The Touch of Heaven

Chapter 2

The day has shifted.

For it is today that the peasant braves the tyrant; that heart precedes wit; that the pigeon triumphs the hawk; and never has there been a brighter day.

But peace is fleetinf; and tranquility momentary; for everything must eventually be paid for.

I

What a beautiful day. What an extraordinary day.

Yes. I've missed this place. Lush, extravagant, peaceful, with nary a plight to ill me. It's a dream. The nightmares have come and gone, and they've made my nights a real f*****g chore to sit through. But it's in the serenity of a dream where I can just bask in an otherworldly peace, a sensation vague and dripping with subtle pleasures alien to Earth and void of meaning to a conscious mind. The waking world is a displeasure, but dreams are havens from reality. I'll face the world with fortitude when my eyes open, but that is for when slumber is over.

But my eyes have already opened.

That's impossible. I'm asleep, aren't I? But I can feel it really, really clearly. I'm awake. It's not just a lucid dream. It's not an exceptionally vivid nightmare. It's consciousness. Somehow, though, my mind is telling me I'm still asleep – but I'm awake, at the same time.

Fucking oxymorons.

It's not Heaven, thank God. Neither is it the grip of a nightmare. But I can still see something tangible ahead of me, darkened by the shadow of something impossibly vast and yet totally unseen up above, only visible through a small patch of light in the infinite black. I feel my body's desire to walk. I feel my mind's desire to inquire. I surrender to my innate curiosity and walk over to the only thing I can see.

It's just a shabby-ass table. Gray in color, looking like faded oakwood, a particularly noticeable chip splintered into the side of it. There's two chairs of the same material and of a similar flimsy quality. If I sat down on one of them, I could imagine it simply collapsing under my weight and leaving me with an ass full of splinters. But the cheap, ancient quality of the table and its chairs isn't what intrigues me. It's the chess board on the table.

It's just sitting there. There's no pieces. Each square is black and white and it's gathered a pretty thick blanket of dust. It's been waiting for someone – not for someone to use it, because even though it doesn't look like it's been touched in forever, I get a hint that someone has indeed been using this. It's been waiting for a second player; someone to fill up the second, lonely seat. Maybe it's been calling for me. I don't really feel as if I'm welcome here, but I take a seat anyways. Surprisingly, the chair holds. It doesn't even creak or crack or anything. I'd blame it on the trickery of dream-sight, but I remind myself this isn't a dream. This is reality. Or something like it, anyways. I look around the void. Nobody's here. Everything's quiet, and no pieces, to my disappointment, have formed on the board in the three seconds I took to look away from it. I sigh and blink.

The literal instant I open my eyes, there's another person sitting in the chair at the opposite end of the chess-table. I feel as if I should be surprised. Nothing wells within me. I guess I was just subconsciously expecting him.

No. He's been there the whole time.

He's goatish-looking, a good eight feet tall – halved when he's sitting, with his leg kicked up over the other. He's wearing a leathery black coat made from what I can only describe as made of bat wings, with one furred hand clutching an antique teacup level to his face and another scaled hand tapping its lion-like claws against the rickety wood of the tabletop. He looks halfway between a Wookie and a Muppet, with a gray-skinned face overcome with a mane of bluish-gray fur and a mouth mostly obscured by a full, thick, fluffy-looking beard. He has beady black pinpricks for eyes, unassuming but deceitful, with a charlatan-looking mouth locked in a charlatan-looking smile. He doesn't really look harmful, or malign. Maybe mischievous. He all at once gives me the impression of an educated, upper-class gentleman and a ratty pickpocket.

"Hello," the man-thing-muppet says, quite civilly and gesturing to me with his teacup. "You must know me. You do not seem particularly surprised to see me."

I'm about ready to just cough and point to my throat to indicate that I can't talk, but the resulting words come out quite clearly.

"Actually, I don't ever think I've f*****g seen you outside maybe a nightmare in my preteen years," I say with biting sarcasm. Talking is an alien feeling to me, but my words come out with an admirable smoothness. I feel a smile creep onto my face as my voice, for once, works perfectly. That, alongside this thing – which is looking more and more like a deformed pug – is what convinces me this certainly isn't Earth. It's a hell of a lot more pleasant than Heaven, though.

"Ah," the man-thing-muppet replies, taking a sip of tea. "My mistake, then. My formal apologies. You did not look familiar."

My eyes narrow. "Then why the hell are you here and who the f**k are you?"

The man-thing-muppet seems to consider the question, stroking his beard fur with the clawed hand. "That is a good question. I suppose I am something of a concept to you in your Earth terms – but here, I am a person. You can call me the Preceptor."

I quietly nod. "Goody. Call me-"

"-Tango," the man-thing-muppet says, cutting me off with another casual sip of tea.

I frown and my face gets a little irritated. "...Yes. You sure I'm not familiar to you, asswad?"

"Quite," the Preceptor says. "I have never seen you pass this place. But I do know the basics about you and who you are."

I feel a little bit intruded upon and I slink back a bit. "Don't get into it."

"Do not worry," the Preceptor says. "I am not here to remind you of what you already know. No, I am merely here to greet you, Tango."

"To some weird f*****g chess match in the middle of literal nowhere?" I say, exasperated.

"No, no," the Preceptor says. "Simple a little rite. For everyone who comes here, actually. Welcome to Hell."

I can feel my heart stop beating on those words. Just up and f*****g stop like a clock suddenly breaking.

"...Hell?!" I say, after about thirty seconds of silence – all of which the Preceptor spends calmly sipping his tea and looking at me in abject amusement.

"Yes," he says, at last. "To Hell."

My mind goes over a million things and I can feel myself start to panic. "...Please don't tell me I'm dead. Please."

The Preceptor seems to consider that, too. "You are not dead, Tango. Rather, you are alive. Quite sprightly for someone who has found their way here, actually. Your body sleeps in comfort up on your world, but your mind drifts and you have found yourself here. In peak condition."

I don't really feel myself calm down, and a mountain of confusion rises in me. "Then why the hell are you greeting me here?" I say, my voice straining a little.

"Well," the Preceptor starts with a little laugh. "That you shall find out in time. But. You are not like the ones I have already seen come here. But, perhaps. It is because you have already seen Heaven?"

I feel my heart start to beat again. Thank God. That seems to clear some things up – not a lot, but something.

"Yeah," I say. "What about it?"

"Well," the Preceptor seems to explain, "where there is a Heaven, there must be a Hell. Correct?"

I nod impatiently.

"And with a God," the Preceptor says with a dandy grin, "there must be a Devil." He takes another sip of tea, then signals to himself.

My expression goes deadpan. "So you're saying you're the Devil? Like... f*****g Satan?"

"In a word, yes, but not quite," the Preceptor says. "I am a concept to you. I go by many a name. Satan, Angra Mainyu, Mephistopheles, Nyarlathotep, Whiro, Hades, and, a personal favorite of mine, the Cloud of Thorns. Many an epitaph, actually."

I only understood about one of those names, but it was a clear sign to me this guy carried his cards as a Snidely Whiplash proudly. "So you're Satan. You're evil. You're a nasty fucker."

"If that is what you want to perceive me as," the Preceptor says. He offers out the teacup. "Would you care for a spot of tea, by the way? It is still quite warm."

I look at the teacup. It's not tea. It's black and bile-looking, swirling in his cup like a stomach disease. I wrinkle up my nostril in disgust and look away.

"...No thanks," I say, as courteously as I can manage.

The Preceptor puts the teacup down after another sip and cups his paws together. "Anyways. You may choose to perceive me as evil. That is fine. But first, ask yourself a question; what is evil? What do you see it as?"

I ponder. I saw evil as a lot of things. Satan. Adolf Hitler. All those nasty villains that came to mind when your mind pondered the word "evil." But I also thought of two others; Ash and Chayne. They'd left a mark on me which would never fade.

I blink again, back to reality. When I open my eyes, the Preceptor's turned into Chayne. My heart begins to throb and, by sheer instinct, I start to panic, even as the Preceptor remains completely placid.

"Is this a better image for you?" she says. "This is the perception of evil to you, is it not?"

I start to back away. "N-No... No, please, no."

I blink again, and I turn my head away. I don't need to see what she's turned into to know what she is now. The Preceptor speaks again, this time in a familiar, shark-like voice.

"Maybe this is a little better?" the Preceptor says, in Ash's voice. "You never know until you look."

I can still hear him. I can still feel him. I'm not looking at him, but I know exactly what he looks like; a goblin shark coming out of a garbage bag, a man that might as well have been made out of razor blades and herpes. Hatred, fear, trouble, and a veritable assload of uncomfortable memories and feelings explode within me. I curl up into a ball and start to cry and hyperventilate, the simple image of those two enough to completely throw me off the edge. I can feel the world whirl around me and swirl into black.

When I open my eyes, my heart-rate's returned to normal, I'm sitting back in the chair, and I'm completely calm. I don't know how the Preceptor did it, but I'm thankful. When I look at where the Preceptor was sitting, I don't see a picture of evil. I just see Mint, with a bright, innocent smile and glasses that shine even in the absence of light. I feel some vague comfort come over me.

"Perhaps this is a better image to you?" the Preceptor says in Mint's comfortingly dorky, androgynous voice. "Evil is a foul thing. A collective manifestation of everything your kind – humanity – considers abhorrent and vile to them. But they are mere concepts, are they not? So am I."

I frown. "This doesn't explain why I'm here. Or who you are. At all."

"My formal apologies," the Preceptor says. "I tend to ramble and sidetrack. The point being. This meeting has a purpose. Else, we would not have met. This purpose will come to light eventually."

I sigh. "And how do you know that?"

The Preceptor shrugs. "I know many things, Tango. Many things you do not know. Many things you wish you could know. But even I am not all-knowing." The Preceptor, still in Mint's shape, finishes their tea and sets the cup on the table. "I can feel our time here is at an end. For now. Would you like me to send you on your way with something to think about?"

I shrug apathetically. "Give me your best."

The Preceptor leans a little closer. "This meeting. And my presence. It bodes a purpose. Heaven is not done with your world. And your purpose to it is not yet fulfilled."

I can feel my heart stop beating again. The Preceptor continues.

"But remember. For as ever horrible as the true image of Heaven is to you. There is a Hell to counter its horrors. Or, perhaps, there is a Hell to make it seem tame by comparison. That is not my choice. You – she who perceives – will judge that in due time. Remember me, as I will remember you."

I can see the Preceptor's eyes flash and wink at me wit h a knowledge I can't even begin to comprehend before everything goes to black and, eventually, to white.

I woke up.

Morning light flooded in through the window and right into my eyes. I shuffled around in irritation and covered my still-groggy eyes with my arm. That was the horrible thing about my position in my new room. The window and the bed I slept on were adjacent in such an obnoxiously precise way that the sun rose over the horizon each morning to shine light directly into my face, waking me up before it was convenient. Or warranted. Or f*****g appreciated.

I flipped the sun off, threw my comforter off, and pushed myself to a sitting position, eyes still slit. The bed at the opposite end of the room – right under the window, lucky bastard – was unoccupied. Mint was already up. I don't know how the hell they did it, but they were always, always up an hour before me. Even if I woke up at three in the morning like a piece of s**t, Mint would have a conveniently similar bad wake-up and would always be up, pouring themselves a glass of ice water. Or, as had become typical to them, a root beer float. Their sweet tooth hadn't waned in the least since we'd found a home. If anything, the increased access to edible food and treats had only sharpened it to a keen, sword-sharp fineness. Surprisingly, despite the ludicrous amount of junk food and sugary s**t they consumed, they never seemed to get any bigger or plumper. Maybe it was just developmental issues on their part – I'd grown a bit of chub on my starved, twiggy frame ever since I got out, and I actually looked more-or-less normal weight now.

I got out of bed, closing the curtains to the window in irritation. Those were my saving grace of the morning. Sometimes, when Mint wanted me up bright and early (it was 8:31 AM right now – on a Monday, no less, and my temperament was about as pissy as a septic tank) they intentionally left open the curtains. I couldn't exactly blame them; they liked my company and I liked theirs. It was an annoying habit, though.

I didn't bother getting dressed. I'd slept in a tank top and shorts, as per usual for me. Wearing anything else at this point felt weird and a deviation from the standard. I quickly checked over the room to see if everything was in place. Toucan Sam was on the nightstand next to my bed, his smile wide as ever. I returned to him as good a smile as I could manage before gloomily shambling out of the room like some bored zombie.

The main room served our apartment's living room and kitchen dolled up into one. It was laid out similar to a room in any given hotel. The carpeted floor was a nice shade of Cookie Monster blue, shaggy under my bare feet. The rest was typical décor; a flat-screen television by the side of the room, a mini-kitchen implemented in the side of the room, another series of squared windows by the television that gave a view of the outside from three floors up, and a crappy, cramped washroom adjacent to our own bedroom. It wasn't anything especially lavish, but it was so much better than the garbage-filled nightmare I woke up in Paradise. It was nice waking up on an actual mattress instead of a pile of Playboy magazines and cereal boxes.

Predictably, Mint was already in the kitchen. They were just finishing filling up a thick glass mug they always used when making floats with a can of root beer, the stuff fizzling and foaming over the ice cream that was already in the mug. Mint looked over their shoulder and gave me a bright smile.

"Morning!" they said, impeccably awake for eight-thirty in the morning. I gave them a dull wave and walked over to the couch, plopping myself on it and still rubbing the crust out of my eyes. I simply did it with two fingers as opposed to two hands. One of many instinctual adaptations I'd learned to do with one arm. I grasped the remote to the television in my hand and powered the television on as Mint finished preparing their float. Channel #33. There was a movie playing – Monster Squad, to be specific. God knew why it was playing at this hour, let alone time at year (something better suited to October was airing a month late in November, in winter; the sun was indeed out but the ground was still covered in snow) We'd missed most of it, but we'd still gotten to what I considered the best part.

"Give me the amulet, you b***h!" Dracula said, holding up the child actor that played Phoebe by her throat (or, more likely, through the power of stage wires). It was a delightfully absurd line; between the fact the child actor was, like, six, and the mere concept of Dracula calling anyone a "b***h" was uproarious. I could only imagine the same being true of a Hammer Horror movie; The Werewolf Bride of Frankendracula or whatever, Peter Cushing walking down a creepy hallway hunter-style with a gun in hand. Then Christopher Lee, or Bela Lugosi, or what-have-you pops up, points a withered finger at Cushing, and screams, "Get out of my castle, you b***h!" That was riotous.

Monster Squad and many an 80s movie had that kind of charm to it. My favorite was still Gremlins, which I'd watched only two weeks ago for Halloween. Jilton was enthused I was on the movie scene. Mint, on the other hand, was still trying to grasp what "subtlety" meant and unironically watched nothing but fluffy kids' movies. Not a problem when you're watching classic Disney films like The Lion King. Much more noticeable when you're watching pandering, flavorless bullcrap like A Troll in Central Park. Or, God forbid, Patch Adams, which Mint had taken a shining to for some reason. I'd tried to show them some more "mature" (using the term very loosely there) fare to try and broaden their interests. Jilton had suggested The Big Lebowski, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and the entire filmography of David Lynch to them. I'd instead vouched for the uncut version of Showgirls; Mint had just been confused the first time they'd seen a naked lady. I'd tried showing them The Exorcist next. They'd just been reduced to a sobbing wreck the moment Linda Blair started thrashing around the bed in the grip of possession. They'd absolutely refused to watch any further when Jilton told them to wait for, among other things, the head-spinning scene, much to my chagrin. In terms of actual shows, they watched nothing but repeats of LazyTown. They were absolutely obsessed with the show, and it did have a weird charm to it. I identified with Robbie Rotten.

As I half-lucidly watched the remainder of Monster Squad, I felt Mint seat themselves next to me, drinking the float through a curly white straw. They were wearing a black, silken long-sleeve shirt and a laced, girlish skirt at the moment, their hair made into something of a short bob cut and their pale blue eyes hidden under the glare of light reflecting off their specs.

"So?" they asked, apparently expecting some sort of a happy reply out of me. "How'd you sleep?"

I coughed and shrugged, giving them a playful stink-eye to indicate my disapproval over the fact they'd left the curtains open again. They didn't seem to get the hint and gave me an eager smile. No way I could stay irritated at them for long.

"I had a nice sleep," they said, setting their float down on the coffee table by the couch. "Had kind of a weird dream." I raised my eyebrow to signal my curiosity. They continued to describe it. "I was, uh, walking down a sidewalk. At night. I don't know why I was walking down, but there was this strange old man in an alley who wanted to sell me something..."

I was barely able to conceal my amusement. Had Jilton's own pothead tendencies – amplified by a dozen since we got out of Paradise now that she had access to m*******a, which was legally grown and sold where we'd settled – subconsciously gotten to them?

"He didn't really look that trustworthy," Mint continued, "and he sort of looked like the guy that sold the weird stuff Jilton likes. But no. He just wanted me to see his collection of white cats!"

I completely deadpanned as Mint grew an exuberant smile. "They were really fluffy! Persians, I think!"

What a way to subvert expectations.

"You have any weird dreams?" they suddenly asked.

I blinked a bit. I remembered my little encounter with the Preceptor in vivid terms. But that hadn't been a dream. I still wasn't sure what that was. Nor did I figure I wanted to. I reached into my left pocket for the notebook and pen I kept on me at all times – sign language wasn't working out with the whole "one arm" thing and lip-reading could only bring a person so far – and awkwardly wrote down in the plainest terms my encounter with the Preceptor.

saw a weird muppet-looking guy who called himself the devil. i think he liked chess

Mint looked the words over for a bit, taking their float back and sipping it. "Well, certainly sounds weird," they said after a small pause. "But those are dreams, right?"

I loosely shrugged. I didn't really have the heart – nor the care to write it all down - to tell them anything the Preceptor had said in detail, let alone that it wasn't a dream. I don't know how it had happened. The conversation still felt weird and pointless when I thought about it, but, inevitably, it would carry more meaning.

"Um, anyways," Mint suddenly said, "I left the curtains open so you'd wake up earlier. Miles wants to see us."

Oh, goody. I think I knew what that meant.

"We're finally gonna get some jobs, Tango!" Mint said with glee, sounding much happier than any other fourteen-year-old getting a goddamned career would be. "With any luck, maybe we can join Tiffany as couriers or something!"

I yawned and nodded. I wasn't exactly stoked on getting a job; I'd been happy lounging around for the past four months. But that – as well as the education system – was an inevitability I'd have to face sooner or later.

It was better than roaming around with no memory in some weird-ass f*****g facility built up for the purpose of saving the world, at least.

"He wants to see us by nine-thirty," Mint said. "No later. He'll freak out again if we're late. You should have breakfast first, though." They held up their float. "I'm good, myself. Well, actually, I might have something."

I so dreaded having to eat at the public cafeteria in the community center. I got up, walked over to the kitchen, and opened the fridge. There was still half a jug of milk left. I walked over to the cupboard and pulled it open with an eager smile, pulling out the box of Froot Loops.

To my absolute dismay, the moment I seized the box, I felt nothing but cereal dust inside. I looked inside.

Completely empty.

I felt my eyes start to water as Mint giggled behind me. "Guess we're gonna have to go to the store again..." they said. "Don't worry. We can stop after we check in with Miles. I guess you'll have to get something at the cafeteria for now, though."

I looked back at them with a scowl. Truly, this was the worst fate of all.

Such was life in Haven.