Everything fades into regular, high-pitched beeping.
I open my eyes to the unsettling sight of machinery next to the bed I’m lying on.
Where in God’s name am I?
I tear some of the tubes off my chest and this starts a rapid, insistent sound.
Sam’s at the park, I remember vaguely. No, that can’t be right. Sam’s waiting for me…
…at…
All at once the memory of the past week comes rushing back. It feels terribly discomforting yet also as natural as puzzle pieces sliding together.
I sit bolt upright and nurses walk into the room with their mouths hanging open.
“I know everything,” I tell myself. “I know who I am now.”
The rebellion that spilled over to the surface world shall be known forevermore as the Battle of the Bolgias. A great number of Death’s loyal guards, the Helter-Skeletals, have shed marrow and nutrients to restore the balance between the Fates. Restore is an apt word because the minds of Spinstra and Charon have both been reborn by Lethe, the old-school equivalent of a factory reset.
After some quick but heartfelt grieving for the fallen, Seph proceeds to freeze the Sands of the Horologium and pay Manchester Imagay a visit in his bedroom. He makes the barista sleepwalk and then pushes him down several flights of stairs, not intending to kill him but just to paint him the right shade of black and blue.
During the ride to the hospital, the empty, broken husk that was Sephtimus’ costume is switched with the real sleeping Chester. It’s one of those cases the experts just can’t explain. And neither can Chester. He regains consciousness, suffering from a head trauma that has conveniently wiped out all memory of the previous night, wrapped in unbelievably soft arms and being soothed by an angel.
As for me, I go on to live a full life by the sea together with Sam. Though I’m perfectly and grimly aware of how frail and ephemeral humans are, that doesn’t stop me from loving and being loved.
The big guy downstairs is back to his old grouchy and at times mischievous self. With no room for love in his heart – or so he makes it appear outside. He’s often deep in his sanctum santorum, digging his hand into a bucket of popcorn while monitoring the human realm through the magic-mirror screens. He and every bit of skull embossed on the curves and edges of his throne howl in laughter and sometimes cry at the simplest human things.
All his gothic rings are back on his fingers except one. And the Infernal Affairs agents stand heroically at the Helm once more. Behind this last tableau, a larger-than-life logo of a hip skull can be seen hanging from the ceiling, with the words of Virgil on its rim: Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo, which translates to: If I cannot bend the will of Heaven, I shall move Hell.
The End