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Description
From a distance, the Purg & Tory Publishing Company building is a ghastly gray prism lazily bobbing in empty gray space. The interior is much more interesting. While it is still gray, the lobby is not a formidably dull gray color. It has the appearance of a well-tuned, old-fashioned Hollywood set from the 1940’s. The scene is neatly arranged in a finely fleshed out grayscale that spans from a deep dark gray to a pale off-white gray. Everything in the lobby meshes perfectly; the potted plants in the corner and to the left of the door, the slightly bristled carpet, and the sparsely decorated walls with pictures of mountains, valleys, and coastlines. What holds the lobby together was a patch in the middle of the floor. It is a P and T in a circle, which in turn split off into a series of intersecting lines. It is an intricate design, like the threads of a spider web. The lines stretch over the whole floor, reaching out like the rays of the sun, connecting the elevator to the front entrance and to the walls.
The lobby would not be as interesting if it were in color. Plucked out of its lovely, stark grayscale and immersed in a flood of Technicolor wizardry, the lobby would seem awkward and gaudy. Just picture it; the potted plants practically radiating forest green from a pot of scorched sepia, the bristled carpet burning in vermillion, and the walls a puckered cream color with glossy photographs of peaks, dales, and shorelines, each containing their own palate of colors. The dictionary definition of sensory overload. No, the only color that works for Purg & Tory is gray. A beautiful, dynamic gray to be sure, but gray nonetheless.
The lobby was never empty, always filled with throngs of confused, dead people. They were spastically in different directions, usually trying to avoid the ones floundering through the air. Their voices meshed to fill the air with a chaotic, cacophonous symphony. The grayness of the building seemed to have an affect on the souls; their clothing, the exact same they were wearing when they died, was almost drained of color and the pigment of their skin was mulled.
In between this crowd glides a group of persons dressed in white, clutching small white clipboards and furiously scribbling with a small white pencil. They work like machines, writing names and moving souls out of the lobby. Their handwriting is meticulous and flawless. They can speak whatever language you shout at them. Their faces are ageless and vibrant. They look at you cheerily throughout the whole process, no matter how many obscenities you may throw their way. If you insult them, they take it and they lob back an empathetic, satisfied grin. It is a very disarming tactic. They do not make much of an impression on the average soul, who is vainly groping for a foothold of understanding, but a more astute, curious human being can focus long enough to ask themselves, “What are these little persons in white, and why are they here? Why am I here?” An even more astute human being would ask the person these questions, but the persons in white have no time for such conversations. They will merely shoot you their silky smile, passing off your question as another obscenity.
The persons in white seem completely immersed in their work. They never talk with each other, and on the off chance they are not servicing anyone, they wander vaguely around the lobby, like a detached buoy floating out to sea. They fail to notice anything else.
For example, they did not notice a man fly through the air into the wall near the elevator, who was now lying in a crumpled heap. They also did not notice two figures step out of the elevator, and then sidestep to the left to let a group of souls enter the elevator
The first figure was a tall, wide man in his mid-thirties. Chainmail, a dusty tunic with a black cross on the front, two metal shin guards, two cuisses, and a gauntlet on his left hand covered up most of his body. His head looked like it was carved out of rock; his jaw was stiff, his mouth was tight, his nose was pointed, and his forehead was hard. His gaze was stony, two topaz eyes fixed forward that looked like jewels glinting in the side of a cliff. His manner was imposing. There was also softness to it, some obvious and some subtle. From his head sprouted a fluffy tuft of brown hair, and he sported a likewise fluffy moustache. His eyes had a glaze of wistfulness that was shaded under his firm forehead.
They both stood still, watching the chaos with a passing amount of interest. They conversed with each other briefly, their conversation lost in the crowd. Then the other figure, a woman, noticed the man on the floor. She motioned to the man and then looked to her partner. The man stroked his chin and looked down at the man.
“Hmm. Look at that man on the floor. He must have hit the wall hard,” he said in a strange, diluted German accent to his partner. His English was slow yet confident.
His partner nodded and looked forward into the crowd, frowning. The woman appeared very diminutive in comparison to the man. She was only a couple inches shorter, but her shape was different. She was spindly like the stem of a sapling branch, and her face was narrow. Two dark eyes peered out precariously under a pair of thin eyebrows and straight black bangs, which traced back into long locks of hair. She crossed her arms as if she was trying to keep warm, her fingers slowly tapping her forearm in a tit-tat drum pattern. She was young, which in combination with her thinness made her seem delicate. However, under further observation, there was no delicateness in her manner. Her hands were riddled with sores and calluses and her arms gently pulsated with muscle activity. Lines and wrinkles carved her face like the trunk of a tree.
The man and the woman walked over to the man lying on the floor, avoiding a large group of people shuffling into the elevator. A man in white glided over through the crowd and started addressing the man in German. The lobby staff has a sixth sense for nationality and language.
“Your name, please?” he asked cheerily.
The German man looked down at the man in white and said back in English, “There is no need. I am already on the list.”
The man was unfazed” Your name, please?” the man asked again, this time in English.
The German sighed and answered again, more slowly, “There is no need. I am already on the list.”
The man looked up from his clipboard; still smiling is perky, insistent smile. “Your name, please?” the man asked with no fluctuation in tone.
The German sighed again, this time more heavily, and said slowly in German, “I’ve told you, I’m already on the list.” He hoped this would finally deter the man in white.
“Your name, please?” the man shot back in German.
Irritated, the man’s face twitched and he glared at the man in white. The man in white’s smile seemed to grow brighter, countering the German’s bad mood. Recognizing defeat, the German said in English, hesitatingly, “Alfred Himmelreich,” to the little man in white.
The man in white looked down to his clipboard and then looked back up. “You are already on the list,” he said in English. Then he moved onto the woman, who had been watching the scene with amusement. “Your name, please?” he asked cheerily.
“Mariam Waller,” she said liltingly. Her voice was Southern and sunny.
“You are on the list as well, Mariam,” he said without looking up. He then moved onto the man on the floor. “Your name, please?”
The man made no response.
The man with the clipboard coughed. “Your name, please?” he asked again.
The man made no sound, but he waved his arm in the direction on the man in white. The worker slid a step back, but he had not given up.
“Your name, please?” The man in white kept asking the question repeatedly in the same sugary tone and immaculate smile. Eventually Alfred intervened out of annoyance.
“Perhaps you should find someone else to help. I do not think he is ready for assistance.”
The man seemed taken aback, dropping his clipboard to his side, but there was no visible change in his face. “Oh. Well… of course,” he said reluctantly. The man wandered off into the mob still congregated around the door.
Alfred and Mariam then descended upon the man lying on the floor. Mariam knelt by the man and attempted to get his attention. She tried talking, cooing “hello” softly, even lifting his sagging arms which in turn flopped back to the floor spastically. She did this for a couple of minutes before giving up and letting Alfred deal with the man. Alfred stepped in and picked up the man in one move. The man stood wearily on his feet, supported by Alfred’s strong arms. He was an average man with a nice face and shaggy blond hair. Shaking but with no visible sign of injury, the man looked up at Alfred, and then to Mariam.
“Where the hell am I?” he asked bluntly
Alfred looked to Mariam, who was covering her mouth in disbelief at the man’s language. Bemused, Alfred looked back to the man, responding bluntly, “You are in the lobby of the Purg & Tory Publishing Company.”
The man stood still, looking back and forth between Alfred and Mariam, knitting his brows in confusion. Alfred let him go. The man swayed slightly before adjusting himself. His eyes were blue and jaded, supporting a pair of bags. The man stood thinking, his gaze darting back and forth between the front door and the floor. Mariam regarded him keenly, Alfred more suspiciously. In half a breath, the man bolted away into the crowd, towards the front entrance. Alfred lunged forward after him, and Mariam followed afterwards. The man wriggled through the crowd like a bull, shoving and pummeling people left and right. He did not affect the already chaotic crowd with his actions, merely causing more chaos with every move. In a small clearing the man punched a person in white out of the way, who merely slid forward looking back with a confused smile. In pursuit of the man, Alfred and Mariam tried to be more careful, but they were just as violent.
The man exited the crowd and smacked into the automatic door. Alfred and Mariam emerged from the tangles of souls to see him scrambling around on the floor towards one of the windows. They approached cautiously as the man peered out the window into empty space. Alfred motioned to tap his shoulder before the man banged his head loudly against the glass pane. He fell back, uninjured before trying again. And again. And then again.
Unsatisfied, the man started hitting his head on the carpet, grunting “Wake up!” with each successive impact. He seemed to be on the verge of tears.
In a second Alfred and Mariam were both standing over the man. Alfred looked down at the man, and then to Mariam, and said quizzically, “You know, I have seen lots of people pass through this place. Und I have seen them do some very odd things. I have seen people cry. I have seen people scream. I have even seen people attack the angels. But I have never, Never!, seen anyone hurt themselves trying to wake up.”
“Maybe there’s somethin’ wrong with his head,” she said without a straight face.
They watched the spectacle for another minute before both of them decided to stop him. Before the man could launch into another tirade of head banging, Alfred grabbed him and held him in place. The man struggled vainly, screaming impetuously.
“Let go of me! Let go of me, damnit! I gotta get out of here!” he cried.
Mariam looked at him again incredulously. She almost said something, but the man’s screams cut her off.
Alfred sighed and bent down until he was eye level with the man. Their eyes met and the man almost froze.
“There is nowhere to go,” Alfred nearly growled. “You are dead.”
The man stopped struggling, opting instead to shake weakly, and asked Alfred to repeat himself.
Alfred stopped for a second to grasp the man more tightly and then said, “You. Are. Dead.” with jarring emphasis.
Alfred let the man out of his grasp and stepped back to Mariam. She looked on with a mix of concern and curiosity. The man was frozen, his eyes shifting back and forth from Alfred to Mariam, and then to the rest of the lobby. He could not concentrate, overwhelmed by the noise of every other soul screaming and stammering around him.
A woman in white emerged from the crowed, holding her clipboard in front of her almost in offering. The man backed away in apprehension, and Alfred and Mariam backed away to give the woman space. The worker followed the man until he was against a wall. Mariam worked hard to suppress her giggles, amused by the man’s hesitation, but Alfred was stoic, weary of watching the man embarrass himself.
The woman positioned herself and readied her pencil. “Your name, please?” she asked.
The man was quiet for a moment, unsure of whether to answer or run. His eyes darted to Alfred, who responded with a cold glare. Wearily, his face wrought with despondency, the man finally stammered, “R-ryan Creel.” His shoulders drooped and he started sliding to the floor. Alfred and Mariam intervened, picking up Ryan by his arms. He was muttering slowly, his head facing the floor.
The woman in white meanwhile wrote down the name and motioned over to the elevator doors. “Just take the elevator to level 7 and find an empty place. Do not worry, as the elevator will stop at all floors.” She drifted away into the crowd, leaving Ryan, Alfred, and Mariam standing around. Mariam tried to introduce herself, but Ryan merely ignored her.
Pushed to his limits, Alfred finally yelled, “For the love of God man! Stop it!”
Both Ryan and Mariam jumped back, visibly shaken. Alfred’s chest heaved for a few seconds before he composed himself. Then he looked at Mariam and Ryan.
“I think we should head to the elevator,” he said, nearly pushing both of them along with his strong arms. They went forward, merging into the lobby mob.

Description
From a distance, the Purg & Tory Publishing Company building is a ghastly gray prism lazily bobbing in empty gray space. The interior is much more interesting. While it is still gray, the lobby is not a formidably dull gray color. It has the appearance of a well-tuned, old-fashioned Hollywood set from the 1940’s. The scene is neatly arranged in a finely fleshed out grayscale that spans from a deep dark gray to a pale off-white gray. Everything in the lobby meshes perfectly; the potted plants in the corner and to the left of the door, the slightly bristled carpet, and the sparsely decorated walls with pictures of mountains, valleys, and coastlines. What holds the lobby together was a patch in the middle of the floor. It is a P and T in a circle, which in turn split off into a series of intersecting lines. It is an intricate design, like the threads of a spider web. The lines stretch over the whole floor, reaching out like the rays of the sun, connecting the elevator to the front entrance and to the walls.
The lobby would not be as interesting if it were in color. Plucked out of its lovely, stark grayscale and immersed in a flood of Technicolor wizardry, the lobby would seem awkward and gaudy. Just picture it; the potted plants practically radiating forest green from a pot of scorched sepia, the bristled carpet burning in vermillion, and the walls a puckered cream color with glossy photographs of peaks, dales, and shorelines, each containing their own palate of colors. The dictionary definition of sensory overload. No, the only color that works for Purg & Tory is gray. A beautiful, dynamic gray to be sure, but gray nonetheless.
The lobby was never empty, always filled with throngs of confused, dead people. They were spastically in different directions, usually trying to avoid the ones floundering through the air. Their voices meshed to fill the air with a chaotic, cacophonous symphony. The grayness of the building seemed to have an affect on the souls; their clothing, the exact same they were wearing when they died, was almost drained of color and the pigment of their skin was mulled.
In between this crowd glides a group of persons dressed in white, clutching small white clipboards and furiously scribbling with a small white pencil. They work like machines, writing names and moving souls out of the lobby. Their handwriting is meticulous and flawless. They can speak whatever language you shout at them. Their faces are ageless and vibrant. They look at you cheerily throughout the whole process, no matter how many obscenities you may throw their way. If you insult them, they take it and they lob back an empathetic, satisfied grin. It is a very disarming tactic. They do not make much of an impression on the average soul, who is vainly groping for a foothold of understanding, but a more astute, curious human being can focus long enough to ask themselves, “What are these little persons in white, and why are they here? Why am I here?” An even more astute human being would ask the person these questions, but the persons in white have no time for such conversations. They will merely shoot you their silky smile, passing off your question as another obscenity.
The persons in white seem completely immersed in their work. They never talk with each other, and on the off chance they are not servicing anyone, they wander vaguely around the lobby, like a detached buoy floating out to sea. They fail to notice anything else.
For example, they did not notice a man fly through the air into the wall near the elevator, who was now lying in a crumpled heap. They also did not notice two figures step out of the elevator, and then sidestep to the left to let a group of souls enter the elevator
The first figure was a tall, wide man in his mid-thirties. Chainmail, a dusty tunic with a black cross on the front, two metal shin guards, two cuisses, and a gauntlet on his left hand covered up most of his body. His head looked like it was carved out of rock; his jaw was stiff, his mouth was tight, his nose was pointed, and his forehead was hard. His gaze was stony, two topaz eyes fixed forward that looked like jewels glinting in the side of a cliff. His manner was imposing. There was also softness to it, some obvious and some subtle. From his head sprouted a fluffy tuft of brown hair, and he sported a likewise fluffy moustache. His eyes had a glaze of wistfulness that was shaded under his firm forehead.
They both stood still, watching the chaos with a passing amount of interest. They conversed with each other briefly, their conversation lost in the crowd. Then the other figure, a woman, noticed the man on the floor. She motioned to the man and then looked to her partner. The man stroked his chin and looked down at the man.
“Hmm. Look at that man on the floor. He must have hit the wall hard,” he said in a strange, diluted German accent to his partner. His English was slow yet confident.
His partner nodded and looked forward into the crowd, frowning. The woman appeared very diminutive in comparison to the man. She was only a couple inches shorter, but her shape was different. She was spindly like the stem of a sapling branch, and her face was narrow. Two dark eyes peered out precariously under a pair of thin eyebrows and straight black bangs, which traced back into long locks of hair. She crossed her arms as if she was trying to keep warm, her fingers slowly tapping her forearm in a tit-tat drum pattern. She was young, which in combination with her thinness made her seem delicate. However, under further observation, there was no delicateness in her manner. Her hands were riddled with sores and calluses and her arms gently pulsated with muscle activity. Lines and wrinkles carved her face like the trunk of a tree.
The man and the woman walked over to the man lying on the floor, avoiding a large group of people shuffling into the elevator. A man in white glided over through the crowd and started addressing the man in German. The lobby staff has a sixth sense for nationality and language.
“Your name, please?” he asked cheerily.
The German man looked down at the man in white and said back in English, “There is no need. I am already on the list.”
The man was unfazed” Your name, please?” the man asked again, this time in English.
The German sighed and answered again, more slowly, “There is no need. I am already on the list.”
The man looked up from his clipboard; still smiling is perky, insistent smile. “Your name, please?” the man asked with no fluctuation in tone.
The German sighed again, this time more heavily, and said slowly in German, “I’ve told you, I’m already on the list.” He hoped this would finally deter the man in white.
“Your name, please?” the man shot back in German.
Irritated, the man’s face twitched and he glared at the man in white. The man in white’s smile seemed to grow brighter, countering the German’s bad mood. Recognizing defeat, the German said in English, hesitatingly, “Alfred Himmelreich,” to the little man in white.
The man in white looked down to his clipboard and then looked back up. “You are already on the list,” he said in English. Then he moved onto the woman, who had been watching the scene with amusement. “Your name, please?” he asked cheerily.
“Mariam Waller,” she said liltingly. Her voice was Southern and sunny.
“You are on the list as well, Mariam,” he said without looking up. He then moved onto the man on the floor. “Your name, please?”
The man made no response.
The man with the clipboard coughed. “Your name, please?” he asked again.
The man made no sound, but he waved his arm in the direction on the man in white. The worker slid a step back, but he had not given up.
“Your name, please?” The man in white kept asking the question repeatedly in the same sugary tone and immaculate smile. Eventually Alfred intervened out of annoyance.
“Perhaps you should find someone else to help. I do not think he is ready for assistance.”
The man seemed taken aback, dropping his clipboard to his side, but there was no visible change in his face. “Oh. Well… of course,” he said reluctantly. The man wandered off into the mob still congregated around the door.
Alfred and Mariam then descended upon the man lying on the floor. Mariam knelt by the man and attempted to get his attention. She tried talking, cooing “hello” softly, even lifting his sagging arms which in turn flopped back to the floor spastically. She did this for a couple of minutes before giving up and letting Alfred deal with the man. Alfred stepped in and picked up the man in one move. The man stood wearily on his feet, supported by Alfred’s strong arms. He was an average man with a nice face and shaggy blond hair. Shaking but with no visible sign of injury, the man looked up at Alfred, and then to Mariam.
“Where the hell am I?” he asked bluntly
Alfred looked to Mariam, who was covering her mouth in disbelief at the man’s language. Bemused, Alfred looked back to the man, responding bluntly, “You are in the lobby of the Purg & Tory Publishing Company.”
The man stood still, looking back and forth between Alfred and Mariam, knitting his brows in confusion. Alfred let him go. The man swayed slightly before adjusting himself. His eyes were blue and jaded, supporting a pair of bags. The man stood thinking, his gaze darting back and forth between the front door and the floor. Mariam regarded him keenly, Alfred more suspiciously. In half a breath, the man bolted away into the crowd, towards the front entrance. Alfred lunged forward after him, and Mariam followed afterwards. The man wriggled through the crowd like a bull, shoving and pummeling people left and right. He did not affect the already chaotic crowd with his actions, merely causing more chaos with every move. In a small clearing the man punched a person in white out of the way, who merely slid forward looking back with a confused smile. In pursuit of the man, Alfred and Mariam tried to be more careful, but they were just as violent.
The man exited the crowd and smacked into the automatic door. Alfred and Mariam emerged from the tangles of souls to see him scrambling around on the floor towards one of the windows. They approached cautiously as the man peered out the window into empty space. Alfred motioned to tap his shoulder before the man banged his head loudly against the glass pane. He fell back, uninjured before trying again. And again. And then again.
Unsatisfied, the man started hitting his head on the carpet, grunting “Wake up!” with each successive impact. He seemed to be on the verge of tears.
In a second Alfred and Mariam were both standing over the man. Alfred looked down at the man, and then to Mariam, and said quizzically, “You know, I have seen lots of people pass through this place. Und I have seen them do some very odd things. I have seen people cry. I have seen people scream. I have even seen people attack the angels. But I have never, Never!, seen anyone hurt themselves trying to wake up.”
“Maybe there’s somethin’ wrong with his head,” she said without a straight face.
They watched the spectacle for another minute before both of them decided to stop him. Before the man could launch into another tirade of head banging, Alfred grabbed him and held him in place. The man struggled vainly, screaming impetuously.
“Let go of me! Let go of me, damnit! I gotta get out of here!” he cried.
Mariam looked at him again incredulously. She almost said something, but the man’s screams cut her off.
Alfred sighed and bent down until he was eye level with the man. Their eyes met and the man almost froze.
“There is nowhere to go,” Alfred nearly growled. “You are dead.”
The man stopped struggling, opting instead to shake weakly, and asked Alfred to repeat himself.
Alfred stopped for a second to grasp the man more tightly and then said, “You. Are. Dead.” with jarring emphasis.
Alfred let the man out of his grasp and stepped back to Mariam. She looked on with a mix of concern and curiosity. The man was frozen, his eyes shifting back and forth from Alfred to Mariam, and then to the rest of the lobby. He could not concentrate, overwhelmed by the noise of every other soul screaming and stammering around him.
A woman in white emerged from the crowed, holding her clipboard in front of her almost in offering. The man backed away in apprehension, and Alfred and Mariam backed away to give the woman space. The worker followed the man until he was against a wall. Mariam worked hard to suppress her giggles, amused by the man’s hesitation, but Alfred was stoic, weary of watching the man embarrass himself.
The woman positioned herself and readied her pencil. “Your name, please?” she asked.
The man was quiet for a moment, unsure of whether to answer or run. His eyes darted to Alfred, who responded with a cold glare. Wearily, his face wrought with despondency, the man finally stammered, “R-ryan Creel.” His shoulders drooped and he started sliding to the floor. Alfred and Mariam intervened, picking up Ryan by his arms. He was muttering slowly, his head facing the floor.
The woman in white meanwhile wrote down the name and motioned over to the elevator doors. “Just take the elevator to level 7 and find an empty place. Do not worry, as the elevator will stop at all floors.” She drifted away into the crowd, leaving Ryan, Alfred, and Mariam standing around. Mariam tried to introduce herself, but Ryan merely ignored her.
Pushed to his limits, Alfred finally yelled, “For the love of God man! Stop it!”
Both Ryan and Mariam jumped back, visibly shaken. Alfred’s chest heaved for a few seconds before he composed himself. Then he looked at Mariam and Ryan.
“I think we should head to the elevator,” he said, nearly pushing both of them along with his strong arms. They went forward, merging into the lobby mob.