THe Adventures of Death

Inspired by Terry Pratchett's Discworld novel, Mort. Naruto (of course) belongs to Kishimoto.

Prologue

Death sighed, his orbits seeming to gaze over the particularly disturbing report in front of him. Or at least, that's what the assistant assumed they were looking at. It was sort of hard to tell when the man didn't have eyeballs. Or at least, he assumed that Death was a man? Perhaps sentient being was a better label. Regardless, the assistant felt the deep sigh resonate through his very bones, making him cower under the pressure and wilting the potted daisy on the desk. It was the sort of sigh that reminded the assistant that this was in fact Death, and that it was his report that was making the omnipotent being unhappy.

His knees began to shake slightly and silently he prayed that the cloaked skeleton didn't feel like exiling to any sort of purgatory today or dishing out some awful punishment. Only the other day, there had been rumors that the lady on level 17 with the frizzy auburn hair, who usually shouted everyone coffee on Thursday's, had handed in a report on the weekly Reapers' soul collection fund three hours late. Apparently her horrifying screams could be heard for hours, and the worst part; no one had seen her since.

The assistant gulped loudly and concentrated on staring at the toes of his polished leather oxfords.

In actuality, Death was feeling rather put out.

His gleaming phalanges ran over the pages of the latest human soul statistics of universe #27182818285. Something fishy was going down. The numbers didn't seem to add up. If Death had had eyebrows, they would have been tightly scrunched in wary apprehension. As it was, he settled for resonating a particularly dark aura.

Searching for the origin of his unease, he flicked the page over, and then blanched; well at least he knew what the problem was now. Letting out another frustrated sigh – and noticing the Daisy in the pot on his desk turn to ash and dammit that had been a gift - death rested his elbow joint on the polished mahogany desk, glancing up at the new assistant.

"THANK YOU FOR BRINGING THIS TO MY ATTENTION."

Then he paused before,

"YOU MAY LEAVE NOW."

He didn't think it was possible, but the man had gone as pale as himself. The assistant stammered out something unintelligible and bowed before nearly sprinting out of his office with wobbling legs.

Death stared for a moment, not comprehending the assistants suddenly need to flee, then glanced back at the report. He was going to have to do damage control.

Two souls of the universe #27182818285 had reincarnated themselves. Again. The first time, death had been mildly perturbed; and a bit cheated if he was honest. He would not be so complacent a second time. There was a certain entitled prestige that came with his job. He was Death, the first Grim Reaper and master psychopomp. That there were souls in existence that dared to defy him… the very thought brewed an uncomfortable heaviness in his chest cavity that he very carefully did not label petty indignance. Clenching his fists, Death stood, his finely tailored dark hooded cloak billowing over his leering form. An impressively tall scythe materialized in his gleamingly white right hand.

"BERYL, PLEASE WATER MY DAISY WHILE I AM GONE."

The woman in question, a plump middle-aged woman who had no doubt been a soccer mum in her past life, looked panic stricken as she noticed the small pile of black ashes that she was supposed to keep alive. But Death didn't particularly care. He had some souls to investigate, and possibly, reapers to reprimand. A mass of dark shadowy tendrils suddenly exploded from Death's scythe, encompassing his eight-foot frame completely, before being sucked inwards, and leaving the office with a flash of bright white light.