The archangel Michael is the leader of the Seraphim, the highest ranked and most powerful among God's angels. He is most well known for his actions during the war of Heaven and Hell, wherein he defeated Satan in a duel of flaming swords. At the time, he chose to spare Satan, professing that he hoped this act of mercy would one day bring Satan back to the light of God. Things haven't exactly worked out that way.
“You’re not God!”
Satan’s accusation hung in the air. His face had turned beet red, his outstretched index finger trembling with indignation. The man behind the desk didn’t even look up. He seemed to be too engrossed in what he was doing, filling out paperwork with a gold, ball point pen bearing the same calligraphic “H” insignia that marked the door.
“Wait,” Hopper said. “That’s not God? Then who is he?”
“That’s Michael,” Satan growled. “The leader of the angels.”
Hopper did a double take. “That’s the leader of the angels?”
Whereas the other angels could all be described as beautiful, cleft-chin adonises at the peak of physical fitness, Michael appeared extraordinarily ordinary, perhaps even a bit below-average in his physique. He was a pale, wiry fellow with a gaunt face and thick-rimmed glasses with long, rectangular frames. His eyes were sunken, weighed down by deep, violet welts that reminded Hopper of those early 21st century humans who had taken the series Twilight too seriously. Wasn’t this supposed to be the guy who’d defeated Satan in one on one combat?
“Hey!” Satan snapped. “Answer me!”
The leader of the angels looked up from his paperwork with glassy eyes, his expression vacant and zombie-like. He really did look dreadful. Then again, Hopper supposed he’d look like that, too, if he were in Michael’s current position. The leader of the angels was surrounded on all sides by colossal paperstacks that rose all the way to the ceiling. The paperstacks both flanked him and took up nearly all the space behind him, lining the room from wall to wall. Many more papers had somehow fallen to the floor and were now strewn about, covering the surface of the room to the point where it was impossible to move anywhere without stepping on one.
After processing for a few painfully long seconds, Michael’s face lit up with a tired smile. “Lucy!” he exclaimed. “You’re here in Heaven!”
Satan snorted derisively. “Yes, and you’re here in God’s office.” He folded his arms, waiting for an explanation.
“Ah, yes, well... God isn’t here. I’m handling his administrative affairs in his absence.” Michael adjusted his glasses in what Hopper thought was an incredibly anime-like fashion: prodding them from the bottom with the underside of his palm. “Would you like some tea, Lucy? Or perhaps coffee? I’ve recently become acquainted with those ‘cold brews’ the humans are so fond of.”
Satan hesitated. “A cold brew does sound nice,” he admitted. “It has been a rather long eternity.”
Michael beamed. “Great!” He picked up the phone and pressed a button near the bottom. “Greta, would you bring up a couple of cold brews? Yes, both large, please. Ah, hang on.” He put his hand over the receiver and turned to regard Hopper. “Would you like anything, Mister...” He paused. “What are you exactly?”
“You can call me Hopper. I’m, uh, Head of Torturous Conditions in Hell,” Hopper said. “I’m an executive level demon,” he added upon seeing Michael’s continued confusion. “And uh. A cold brew does sound nice.”
“Great!” Michael exclaimed. He took his hand off the receiver. “Yes, make that three large cold brews, please, Greta. Yes, please do it without ice. I do rather hate when it melts and waters down the coffee. Thanks so much, you’re the best, Greta. See you soon.” He hung up the phone, then turned back to Satan. “Now, what can I do for you, Lucy?”
Satan huffed. “You can start by explaining your earlier comment. What do you mean, ‘God isn’t here’?”
Michael shrugged. “He’s on a business trip on earth.”
“A business trip?” Satan repeated, incredulous. “Since when?!”
“Since uh...” Michael began digging through his stacks of papers.
An uncomfortably long silence followed while Michael attempted to excavate whatever note he was supposed to have regarding God’s trip. Hopper shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably. He glanced down at one of the papers on the floor. It read:
[Confession Application AD2101-68063
Khaleesi Djokivic
Soul Code #114,627,899
Application Status: Denied
Summary:
While Khaleesi confessed to her sins of coveting her neighbor’s things, setting fire to her neighbor’s front yard, and petty theft from Barnes & Nobel, she left out other, crucial sins, specifically: pegging the referee with a tennis ball at the most recent Wimbledon competition, hurling her racket at her opponent during the semi-finals. Given her family history, these sinful acts of aggression are of a nature of which she should be especially aware and thus diligent in seeking forgiveness for (see: Novak Djokivic, Soul Code #104,228,712).]
Hopper scowled, somewhat irritated to spot the name ‘Khaleesi.’ He didn’t understand exactly how the Game of Thrones baby name trend had trickled down into subsequent generations, but back on earth it had become a little too common to see children bearing the names Khaleesi, Missandei, and Torgo Nodo. What was probably most annoying about it was the fact that it was almost always white, American parents giving their children names like that. Hopper couldn’t decide which was worse: that, or half the names from the Musk family. Of the latter, two of those had recently matriculated into Hell: a man named Lebron and a woman named Le-a, pronounced Ledasha.
His thoughts were interrupted as Michael finally found what he was looking for - a crumpled, yellow sticky note attached to a disheveled broadsheet.
“The Heavenly Father left for his trip some time in 2015,” Michael declared, nodding sagaciously.
Satan’s jaw dropped. “God has been gone for eighty six years?!”
“Well, that explains a lot,” Hopper chimed in. Satan whirled on him, eyes blazing. “Right... um... shutting up now.”
Satan turned back to Michael. “What business could he possibly have on earth that would take more than eighty years?!”
Michael shrugged again. “He didn’t say.”
“And that doesn’t bother you?!”
“I didn’t realize how long it’s been,” Micahel admitted. “Time sure does fly when you’re having fun.”
Hopper frowned at the mounds of paperwork. How could that be considered fun?
“Well did he say how long he’d be gone?!” Satan demanded, aghast.
“Nope.”
Satan sighed, exasperated. “Did he at least leave his contact information?” Michael shook his head. “What the hell?!”
The angel’s lips twisted upward in amusement. “I think you mean, ‘what the heaven.’”
Hopper snickered.
“Don’t you start with me!” Satan exclaimed, pointing again. “This is a bloody disaster, Michael! You need to find God and bring him back here!”
“I’m surprised, Lucy. Last time I saw you, you swore you’d never speak to the Heavenly Father again.”
“Well, things have changed Michael. We’re in the midst of a crisis!”
Michael raised an eyebrow. “A crisis?”
Satan turned to Hopper. “Explain it to him!”
Hopper jumped, startled by the sudden attention. “Y-Yes sir!”
He started from the beginning, explaining in detail how humanity had been devolving into Cyberpunk level dystopia for the past century, and how yes, there was a version of Adam Smasher - a military-grade, weaponized cyborg project from Tesla that they’d nicknamed “the X-Man.” Hopper shared everything he’d told the other executive level demons, from social media burnout to the dreaded DMV. He even included some details he hadn’t shared in the meeting: the increasing relevance of resumes in human dating, the millions of children starved so trillionaires could have super-ultra-mega-yachts, the 48th installment of Fast & Furious - starring a computer-generated AI Vin Diesel, who somehow still beefed with other celebrities.
When Hopper was done, Michael leaned back in his seat. “Wow. That is quite the predicament.”
“It’s more than a predicament,” Satan objected. “As things stand, Hell is being reduced to just a lukewarm version of Heaven!”
“You mean you also have a spa?” Michael’s face lit up. “Wow, what are the odds?”
“What? No! That’s not what I’m talking about!” Satan sighed loudly. He began to pace the room, stomping over various reports and budget listings. “You must realize the severity of the situation, Michael! If people are actually enjoying Hell, then it is no longer serving its purpose of punishing misdeeds. The cosmic balance has been disrupted, the very foundations of good and evil unraveled!”
The door opened, causing Hopper to jump again. He turned, then flinched. Standing in the doorway was an obsidian-skinned, twelve foot tall creature with a man’s torso, larger and more muscular than any of the angels Hopper had seen thus far. Most strikingly, both of its legs ended in iron hooves, and it had the head of a bull with two sharp, menacing horns. The creature wore a pink bow on one of the horns. In its hands it carried a tray with three large mugs of black coffee.
“I’ve brought your coffee, Mr. Michael,” the minotaur said in a low, ominous voice that sounded more like the roll of thunder than any sound a living thing should be able to make.
Michael beamed. “Ah, yes, thank you, Greta. Please just set it down, uh...” The angel hesitated, scrutinizing his paper covered desk. After a moment he shrugged and swiped a stack off the desk and onto the floor. “Here, please.”
Greta approached the table and set down the tray. “Will you be needing anything else, Mr. Michael?”
“No, that will be fine, dear, thank you.”
Greta turned to leave, stopping to bow to both Hopper and Satan before walking out and closing the door.
“W-Why do you have a minotaur getting you coffee?!” Hopper asked.
Michael shrugged. “Ah, well, in light of some of the early and mid twenty-first century nuclear disasters, some of the other angels and I were thinking of reintroducing a few of the creatures from the Legends of Greece patch. We scrapped the idea when we saw the film Godzilla, but I thought it’d be a shame to just abandon the idea altogether. Hence, Greta.”
“O-Oh,” Hopper stammered. “C-Cool.”
Michael nodded at the mugs. “Why don’t you grab your coffee?”
Hopper and Satan took hold of their mugs. Hopper began to sip on the cool liquid. There was a faint taste of chocolate in it, along with something nutty. Altogether, it was a fairly pleasant drink, albeit one that he suspected would make him more anxious than he already was.
“Thank you for the coffee and all, but can we please get back to the subject at hand?” Satan asked. “What are we going to do about earth?!”
“Ah. Well, I can’t go. Too much to do here,” Michael said. He glanced around the room. “You may not have realized, but I am quite literally surrounded by paperwork.” The angel chortled loudly. “Maybe you can...?” Realization dawned on his face. “Oh, right.”
“Yes. Thanks to God, I can only visit earth through demonic possession,” Satan said. “I doubt you’d endorse me doing that. So it has to be you.”
“Again, I’m too busy.” Michael paused. “Hm, I have an idea!” He pointed at Hopper. “Why don’t we send this one?”
An iniquitous smirk found its way up Satan’s lips, one that sent shivers rolling down Hopper’s spine. Oh no. “Hm, yes, that is a good idea. Torturous Conditions is my good demon’s wheelhouse.”
“Wait...” Hopper stammered. “Wait what?”
Satan’s evil grin grew. “It’s your lucky day, Hopper! You get to take a trip to earth!”
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