Nobody likes going to Hell.

  Not the sinners, not the saints, not even the demons, if they can help it.

  Except for me, probably. Not on official business.

  You see, we have long accepted the fact that diplomacy does not apply in this sort of place. I go here for the parties—their decadent soirees, or their sauna nights, which leave your skin as soft as a cherub's bottom. If, of course, you survive the process without melting first.

  And Clark Parker, is about to be my new bestie because she volunteers to go to the fiery pits like it is the Hunger Games and she's Katniss Everdeen.

  Yes, Miss Everdeen—sorry, Parker—has single-handedly shaved a decade off the Chief's lifespan by refusing reincarnation. Again.

  The first time, about twelve lifetimes ago, she pulled the same stunt. She had been declared a Saint (which, in hindsight, was a terrible idea) and had looked the Veil square in the eye and said, 'No, thank you'. She doesn't remember it, of course, but we do. The Veil's legal department is still recovering from the paperwork nightmare worse than Watergate. Some of them are still in therapy. Some of them have gone feral.

  There was a reason she did it back then. A reason I can't tell you, not unless I want to commit a cosmic felony. And until I find the courage to become Heaven and Hell's most wanted, you'll go into this blind—just like Clark, who brings the Chief nearer to a stroke than to a closure.

  Clark sits across from her, shoulders squared and gaze steady, while the Chief stares at her like she has just grown wings or horns or something far worse—an iron will.

  "I will go. It's like I'm already in hell when I was alive, how much worse could it be?" she asks begrudgingly.

  Astronomical, my dear! That's the word you are looking for. There is an astounding difference of living a 'life of hell on Earth' and being in Hell itself.

  "You must hear first what it will require to taint a soul of a saint." Chief says, "By shedding the blood of sinners, torturing them and exacting Heaven's punishment as the butcher—that is the currency that will be asked of you. Once you step inside one of those circles, the Veil can no longer shield you, and all chances of reincarnation are rescinded."

  It will be foolhardy to say she does not feel any fear or reluctance hearing the Chief's words. But she is neither going into this with the arrogance of the damned, nor the reckless hope of the redeemed.

  She is frightened, of course, but more so in the thought of being stuck in a loop of endless reincarnation with no clear purpose.

  This is a problem we have with saints, they always think their life has to mean something and they just can't reincarnate in peace.

  "H—how many?" she asks stammering, "How many souls?"

  The Chief watches her, an unreadable reaction in her face settles. Pity, maybe or admiration, even I cannot tell. I really ought to take her to poker sometimes.

  "A thousand," she says. "Five thousand. Maybe more...it will take a large sacrifice to make a dent on your soul."

  And even if she cannot tell her, the Chief knows how much suffering she already endured. Her previous life is a walk in the park if you compared it to the last twelve. Some will say they let her out easy.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  I don't think so, they never just let anyone walk away unscathed.

  And I might be imagining it, but Chief looks like she is not even trying enough to get her to back down.

  I know a scheme when I see one. She wants her to do it, to go to hell and be the Scourge of God.

  Clark wavers. Just for a moment.

  A crack beneath the weight of it all.

  She understands she is throwing away a chance at a life without even knowing what it is to live. The only thing is she can feel it, a strange pull that is forcing her to make this questionable life—after-life, decision.

  "If I accept reincarnation," she begins, "I will be happy this time, won't I?"

  The Chief, hard as she tries, cannot even lie to save her from the fires of damnation. Instead, she cups her hands into hers, gentle like one would cradle a wounded bird.

  "This time, you won't grow up angry and sad, because your parents failed and left you alone. You will know childhood and friendship, because there will be time for you to have them, instead of being forced to be an adult."

  "Stop." Clark flinches, as if each word is a finger pressing against an old bruise. But the Chief does not loosen her grip and goes on.

  "This time, you will be allowed to dream and be free to fulfill them, without guilt or shame. It will be a good life, Clark."

  "Maybe—" A single tear rolls down her cheek. "Maybe I want all that."

  "You can have all that." The Chief promises.

  Clark closes her eyes, and when she looks back at her you can tell that all that pep-talk did nothing to break her resolve.

  "But I'm not going to be happy, not truly." she says, "You know this."

  The Chief is silent like the tomb, betraying nothing.

  "There is always going to be something, something missing that I have no name for. And this is the only way that I will find it. This is my choice."

  "You do not belong in Hell." the Chief says, "It will break you."

  Clark smiles a bit but there is no joy in it.

  "Strange that you say that, when I'm never whole to begin with." she leans back and pulls her hand away, this time breaking free. "You will see, I will survive this too."

  I don't doubt her for a second. She did not endure five hundred years of pain just to walk away and be obedient like they wanted her to be.

  The Chief exhales a breath of submission.

  Then, she presses a button.

  "Clarissa, get legal in my office. Now." she orders.

  "Thank you." Clark says.

  The Chief shakes her head.

  "Curse me every day you are in that place if you must," she says. "But do not thank me for it."

  —

  I arrive at the Chief's office to find her sulking like it's 1929 and the stock market has just crashed, rendering the Veil's value to zero.

  The walls in that room don't speak of the horrible deal that happened hours before my visit, but Clarissa does.

  "I heard you sent a Saint to Hell. You know we have demons for that kind of cruelty, there's no point taking more jobs than you actually have."

  She presses her hands together, as if in prayer.

  "It was her choice," she murmurs.

  Ah. The ineffable free will, great cosmic loophole.

  "Oh?" I tilt my head. "And does that make us come away with clean hands?"

  The Chief glares at me like i just committed genocide. The words only hurt because there is truth in them.

  "The die is cast." she says. "All we can do now is pray she survives it."

  "Oh, she will," I say.

  She looks up and lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. "You always did have so much faith in her."

  Faith. If that is what you want to call it.

  "Someone has to." I say.

  I am a gambler. I always bet on the ones who have everything to lose.

  But she is right, we need a prayer, only the one she says is the wrong kind.

  You send a Saint into the abyss—with all the intent and purpose of having her soul broken, don't expect her to come back the same.

  Corrupting the innocents, converting saints to sinners, is what exactly written on Hell's company profile.

  "We should pray." I mock, "But you better start with, 'I hope she doesn't come back a demon' to get what she wants."