Chapter Two

The elevator opened with a high-pitched ding as the automatic doors slowly parted. After checking to make sure no one was looking, Aeron rushed out and clutched his chest. He breathed in and out, in and out, until he finally calmed down. "Fuckin' coffins," he mumbled as he glared back at the elevator's closing doors. For as long as he could remember, he'd suffered from claustrophobia. After all, he was an Angel. The sky was where he belonged, not stuffed in some metal deathtrap. Once he had calmed himself down, Aeron straightened his suit and looked up. "For an archangel, the Minister sure is vain," he said as he stared at the office's extravagant decor. The entire room was held aloft via a set of chiseled columns that consisted of three cross-shaped layers. He was currently on the first layer, which was covered in a fine velvet carpet. The second layer was made of granite slabs and had a giant round table resting upon its center. The final layer, which towered high above the other two, was where the Minister's desk was.

"I'm telling you; we cannot afford to let this get out! All of our positions would be at risk!" Aeron heard one of the councilmen say. He must have arrived in the middle of a meeting. Of course, he didn't want to interrupt them. So, before any of them noticed, he dashed and hid behind one of the columns. Sadly, stealth wasn't his strong suit. After a few more minutes of arguing, the Minister spoke up and let out a loud whistle.

"Gentlemen! I will have to ask you to be quiet, and it appears that we have a guest," the Bureau's leader announced as he tossed a pencil towards Aeron's hiding place. "Come on out, Templar; I know you're there." Even though he couldn't see them from behind the stone column, Aeron could tell that the councilmembers were utterly livid. None of them liked him that much, and after being caught eavesdropping, he was confident that a couple would file an official complaint. Thankfully, he knew how to weasel out of situations like this.

"How much did you hear?" one of the members asked him—clearly panicked. Aeron smiled and shrugged.

"Absolutely nothing; I just got off the lift," he lied as he walked up to the conference table. "Why? Has something happened?" he asked with a furrowed brow. That was enough to throw the councilmen off his scent. Angels were known for their honesty, and since he was one, it was easy to get people to trust him. The Minister, who looked to be in his mid-fifties, grinned and clapped his hands together.

"Aeron Weber, the man of the hour. How long has it been since you've last stepped foot in my office?" the Minister asked as he reached out and shook his hand. In some ways, the Minister's flamboyant attitude reminded him of a conman. He knew that this praise was just window dressing. It was all just part of the cycle. He would return, the Minister would shower praise upon him, and then he would be sent off to another—even more difficult—mission. Their relationship was like that of a dog and its owner. Once the fat bastard was finished with his spiel, he finally got a chance to speak after what seemed like hours.

"What's the mission?" He cut straight to the point. There was no reason for them to continue this conversation. The Minister and the councilmen knew he was a professional and had no mind for small talk.

"You just got back, and you already want to talk about work?! Your words, Aeron, wound me," the Minister moaned—his voice nearly dripping with ham. After that, the Angel turned around and walked back up to his desk. His fat feet landed hard against the marble steps, creating a noticeable thud that resonated throughout the room. Once the tub of lard finally reached his desk, he took out a large folder, opened it, and then pulled a small scroll out from the folder's multitudes of pages.

The scroll itself was woven from papyrus wrapped in a fine coat of purple linen. He unfurled the scroll, took out a small pen—still wet with ink—and quickly placed his signature upon the parchment. After the ink dried, the Minister whistled again, causing a small bird to fly down from the ceiling. The creature appeared to be some frog-dove hybrid and smelled as awful as it looked. It opened its mouth and swallowed the scroll before flying off towards one of the elevators.

"What my cute little messenger dove just took will be your next mission," the Minister said as he leaned back into his gigantic desk chair. From his position, Aeron could tell that the man was very weary. He had dark circles lining his eyes, and his breathing was heavy. An average person would've been worried for the Angel's health. However, he couldn't care less. He gave up on that escapade when the Minister passed four hundred pounds. "My operator, Jeremy Knight, will debrief you in full. Now run along." The morbidly obese Angel turned away from Aeron and back to the councilmembers waiting below.

"I guess that's as good an excuse as any to leave," he thought as he headed for the exit. Usually, he would've stuck around to get some more information on the assignment, but he was in no mood for that today. Those councilmembers were agitated. If he stayed, he'd probably just become a temporary scapegoat for them to vent on. "I'll just put in a request at the front desk later," he continued. "Malcolm may be a horrid drunk, but he'll come through when it counts." With that, he headed back into the elevator and finally escaped that dusty office.

"Thank God," the Minister mumbled once he was sure that Aeron had left. "That monster's finally gone." For the first time since the Templar stepped out of the lift, the Bureau's leader allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief. He always felt like this when Aeron Weber returned from his missions. After composing himself, the Minister stood up from his seat, cleared his throat, and spoke. "Now then, gentlemen, I believe we were in the middle of something."

Nine hundred and fifty years ago...

When new souls arrive at the Pearly Gates, most expect that Heaven will be paradise. However, if you look closely, God's domain is more like a den of rats. Granted, it is a den of very well-behaved rats, but the point still stands. People might not be getting murdered or robbed up here. But that doesn't mean anything if you're talking about The Courthouse. A new minister was appointed recently. His name's Beurt, but Malcolm tells me that he only wants to be called by his title. The main issue here is that he's an Angel. The man has no experience with sin, and that's a necessity in our line of work. The old minister—the one who appointed me as templar—was an elderly soul from the east. He was far from an innocent man, but he was a good one. It saddened me when he finally finished his term. He was a good comrade and a fine friend.

This newbie, Beurt, is far from a good man. He knew a few people—influential people—who got him into office. And since then, everything has changed.

The Minister is supposed to be the one in charge of the judges. Somebody who can act on the fly in dangerous situations. Beurt doesn't strike me as that sort of person, as that sort of Angel. The new councilmembers, who are supposed to help advise the Minister, are also a toss. All of them were handpicked by Beurt, which helps no one.

While the Minister is technically allowed to appoint individuals to the Council, which rarely happened in the past, most ministers had the common sense to know that they shouldn't choose their advisory group. The old council fought with the previous minister regularly—there was rarely a time when they weren't arguing. But that was the point. Our job is to decide if a world requires rehabilitation; we are the ones who press the reset button. If the person in charge decides to pair the wrong judge with an inappropriate world, the consequences could be disastrous.