The Reaper

You thought he was dead, but there he is, right in front of you on the street, smiling at you… You should have known better than to trust warlocks to do a decent job, always more concerned about their ego than the matter at hand. And now, you need to submit a complaint to Department Seven, just how you wanted to start your day off. You only have one every third moon. It’s not like you’ve got plans or things to do.

He tilts his head, grinning, “Warlocks, really?” his chest shudders as a cackle escapes his baring teeth. His hands reaching and shredding the rest of the SND logo. He didn’t look too bad, aside from the gaping hole in his chest and the missing fraction of his skull, for a deadman he wasn’t that dead. His eyes harden. His skin stitching together. “I always thought you would be more impressive, but the honour of being your partner soon wore off, and now I’m going to kill you. Imagine that.”

You curse, all you had wanted to do was collect the bounty from the previous day and then devote the rest of your time at the café down the street where time is, well… different. But, no, this idiot wouldn’t stay dead. You couldn’t be assigned a stable partner for once, this one sold his soul to some terrible evil, the one before; eaten by Medusa’s great-something-or-other-grandchild, the one before them, her name was Cathy. You think. She died from a rogue fire fairy, and the first… well, we don’t talk about that. Actually, you had been meaning to double-check who he had auctioned his soul to, it would have to be a big hitter for him to come back for a fourth time. You aren’t complaining though, it does give you the chance to kill him again, and see that smug smirk wiped off his face.

He steps towards you, closing the gap. This one was always too cocky for you, when he died the first time, you weren’t disappointed. Although, the amount of paperwork you had filled out was starting to take its toll. “You know, for an agent, you really aren’t that good,” he chuckles as the bits of the logo flitter to the ground after falling off his fingers, “If you were, I’d stay dead.”

Your fingers curl, the nails biting into your palm. You raise your fist at him, grimacing at the pain that surges through the nerves as it makes contact, the bones in your hand, and his nose cracking and crunching on impact. He now sports a steady stream of liquorice blood. That shouldn’t have been that sore. Not only is he not dead, he’s now got some new found strength. You spit out towards his face, “Fucking Soulbrokers.” as some splats, spluttering in his eye.

It is then your head connects with the nearest drainpipe, the harsh metal burning at your flesh, his image darts around as your head rings, it connects again, that’s going to leave a mark. You honestly didn’t want to do anything work related today. But, who are you kidding, you always end up working. Your vision fails for a moment. Most people would panic, you’re used to it, it happens often enough and you’ve been experiencing it for a while. He’s above you now, his words tickling you ear, “You thought I’d settle with something simple,”

“No,” you trigger your blades, “but I was hoping to be rid of you sooner,… and that you’d stay dead.”

You swing. The blades swishing through the air. Its curved form arching, the point reflecting the streetlight.

His head gallops to the ground, bouncing with the elegance of zombies with mixed-matched legs. You feel a bit of remorse… you’d liked him as a partner, shame they never last very long. You lift his head, your fingers struggling in the slimy substance leaking from the wound, breath still oozing from his lips as you stuff it in your bag, “wait till headquarters hears about how I lost this one,” checking behind you for anything out of place, other than the head shape imbedded in the drainpipe. You sling him over your shoulders, “HR will have a reaping with this.” As usual, the humans milling around on the street noticed nothing. They never do. Always oblivious to the horrors outside their doors. Living is a dangerous business, afterall. You glance at the bag, it moving of its own accord every now and again, “Elves and their obsession with immortality, why could he just become a vampire, they make so little mess.”

You continue walking back on track. Not even this minor hiccup will interrupt your time off.

You enter the café, the bell chiming a sweet melody of clinks and tinks, cakes and flowers adorning every surface, as expected for a pixie owned business. Not giving your name, anyone who wants to leave knows better than that, you take a seat at your table and wait to be served.

The waiter gives you a strange look, surprisingly as you regularly frequent this establishment. “that another one?”

“Yep.”

She nods, her wings fluttering in unease, “You want the usual?”

You nod, plunging a blade into the sack. You don’t need him coming back now. Another incident like that and the owner will kick you out of here for good, but this idiot just won’t stay dead. He doesn’t even have the respect to come back when you're working.

Your presence here often puts off the other customers, no one likes an SND worker, especially not one like you. People start to leave, glances often finding a target at you. Tables shuffle, drinks spill, and soon the room is empty. Alone. You don’t mind, you’re used to it, have been since the day you joined.

You bring out the forms, and start filling in your expectations for a new partner, slowly sipping your beverage to the sounds of pen scratching through paper and the derelict cafe, not even the waiters are inside anymore. You can’t blame them. You are the best killer in the business of killing your own. The brand at the side of your neck proves it, and the fact that you’ve saved the world from the gates of hell, heaven and the awakening of God-he’s not as great as most people think. Even if you were shocked, the whole idea of this loving figure of light was soon replaced with the image of a mad muttering serial killer with unlimited power. 

The door opens, a cyclops walks in. He opens his mouth to speak, spots you and begins to back out. You smirk, it’s not everyday you come face to face with a reaper. Let alone the first. You are the nightmare of the monsters in the world. You are Death.