Reaper's Working Holiday
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: Written for the "Trick or Treat" mini-contest at Grell Sutcliff-FC on deviantArt. This was written in a couple hours and ended up winning the contest. I figured I'd put this over here.
The company kept a perpetual party table stocked with fruit, bakes, biscuits, cider of the mundane variety, and a few handfuls of candy all day today. This was the office Hallow's Eve party, not too much of a bang-up affair. All of us were considered on duty tonight, this was merely an act of kindness for those passing back and forth.
It wasn't a matter of more people died tonight, it was more a matter of all released souls tended to be a bit grumpier. Let me say anyone who ever dismissed the notion of increased oddness on Halloween as utter rubbish were utter idiots. We had been trained from day one that death energy is higher in the air that night, the natural walls between the different realms were much weaker, and anything related to any souls tended to be a bit more powerful and a bit more agitated.
It also meant that everyone in the office had come to expect more snapping, more swearing, more giddiness, and a bit more loudness. Yes, reapers are a bit higher in the power and civility scale (according to ourselves) though all bets are off tonight of all nights. It was probably the real reason behind this wonderful collection of treats. Human Resources wanted to boost morale, or coddle us like a bunch of cross children by sticking sweets in our mouths. It did tend to work.
Perhaps my own spiritual agitation was showing, but I was always merry as a schoolgirl on Halloween. The humans gave this once-somber holiday a bit more revelry in the past century, treated it with a bit less solemnity and made it an excuse for one lovely party after another. Naturally we were expected to maintain professional decorum all night, though a few of us would sneak little masks and witch hats out.
This practice was becoming increasingly encouraged during certain reapings, especially if the client was a child whilst guising. If the little boy who fell under the wheel of a carriage or the little girl succumbing to her pneumonia saw the mask before they saw the scythe, they would be a bit calmer and bit easier to collect. It was a tactic that often worked on adults too, especially if said adult was delirious or drunk at the time or if said client kept the spirit of Hallow's Eve like any child.
This was why I decided to return to my room during a small lull to change into some more appropriate attire for my next few clients. I had been eyeing this lovely witch costume in one store for a while; it had such a lovely black lace dress with this little red and black striped cap. Alas the Will was beating into our heads "Appropriate attire, no excuses." Meaning wearing a dress was out of the question on the job, I would have to save my new costume for later in the evening then when I had finished all my clients. "Appropriate" however didn't have to mean stodgy; I could still have a little fun.
I decided to go with a more stylish interpretation of the reaper motif; long-black coat embroidered with silver thread, this lovely white shirt with a ruffled collar, and a smart white tie. It was work-appropriate, plus I added this mask I found emblazoned with a white skull that actually fit well over my glasses. I let my lovely red hair cascade down, a delightful contrast to the black. I was a handsome reaper about town.
Thankfully none of my clients that night were children, perhaps I was being given a bit of a break. The mask stayed in my coat pocket for the better part of the evening, I respected the concept of keeping decorum in the presence of the dying. I had a pretty full load, hopping from one section of the city to another. Despite the nature of the evening, I had little difficulties with my collections.
I did notice a few lingering ghosts were a tad more visible and a bit louder. Not as in they were creating problems, but they seemed a bit more talkative. Some of them would tell me about the human I was reaping.
"I've been wanderin' about this house for fifty years," this one old cleaning lady said. "And she was the worst o' all the guests at my house. She was always bangin' that ruddy broom on the ceiling, it just made me slam some doors harder."
"Yes she's probably glad to be out of your hair now," I responded once I marked my book.
"She better," the lady ghost said. "I best not be keepin' ya, luv. Happy Halloween, oh and tell Mr. Slingby Gertrude Marsh says 'allo."
"I'll be sure to tell him," I said. Like he would remember some stupid bat he collected fifty years ago who's still floating around.
Gertrude Marsh was the most talkative out of all the lingering souls, the rest seemed to just congregate amongst themselves or talk about the séance they would crash next. A séance gave me the opportunity to bring my mask out. This one man who billed himself as the "Great Mysterioso" was having a rather large party to display his rubbish parlor tricks to a crowd of rich guests. The name in my book was Alfred Cooper and he was due to die of massive head trauma at 9:30 on the dot.
My client was in the process of doing this elaborate reading for this crying lady, saying the spirit of her dead father would be entering the room and tell his presence by raising a table. No one was able to see the strings and pulley system in the dark, though my sight is a bit better for these things. He raised the table, received his applause, and got an extra £5 tip for his bollocks. Oh bloody hell, Viscount Druitt was standing from his seat and clapping with tears in his eyes. Oh how I hate that imbecile. Fortunately my part in this whole drama came after one of the Great Mysterioso's clients called out his nonsense with a pistol in his hand. I made sure to stand in front of him and put my mask on, going visible for that split second before he took a bullet to the skull. That look on his face was just priceless, not to mention the little scream that came out of Lord Druitt once he caught that glimpse of me.
I thought that would be my most rewarding collection of the evening. This Halloween had been rather mundane, though I had little to complain about. My last client of the evening would give me the perfect opportunity to use my mask again, though more for the spirit of the holiday.
Peter Andrews was an old widower who ran this cobbler shop in Holborn. Halloween was his favorite holiday; he would open up the shop and have treats available for children. Children who looked well fed would receive soul cakes, needy children would receive a warm meal and a few extra coins for their families. He would always wear a costume and decorate his building with paper cutouts of pumpkins and witches and scary cats.
This would be his last Halloween night with the children, he was on my list to die of heart failure. This king of Halloween deserved an appropriate send-off.
I stood on the roof and watched the costumed children knock on his door. He would emerge dressed as a pirate with a few growls of "arrgh" for his visitors. Such merry little children they were, standing at his door singing for their soul cakes.
"Soul, Soul, a soul cake!
I pray thee, good mister, a soul cake!
An apple, a pear, a plum, or a cherry, any good thing to make us all merry.
One for Peter, two for Paul, three for Him that made us all."
They say the Reaper is a hard, unmerciful creature. Well this reaper was watching this delightful scene with a warmth in her heart and a grin on her face. He was so gentle with the children, so kind. The more children he served, the more I noticed his hand going to his chest and his breath coming in heaves. I looked at my watch; it was time to make my appearance.
He closed his door, I jumped from the roof and onto the step. I pulled my mask down, disguising my lovely scythe to look more like the one used by reapers of old. At last I knocked on the door. Peter opened it and looked on me with a bit of a surprised expression.
It was only appropriate I do the proper greeting, though my voice, lamentably, was that of a grown man
"Soul, Soul, a soul cake!
I pray thee, good mister, a soul cake!
An apple, a pear, a plum, or a cherry, any good thing to make us all merry.
One for Peter, two for Paul, three for Him that made us all."
He stared at me for a second, then this look of sad understanding came on his face. Sometimes we are more recognizable to humans on this night. There are some humans sensitive enough to the planes to recognize exactly what we are, on Halloween such a sense is more advanced.
Peter smiled and handed me one of his little cakes.
"You're not here for a soul cake, are ya sir," he said with a sad smile.
I removed my mask and placed it in my coat. He smiled a bit wider.
"You actually look like a young man," he said.
"There is no one face of death personified," I said, my left hand taking the reverse corna I had become so fond of using. He gave a small start, probably upon seeing my teeth though he didn't look too scared. "As there are many of us."
I stepped into his house and extended my hand.
"Grell Sutcliff at your service, sir," I said.
"Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir," he said, shaking my hand. "And I mean that in the most sincere way. I knew this was comin' soon. Perhaps tonight's the best night."
"You will be rewarded for your great kindness," I said.
"Thank you," he said, his breath coming a bit heavier. "I'm at peace with this. I've had a good life."
He fell to the floor, a smile firmly in place.
"Happy Halloween, lad," he said, his eyes closing.
I kept the motor off my scythe and let the blade to the work on its own; I was feeling particularly generous.
Peter Andrews' record indeed showed a generous man who lived a full life and his soul went quietly. It moved me how this one reaping had gone. I would leave with my mask on, giving my soul cake to a little boy huddled against a wall trying to keep warm.
I was ready to return to the office, change into that lovely witch costume in my closet, and enjoy a nice mug of mulled cider. Perhaps I would find Mr. Slingby and tell him that Gertrude Marsh sent her regards.