Beneath a wide-canopied apple tree located on a hill of golden grass and clouds, sits cross-legged a figure whose eternally furrowed brow is not enough to tarnish the beauty of his face. The angel's severe eyes hold an electric blue glow, and his hair is like opaque silver, for it is said God created him from the same matter He used to shape hurricanes and storms. The suit and tie he wears are light blue, in a state of impeccable neatness, perfectly in sync with how strict the wearer appears.
The object Ramiel studies with such concentration is an old wooden abacus he holds firmly in his hands, with beads inflated with light and color whose sight could turn mortal eyes to dust. But Ramiel acts as if he were incapable of recognizing the beauty of the beads, and continues to move them with speed and noise, unsuccessfully trying to figure out what is wrong, to the point that he gets frustrated and runs a hand through his hair, messing it up.
"Still on that?" a soft voice asks.
Ramiel looks back and finds a slender woman, with purple-painted lips, a black off-the-shoulder evening dress, and high stiletto heels. The girl's short hair is blacker than the darkness of the universal void, and although her smile might be the most merciful in existence, it is the kind of mercy many would flee from without a second thought.
"Azrael, this is not your problem," Ramiel says in a firm tone, returning to his task.
Azrael takes off her heels, ends up on her knees behind the accountant, and slides her arms to hug him, also looking at the abacus.
"Have you thought about just letting it run? Why do you have to be so stubborn?" she asks as if they hadn't had this conversation a million times already.
"We have had this conversation 10,464,698 times already and have reached no consensus. You are wasting my time."
"Maybe time 10,464,699 will be the lucky one."
Ramiel snorts and shakes his head. Azrael also begins to explore the different beads with her gaze, more out of curiosity than a true desire to help. Contributing would be pointless when both possess different philosophies regarding God's creation.
Ramiel is a determinist; for him, creation is a chain, a sequence of cause and reaction, from point A to point B, all the way to point Z. With an adequate and powerful tool like the abacus in his hands, he is capable of knowing the origin and the end of all things. And wielding mathematical judgment, decreeing whether a soul should transcend, reincarnate, or be purified among infernal punishments... In such perpetuity of results, Ramiel finds divine perfection.
Azrael, on the other hand, is a stochastic; for her, God's perfection is not in a rigid grid system where all pieces fit and the chips always land in one place, but rather she recognizes randomness and the obtaining of unforeseen results, as well as the beauty of spontaneity. She is faithful to free will.
"Maybe you made a mistake and there is no error, think about it," Azrael says into her companion's ear.
"I know what I am doing. Someone tampered with the beads, and even if it takes me a thousand centuries, I will find out who it was and rectify this heresy." The firmness in Ramiel's tone makes it clear he isn't joking. "Hmm...?"
The accountant's attention is drawn to a specific bead. He narrows his gaze and leans in for a closer look. He glimpses Fantasia, and by peering deep into the stardust, he manages to see a world of kingdoms and magic. Before he can sharpen his assessment, Azrael taps his shoulder to get his attention and points to a different bead.
"That looks like a problem," Azrael says, pointing at a bead with her finger.
Ramiel shifts his attention to the bead Azrael is pointing at and forgets about Fantasia. From the other galaxy located in the corner of the abacus, colossal spaceships can be seen emerging, with energy drills and antimatter engines meant to tear through reality itself to explore new horizons. It is a single-faction galaxy that has reached its peak potential, and is now preparing to surpass the limits set by creation, bringing with it armies capable of turning planets into pebbles.
Ramiel grunts inwardly and carefully unhooks one of the rods of the abacus, then removes the problematic bead and, holding it in his right palm, brings it close to his displeased face. The angel squeezes his hand until a crunch is heard. Dust falls between his fingers.
The accountant readjusts the abacus and continues with the beads. Azrael gets bored and leaves.