Recalling the feeling of LIMBO, its atmosphere was quite clean and orderly. But in PURGATORY only four words come to mind: Complete and utter chaos. 

It’s a sea of beige in a massive wide-open office space. Every single person wears formal suits, like the Grim. But unlike the Grim in Death’s territory, where black is in fashion, these guys all wear beige. Beige jackets, beige slacks or skirts, and beige vests for some, all with white collar shirts. It’s like they’re planning a pomp wedding. 

The office itself is entirely wild. I’ve never seen anything like it, it’s like the stock market crashing, but with less fire. 

One group of what looked like teenagers are all screaming at each other in a meeting cubicle, “DID SOMEONE THROW OUT HIS NAME!!??” 

“WHO LOST THE FILE WITH HIS NAME?!” 

“CHECK THE BINS!!!” 

They all panic and some jump to go through waste baskets and others rush through filing cabinets looking for the poor soul’s name they threw out.

My ears tug my eyes over to the next group in this giant, endless office of pandemonium. This next group seems to have a worse problem than a simple name loss. 

“I THINK WE GAVE SOMEONE THE WRONG CHILD!!”  

“WAS IT NOT SUPPOSED TO GO TO THE ANDERSONS??”  

“NO! IT WAS SUPPOSED TO GO TO THE AMBERSONS!!!” 

“SONOFA—”

Before I could listen any further, someone else dashes across the room in front of us yelling, “THERE WAS A BODY SWAP IN SECTOR 2K2. CREWS 11-12 GET DOWN THERE STAT!!”

The floor is wide open. Sets of cubicles lay everywhere. In the middle of the floor plan sits a circular booth with a fat pole that extends all the way up to the ceiling. All around the pole near the ceiling are about 25 or so different screens all showing events happening in different parts of the world. 

A hunting excursion in the Gaea plains. 

A conquest in Caeran. 

What looks like a massive crowd in a casino in Fortuna with some hobo facing off against some handsome guy with a fluffy fur coat. 

Even places in Harmonia had 6 different operations going on. 

“Still behind I see,” Death sighs over the disorderly scene.

I slowly turn my head to see the whole place, “Is it like this often?”

“What year is it down on the Plain?”

“The what?”

“I mean the world of the dying.”

Thinking to myself, “Umm, it’s the year 7772.”

I notice her counting to herself with her fingers before answering me, “Then it’s been like this for about 20 years. They were more than 50 years behind schedule back when I was last here.”

“How did it get that way? I thought you guys were supposed to be Divine and perfect.”

“No, Aly, all but one makes mistakes. We just govern but another one rules.”

I’m beginning to feel like this is way more insight than I’m supposed to know. Is she really still going to let me return to my body while knowing all of this stuff? Any other human would probably stay missing or dead if they found all this out…

“Anyways, Aly, how are you feeling?”

“What do you mean?”

She looks at me with a slightly worried look, “It can’t be easy to be a human in Divine Territory that you have no authority to be in.”

Until she said something I honestly didn't notice. There’s this haze-like feeling on the edge of my sight wherever my eyes look. It isn’t tangible or something I can stare at directly. Instead it’s like something hovering in the corner of my eye that moves whenever I try to look at it. 

I recall the words that Death had mentioned earlier. 

// Unlike this territory, where you see everything crystal clearly, you’ll probably only see a haze or an elongated hall of sorts, this is because you don’t have the proper authority to be there.  \

So this is what she meant… 

It feels strange, like how I’m not supposed to trust everything I see. I know what I’m seeing is real, it’s  just altered.

In the midst of the ongoing chaos in the huge office-hall, I spot someone standing out that’s moving for a less sporadic purpose than the others. His marching seems to indicate that he’s in control, unlike the rest. He’s tidier than those around him and mostly almost wears the same suit as everyone else. He’s an older man wearing a beige vest with a red flower over his breast pocket and a black button-up shirt with beige slacks and no jacket. As he rounds desks and weaves through crowds and conversations I notice that he’s actually heading right towards us. 

When the old man gets close enough, he bows to us. “Director Death! It’s a pleasure to have you here with us!”

“Hello Alfred, it’s been too long hasn’t it!?”

“It’s only been 20 years or so.”

“I see things have gotten better since I sent you here. How on schedule are you all?”

“Only 7 years late this time.”

“Wow, you’ve steered them from over 50 years behind to only 7. I knew it was a good idea to send you over.”

He bows his head another time and puts his hand over his heart, “Tis indeed. I thank you for the chance to help your brother!”

When their game of catch up ends, he eyes me up and down, “And who, might I ask, have we here, Director?” 

Death only shakes her head and he picks right back up, not missing a beat. He motions with his white gloves, “Come this way, sir Life is expecting you.”

Death takes the lead, but not before looking at me and nodding her head towards the door we just came through. Taking note, I nod that I understand. She continues forward as I follow and the older gentleman brings up the rear. 

We walk down the office space for quite a ways, going past numerous cubicles to our left and doors to our right. On our way, I can’t help but to notice a pattern that creepily eats at my mind. The people in beige suits are mostly young people. They seem to be my age or younger. I don’t know why yet, but the thought keeps eating at me. I reflect on my time in LIMBO and remember seeing a slew of people of varying ages. However, here, they all seem to be so young. Not seeing the point of thinking too much about it, I just shake my head to forget it and try to focus on the challenge at hand: to get back to my body and not be trapped in LIMBO or PURGATORY for the rest of my “life.” 

It isn’t until we reach a double door labeled L1 that we come to a stop. The older gentleman who’s escorting us knocks on the door and pokes his head in. 

“Sir… SIR!” 

“...huh?? What?!” I heard someone sleepily shout from the other side.

“Your sister has arrived.”

“Oh, Alfred. Yes. S-send them in.”

Alfred then fully opens the door and motions for us to go in before shutting the door and leaving the three of us alone. 

In front of us, behind a desk, sits someone I could only describe as… well, “a decrepit shell of a man,” who looks entirely too tired to be called a Host.