The death of a blue jay

The sun was high over the park, casting long, golden shadows across the rolling hills and the meticulously trimmed hedges. It should have been a productive Tuesday. Skips was busy repairing the structural integrity of the fountain, Muscle Man and High-Five Ghost were supposedly hauling mulch—though they were mostly just seeing who could throw bags the furthest—and Benson was doing what he did best: turning a vibrant shade of crimson.

"I don't want to hear it, Rigby!" Benson roared, his glass head rattling with the force of his frustration. "I told you to pick up the trash by the snack bar three hours ago! Instead, I find you napping inside the dumpster!"

Rigby stood his ground, though he looked significantly smaller under the shadow of Benson’s fury. "I wasn't napping, man! I was... inspecting the structural integrity of the liner! It’s an important job!"

"Clean it up now, or you're fired!" Benson screamed, the gumballs inside him bouncing like frantic pinballs.

Rigby opened his mouth to deliver a witty retort, but the words died in his throat. From across the lawn, a frantic figure was sprinting toward them. It was Pops. His large head was wobbling dangerously, and his top hat was clutched tightly to his chest. He wasn't skipping; he was running with a desperate, stumbling urgency that immediately silenced the argument.

"Benson! Rigby! Oh, heavens, come quickly!" Pops wailed, his voice cracking with a terror they had never heard before. "It’s Mordecai! Something is terribly wrong!"

Benson’s anger evaporated instantly, replaced by a cold, sinking feeling in his gut. "Pops? What happened? Where is he?"

"By the porch! Oh, please, hurry!"

They didn't wait for further explanation. Benson, Rigby, and Pops scrambled toward the main house. As they rounded the corner of the driveway, the rhythmic, piercing wail of sirens cut through the air. Red and blue lights flashed against the white siding of the house, reflecting off the windows in a chaotic strobe. An ambulance was already pulling onto the grass, the tires tearing ruts into the lawn that Benson would usually have had a heart attack over. Now, he didn't even notice.

They reached the front of the house just as Skips and Muscle Man arrived from the other side. Everyone stopped dead.

There, sprawled on the pavement just at the foot of the porch steps, was Mordecai. He was motionless. His lanky, blue-feathered limbs were skewed at unnatural angles, and his eyes were closed as if he were merely sleeping, but the stillness was wrong. It was too heavy. It was the kind of stillness that didn't belong to the living.

"Mordecai?" Rigby whispered, his voice small and trembling. He took a step forward, his hands reaching out instinctively. "Hey, man. Stop it. This isn't funny. Get up."

The paramedics rushed out of the vehicle, pushing past the group with a grim efficiency. They knelt over Mordecai, checking for a pulse, their faces set in hard, professional lines. One of them began chest compressions while the other prepared a defibrillator.

"Clear!" the paramedic shouted.

Mordecai’s body jolted, but he didn't wake up.

"Clear again!"

The park staff watched in a horrified trance. Muscle Man had his hand over his mouth, his usual bravado completely vanished. Skips looked down at his own weathered, immortal hands, looking for once as though he had no solution for the problem in front of him.

After several agonizing minutes, the lead paramedic stopped. He looked at his partner, who gave a slow, somber shake of his head. The paramedic checked his watch, sighed, and stood up. He turned toward the group of friends, his expression heavy with the weight of the words he had to deliver.

"I'm so sorry," the paramedic said softly. "He’s gone."

The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Benson felt the air leave his lungs. Pops let out a strangled sob, burying his face in his hands. But it was Rigby who reacted most violently.

"No! No, you’re lying!" Rigby screamed, lunging toward the body. Skips caught him around the waist, holding him back with a strength born of centuries of grief. "Let me go! Mordecai! Wake up, you idiot! We have to finish the chores! We have to play video games! Mordecai!"

As the paramedics draped a white sheet over the blue jay and began the somber process of loading him into the back of the ambulance, Rigby collapsed. He fell to his knees in the dirt, his small frame shaking with violent, uncontrollable sobs. The silence that followed the departure of the ambulance was the loudest thing any of them had ever heard.

***

The weeks that followed were a blur of gray. The park felt hollow, a shell of its former self. The house was too quiet without the constant clicking of controllers or the sound of two friends arguing over whose turn it was to do the laundry.

Today, the park had been transformed. It wasn't a place of recreation today; it was a sanctuary of memory. A large white canopy had been erected in front of the house, and rows of folding chairs were filled with faces from the past. It was a testament to the life Mordecai had lived.

Margaret sat in the front row, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy, clutching a damp tissue. CJ was a few seats down, her cloud-like hair a dark, stormy gray, her head bowed in silent mourning. Even former enemies had shown up. Death had a way of neutralizing old grudges. Gene from East Pines stood near the back, looking uncharacteristically solemn, and even some of the strange entities they had fought over the years hovered in the periphery, paying their respects to a worthy adversary.

The atmosphere was thick with the scent of lilies and the heavy, humid air of a looming rainstorm.

The procession began. The park workers—Skips, Muscle Man, High-Five Ghost, and a hollow-eyed Rigby—walked slowly, their footsteps synchronized in a funereal rhythm. They walked alongside the coffin, which was a deep, polished mahogany. Mordecai’s parents and his brother walked behind them, their faces masked in the kind of grief that words couldn't touch.

They reached the front of the house, placing the casket on the raised dais. The crowd stood in unison, a sea of black suits and somber dresses.

Benson stepped forward. He looked older than he had a few weeks ago. The vibrant red of his complexion had faded to a dull, stressed pink. He adjusted his tie, his hands shaking slightly, and stepped up to the podium. He cleared his throat, the sound echoing through the microphone and across the silent hills of the park.

"Thank you all for coming," Benson began, his voice surprisingly steady despite the moisture in his eyes. "I’ve spent a lot of years in this park. I’ve seen a lot of things. I’ve seen world-ending catastrophes, interdimensional monsters, and more property damage than I care to calculate."

A faint, sad chuckle rippled through the audience.

"And usually," Benson continued, "at the center of all that chaos, there was Mordecai. And Rigby."

He looked down at Rigby, who was staring at his feet, his shoulders hunched.

"When I first hired Mordecai, I thought he was just another slacker. I thought he was someone I’d have to yell at every day until he eventually quit or I finally followed through on my threats to fire him. And don't get me wrong—I did yell. A lot."

Benson paused, taking a shaky breath.

"But as time went on, I realized something. Mordecai wasn't just an employee. He was the heart of this park. He was the one who kept things together when they were falling apart. He was a mediator, a friend, and a protector. He had a way of looking at a hopeless situation and saying, 'Yeah, we can fix this.' And usually, against all logic and the laws of physics, he did."

Benson reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, crumpled piece of paper—a chore list from a month ago, one that Mordecai had actually completed.

"He wasn't perfect. He was stubborn, he was awkward, and he was incredibly lazy when there was a new video game out. But he was also the kind of person who would go to the ends of the earth for the people he cared about. He was a son, a brother, and to all of us here... he was family."

Benson looked out over the crowd, his gaze lingering on the empty space where Mordecai should have been standing, probably leaning against a tree with his hands in his pockets.

"The park is going to feel a lot bigger now," Benson said, his voice finally breaking. "And a lot emptier. It’s hard to imagine a morning where I don't walk out onto that porch and see him and Rigby making a mess of something. But I know that every time we see a blue jay fly over these trees, or every time we hear the sound of a bad joke, we’ll remember him."

He turned toward the casket, placing a hand on the cool wood.

"Mordecai, you were more than a groundskeeper. You were a good man. You're fired from your earthly duties, pal. You can finally take that break you were always looking for."

Benson stepped down, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. The silence that followed was broken only by the sound of the wind through the trees.

Rigby stood up then. He hadn't been scheduled to speak, and for a moment, everyone held their breath. He walked up to the podium, looking tiny against the backdrop of the house. He didn't look at the crowd. He looked directly at the casket.

"Hey, man," Rigby whispered into the mic. "I... I forgot to tell you something. That time you thought you lost your phone in the trash? I had it the whole time. I just wanted to see how long it would take you to find it."

Rigby let out a wet, jagged laugh that turned into a sob.

"I’d give anything to have you mad at me for that right now. I’d give anything to just play one more round of Strong Johns. It’s not fair, Mordecai. We were supposed to be the ones who grew old and yelled at the kids to get off our lawn."

Rigby reached into his pocket and pulled out a worn, yellowing video game controller. He leaned over and set it on top of the casket.

"I'll keep the high scores warm for you," Rigby said, his voice barely audible. "See you later, man."

As Rigby walked back to his seat, Skips put a heavy hand on his shoulder, steadying him. Pops began to hum a soft, melodic tune—a song of parting that seemed to make the very air feel lighter.

The ceremony continued, but the sun began to peek through the clouds, hitting the mahogany of the casket and making it glow. For a brief moment, it felt as though the park itself was exhaling, releasing the tension of the past few weeks.

They buried him under the great oak tree near the lake—the place where he and Rigby had spent countless hours avoiding work. As the last shovelful of dirt was placed, and the mourners began to slowly drift away, the park staff remained.

"What do we do now?" Muscle Man asked, his voice devoid of its usual rasp.

"We do what Mordecai would want us to do," Skips said, his voice deep and certain. "We take care of the park. And we take care of each other."

Benson nodded, looking at the group. "Tomorrow. We start tomorrow. Today... today we just remember."

They stood there for a long time, five friends standing guard over a sixth. The park was quiet, the shadows lengthening once more. And high above, in the branches of the great oak, a single blue jay landed. It let out a sharp, familiar cry, ruffled its feathers, and then took flight, soaring high above the trees until it was nothing more than a speck of blue against the vast, eternal sky.