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“Bang”

Or, View from a Cubicle

“Bang.”

What pathetic dying words. Thought Philemon as he leaned back from his monitor. He sat back in his chair and sighed. This would be the fifth time he saved his charge from certain death this week. The angel in the cubicle beside him looked over sympathetically.

“Gettin’ himself killed again, ay Phil?”

“Yep.” Philemon glanced at the many screens telling the status of his assigned human. Bars and dials that should have been low and green were spiking red and screaming for attention.

“That ward of yours is always getting in trouble. At least you’ve got something to do. I’ve not had a thing to worry about since…” Azriel trailed off, realizing that his cube neighbor was no longer listening.

“Sorry, Az. Gotta deal with this.” Philemon was very good at his job of guardian angel; that was part of why he had been given this particular charge. As his trained eye looked over the gauges, he felt a bit of panic. It would take more than the simple intervention of the previous day’s firefight to get Spike out of this one. Philemon routed power to his charge’s immune system and bone marrow. This he would need all the miracles of the body to keep his ward alive long enough for medical help to arrive. Philemon had lost assignments before, but the story of this one had drawn him in and he did not want to see Spike die now. Philemon ramped up sympathies for the man on the ground in the onlookers as he reached for the phone to call in backup. Just as he began to dial, one of the many gauges caught his eye. It was one of the most vital instruments of his profession, but he had been ignoring it so often because it had been green since his guardianship began. Philemon lowered the phone, eyes locked to the needle. According to the colors behind the glass, Spike Spiegel no longer had the will to live.

Philemon leaned back again, considering what he should do. He closed his eyes and tried to block everything out but the situation. Spike had lost the love of his life just the day before. It had been the thing that kept him going – his fundamental reason for living. Despite his best efforts, Philemon had only had the resources to save his own charge, not it’s reason for living. He’d pleaded with his supervisors saying that without Julia, Spike would almost certainly die. It wouldn’t have taken much: a defective bullet, tripping on the stairs, a sneeze, there were so many little things that could have prevented her death and this stupid situation. But no, Philemon’s supervisors had refused to interfere. Julia’s guardian was a bitter spirit, angel in title only. Philemon suspected that its last existence weighed too heavily on it. In his own bitterness that day, he himself had wondered if Julia’s angel wasn’t secretly happy that Julia was dead. The woman had so much potential for happiness, happiness that galled her watcher to the core.

Philemon had always liked Spike. He loved the way he bounced back from anything, it made it easy to do his job and gratifying to see someone take such advantage of his good fortune. Philemon had rejoiced when he was able to bring Julia and Spike together - the many papers in his file showed quite clearly that the two were meant for each other. When Spike had remarked to Jet that Julia was the piece of himself that was missing, Philemon had to laugh. By a strange twist of fate, it was the literal truth: Spike and Julia were both imperfect souls – dropped on the floor of The Chamber of Beginnings when they were newly formed. The attendant had scooped the two up and repaired them without a proper inspection for fear of repercussion. When the flaws were discovered, it was too late to check for purity: the souls had solidified and could not be taken apart. It was quite possible that they contained pieces of each other. Now that Julia had Returned, they would never know.

Philemon turned back to the screen. Studying the colors on his monitors, he knew he had to make a decision. He was good enough to save Spike, but should he? Non-action would be death – Philemon knew too much to leave the choice to chance to avoid making it. He was supposed to protect his charges as much as possible, but given the circumstances, what was really protection? He turned to another graph, flat-lined since the day before. It showed a subject’s love, the status of the romantic heart. This too had been an output of little interest until recently. Yesterday, when Julia had died, the line had spiked to levels Philemon had not seen in hundreds of years, then fallen to nothing. Faced with pain and agony and pointlessness of losing Julia again and forever, Spike’s heart had shut down.

Philemon’s phone rang, interrupting his revelry. He picked it up, eyes now on the scene far below.

“Hello.”

“Phil, hey. I just got off the phone with Esther. She wants to know what you’re going to do.”

“Why didn’t she call me herself?” Philemon asked, stalling.

“Because she’s busy dealing with Faye and this concerns me just as much as her.”

“Look, I’m busy here too, Mike.” Philemon made another sweep of the dials, training noting blood pressure, brain activity and coming to rest on will-to-live once more.

“Just give me a straight answer then. If he’s going to Return, I’ve got to start prepping Jet so I can support Esther and keep my own charge from losing it.” There was silence on both ends of the phone for a time, then Michael broke it quietly: “you haven’t decided, have you?”

“No,” Philemon admitted.

“Well, whatever you decide, I’m behind you. Jet’s made his peace with it. I can’t say the same for Faye, but Esther won’t hold it against you. We’ve got plans either way.”

“Okay.” Philemon stared at the screen, hoping some divine inspiration would show him what he should do. “I’ll call you back when I’ve figured things out.” He put the phone back in the receiver and stared at the terminal. There was no easy way out of this. He wished he could just ask Spike if he wanted to live, but near Return experiences were exceptionally rare. They required a power much greater than what Philemon commanded and although Spike was an exceptional individual in his own world, in the grand scheme of things he was no bigger than anyone else. Philemon looked over at the will-to-live again: it was dead neutral. Thanks a lot, Spike, he thought bitterly. The other statuses were similarly neutral – his ward’s life was utterly dependent on what he chose to do. Well, thought Philemon, you wanted to find out if you were really alive. Now you will. The angel made his choice, picked up the phone and set to his task.