acknowledge his minions immediately (so sayeth the Book – "Management for Dummies". It was another gift from Susan when he decided to start hiring outside help to do his reaping). It kept them on their toes; was Death displeased? Was he angry? The Grim Reaper felt he was a notch above most managers due to his carefully cultivated poker face.

"YOU CAME FROM THE BAR, LYLE?" he intoned, knowing the answer even before he asked. It was another tip from the Book, section 10.3, "Never answer questions from your min…(ahem) employees. Ask other questions."

The angel, named Lyle for as long as he could remember, shook his head. "I doth not carouse with the night mongers." He answered with a little sniff.

Death nodded his head. His best agent since the 12th century, did not, as the Book called, "play with the boys". In fact, he was what the Book would have screamed, pointing giant neon signs and large arrows, as "the Lone Ranger" (Though Death had no idea who the Lone Ranger was. To the extent of his knowledge, which had been amassed since Time came into being, Rangers always operated alone.). For all matters and purposes, Death was not overly worried – as long as Lyle managed to fill his quota (and then some) of souls collected, he could care less. Besides, he was still smarting from the Bar the Auditors had forced upon him last millennia ago (Employee rights, they had stated, the last time they went through his office. Employee benefits, holidays, sick leave. Pah!).

He looked up from his ruminating, and found his emerald-eyed angel gazing steadily down upon him, awaiting his master's response. It was something Death appreciated; not many of his employees could stand looking him in the eye (or eye sockets, in Death's case). He lazily pointed to a chair, which enthusiastically drew itself back and proffered itself to the angel. The latter nodded his thanks, and sat down carefully, after winching his wings in.

"WE HAVE A PROBLEM." Death intoned.

"Yes?"

"I SUPPOSE YOU ARE AWARE OF IT." Death intoned again.

The flat mirrors of his best operative's eyes betrayed nothing. "The angels carousing without care for work?" As much as a loner Lyle was, he was reluctant to betray his fellow angels' trust.

"YES. THERE HAVE BEEN NO DEATHS FOR THE PAST TWO WEEKS."

Silence.

Death leaned forward. "DO YOU KNOW WHAT TWO WEEKS IN THE ABYSS MEAN TO THE MEN ON EARTH?"

"Yes. Twenty years." Came the swift reply.

Death waved a hand, and a spreadsheet popped out from thin air. It rotated slowly so both parties could see its contents.


"IF YOU WILL OBSERVE THE GRAPH ON THE CHART."

"It tails off and reached zero a fortnight ago," Lyle answered dutifully. When did Death start using spreadsheets? He snuck a glance on Death's expansive (and expensive) desk. Ah… The telltale yellow binding of the book told him what he needed to know; Death was reading management books. He leaned back and tried to recall his anti-management training taken eons ago (things were much simpler then. If the employee did not like the employer, they just took his head off and called it a revolution).

Death leaned forward again (as the good Book sayeth, "Leaning forward will impress upon thy mi…employee, the importance of thy ord…question). "ARE YOU NOT, IN THE SLIGHTEST BIT, INTERESTED IN THIS INTERESTING BIT OF DATA?"

Uh-oh, is that a trap? "Hardly, I art not an Auditor" Lyle replied cautiously. The thing about Death, Lyle had decided a long time ago, was that it was impossible to know what the damned skull was thinking about.

The Grim Reaper sat back. Clearly, some arm-twisting was called for. ""YOU MENTIONED THE AUDITORS. DO YOU KNOW OF WHAT THEY DO?"

There was a long pause. "They…audit?" Lyle replied cautiously.

Death sensed a kill. "WOULD YOU LIKE TO BE AN AUDITOR?"

There was a pregnant pause. It looked ready to deliver little pauses anytime soon. Death cast his second pointed gaze of the day at the five pendulum balls again. The balls, intrigued by the turn of events, had fallen silent. Presently, a ball noticed Death's attention, nudged the rest, and resumed clacking, though it was suspiciously muted this time.

The slender frame before him shuddered. "No."

Death pinned his angel with his gaze, like a butterfly collector pinning his favourite butterflies onto a board. "WHAT DO YOU THINK THE AUDITORS WILL DO WHEN THEY COME FOR THEIR NEXT AUDIT, WHICH WILL BE SOON, BY THE WAY, AND SEE US IDLING AROUND."

The angel blinked. And blinked again. He squirmed a little under the hollow-eyed gaze. "They will…"

Death waited.

"I suppose… they will shut the Office of Death down, given that there are no longer any deaths," Lyle finished slowly.

"AND WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO YOU EMPLOYEES?" Death continued mercilessly.

Lyle stared at the skeletal figure, feeling his spine crawl. He firmly informed his spine that it was not going anywhere. With a whimper, his spine settled down, though it still twitched now and then.

"I SUPPOSE A CAREER SWITCH WOULD BE GOOD FOR YOU," Death mused, knowing that he had his prey.

"What doth thou needst me to do?" Lyle said hastily.

"WELL NOW," Death replied, pretending not to hear the angel, "I IMAGINE YOU WOULD LOOK GOOD IN A GRAY SUIT." He eyed the angel's long tresses, "AND GRAY HAIR…" He gestured vaguely at the wings, "THOSE HAVE TO GO THOUGH, AUDITORS DO NOT HAVE WINGS."

"It certainly is an interesting problem. I wouldst be happy to look into it immediately. With thy permission, of course…"


Death gazed nonchalantly at the flustered angel before him. "YOU ARE SURE ABOUT THIS? NOT A MOMENT AGO…"

"Naturally! For all we knowst, it couldst be another insidious plan of Life to thwart our duty to reap souls. It is my job as a Death Angel™ to investigate this." Lyle said earnestly. His wings bobbed in response.

"ALL RIGHT THEN," Death replied reluctantly.

"I wouldst do thee proud. When shouldst I start?" asked the angel.

"NOW."

"Now?"

"YES. STEP INTO THE WORLD OF MAN, AND SEEK OUT THE REASON FOR THE DEARTH OF DEATHS. YOU HAVE THREE WEEKS."

The angel got up and made to leave the room.

"WAIT."

"Yes, my lord?"

"CAN THE MIRACLES."

Green eyes stared at him. "But this canst not be so! Without magic, it wouldst be long and arduous before I find the answer!"

"I AM SURE YOU DO NOT WANT TO ATTRACT THEIR ATTENTION NOW, DO YOU? UNLESS YOU ARE SECRETLY, REALLY KEEN ON…"

"I will do thy bidding, my lord." The angel bowed, and hastily left the room, not giving Death any chance to reply.

"GOOD." Death said into the now empty room. The balls had resumed normal clacking operations. Three weeks. He would have to prepare for their arrival. Death sighed, his third for the day. Books would have to be docto…updated, stocks checked, and pay updated. He wished he had hired a secretary.