She has just vanquished an 'almost' Type 3 rogue, and though the word spreads already among the suits, they treat her like she just managed to fix a broken copier. No party, no applause not even a sinister toast in the break room. Instead, she's shackled to a desk, staring down a monitor as if sheer force of will might compel the report to write itself.
Yes, the report that Captain No Fun commanded her to write. Apparently, successfully retrieving rogues does not get you free booze, only paperwork.
Not in a million miserable years did she think that she will miss the screams of the damned. They provide decent background noise, much better than the click click click of a keyboard—her keyboard—that whines as she reluctantly types a sentence that might, with great generosity, be called progress.
She stops. Scrolls down. Regrets it immediately.
Ten words. Tragic.
Just as she starts contemplating whether throwing herself out the nearest ethereal window would be a justifiable excuse to skip the report, the door swings open—without so much as a courtesy knock.
Enter Matthew.
Of course, he didn't knock. He never knocks. Matthew, the insufferably charming Head Reaper of Soul Management, strolls in like he owns the place—because, in a way, he does. Not literally, of course, but when a creation like him carries himself with enough charisma, the walls practically sign a lease in his name.
"Hello rookie." Matthew drawls, flashing that grin of his that has an effect better than alcohol. "Stellar first day. Not bad."
His eyes linger on Clark just a moment too long. She rests her chin on her hand, unimpressed. "Don't you work?" she asks, arching a brow. "You seem to spend more time here than in your own department."
Matthew, entirely unbothered, leans against her desk, all effortless grace. "Trust me, you're work." He hands over a black box with a logo of the Veil on the cover. "Got you a present."
She opens it; it is a Reaper Blade.
"Papers cleared. Sharpened. Yours." Matthew adds.
Clark almost thinks of it as a kind gesture; only it's not. Matthew does not want the straight arrow Captain of the Elite Squad to be reprimanded for deploying her on the ground without a weapon. She even hears Anya has scrubbed some of the footage of the operation earlier so no one will find out about her stealing—borrowing—Clarence's blade. The Captain it seems has more knights than Arthur of Camelot.
"You are ever so loyal." She mocks without gratitude.
"Thank you. One of my many virtues." he smiles not giving a damn on her sarcasm.
Just then, the door opens again with a force that could only mean Clarence has entered. He takes one look at the situation and frowns, the tension between Matthew and Clark almost visible in the air. He lets out a frustrated sigh that says, "What in the Veil's name is it this time?"
Then, with all the warmth of a corporate email reminder, Clarence turns to Clark. "That report better be finished. I want that on my desk. Tonight."
And Clark, of course, responds in a way that warrants a warning from Reaper Resources, "The report and the submitter will both be on your desk," she teases. "But only one of them will bend over if you ask nicely."
The normal response will be to blush or choke, but this is Clarence—a force of nature in an expensive coat.
"GET. IT. DONE."
The door to his office slams shut behind him, making at least two interns seated nearby reevaluate their after-life choices. Even reapers are afraid of dying. Especially at Clarence's hands.
"He hates me," Clark mutters dramatically to Matthew, throwing herself back in her chair. "I should sleep with him, maybe that'll calm him down."
Matthew's grin is instant, a playful glint flashing in his eyes. "Seducing him, as you saw, does not work. Clarence hates everybody. Except for me, maybe. I'm a joy to be around." The way he says it with such confidence it almost sounded true.
Clark can't suppress a laugh, but her amusement is quickly replaced with a mockingly disapproving look. "You're so full of yourself," she shots back. The light teasing and his presence is a refreshing change of pace from Clarence's homicidal brooding and she is starting to like it.
"Want me to do your homework for you?" He offers, equally enjoying the banter. "Maybe I'll buy you a drink after."
Clark cocks her head slightly, lips curving into a mischievous smile. "If you do my homework, maybe I'll be the one to take you out for a drink." She leans forward, her tone playful. "You sure you want to be involved with the paperwork? That's not how I imagined you spending your evening."
Matthew smiles back, all smooth charm. "But come to think of it, if I do your homework, Clarence will know. And I think a drink's a poor payment for what he'll do to me if I help you. Up the stakes a bit, and maybe I'll bite."
She quickly senses his meaning, and knowing he is one so used to being fawned over, it thrills her to shot him down. "I don't sleep with the team."
Matthew's eyes sparkles with mischief. "I'm not from your team. " he says back in a low hum.
Clark whispers, "Right. Still not my type."
Matthew laughs loudly this time, clearly entertained by her deflection. "I'm everyone's type," he replies.
Before Clark can respond, the door from the Captain's swings open again. By the door frame, an impatient Clarence looks more sour than he did earlier. "That report is not going to type itself, Clark."
Clark gives him a dramatic eye-roll, her expression filled with feigned irritation. "I am typing." she says in a flat tone, though her playful energy remains intact.
He turns his eyes to Matthew, annoyed but with an edge of protectiveness. "Matthew, can I talk to you outside?"
Matthew looks like the principal just asked to see his parents. He smiles though and follows him out without hesitation. As soon as the door clicks shut behind them, Clarence rounds on him, his tone sharp. "Did you run out of souls to collect from the living world? Why are you always here?"
Matthew just shrugs that off, amusement on his lips. "Anya makes the best coffee."
Clarence is not having none of it. "We both know you're not here for the damn coffee." His tone is almost a growl.
The Head Reaper raises his hands innocently. "No? Well then I'm here for you, buddy boy. Is it a crime to once in a while check on you?"
Clarence's non-patience is starting to thin. "Your department has handed down a workload I do not want. The least you can do is to let us actually fix it."
Matthew's mouth fell open with that. "Those are very hurtful words, Clarence." he pretends to be offended.
The Captain sighs. It's like talking to a wall; a very charming wall that he cannot knock down. He stays silent for a moment, contemplating.
"The Chief wants me to occasionally oversee her horse in the race. She wants to make sure you are not mistreating her."
"Every day is not what you call occasionally, Matthew." Clarence responds exasperated, "And mistreat her? She's the former torturer. If anyone is supposed to file a complaint, it should be me."
Matthew looks up to the ceiling thinking back, "Maybe she meant the other way around." he nods then looks back at Clarence, "No. Can't remember."
"Is she back yet?" Clarence stirs the conversation in a different direction.
"The Chief? No way to know. Clarissa can't be bribed."
Clarence wants to roll his eyes hearing him say that. "Please leave before I stab you with a blade."
"Will you now?" Matthews steps closer his eyes growing black, "Let's not do it in an empty hall; I want your squad to watch when I put you in your place, Captain."
Clarence's lips pull up into wicked mirth, "Keep your empty threats, Matthew. And stay away from my rookie."
That makes Matthew laugh. "Your rookie," he crosses his arms, "That's the highest compliment you've ever paid anyone. Now I'm jealous."
—
Well, well, well.
You'd think with the urgent need to round up rogue souls, the Veil would be brimming with cases, wouldn't you? Like a constant parade of chaotic, terrifying encounters everyday.
But to Clark's disappointment, it is the excruciating opposite.
Few days after their first case, Clarence buries her with case files and police scanners connected to the mortal realm to monitor.
And as if the agony is not enough, she is now stuck inside the Ghost Crimes Team's new office—former Elite Squad's conference room converted to base of their operations, along with Anya, and two new reapers.
I'm sure they have proper reaper names, but I like to call them Scooby and Shaggy.
Now, Scooby wears a collar with a heart-shaped locket that has you guessed it, Clarence's photo inside.
And Shaggy, I call her that because she's a vegetarian.
They all sift through case after case, searching which folders of human filth is their kind of filth, you know, those that resulted from rogue possessions. All that reading is making Clark bored, and you do not want to be within fifty meters of her when she is feeling like she wants to trigger the apocalypse.
Unfortunately, Scooby and Shaggy are inside Clark's Bermuda triangle, so naturally, they are the first casualties of her bad temper.
You cannot blame Clarkie. Because this duo might as well be figments of her imagination because they are, as she eloquently put, useless. In fact, their contribution to the team so far consists of... well, ogling the Captain. What a revelation.
She decides it's time for a little...terrorization. You see, a reaper blade isn't just for collecting souls; it's also useful for shoving it into desks when you need to make a point.
She walks over to them, blade in hand, and with all the grace of a cat in a china shop, she slams it into the pile of paperwork. "Hey, Mystery Inc. Eyes up here!" she snaps, practically growling at them like a parent scolding children who haven't done their chores. "You've been sitting here for two hours, and not a single file is finished. Maybe you should start working instead of mooning over the Captain like he's some sort of freaking national treasure!"
"He is a national treasure," Scooby says, as if it were the most logical response in the world. I almost admire the audacity.
"Oh, shut up." Clark pulls her blade out, twirls it like she's in a bad action movie. "Get to work before I go Matthew 5:29 on you and gouge your eyes out."
Aw.
My girl quoting the sacred book, makes me proud.
She finally walks over to Anya's desk to probably scare her too with another scripture but finds her seat empty.
Then the Veil's very own version of Kevin Mitnick—Anya—comes out from the break room with a mug of coffee, and knocks to the Captain's office.
Clark is not pleased.
You can tell she's just about had it with this whole "Captain worship" thing. Clarence, with all his brooding intensity, has somehow managed to accumulate an entire fan club of sycophants. And Anya? Oh, she's just the club president.
"Where's mine?" she asks, arms crossed, not even trying to hide her annoyance to her.
"Oh," Anya claps her hand cutely together, "Of course you have one too." she says, "You know that tiny black box in the pantry?"
"Yeah."
"It's called a coffee machine. You use your hands to press some buttons and your coffee will come out." She explains sarcastically.
Clark is trying to hold back a vile contortion on her face that could very nearly be considered a smile. Frightening really.
"You're lucky you have other uses, otherwise, I'll skewer you."
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Anya swallows and lets out a nervous laughter, "Ha!—Ha...I say stupid things all the time...you really should not take me seriously...please don't hurt me..."
Clark's lids lower down looking almost asleep, "Even torturing you is boring." She pushes her back to her chair, "Tell me, why are you not briefing for a new case? It's been days—I'd rather punch a rogue soul in the face than spend another minute in this stupid fan club," she growls, her eyes violent like a predator circling its prey.
"We—we have no case." Anya hums in a low voice, "Unless of course we find one. The rogue soul retrieval rate is low for a reason. You can't track a rogue soul once it's out of the Veil. Their energy markers are so faint, they barely trigger any detection system. So we have to scour through files like this to even find their presence."
Clark looks around at the state-of-the-art equipment—holographic monitors on her area humming gently as if to mock her. "So all this—this tech is basically useless."
Anya shrugs. "Pretty much." she says trying to avoid eye contact. "This tracker's designed for soul collection. It locks onto a soul's energy signature before they enter the Veil. Once the soul's been collected and moved, the system scrubs the signature. It's gone. If the soul escapes into the living world and becomes a rogue, it's undetectable. The energy signature breaks apart and weakens to the point where the system just can't read it."
Rogue souls never posed so much of a threat before. The worst they can do is linger around and create cold spots or escalate to annoying poltergeists. They are not more than files of missing souls before they decided to transform into Type 2s and mess with humans.
And any altercation to the living realm is bad for the Chief's annual report.
"How about a Type 2 tracker?" Clark bends down almost breathing on Anya's neck, "The rogues energy are insignificant, but Type 2s emit a signature strong enough to be detected."
"How did you even know that?"
"We have Souls 101 in Hell. Demons make us attend these classes. Some form of intellectual torture." Clark recalls topping these classes. Even in Hell she is an overachiever. "Tell me that technology actually exists."
Anya scrunches her nose a bit hesitant, "Almost." She begins, "Before I was transferred to the Elite Squad, I was in the tech team of SM. I developed a project for a new tracking program for Type 2s and—" she trails off.
"And what?"
"Look, there is no way to calibrate it let alone run a beta test. It needs a specific data from a specimen: a spirit core of a freshly evolved Type 2. And that thing cannot be purchased in the black market; not even with a thousand reaper credits can you get one. It's hard to come by. Believe me, I've asked around, my dark web friends can't find it anywhere."
Clark gives her an incredulous glance. Sweet-geek-Anya, is rubbing elbows with cyber criminals. "You need to sort out your friends."
Anya gawks at her in disbelief, "You're the one exchanging friendship bracelets with demons! You don't get to have a go at my buddies." she complains.
"Fine." Clark dismisses her remark, "I'll get you your damn specimen." She turns to head down to the Captain's office.
"Wait, what are you doing?"
"I'm getting you your spirit core."
"No! What do you mean—are you even listening? I need a specific spirit—"
"Organic. Fresh. Newly made, right?" Clark turns, "I got it." she continues to storm into the office.
"Hello, Captain."
Clarence, as expected, is seriously perusing the case files and does not even bother to look up to see who just burst through his door.
"What do you want, Clark?" he asks as if he has eyes on top of his head.
"Two nights ago, Squad 1 picked up a rogue. I need to talk to it."
Clarence doesn't even blink. He is not about to ask how she knows about the rogue soul they were holding for interrogation. After a few days of watching her work, (when she's not actually terrorizing the halls like a swamp monster) he has started to understand why she has high commendation from a place like Hell. She is a hound, she tends to sniff things out that are not even for public knowledge; things mostly heard on confidential meetings.
"And why would I let you do that?" His voice is low, skeptical.
"Captain, Sir!" Anya pops in, "I—I did not in any way shape or form, encourage—" Anya stops as Clark covers her mouth to silence her.
"You're bored, aren't you?" Clark continues while holding Anya, "I can see it in your face. All this endless monitoring of scanners and reading case after case isn't exactly your idea of a good time, is it?"
Clarence does not respond to her nicely accurate observation, but instead asks,
"Do you have a point, Clark? Or are you just trying to get yourself reprimanded by making me a witness to how you abuse Anya?"
Clark takes a moment to consider that, then gives Anya a pointed look. A warning, before she lets he go. If she starts blabbing again, she will really choke her.
Anya wisely remains silent like a nun in prayer.
Clark turns back to Clarence, her voice smooth, almost taunting. "I'm proposing a deal. I need ten minutes alone in the room with your rogue. After that, I'll give you a way to track all the missing souls."
It is a big ask with a high return. Clarence is actually considering but not without a pinch of doubt. "And exactly what is this 'way'?"
"I'm not telling. Agree to the deal first."
Clarence can smell how this proposal already reeks of something forbidden and illegal.
"No." He shakes his head.
"Anya can vouch for it." She pushes Anya in front of her to use her as a shield, "Go on say it."
"What?"
Clark glares at her into submission.
"Alright..." she puts her hands together as if she's about to give the speech of her reaper-life, "Captain, I—I solemnly endorse her statement. Please, Sir." She bows in embarrassment.
Clark knows he values Anya's opinions more than he cares to admit. She is personally requested to be transferred into this squad, it means she is entitled with good amount of his good graces. And she—a hell spawn—is always ready to exploit things like this to her favor.
Even with all the hesitation on this plan not fully being disregarded, he presses a button on his comm unit. "Tell Interrogations we're coming down."
As he stands to leave, Clark can't help but smile—her plan is working.
But Clarence's voice cuts through her satisfaction just as she is about to step into the hall. "It'll be a supervised chat," he warns. "And you've got five minutes."
—
Clarence has mentally prepared for many things when he agreed to bring Clark Parker into his squad. Headaches. Defiance. General insubordination.
What he did not account is this.
Standing in the interrogation observation room, arms crossed, jaw clenched, he watches as Clark strolls into the cell like she is walking into a damn cocktail party. The rogue soul—a writhing, unstable thing—has been manic for hours, screaming, thrashing, breaking restraints like a rabid animal. The security team is at a loss on how to get a single coherent word out of him.
And yet.
The moment Clark entered?
Silence.
The rogue's head snaps up, wild eyes locking onto her. Then, voice hushed, trembling, he begins to mutter.
"Red thread... red thread..."
Clark lifts her head, intrigued, and flashes a slow, sharp grin. "Oh? You've heard of me?"
Clarence can already tell from the way she is rolling up her sleeves that this is about to go downhill very, very fast.
Behind him, Anya—tech genius, chaos gremlin, and, unfortunately, the only one in the room who is actually enjoying this—mutters under her breath, "Oof. He's about to have a bad day."
The rogue gulps still staring at Clark like she is the boogeyman. "They talk about you...the spirits do...the scourge of hell...with the red thread on her hair..."
Clark chuckles. "Flattering. Really." She crouches beside him, her voice dipping into something almost soothing. "Now, I need you to do something for me."
The rogue flinches. Among their ranks, her reputation is known. Every sinner that still walks and lingers in the mortal plane avoids being collected in fear of being in Hell and meeting her. Demons brag about her, the one that can dethrone the very princes of the kingdom of sulfurous pit if she actually tries.
"Y—you're supposed to be in Hell..." his head shakes like he is having a seizure, "...supposed to be in Hell!"
"Oh you did not see Hell's nightly news? I've been promoted...to the Veil."
The rogue turns his face away. It is horrified.
Clark grabs his chin and forces him to look into her eyes. Once the rogue locks pupils with her, it petrifies, unable to avert.
And then she sees it, his sins. All of them. From the minute to catastrophic.
Hell lets her keep it even after she left. The ability to see the sins of the damned. It is a way for a torturer to pass the appropriate sentence.
"Ah." she muses and whispers to his ear, "Murderer...they have a nice circle for you in Hell." she lets out a euphoric giggle. "You will burn there for eternity."
The rogue remains wide eyed and frozen.
"Now." Clark looks at his stiff face. "Turn."
The entire room tenses.
Clark is asking it—no, telling it—to transform.
Clarence's fists clenches at his sides. No soul, not even a rogue one, just becomes a Type 2 overnight. It takes time, hate, pain—an extreme amount of it. And yet, there she is, willing it to happen with just her word.
The rogue starts shaking. "N-no... that's not—"
Clark smiles. "That's okay. I can help."
Then, in a flash, she punches straight through his gut.
Anya drops the tablet she is holding.
The security team panics hands flying to emergency overrides, looking at the Captain for his order.
But Clarence remains still, looking through the glass that separates them and the hell-like enhanced interrogation that is happening. Because as much as he hates to admit it, he wants to see what the hell she is planning.
The room erupts in energy.
Lights flicker, shatter. The cosmic-made glass fractures under the pressure. The rogue wails, writhing as Clark's hand twisted inside him, pressing against something vital.
Then—suddenly—Clark yanks her hand back.
And in her grasp, dripping, shimmering, pulsing with barely contained power, is a raw ectoplasmic core.
Anya curses under her breath, not in fear but in awe. She really is as good as the label on the box. She read her files before she transferred. In just seven years, she rose through the ranks of torturers, and was offered to be a demon. There was a rumor that the Princes of Hell themselves offered her a fiefdom in the Pit and the title of Duchess. There is nothing that can confirm or deny if she accepted that honor before she became a reaper. But having no horns or tails is not evidence enough to disprove those claims.
Clark pulls out a bag from her pocket and stuffs the specimen inside, sealed it, and strides out of the interrogation room like she just finished a boring day at work.
She drops the bag into Anya's stunned hands. "How long before you can analyze it?"
Anya blinks. Looks at the specimen. Looks back at Clark. "Uh—twenty-four hours?"
Clark smirks. "Tick-tock, then."
Anya runs.
The security team disperses, muttering amongst themselves, and Clarence—who has kept himself in check this entire time—waits until they are alone before stepping closer, glaring.
"You said you will talk—that was not even remotely close to talking."
"Oh we talked." Clark says, "That was my special way of talking to sinners."
"What did you rip out of him?"
"Spirit core sample. Anya needs it for a Tracking Program she's developing. It can isolate Type 2 energy signatures, which makes it easier for us to find them."
Clarence is confused on how she even knows so much about these things.
Clark smiles. Playful. Infuriating. "What, you think I'm just a pretty face?"
His glare doesn't waver. "They left out a lot of information on your transfer papers."
"Yeah. Hell usually fucks up the paperwork. Ask the Veil's inspection team, auditing us is a nightmare."
Us.
She still thinks she is a part of the Pit.
"You are a reaper of the Ghost Crimes Team now, under my command. And we do not rip spirit cores from rogues like that. There are approved methods of extraction—"
"What's this?" Clark cuts him her expression dark. A flicker of something violent and bitter passes through her eyes. "Showing sympathy to a sinner? Are you about to tell me about his rights, Captain?" She spits the title like it is laced with acid.
Then, before he can react, she presses her palm—still smeared with ectoplasm—right against his chest.
Clarence holds his breath and steadies himself, keeping his temper on a tight leash as she wipes her palm clean against his suit.
"If you wanted a specimen," he said evenly, "there are protocols for that."
Clark pouts. "All I hear is you defending a fellow sinner."
She lifts her hand away from his chest, turns on her heel, and throws one last warning over her shoulder.
"You better throw that suit, Captain. Not even Heaven can wash that away. Sin stains like a bitch."
She knows he is a sinner.
He is from Hell like her. Only because of some holy pardon is he plucked out of the Pit and chosen to serve in the Veil.
An ache suddenly pierces his non-existent heart. A pain too sharp to ignore. She hates him.
I warned him.
This is his new Hell.
And trust me, it will take some heaven-granted clemency for him to be forgiven.
—
Ah, yes.
This is going to be one of those conversations. The sort that required patience, diplomacy, and just the right amount of smugness.
Clark arrives at the left wing looking like someone personally offended by the concept of existence. It is, in fact, the same expression she wore when she personally sentenced an entire terrorist cell to the worst corner of Hell without so much as a lunch break. Efficient. Terrifying. Not unlike a particularly vengeful tax auditor.
I, of course, am standing right there in the hall. And, of course, she ignores me.
Predictable.
"Clark," I say.
She turns, eyes sweeping over me with the sharp calculation of someone deciding whether I am an obstacle, a nuisance, or simply a waste of oxygen. She does not recognize me, which is to be expected. I know her, of course. But Clark Parker has a particular skill for overlooking things that do not immediately require stabbing.
"Do I owe you lunch money or something?" she asks, entirely unimpressed.
Ah. The wit.
"No," I say, tilting my head. "I just think it's time we finally meet."
Her gaze narrows, measuring, "Who are you?"
Ah. The question. The million-dollar, golden-ticket, angels-are-humming-in-the-background question.
I am, obviously, not telling.
She steps forward, slow and deliberate, eyes locking onto mine like a hawk deciding whether a mouse is worth the effort. She is tiny compared to Clarence, but taller than me—though I would argue it's the shoes. The effect, however, is rather dramatic.
"Are you a rogue soul?"
Rogue Soul.
Please.
Still, she watches me, weighing her options, measuring my worth against her time.
"What do you want?" she finally asks, cutting straight to the proverbial chase.
"Ah," I say, feigning mild offense, "you didn't have to be so cold to Clarence."
Her expression remains blank.
"He's a reformed sinner," I continue. "Did his rehab. Completed the twelve-step program. You went down on him like he instigated the freaking Holocaust."
Her brow twitches. "What are you, his lawyer?"
I laugh. Ha. Ha. Ha.
"He is serving the Veil for a thousand years, Clark. His tenure is indefinite, his soul irredeemable."
Her expression does not change.
"And?"
"But he's done some good here," I say, shrugging. "Even the devil gets his due, why shouldn't he? He is hurt enough. Don't break him."
Something flickers in her gaze. The homicidal look softens. Only slightly—more manslaughter now than outright murder. Clarence's soul is tainted. So is hers. She is no better than him, not really. That does not give her the right to treat him like the damned she used to torture.
"Didn't do anything," she mutters, entirely unconvincing.
Now she knows how to lie.
She really has changed for the worse.
"Why do you even care?" she asks.
"I like him," I say simply.
It is, surprisingly, the truth.
"And I like you too," I add, watching her reaction closely. "In time, you'll thank me."
She does not get the chance to argue.
I step away and disappear.
Because I know how to make an exit.