No idea what the heck this is supposed to be. Character study? God knows. I wrote this on a whim.
Grell Grell Grell Grell Grell Grell Grell, dear, honey, why do you have to be so weird that I write you on thinking of a simple line? *sigh* I should really be tending to other things that are far, far more important. Seriously.
Should he? Should he not?
The fun is always in those sort of questions.
'The man in scarlet' - overly long, a bit bland, but a name he admires for their pathetic attempt at trying. Humans try and fail. That is their fate, he thinks, but maybe it's biased on his side.
Not that he cares much.
He cares about tonight, instead.
Tonight is a full moon; he sets foot on the curved edge, looking at the wide, hanging ball of reflected light. It's so big, like it moved a thousand inches closer. How abnormal, but it is a splendid, perfect white halo, and he cares no less and no more by how it tries to out do the sun at night.
The moon tries and fails. Just like humans, who try and fail. They try to become others, to satisfy their silly, fateful hearts.
Not that he cares much.
Otherwise the fun is gone.
The man in scarlet grins as the clouds vividly pass by the white moon. With nothing more to think of, he leaps off the building's high roof tops to the lowly backsides, graded leather soles almost whimsically clicking along side sharpened blades grazing lightly against the dirty brick flooring.
The alleyway is ridiculously narrow and stinks with pollution and sins, he considers musingly, but he shrugs and moves on, swinging the bladed machine to slice and kill and reap and soon another death strikes the city of London in shadowy silence - sadly it's not at all like last time, so he just sighs as he looks down.
A small booklet leaves its home in a nineteenth century coat - names and profiles and bland faces greet him inside as he leans an elbow on his chainsaw and leafs a single hand's fingers through the pages, stamping the correct page in judgment as he smiles widely like the hidden moon and wishes the prostitute drenched in glorious red a good night.
And morning rises far behind his back.
Tomorrow's paper reads the same boring news that he knows - he tsks at the bland, overly long name spilt over the headlines, but a human is the name giver. Perhaps he should be merciful. They try and fail, and no god or devil can change it. Everything has been foretold.
That isn't fun at all.
So he goes to the limits of the world and skips through the loopholes of choice, killing and reaping and judging with a leg each on both sides. He is a reaper, and he is a murderer.
Aren't they both the same?
He innocently questions Eric Slingby - the senior reaper is voiceless, eyes speaking the undeniable truth.
A reaper takes souls - a murderer kills. Sounds different. They are not, he has thought so many times. A reaper can judge a soul into an end, but can save one from it. A murderer can kill, but can also choose to spare.
Such a simple question with a simple answer. Yet so much confusion spins and it is something amusing to him. And so, the world continues to travel into that timeless dream, and while fingers point here and there and this and where and sometimes to him, they do not see the answer. They do not see the answer!
The answer is right in front of them...!
But they do not still see.
And so the man in scarlet sighs, pitifully, and is saddened by this lost world.
Wish I had better things to write, but I don't feel like changing it, so...
Whatever.
Review if you want.
~Shiroi