She could have sworn her bones still ached. Sworn that her eyes were too clouded with blood to see in anything but an abyssal red tint. Sworn that her right arm simply couldn't move anymore, too twisted in its very socket that the ligaments failed to untangle themselves. But as she suddenly took a breath, gazed upon the world with clear vision, and lifted herself up from the puddle of something-smelling water, she knew immediately her 'death' was all over. One moment she could tell she was falling, and the other she was entangled in some mass, pelted by a never-ending smell of lemon pledge.

For once, Wendy reasoned her way into a conclusion. Did she get tossed into a river of lemons and fished out by a fisherman out in the ocean, or did she go to some crackpot hell?

Obviously it was the latter. Unless the shitheads who beat her to death (there was no way she'd survived, Wendy was sure) picked up her mangled body and drove over to the bay, then it was impossible that she had been dumped in a river leading to the same place. And where in the world did the waters smell strongly of citrus? They didn't drop her in a lemonade factory vat, right? Rising from the boat's puddle, Wendy found herself staring into the face of what was obviously not a grizzled fisherman. He didn't have a beard. He was too young. He had purple hair.

This weaboo clearly wasn't a hard-working seafarer.

With a grunt, Wendy rolled the whole set of limbs she still miraculously possessed, as if still feeling soreness in them. It must have simply been a memory, then, for she experienced nothing of the sort. In fact, she was quite the opposite; she felt an overwhelming rejuvenation in her body the likes of which she'd never known. It was as if she'd been born again or something, as brand-spanking new as a newborn baby that had just taken its first breath. The whole experience was so perfectly relieving, she had practically failed to register Lyss's introductory comment. Hell, if she didn't, she'd probably have given him the only proper response she could think of; a fist to the chin. If he went overboard, she could pilot it, no problem.

Wendy came to realize that she was not alone, however, and that the boat wasn't quite as small as she'd initially thought. There was room for her and plenty more, evidently, and she clued in on the fact that she wasn't the only one who'd recently died. The other faces were anything but fisherman as well, or demonic for that matter, so she figured they were -quite literally- in the same boat as her.

"I was expecting fire and brimstone, not a latino woman's wet dream," she proclaimed.

Takeshi had always thought of death to the be the end, the resolution to his story.

He was never the religious type, so an afterlife was out of question. To him god was more or less a waste of time, something which if he had time and energy to expend believing in an ominous overlord he obviously wasn't working hard enough. It was with this mentality that he contently sat in the darkness induced by his coma. He believed firmly in the eternity of his end, that for as long as his consciousness was still present, the never ending darkness before him would remain. It was only a matter of time before he adjusted to the lack of stimuli and stopped working.

He was simply an obscure book waiting to be closed and forgotten in the library of life. After all there was no story past its ending.

Despite all this, deep down he still wished to be allowed to live. That even if it was an eternity of numbness and darkness, it had to be better than just simply not existing. Fading was so painful, so much so that he was sure simply being, even if it was just being without reason, had to be better.

It was then in the darkness he felt his nose prickle. The fact that he felt his nose was a miracle of its own, but he silently prayed. There was no desperation, or happiness, or any emotion for that matter in his prayers. He just simply latched on before vying for more.

Then came the distinct sour smell of lemons which had never smelled so sweet in his life. It reminded him of the zesty disinfectant the hospital used, except less synthetic. For a brief second, a weak sense of joy washed over him before quickly disappearing as it had never been there in the first place. His senses eventually returned one at a time, each one the strongest it had been in ages. The weariness and weight he felt in the hospital bed were no longer there and neither were the tubes nor the needles for that matter. Rejuvenation would have been a clear understatement, but being reborn was too far fetched. He didn't feel alive, but he was no longer dead. An empty sly smile took his face.

The great Kazami had trumped death. That was a story to tell hi-

Suddenly he felt his ass making contact with the firm deck of the ship.

"Welcome to Hell, you brats. You should be past the puberty phase by now, right?"

Finding himself dripping with water that smells of lemons he opened his eyes before finding himself staring at red head to whom he had assumed was the speaker. If this was hell, then she must be the Devil. Was the Devil suppose to be so attractive and human looking? Then she spoke.

"I was expecting fire and brimstone, not a latino woman's wet dream."

Nope, different voice from before. Not the Devil but still good looking. Propping himself into an upright position, he tilted his head backwards to find a dark skinned figure with tall beautiful horns. Ah, that was more like it.

At first he had thought it was likely a joke, that his co-workers were probably using this as a method of mocking him. The more he thought however, the more likely it seemed he was actually in Hell. His co-workers didn't have the time to pull of such a prank, nor did they have the energy or interest. Unconsciously, he was reassured that his thoughts were right, that Hell really did exist. After all, where do all the bad kiddies go when they get put down? The thought bothered him. He wasn't too fond of the idea of meeting old acquaintances.

Takeshi instinctively observed his surroundings thoroughly. The dancing clouds, the fantastic display of childish toys turned into weapons soaring above his head, the river that smelled of lemons...

It definitely wasn't what he expected, or anyone would have expected for that matter, but he kept his mouth shut. The red head had already made that fact clear and he was sure she didn't like parrots (maybe that's why she was down here, killed a parrot or two for fun?), not to mention he also preferred a Hell with less suffering. Makes it all the more bearable.

"So...which kill got me down here?" he muttered looking at the man with the majestic horns, his voice lined with strong interest and a drop of sarcasm, "Or was Kazami Takeshi just a bad, bad boy?"

As more outspoken people were fished up onto the ship, Sorella giggled to herself brushing off her clothes as the boat-debris was still sticking to her wet exterior. Smiling rather brightly, she listened as those aboard exchanged stories or even just words on how they had passed over, and entered this strange world. It was hell right? It seemed to be a lot less serious than some depictions told, or maybe this was just the calm before the storm? She was thinking about it too much, enjoy this new start!

The girl stood, placing one arm before her and the other at her back. She bowed forward like an actor at the conclusion of a play, and then offered the nearby youths her eyes that showed a plea for their attention.

"Excuse me everyone, I'm Sorella.. Remember my name, and I'll make sure to remember yours."

After this sudden outburst, she sat back down and continued giggling. Quickly shooting glances to the faces around her to see if they would respond. The whole thing was a little weird, even to her, but the situation was actually pretty cool. Maybe in death fewer people would hate her, maybe in hell people wouldn't get unsettled over such childish things, maybe this was a clean slate for her.

Gently swaying on a frayed section of cat5 cable, Iphigenia had already come to terms with her death.

She welcomed it.

She had come to terms with it long before. It came long before she had even gotten herself remotely close to her predicament. She was dead long before she had gotten caught on the wires in the brightly lit office hallway. Iphigenia was person who had no purpose, no drive, no dream – No obligation to live. Sure, she was a mortal, living, breathing person that had the will to live. But was that a person that could be considered… alive?

Iphigenia was no stranger to religion, but she was neither religious nor atheist. She didn’t know if there was heaven or hell, but she knew most certainly she was going to hell if it existed. Where else would a heartless psychopath that relished in the pain of others go? Certainly not to heaven. She had always debated: where do the mentally ill go after death? Should God have created each and every person, he certainly would have created her and everybody else who was wrong in the head. Was it a crime to be yourself? If it was, could you redeem yourself by seeking aid?

It was now not a moot point. She had always embraced her odd tendencies and fantasies. She relished in it, and never sought help. She hated shrinks, but ironically found that being one herself might be appealing. Death always fascinated her. She felt sadness, but at the same time found it exhilarating, exciting, and this most certainly applied to herself. After all, it could come at the most random of times, from the most random of people. At any point in time, she could hold the lives of dozens of people around her in her hands; should she wish, she could be their judge, jury and executioner and nobody could do anything about it.

Iphigenia felt the cool breeze of the air conditioner and smiled.

The school and her family would be in an uproar when she was discovered. Most would be sad, shocked, perhaps even consumed by despair. Perhaps she her death would drive some to do the unspeakable, and she would see them again in hell. She would miss them as much as they would miss her. Many of them were good people. But she also knew that those that despised her would be relieved in her death. Those that she had threatened abused and cast aside would be glad to be rid of her perpetual menace, and she was happy for them. They would be freed of their obligations, their secrets safe, at least until the dead man’s switch in her systems would realize that its master was no longer alive and release its tantalizing information into the public domain.

She only had a few regrets; being so careless as to accidentally off herself, and not being able to there for her friends for her own death. Those sorry bastards would never be able to cope, she realized. They’d only ever known her as a good person. She was judicious, fair, always there to help. She could still admit that about herself, despite it all. She could at least give them solace in never knowing letting slip her twisted hobbies, or what she wanted to do to them.

But wouldn’t it be interesting to see your own cold, dead body in the morgue?

…

Darkness.

Darkness, and then suddenly, stunning clarity. Iphigenia felt her body distinctly slamming into some sort of ground. Did the wire finally give way? Her senses slowly came back to her. The floor felt more like rotting wood then carpeted office rug. There was a sickeningly sweet lemon smell in the air, but there was a distinct smell that the sweet scent could not mask. The scent of death, despair and hopelessness. She opened her eyes, and broke into a wry smile.

The River Styx, the symbolic Viking funeral boat, and tasteless colorful watercolor painting that filled the surreal sky left no the doubt in Iphigenia’s mind of where she was. She became even more sure as she became aware of her ruined, lemon-piss soaked clothes clinging to her body. Only the devil himself would know how unstable and disenfranchised she felt at the moment. He knew her well.

Iphigenia finally focused her fleeting attention at the passengers on the boat as it gently floated down the putrid river. They were comrades, fellow dead people. She shrugged internally; people died every second, of course there would be people arriving in hell along with her. In front of her was the pilot of the boat, but she could describe him more as a grumpy looking, queer little demon. He wasn’t what she have expected the ferryman of the Styx to be.

Finding her fellow passengers speaking, Iphie could only grin in disagreement. Burning hell? What a joke.

“No, this exactly what I expected. The summation of your largest peeves, the embodiment of your burning hatred, rolled into a wonderful package of a river that I'd hazard to call the Styx.”

After all, hell is what you don’t want it to be.

Was it Snarky Sunday that day or something? While the majority of the group had the sense to stay silent, hopefully out of respect for the willpower that it took for Lyss to be wearing three layers of heavy clothing. After all, compared to the temperatures that he was used to, it was really damn cold at the moment. He missed the warmth of the lakes of fire. It made him sad, being a ferryman on Lemon River. Then again, what could he do? Nothing, other than to start pushing the boat back towards the cluster of buildings that served as the 'town' of Academia Abyssus. Well, no, there were also statements to be responded to.

The first that spoke was the redheaded girl, Wendy, if his soul-reading was correct. A bully that got the shit kicked out of her after the weaklings teamed up and realized that weapons were there for a reason. Quite funny, really. The black situational comedy that was just as funny as a lion getting bumrushed by a bunch of rats. Her comment was something that was...well, her injuries pre-death must have damaged her mental faculties on a fundamental level as well. It was the first time Lyss had ever heard of someone describe this situation as the wet dream of a Latino woman, after all.

Luckily, a saner individual with a sketchier, more interesting history spoke up next, and Lyss decided it was better to just ignore Wendy, focusing instead of the super secret ninja assassin agent sniper. Locking eyes with the boy, wondering whether his eyes were still 'demonic' enough that it could scare him, even after years on this 'desk' job, Lyss replied, “All your kills, Mr. Super Famous Secret Agent. Well, nowadays, most people get sent to Hell regardless, since Heaven's pretty much just a gentleman's club. Oh yeah, Limbo's overcrowded as well, so now, only dead children and pets get sent there. Simply said, even if you weren't a badass 100-kill streak modern Rambo, you'd still be sent here, because you're a bad boy.”

“And, computer nerd, this isn't the Styx. That river shut down a few centuries ago, because it was taking way too long to accurately judge the soul of individuals. This is the Lemon River, filled with the urine, sweat, tears, scat, and lemon-scented detergent and soap of Academia Abyssus. Which is a school. That you will now be attending. In order to have a happy and productive life in Hell.”

Tilting his head to the side, as if in temporary thought (even though it was just an act), Lyss finished unconvincingly, “I don't know what you'll be learning, though, so yeah. Just have fun and talk to each other for now. Your entrance exams will be starting shortly.”

“Oh yeah, make sure you do your stretches as well. And you, in that corner, please stop crying. Your tears are ruining my paint.”

With that, he turned his back on the group of scrubby, unclean brats, and went back to work, poling the boat down the river.

Takeshi nodded silently to their operator's statement, never once breaking eye contact simply because it was impolite, even when the opposite party was a demon trying to stare him down. There was no sense of fear, just an slight awkward discomfort. It was obvious the gaze affected him in someway, yet how it exactly affected him was beyond both himself and the horned man staring at him.

It was kind of droll, the sense of helplessness that the demon's statement had implied. Feeling slightly amused and nothing more, the "super famous" agent broke his gaze from the clouds that danced overhead to the inhabitants of their little group. It was always a worthy investment to figure out the people around you, be it for self gain or general welfare. Deciding to take the edge off the group that were composed of what he assumed to be society's outcasts, himself included of course, the teen took to the easiest grab at a conversation starter that he could find, namely a certain girl and her very interesting introduction.

She said her name was Sorella and from the way she carried herself, her story was likely best described by her name...

Meaning it felt familiar on the tongue yet distinctly foreign to the mind. She came off smooth and well rehearsed, an actor you could say, given her somewhat extravagant motions earlier, that was well prepared for the entrance of her character into the play. These were all assumptions of course, and before he could take these assumptions further he cut himself off out of courtesy to the person of interest as well as for the benefit of his likely future interactions with her. The last thing he wanted to do was pull a confirmation bias.

"You can call me Kazami, just let me know you're referring to me so I can so respond," came the translation, despite his relaxed body language and simply statement, the words came out serious and professional, "So are you girls as excited for school as I am?"

His eyes quickly darted between two other females on the boat.