Chapter 1: The Temp Agency at the End of the World

Chapter 1: The Temp Agency at the End of the World

The High Mojave Desert had a hundred ways to kill you, but the most common was slowly. It baked the ambition out of you, sandblasted your hope, and left you with little more than cracked asphalt and a horizon that never got any closer. For Kaelen ‘Kael’ Vance, the most immediate threat wasn’t the sun, but the crisp, pink eviction notice taped to the door of his single-wide trailer.

Rent was due. Again. Which was why he was standing here, in the shimmering heat haze of the abandoned George Air Force Base, staring at an impossibility.

The ad in the back of the Desert Dispatch had been vague to the point of absurdity: "Logistics Coordinator. Competitive Pay. Discretion Mandatory. Unique work environment." The address was just a set of GPS coordinates that led him here, to the middle of a crumbling runway that hadn't seen a plane since the Cold War ended.

And in the center of that runway, where there should have been nothing but sun-bleached concrete and weeds, was a single, brushed-steel elevator door.

It wasn’t attached to anything. There was no building, no shaft, no structure. It simply stood there, perfectly level and impossibly clean, a sleek monolith against the vast, dusty emptiness. A small, glowing panel next to it showed a single down arrow.

“No way,” Kael muttered, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of a greasy hand. This had to be a prank. Some art installation, maybe. But the eviction notice felt very real in his pocket, a crinkling reminder of his desperation. He’d spent his last ten bucks on gas to get here. Walking away wasn't an option.

He was a man who knew machines. He could tear down and rebuild a transmission with his eyes closed, coax life back into rusted generators, and diagnose an engine by sound alone. But this… this broke every rule of physics he’d ever learned. There were no power lines, no hydraulic systems, no visible mechanics. Yet the panel glowed with a soft, internal light.

With a sigh that tasted of dust and resignation, Kael pressed the button.

There was no sound, no ding, but the doors slid open with a whisper of displaced air, revealing a small, starkly lit cabin. It looked like any other elevator. A bit soulless, maybe, with its blank gray walls and sterile fluorescent light, but an elevator nonetheless.

Desperate times, he thought, and stepped inside.

The doors slid shut, sealing him in a sudden, profound silence. The temperature dropped twenty degrees. There were no floor buttons, only a single, unmarked black square. He hesitated for a second, then pressed it.

The elevator didn't move up or down. There was no lurch, no hum of cables, no sensation of movement at all. Instead, the air grew thick, tasting of ozone and old paper. The light flickered once, violently, and for a split second, Kael saw not his own reflection in the steel doors, but a dizzying starfield, a riot of impossible colors. Then the flickering stopped. A soft chime, the first sound he’d heard since entering, announced his arrival.

The doors opened again, not onto the blinding desert sun, but into a bleak, windowless office that smelled of stale coffee and crushed souls. The same fluorescent lights from the elevator hummed overhead, casting a sickly greenish pallor on rows of metal filing cabinets that stretched into oppressive darkness.

Behind a stark metal desk sat a man—or something that looked like one. He was tall and unnaturally still, folded into an ill-fitting charcoal suit that seemed to predate color television. His skin was the color of old parchment, stretched taut over sharp cheekbones. But it was his eyes that held Kael frozen. They were bottomless pools of dark ink, ancient and utterly, cosmically tired.

On the corner of his desk, next to a mountain of paperwork, sat a chipped ceramic mug. It read: World’s Okayest Psychopomp.

“Kaelen Vance,” the man said. His voice was a dry rustle, like dead leaves skittering across pavement. It wasn’t a question. “You’re late.”

Kael’s brain struggled to catch up. “The ad just gave coordinates. No… no appointment time.”

“The universe operates on a schedule, Mr. Vance. Punctuality is appreciated.” The man gestured to a flimsy plastic chair in front of the desk. “Sit. I am the Administrator of this division.”

Kael sat. The chair groaned in protest. “Right. Logistics Coordinator?”

The Administrator blinked slowly, a movement that seemed to take an eternity. “A title of convenience. Our work is more… specialized. Sunny Side Up Transitional Services is always looking for new talent. Personnel attrition is, shall we say, a consistent feature of the job.” He picked up a single sheet of paper from the stack, Kael’s hastily filled-out online application. “Twenty-eight. No dependents. Extensive experience with high-stress, low-reward manual labor. Proficient in mechanical diagnostics. You’ll do.”

This was the strangest job interview of Kael’s life, and he’d once been asked to hotwire a forklift to prove he could handle ‘on-site problem-solving.’

“So, what is it you guys… transition?” Kael asked, trying to sound competent. “Cargo? Equipment?”

“Souls,” the Administrator said, his inky eyes fixed on Kael. “Primarily. We manage the post-mortem processing for the High Mojave region.”

Kael stared. He waited for the punchline, for the hidden camera reveal. Nothing. The Administrator simply gazed back, his expression a flat-line of bureaucratic finality.

“You mean… you’re Death?” Kael finally managed, the words feeling stupid in his mouth.

A flicker of something—annoyance, perhaps—crossed the Administrator’s face. “‘Death’ is an overly romanticized, executive-level concept, Mr. Vance. Think of me as middle management. I handle the paperwork when existence terminates your employment. Our field technicians, which is the position you’re applying for, are the ones who go out and… confirm the cancellation.”

The cosmic absurdity of it all washed over Kael. This wasn’t a prank. This was something else entirely. Yet, the eviction notice was still in his pocket. He needed this job. Any job.

“Okay,” Kael said, his voice surprisingly steady. “Okay. So I’m a… reaper’s assistant?”

“Transitional Services Technician,” the Administrator corrected, the dry rustle in his voice more pronounced. “Your duties will consist of attending unscheduled termination events, cataloging the transitioning entity, and filing the appropriate reports. You do not interact. You do not interfere. You are an observer. A cosmic census-taker. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” Kael lied. “What are the… benefits?”

For the first time, the Administrator’s thin lips curled into something that might have been a smile, if a mummy could smile. “An excellent question. The pay is adequate and directly deposited into your account upon successful completion of each report. But the primary benefit, the one that makes you uniquely suited for this hazardous work, is a comprehensive continuity of service package.”

He leaned forward, the shadows in his eye sockets deepening. “Upon experiencing a terminal workplace incident, you will be immediately reinstated at a predetermined, localized anchor point. In layman’s terms, Mr. Vance: you die, you get better.”

The words hung in the cold, still air. Kael’s sarcasm, his only reliable defense mechanism, kicked in. “So… I’m a video game character now? I get to respawn?”

“The terminology is crude, but functionally accurate,” the Administrator said, unimpressed. “Your anchor point has been set to the most stable chronal-spatial location in your routine. The Circle K on Bear Valley Road. Specifically, in front of the Slurpee machine. Do try not to make a mess.”

Kael’s head was spinning. Death, respawning, a cosmic temp agency running out of a phantom elevator. It was insane. But the paycheck wasn't.

“I’m in,” he said, the words coming out before he could second-guess them.

The Administrator showed no reaction. He slid a thin, black tablet across the desk, its screen glowing with a simple, sterile interface. “This is your Soul-Tab. It will guide you to your assignments and provide you with the necessary forms. The rules are simple. Rule one: You only observe and report. Do not, under any circumstances, get involved. Rule two: File your paperwork promptly. An unbalanced ledger creates cosmic friction. Rule three: Refer to rule one.”

He stood, the movement stiff and final. “Your first assignment is waiting. A sodium-based transfiguration in a supermarket parking lot in Victorville. Anomaly report indicates it’s messy. Welcome aboard, Mr. Vance. Please try not to increase my workload.”

The elevator doors whispered open behind Kael. He numbly took the Soul-Tab, his fingers tracing its impossibly smooth surface. He turned and stepped back into the cabin, his mind a whirlwind of confusion and fear.

The doors closed, the light flickered, and a moment later, they opened again.

He was back on the runway, the oppressive, hundred-degree heat hitting him like a physical blow. He looked back. The elevator door was gone. There was nothing but cracked concrete stretching to the shimmering horizon.

For a moment, he thought he’d imagined it all, a heat-stroke induced hallucination. But the Soul-Tab was cool and heavy in his hand. Its screen glowed, displaying a GPS map and a single, blinking dot.

Assignment #1: Lot J, Stater Bros. Market. Entity: John Doe. Status: Terminated. (Pillar of Salt).

Kael looked from the impossible device in his hand to the dusty, beaten-up truck that was about to be repossessed. Rent was due, and Death itself had just put him on the payroll.