[ WP ] `` You had ONE job ! '' both Satan and God scream at you .

It is hard to be a supervisor in the death division. People think I have it easy because, mainly, my job is to oversee all the death agents in my unit, receive reports on their assignments, and according to those reports, create performance charts and submit their results. Excluding me, my unit consists of two agents. It is one of the smallest ones. We are known as the incomplete unit, but we have always been efficient at what we do, so my superiors overlook the fact that we are missing one more member. 
 
 Throughout the eons of my existence, we have never had an issue. I must repeat never. 
 
 Until now. 
 
 The reason is this new agent beside me. A Shinigami. A clumsy apprentice from the Japanese Branch. And I, for the first time ever, am getting yelled at by my superiors. The Sovereigns. It might sound absurd, but the only thing I can think of is *a stain on my pristine record! * 
 
 * “ You only had ONE job. ” * 
 
 Their conjoint reprimand upsets my world. They compress me; I become a minuscule creature, barely living, hardly conscious. Their presence is everywhere and nowhere at once. My office reverberates with Their shared displeasure. An eternity passes in an instant and the blame deposited on me thickens, morphing into a weight that threatens to annihilate all that I am and ever was. 
 
 I suppose I will not have to worry about a *stain*. 
 
 In most cases, demotion is equal to imminent expiration. For this failure I might be demoted, I realize. But my real job, I believe, is to protect my subordinates, and that is what I ’ m doing. I look at the agent, the rookie Shinigami, behind me and he is certainly ready to expire on the spot. His bright brown eyes are wide, his face pale, his lips ajar—his impetuous disposition disintegrating beneath the judging eyes of true Gods—I have not seen him like this before, quailing as though he is experiencing an apocalypse. He is not a frail human anymore, and yet, he insists on acting like one. An Angel must always be composed. 
 
 Though he is green still, he shows promise. He could grow to be a good supervisor. 
 
 He has to be spared. How old is he again? Two hundred? He is but a child. 
 
 A simple assignment: *the retrieval of Gabriel ’ s silver scroll at the Lands of Ebon*. However, what can a supervisor do when an agent under their care departs with an assignment without authorization and the development of the aforesaid assignment degenerates into a catastrophe? 
 
 Here I am. This is my duty. I am not an Archangel. Just another overworked Angel of Death. 
 
 To protect. To protect— 
 
 “ Please!! ” A young voice screams. 
 
 *No! You foolish child! * 
 
 “ Blame ’ s on me. Supervisor Isayel told me not to go! I disobeyed. ” The child steps forwards to stand beside me with shaking legs. Waves of preternatural heat redden and blister his skin as boiling beads of perspiration drench his ensemble. “ It should be me; the one punished for my insolence. ” The child lets himself fall to the floor; he kowtows. 
 
 His voice rings with resolve. The strength powering the words regress me to a certain happening in my infancy. Once, I heard The Supreme Guardian, Michael, speak. 
 
 * ‘ Protect. Defend and protect the wandering wounded. ’ * 
 
 Even Archangels would not display such audacity and mettle, at least not the ones born or groomed in this era. This strength feels ancient. 
 
 What *is* this child? 
 
 * “ Very well. ” * 
 
 I gasp. I must be insane because I breathe out, “ this child does not know what he is doing. ” I implore, “ Mercy. Please. ” 
 
 Stillness follows my interruption. I ignore the angry stare the rookie directs at me. 
 
 Nature might have rebelled once more against mankind, succeeded in extinguishing any trace, and revived all living species during the lapse of time it took for this brutal heat to abate and turn into fond and forgiving warmth. 

