8 April, Year 909
As the wolves tore into her flesh and her vision faded to black, Gepopo's last mortal thought was simple: yeah, I probably deserve this.
She lay on the forest floor, still struggling as best she could against the voracious beasts, but with no real strength to fight or flee. She had tried. But an urchin from the city streets had no chance against the five hungry great-wolves that had stalked her through the twilight brush. The searing pain from their attacks suddenly dropped out of her consciousness and into the background of her mind. All she felt was a pulsing, pounding emptiness that grew fainter by the second. The largest of the wolves leapt at her face—and then she saw nothing more.
She felt nothing more.
And then—dry, sizzling heat.
Gepopo opened her eyes, then immediately closed them again—the sun was directly overhead, bearing down on her as tenaciously as the wolves had. She slowly sat up, shaded her eyes, and took in her surroundings. The verdant forest around her had disappeared entirely, replaced by the edge of a vast desert landscape. Red rock formations loomed in the distance; beyond them, craggy mountains rose so suddenly from the flat landscape that they hardly seemed real. A hot wind blew through Gepopo’s shaggy black hair, breaking the oppressive stillness of the desert air. Gepopo looked around; she seemed to be alone.
A crack of thunder pierced the empty blue sky. Suddenly—she wasn’t.
“Up you go, then,” said a deep, gravelly voice from far above her. Gepopo blinked in shock. She found herself staring up at the outstretched arm of a green-skinned demon of some sort: a tall, muscular man with a bald head, a black goatee, and the horns and hooves of a ram. He wore the sleeveless robes of a desert-dweller, and he smelled faintly of sulfur.
“Come on. It might be a slow day, but we still have to move the souls along in a timely manner.”
Gepopo recoiled. “Who the fuck are you? Why should I go with you? Where am I? Where’s the forest? The wolves?”
“Welcome to the afterlife, sunshine.” The demon smiled, showing silver-pointed fangs. He offered his hand again, which Gepopo continued ignoring.
“Look, I’m not going anywhere I damn well don’t want to. I can stay here all—”
The demon reached down and unceremoniously yanked Gepopo to her feet. It didn’t take him much effort.
“Tiny little thing, aren’t you?”
“Ow! Big ugly shrub, aren’t you?” Gepopo retorted, rubbing her shoulder where he had grabbed her. Glancing at her arm, she saw the demon's talon-like nails had neither ripped her already-shredded clothing nor left any mark in her skin. There was a burning sensation deep in the center of her arm, though, as if her bones had briefly caught fire.
She glared back up at the fiend. “How’d you get here—did a sheep fuck a cabbage and then try to punt its bastard child into the sun?”
The demon chuckled; it barely registered on his face, but the pebbles on the ground nearby quivered and jumped with the sound. “Cute. Welcome to the last place in the universe where jokes like that will be tolerated.” He let go of her arm and once again offered an extended hand.
“I’m the Chaperone,” he said.
Gepopo stared blankly at the Chaperone’s hand. Again, the demon chuckled; again, the ground shook. “This is called a handshake, child. You’re supposed to take my hand, move it up and down, and then let go. It’s a common custom in most polite societies. How did you not learn this in the mortal realms?”
“This is called ignoring a handshake, shit-for-brains. It’s a common custom when I have no fucking clue where I am or what just happened to me, and the condescending beanstalk of a demon that seems to be my only source of information chooses to explain basic societal concepts to me instead of being helpful, or even telling me how he knows my fucking name.”
“Let me understand this. You awake in a strange place and your first instinct is to repeatedly insult the only other being around?” The Chaperone laughed again, this time more darkly. “I do commend you on your… nerve? Grit? Moxie? Let’s call it moxie.”
Gepopo’s vicious glare held firm. He continued.
“As I said, I am called the Chaperone. I’m here to escort souls to the next reckoning before they find their ultimate homes in the afterlife. Oh, that’s right! Gepopo, you are—unfortunately—dead.”
Gepopo didn't let the news register on her scowling face. “Yeah. No shit, sunshine. I just got mauled by a pack of wolves. Dying is usually the next step in that process. Now can you answer my questions, or is there a different horned brute with half a brain who I can consult?”
“You’ll be seeing the other demons shortly,” he snarled. “Very shortly.” A thin leather-bound tome appeared in his hands with a puff of red smoke. It was a tawny-beige color—oddly light for leather, but somehow familiar. Gepopo shook off the sudden and terrible thought that it was bound in her own skin.
“What the fuck is that?” she asked. “Doing some light reading while we wait for the cab? Is it that far away?”
“Are you actually eager for this journey, little one? Have you not figured out where it ends?”
Gepopo gestured angrily at her surroundings. “Well, I gather from context clues that it doesn’t end in this delightful fucking landscape.” She spreads her arms wide, in an even more theatrical motion than the last. “I had always dreamed of seeing the breathtakingly rugged vistas of the inside of a devil’s gaping asshole. You really live in this shithole? Wait—is live the right word there?”
“Here? No, nobody lives here. Not in the parts the mortal souls see, anyway. Consider it a... layover—between the mortal and immortal legs of your journey. Like I said, I am merely the Chaperone, here to guide you and comfort you—or in this case, babysit you and attempt to tolerate you—until your eternal resting place is ready. You made no deals with devils, you had no immortal patrons, you found favor with no gods.” He bowed sarcastically. “The only option left was me.”
“So there’s nobody to claim me?”
“No—no one at all.”
Gepopo laughed coldly. “That’s the first fucking thing you’ve said that’s made me feel at home. Congratulations on doing your job one single time. Do they make medals for that?”
The Chaperone wordlessly glared at her, then cracked open the book he was carrying. Gepopo crossed his arms as he took his time consulting it.
“You’re—let’s see here—” he said, thoughtfully flipping a few pages until coming across the entry he was looking for. “Ah, that explains all this. You’re seventy.” He shakes his head. “So, so young for an elf. What a shame, or something like that, et cetera.” He waved one enormous hand dismissively as he continued to peruse the pages.
“Seventy-one,” Gepopo retorted. “My birthday’s in March.”
“No, I don’t believe that’s right.” He squinted at his page again. “April 17th. You’re still seventy. Or… you were seventy. I don’t suppose it matters terribly much now. But I’m curious—how does one go seventy years with an inaccurate birthday?”
Gepopo scowled, but relaxed a little. “Is it not in your precious book? Mom took off when I was little, Dad was never there in the first place, been on and off the streets for fifty years and change. Your standard tragic orphan backstory. Not too fucking many people out there counting the days, much less buying me presents and throwing me a party.” She turned her attention to the book. “That what you wanted? If you’re supposed to know me so well, what’s with the book?”
“Oh, the information’s not meant for me. I just couldn't help but peek.”
“Then who’s it for? Your boss, your lover, your finest prize goat? All of the above? I assume they're the same thing.”
“This is… not as endearing as you think it is.”
“Do I fucking seem like I’m trying to be endearing?”
The Chaperone slammed the book closed. His solid pitch-black eyes flashed red in anger. “Listen, you insolent child. Fortunately, I only have to deal with you until the chariots come by to take you to the gates of the hells. You’ll be tested to determine which of them best rewards your particular… let’s call them sins, shall we? Indiscretions. General moral failings.” He began to flip through the book again, this time more intently than before. “Not a bad record for your age, little one. Fights, lies, general insubordination, quite a number of thefts, acts of revenge both justifiable and petty—”
“I did what I had to do to survive.”
“And the, ah… recent murder?”
Gepopo froze. She knew the consequences of becoming an assassin would catch up to her someday, but she’d assumed she could outrun them for more than a few hours. She certainly never imagined her reckoning would come that very night, in the literal entryway to hell. A simple job, the boss had told her. And a handsome payout. She thought about the weight of the crowbar in her hands, the feeling of cold iron. She remembered the pool of blood in the alleyway. She tried to forget the man's face.
For the first time, her voice broke a little. “I said what I said.”
The Chaperone raised an eyebrow. “You’re standing by that? Again, I suppose I have to commend you on your… moxie, ill-advised as it may be. It’ll take some work for my colleagues to break your spirit. A fun challenge, no doubt.” He shook his head and turned a few more pages. “I’d recommend keeping the back talk to a minimum when you get to the gates. Don’t hope for much better than the third hell, but if you anger them enough you could probably end up as low as sixth hell. Trust me, it’s a stark difference.”
Suddenly, a crack appeared in the orange dirt between the demon and the elf. It widened in fits and starts, struggling open to reveal a pool of swirling, iridescent light. The Chaperone peered over the edge of the book and looked down at the hole. “How fascinating,” he said calmly.
Gepopo crouched next to the hole, tentatively reaching her hand into it. She felt something swirl around her hand like a warm ocean tide. Was it a liquid? A gas? Something else entirely? She cupped her hands and tried to scoop out some of the well’s contents to examine them. Her hands came up empty.
“A gate back to the mortal plane,” the Chaperone muttered in amazement. “Absolutely fascinating. I assumed, from the contents of this book and your… general demeanor, that no one would want you back.”
“Back?” Gepopo looked up at the demon. “As in… this thing could resurrect me?”
“Could is the operative word here. This well is clearly weak—look, it’s flickering,” noted the Chaperone. The hole was, indeed, erratically expanding and contracting within the ground. “I’m certain it’s a mistake. We can usually ignore them at this size—the connection’s hardly ever strong enough to hold a full soul, anyway. I don’t know who or where is on the other side of that hole. But… well, the most reasonable explanation, as far-fetched as it sounds, is that someone on the mortal plane is inviting your soul back into your body.” He stared at the sinkhole pensively. “Could be a colleague of mine from the Hells, giving you a chance to barter for a few more years—although it seems less than sporting for them to resurrect you first and pull out the contracts later. Could be a reckless necromancer, could be a passing demigod taking pity on your corpse. Hard to tell. Regardless, it’s some shoddy portal work, to say the least.”
“So you’re telling me there’s someone or something down this well,” Gepopo said slowly. “And it leads to somewhere that isn’t... here.”
“Probably.” The Chaperone shrugged. “We really don’t encourage following these paths here, much less when they’re as weak and unstable as this one. After all, this is your… ah...”
Gepopo slid into the well without a moment’s further hesitation. The Chaperone glanced back up to his charge only to realize that she—and the hole—had disappeared without a trace. Her spirit was already falling through the portal, diving towards whatever second chance might await her at the bottom.
