Age of Death
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of Yana Toboso and Square Enix, Co. Ltd. I don't own them; I just examine all their possibilities.
Author's Note: This has been a concept I have been wanting to do something with for over a year: the reapers in the '70s. You first saw this in the form of a crack cosplay, then in a oneshot called "A Perfect Night Off." Well here is the full story. The story is episodic and will jump around a bit in timeline and narration. This is an original concept and treat this like an AU. Canon is only a baseline and will be manipulated, added upon, or ignored. Also expect extensive mentions of political and social issues through history, including LGBT issues, religion, race, sensitive historical events, and many others.
Prologue: New Year's resolutions
-C:\Users\GSutcliff2\Documents\BoysinHeat\Ch1
-2 Jan 1976 22:12
Ext - Piccadilly Circus - Night
It is New Year's Eve; 1975 will die tonight in the screaming birth of 1976.
The square is packed with throngs of merry people donning glittery, multicolored caps that read "Happy New Year" or holding all the manner of noisemakers. A chatter echoes through the crowd with a few added shouts and screeches for good measure. It is cold with the threat of rain, but the crowd pays no kind to the ill weather. Some are drunk on merriment, many are just drunk.
There are a few news trucks scattered around the perimeter. Channel 1 and Channel 3 have their respective well-dressed anchors strategically placed around the square getting some quotes out of screeching revelers. Even the American Broadcasting Corporation has a few cameras perched from balconies showing how the Brits celebrate their New Year's in some international spectacle.
On one low rooftop out of sight of all the giddy masses stands one FIGURE, one SPECTRE looking down over this sea of humanity; feet in a steady position on the shingles, arms crossed, smile in place. He finds this all rather quaint.
Here are these happy humans celebrating but one more turn of the year in their gaudy finery. They are all sinners and/or saints from different backgrounds, different histories. Some are here to just enjoy the revels, some are here to lift wallets, some want that New Year's Kiss, and some want a bit more than a kiss. How lovely they all are making such a fuss over one more year.
The SPECTRE peers at these humans, savoring their liveliness before he finally decides to join the party. He jumps from the roof and gently plummets five stories, landing gracefully on the ground below. He then takes a casual stroll into the crowd, shaking off his supernatural invisibility and walking amongst the humans looking like just another regular bloke. But this man in his fashionable red leather coat and shaggy hair is not one of them. He has seen the turn of two hundred years and then some; over 200 of these little New Year's spectacles.
From the third George to the second Elizabeth, the SPIRIT has called London his home for ages. He has walked in the streets and skipped across the rooftops of Piccadilly Circus hundreds of times watching everything change. Horses and cobblestones are now metalled roads and smoggy cars, wigs and petticoats have changed to jeans and short skirts, mud and horse shit has been replaced by papers and soda bottles.
What will always remain the same is the joy of this New Year's night, and the spectacle of London. There another thing that will always remain constant, one thing this SPIRIT embodies; DEATH. DEATH will come for all these people someday, but not tonight; the REAPER is not on duty for another hour.
DEATH is now walking among the crowd this evening, though in a jovial mood. The REAPER takes a moment from his schedule to engage in a little celebrating.
A little overdramatic? Perhaps, though I do enjoy a nice dramatic entrance (in so many ways). Who knows maybe the above attempt at narrative might turn into something. I've been trying to think of a concept for a screenplay. Cinema fascinates me to no end, though I have been more the actor (and actress) than the playwright. Who knows, my fancy is fickle.
Right now I am having a little too much fun with the new playtoys they installed in each of our quarters; another technological wonder we get ahead of the humans. The office computer is a becoming a bit more common, but this one is a bit more advanced; a little less boxy with a bit more ease of use.
The wondrous part is all our systems are hooked into one server. We don't need to phase down to the main office to hand in our reports, we can file them remotely when we get off at an awkward hour. Still we need to do office hours, the bosses would rather we didn't laze about in our rooms pretending to do work between staring at the telly. We got a new system yesterday, right on New Year's Day: a prototype model from our technicians. This won't be perfected in the human world for another twenty years.
In the spirit of a new year and a brand new toy, I may as well act on a new resolution; to pick up journaling again. I kept a diary off and on back when Vickie the harpy was on the throne, but it was short lived. This time I don't have to waste any ink or cramp my hand. Now there's password protections instead of flimsy keys to keep prying eyes away. As for the ones with more technical savvy than brains, if they get past the gates of these castle walls they're going to find a nasty dragon in wait. Then again I did label this file something rather unappealing for the average office boy, hopefully that alone will keep prying eyes away. Yes, a life of wicked deeds makes for a life of over cautiousness in some areas.
May as well start this little record with the holiday, the exact one I described so grandly a few paragraphs back. It was worthy of such a definition. For the past five years I have tried to spend New Year's at Piccadilly Circus. It is such a frenzy of humanity there; so many drunken, screaming people in one tight space. All these bodies pressed together, steam rising into the air; so glorious.
I do aim to have a more riotous party next year. That will be the 200th anniversary of a New Year's party at Earl Phantomhive's manor. It was such a gloriously fucked up evening; full of sex and booze and bloody death, they still talk about it today. Next year I need to ring in the occasion grandly, just not as grandly as that night.
As for House Phantomhive, Earl Charlie is still on winter holiday in Aspen with Countess Abby and the kids. He sent me a postcard with this lovely photo of a snow covered mountain, recommending some exquisite restaurants if I ever take a holiday there. Thanks but no, not a snow bird myself; English cold is enough for me. In fact I already have arrangements in Saint-Tropez when I take holiday time in the spring. I do know the earl is having a dinner party shortly after his return. I did receive an invitation before he left for the States. I wonder if this is a general gathering or reserved for his more intimate circle of rowdies; I do enjoy surprises.
Enough about Charlie, I see him coming and going plenty of times. There is another London homecoming I'm positively joyous about; one cocky old ghost who I've been lucky to get a Christmas card from every few years. Then again he didn't leave London under very pleasant circumstances, I can't say I blame him for being a bit scarce with his old associates. Now he's been calling a bit frequently, I'm getting used to hearing his voice again. Apparently his gig in West Berlin is getting a little tedious after thirty some odd years. The novelty of seeing another side of life has worn off, though the poor boy is getting homesick.
If all the paperwork passes the right bosses, Mr. Ronald Knox will be rejoining us in London. The whole matter is still in the talking stages, but I've seen a few forms pass through. I am merry as a schoolboy about his return, but it has been a bit of a long time. I'm sure little Ronnie has grown up even more.
He was still that swaggering little bastard even during the last war, I doubt much has changed. He is a senior himself now, our boy's all grown; the question is has he truly matured? I am a manager now and he's never got on too well with management; that's one way to test this. Still, he was my junior and we were as thick as thieves by the time he left my tutelage. Worst comes to worse I'll whip the little bugger in line.
I think the unpredictability of his return excites me even more. The same flesh is coming back, but will it be the same ghost? I'm more than intrigued to see how this personage will interact with this stage. Alas that won't be for another few months at the very least, likely longer the way the bureaucracy moves.
I did ask Will how he felt about little Ronnie's return. The last time Ron was in the office his fist shared an intimate moment with Will's jaw to the accompaniment of a few angry screams and one loud crack. Will's jawbone did mend itself, but many wounds leave phantom aches years after the fact especially on reference to the one who caused it. Will has changed a lot too, his own ego was put very nicely in check though under some unpleasant circumstances of his own.
He wasn't as put off by the thought of Knoxie's return as I thought he would be. He has been more collegial in general, I never thought that could be applied to Knox but perhaps he has come that far. It's a shame, they used to be friends. They formed a lovely bond over my comatose body back in '90, I was happy to wake and join the party. Wars, however, have a way of digging up old rubbish. I learned this the hard way and we lucky sods had the biggest wars in modern history to contend with. Everything those two put aside collapsed in the '40s. Hopefully thirty years of peace and growing up a bit can clear a few things out.
We are three different men now and these are much different times. Reapers, however, have the nasty habit of letting decades go by without a notice. It is too easy to remain a statue; the same carvings and moldings remain, but are green and rusted with the winds and storms of change. Even those who do change still harbor the same idiosyncrasies and grudges deep down.
It's no use speculating though, everything will play as it plays and I will watch it all with opera glasses and a smile.
I'll certainly be updating this little journal on the developments. It will probably have that amusement factor, if not become something so embarrassing I'd rather toss away the whole computer. It's rare I am ever embarrassed like that; not unheard of, but rare (as some blighters in the office have found out, but that's another story).
So I bid adieu to this journal for one evening. They put me on for an early shift tomorrow, desk work unfortunately and the fun stuff a bit later. One wouldn't think a title like "Field Supervisor" would involve that much desk work, but as I said such is the nature of bureaucracy. I'll settle in with some tea and catch some telly to settle me in for the night.