It Was a Bus, Actually. (Worm SI - Celestial Forge)

[Grumpkin]

A/N: Hi there. I just wanted you to know I really appreciate you reading this. Constructive criticism is very welcome. Flame posts will be placed in a box and left to be forgotten in the attic.

I do not own Worm. If it were mine, it would not be Grimderp.

If the tags did not make it obvious, this story will not adhere strictly to canon. If this bothers you, the exit is that way.

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Chapter the First: This Is Fine.​

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A Red & White Rocket Ship​

It was a bus, not a truck, and it wasn't even really the bus that killed me. I didn't even hit it.

I sense I need to explain?

My father couldn't afford to leave much behind for me and my siblings when he died. Cancer is expensive, even when you have quality insurance, and we had always been a single income blue collar family. One thing he was able to leave for me was an old beat-up Ford F-150. The day he died, it wasn't running. Over the next few years, I worked on it, watched DIY videos online, worked extra hours to afford parts, bought and borrowed tools, changed fluids and pads and I forget what else, until one day I turned the key, and she cranked up. From there it was a trip to the county courthouse to drop even more money getting her street legal, but after that, she was mine. I decided to go for a drive to celebrate.

I had changed the brake pads, but not the brake lines.

I was going downhill at 45 M/ph when I realized I had no brakes. There are ways to deal with that, but there was another problem. At the bottom of the hill was a T intersection, and headed directly for that intersection on my right? A fully loaded school bus. There was no way I could stop before crossing that intersection. Trees between us meant the driver was likely unaware I was coming, which meant we would hit each other at speed. If I was lucky, I would hit near the driver's position. Two deaths, maybe.

I hit the gas.

The old V8 roared under the hood as I tried my damnedest to kick the accelerator out into the street. I couldn't stop before the intersection, but I could get through it before the bus had even reached it. I laid on the horn with one hand as I went, keeping the other on the wheel. Trees, mailboxes and driveways flew by. Blurry figures of parents waiting for their kids leapt back from the edge of the street as a red-and-white rocket ship tore past at over twice the posted limit.

I made it.

I blew through the intersection at around eighty M/ph. The bus was seconds away from the point at which we would have hit, but as my mother used to say, almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. I heard the blare of the bus's horn as they barely cleared my tailgate. If things hadn't been so serious, I may have had to laugh.

Thanks, dude. I hadn't noticed you.

I had avoided killing anybody's children today, which was good, but now I had a new problem. Namely, there was no way I could stop or turn before leaving the road. I launched like a fighter jet from the deck of a carrier, that old truck actually getting air as it left the pavement. This lasted for maybe a couple of seconds before it touched down, which hurt like hell, both because of the shock and because I broke my right arm against the steering wheel. I was now driving, mostly out of control, over a grass field which had once been land used by the owners for pasture. Opposite me, maybe a hundred yards away, was a bunch of trees.

Nice, big, sturdy adult trees.

Because of course there were trees. I didn't even have time to curse.

Three seconds.

Three seconds after clearing the shoulder of the road, that old Ford, the truck my father had left to me and which I had worked so hard to restore, hit a fully grown locus tree at a little over eighty miles an hour, dead on. I think the airbag deployed, not that it would make any difference. My survival was never in doubt. It was simply impossible.

Blackness, whether through unconsciousness or a quick death, was instant. In a moment I went from blind terror, to a complete lack of awareness.

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"Are you awake yet?"

I wasn't aware I was supposed to be awake at all.

"I need to speak with you."

Before the crash would have been better, honey.

"This is very important."

I just ran into a tree. Can you give a guy a minute?

"The dog got in your room and pissed on the bed."

Oh for fu-

I blinked as I opened my eyes to find myself...on my back staring at a wood panel ceiling, apparently. A ceiling fan spun lazily, a series of bulbs lighting the room. Wood panels a lighter shade took care of the walls. There were no windows. As my awareness grew, I realized I was laying down on a chair, or maybe a couch. I could see a door past where my boots sat on the armrest,. It was an old style wooden door, like you would expect to see in a classy hotel, or an older house.

"Excuse me?"

My head cranked around to face the other end of the room. My eyes landed on a sight that was at once strange, and mundane. There, seated at a large wooden desk, was what looked like a young woman. She appeared to be in her twenties, with curly brown hair, dark eyes which locked on mine the moment I turned, and a gentle smile probably meant in the moment to help me calm down.

It helped a bit, I confess, and I was able to sit up as I tried to collect my thoughts.

"Can I help you?" I asked, and her smile widened a bit.

"Actually, it's more a question of if I can help you, Mr. Nichols."

"What do you mean by that?" I asked, now sat up but still clearing cobwebs. She gestured with a hand to the chair opposite her, and after standing carefully I crossed over and sat in it, taking a moment to adjust myself before turning back to my seemingly friendly host. She steepled her hands on the desktop and leaned forward a bit.

"There is no truly gentle way to say this, Mr. Nichols, so if you will excuse me for being blunt: You're dead." I blinked.

"Thank you." My tone was dry. "I hadn't noticed." That got a chuckle as she leaned back once more.

"You might be surprised how hard it is for some people to accept. My last case file was...very difficult." The smile dimmed for a moment, but snapped right back. "That said, you look like you're handling it a little better, at least." That didn't sound good.

"What were you expecting exactly?" I asked. "Spasming on the floor? Frothing at the mouth? Uncontrolled sobbing?"

"Yes." Not a hint of emotion.

"Oh." That stopped me for a moment before I rallied. "What do you mean case file? Who are you? What is this place?" That smile is back. At least one of us is calm.

"In order? I mean a collection of records and documents, I'm your case officer, and this is my office."

"Your office?"

"My office."

"Your office where?"

"Here."

"Where is here?"

"My office."

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"No, but we find a touch of levity and confusion helps prevent catastrophic mental breakdowns when meeting new clients, especially in cases like yours."

"New clients?" Well, she's certainly got the confusion part down. "Clients for what, and what do you mean cases like mine?" She moves to open a drawer in the desk, then stops, looks at me in silence, and returns her hands to the desk.

"I'll answer those one at a time. First? We are here to ensure the newly deceased reach their appropriate destinations."

"So...you're the Grim Reaper?" At that, she laughs. Fortunately for my pride, it's quiet and reserved, not the roaring belly laugh her eyes suggest she's holding back. Still takes a bit before she's done, though.

Let us have a moment of silence for my manly pride.

"Nothing of the sort, Mr. Nichols." Yeah, definitely holding back. "I haven't used a scythe in years." I blink.

"Are you serious?"

"Firstly, it isn't just me." Ignoring the questions now, I see. "We see ourselves as more akin to a travel agency. It is our job when a mortal soul passes on to ensure they reach the best location for them, based on their condition. We also handle other, related matters, such as redemptive contracts, and hiring specialists."

"Redemptive contracts would be what? Something akin to purgatory?" She nods.

"Yes, for lack of a better term. They are a chance for a soul we believe still has potential to earn a better outcome, on negotiated terms and conditions." I start to ask something, but her hand raised brings me up short.

"You're not here for that." I nod silently, and she continues. "To answer your second question, what I meant by cases like yours, it's simple. You are being offered a job."

"Offered a job?" I ask. "What sort of job could the-...could a travel agency like yours want me to do?" In response, she reached into the desk and pulled out a folder. Handing the light manila sleeve to me, I opened it to see a sheet of paper filled with text and diagrams. As she spoke, it occurred to me I could only comprehend the two words a the very top.

Celestial Forge.

"Put simply, Mr. Nichols, we are not the only agency in our field, but we are the one most interested in preserving a semblance of, shall we say, hope and balance in the various branches of the multiverse? There are others who seek rather the opposite. Periodically branches of the multiverse become...corrupted, and must be cleansed, or returned to the balance they enjoyed previously. Sometimes, we send our own people. At other times this is not possible, either because we are overtaxed, or due to other factors. Sometimes it becomes necessary to bring in outside help. An agent such as myself is then tasked with identifying a suitable candidate for a specialist contract. This time, Mr. Nichols, that's you."

"Me?" I ask, tearing my eyes from the sheet in my hands. I still can't understand the rest of it. She looks at it, then at me.

"You. If you accept the job, you will be sent into a particular branch of the multiverse which has been identified as out of balance. You will be equipped with some tools and sent in by yourself, with a list of objectives which we have identified as necessary to restore the balance of the branch in question, and a rough window of time in which to achieve the items on that list."

"What happens if I succeed?" I ask.

"If you succeed, then of course you will have restored balance in the universe to which you were sent. Thereafter, you will receive an upgrade to your afterlife conditions, which to be honest are already decent. You will also likely be given the opportunity to accept further contracts if you wish."

"Does anybody ever do that?" I ask, and she nods.

"Many people, yes. Some do it because they want the best afterlife possible. Others do it because even in death, they have a strong wish to help others."

"What happens if I refuse?" That gets another smile.

"Absolutely nothing untoward, I assure you. You simply go on to your appointed afterlife, and I keep looking until I find somebody else who is agreeable."

I nod at that, placing the sheet back in the folder and setting it on the desk. She takes it and puts it away.

"No asking what happens if you fail?"

"I think that's pretty obvious, don't you?" To my surprise, she shakes her head.

"Not necessarily. In the unhappy instance of a failed contract, normally the specialist perishes and returns here, but not always."

"Not always?"

"Not always, Mr. Nichols. Some have been...lost to us. Thankfully, those are rare, but it is possible. You have a right to know that before you make your choice."

"What happens to them?" I ask.

"We are not certain. Our rivals have their secrets, as do we. We know only that they are now beyond our reach."

"What happens to me if I fail and I'm not...lost to you?" I ask, and that smile of hers is back.

"There is no need to fear punishment here, Mr. Nichols. We are aware the task we are asking you to undertake is a difficult one, and dangerous. To save a universe is no easy task in any case. If you fail honestly, and you are not lost irretrievably, then you return here, and your effort is noted in your file. You may even be offered another contract."

I sat back in my chair, digesting what she had said while at the same time wondering how I hadn't freaked out completely. Probably some weird, supernatural nonsense. I wasn't likely in my right mind here, but in the opposite way you expect when somebody says that. I should have been a gibbering mess writhing on the floor, but instead I was perfectly level-headed and calm.

"Delayed reactions are often especially messy," the lady behind the desk-my travel agent-said. "I would recommend finding somewhere private early on where you can vent and handle letting off some of the stress in relative safety."

I blinked. Was she reading my mind or-

"Of course not."

I stared at her. She stared back, that same smile on her face. After a moment, I relented. I was still acting way too put together, but couldn't do anything about that now, and she likely had a timetable she wanted to keep.

"On your time, Mr. Nichols."

Damn it, woman!

I'm not entirely sure why I decided the way I did. After all, she had said my afterlife conditions were already decent, and while I didn't know exactly what that meant, it didn't sound like it was bad. There was no real need for me to do this.

I leaned forward in my seat.

"Tell me more."

Her smile widened, and she did exactly that.

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Spoiler: Author's Notes

Hi there, and thanks for reading to the finish. I appreciate that. I posted this a little while ago on SB and SV, and recently decided to expand my audience and post it here too. I posted it up here in SFW for now. NSFW content will be posted in its own thread in NSFW Creative Writing as necessary.

I am under no illusions of authorial greatness. This is just me writing for my enjoyment, and hopefully yours if God is kind.

I leave it to you.