Right of the Injured Party

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 is a speculative ending to the current Campania arc in the manga and will contain massive spoilers for up to Chapter 61. This story is going to contain some highly disturbing, possibly triggering descriptions. This is also meant to be a character study and I will be playing around with characterization a little bit from my own personal interpretations. If you interpret/prefer seeing Grell as a dainty yet hyper lady with some quirks and nothing darker, this fic is not for you. Trust me on this one; this is going to be a very dark and disturbing take on Grell. This also contains my own backgrounds for characters unrelated to canon.

Part 1

The name on his official record was John Pennington. His personnel file said he was born sometime in the winter of 1096 and officially joined the ranks around 1133, making him 37 at the time of his recruitment. It would be tempting to say he looked closer to 60 now, though reapers don't age in the common sense.

We don't age to die, we age with centuries of experience. It is possible to live for as long as you feel like, it is also possible to retire to the outer realms and enjoy eternal rest if one pleases. Out of the handful of things that can kill us, age is not one of them. Reapers don't get all wrinkly and decrepit. Our hair will turn white and there will be some little lines. Elder reapers just look like more mature versions of their freshly minted selves, only their age is more subtle. You can see the centuries if not millennia of wisdom and strife just by looking at them, seeing that distant gaze and that cruel smirk. Older reapers tend to be the most hardened, or in Johnny's case the most deranged.

Our boy was a member of the Sheffield office for the longest while, or rather the Doncaster Abbey before it became the Sheffield office back in the darker ages. He had one of those perpetual prohibitions from reaping members of a certain family; a sign I know from personal experience as a beacon that said reaper was born from nobility. Though this wasn't just one house listed, it was two: The Earldom of Tynell and the Earldom of Morsefield. Maybe daddy or even he was lucky enough to carry two titles, maybe he was royalty and just stacked them up, or maybe someone took an additional decoration by force. It was common in that era from what I understood; I'm sure slaughtering a whole family or having one's family slaughtered makes one a little interesting.

Word spread he carried the title of Lord, though naturally one's human station holds nothing of weight on one's new and improved form. Johnny, however, amassed a respectable if not admirable reputation at one point. In his greener days, he collected the soul of Robert, Earl of Huntingdon; merely an older man in his deathbed after too many bloodlettings. Apparently in his youth he was a storied highwayman with a heart of gold known as Robin Hood; the name is somewhat familiar.

In 1793 he was part of the contingent sent from England to France to collect all the enemies to the Republique liberated of their heads during the Reign of Terror. He became rather well-known for collecting Marie Antoinette fresh from Madame Guillotine. I found that rather odd since usually the host country prefers to clean up after their own leaders in a coup or assassination regardless from where said leader originally came. Perhaps no one in Paris office wanted to dirty their scythes with her. Reapers are not supposed to maintain any political affiliations during such strife, though nationalistic blood sometimes stirs through the veins of the old and dead. Though considering her final destination to a large flaming abyss, perhaps they had their reasons.

He attained management level as a field supervisor and was in demand for lectures at the academy. In reaper terms, he was a bit of a hero at one point in history. Johnny could have rested on his laurels, savored the commendations he received left and right for services rendered, and simply accepted a few speaking invitations to neighboring offices. He might have retired with full honors and allowed to live that simple life in the human world he so wanted. Such desires would mean that our boy was sane, but such was not the case in spades. Whether age made him weirder or he was simply mad from day one, no one will ever know and certainly no one was trusting a word Johnny said.

The boys from Sheffield pulled out records documenting suspicions that he was having inappropriate intimate relations with his clients…after he collected their souls. It turns out his tastes were much darker than even that; the Sheffield bosses said he was suspected of true necromantic practices, a huge no-no for our kind.

They collected enough evidence of his experiments with corpses, death energy, and even Cinematic Records to order his detainment. To make a long story short he didn't go quietly. His would-be captors got a few nasty slices into him, alas he was a bit too quick for all of them. His wounds left him with horrible scars and his glasses were destroyed, but it was not enough to do any real damage. Four dead reapers and one passionate elimination order later, Johnny himself was an outlaw like his first famous client only a bit less revered.

That was fifty years ago and they'd been on watch for him since. Little did they know he slipped into London under a different name and set up a rather successful mortuary shop in St. Giles. He hid right in the open, growing out his fringe and wearing a top hat to conceal his eyes. This wanted outlaw kept a storefront business was known by the locals as the respected if not shivered-upon neighborhood creep. As an undertaker, he was a sought after source of information for the police and many "evil nobles." After a while people forgot he even had a name; he was simply "Undertaker." Hell even I set foot in his shop and had no bloody clue he was anything other than an old kook; this came as a surprise even to sweet Bassie and he supposedly knew everything about everyone. How you mourn being wrong.

That was all in the past now. One ship ride later, Lord John Pennington, or rather Undertaker, was now shackled up in a maximum security detainment cell in the London office. The bosses in London and Sheffield were heaping all the credit for this on myself and little Ronnie. Granted darling Sebastian did do much work, even Earl Whelp proved himself useful. However this was at its heart a reaper matter and ended a reaper matter.

I remembered very little of it; a large slash through the chest with a scythe has that impact. Lord Johnny took his scythe with him when he deserted, Ron and I only found that out the hard way.

Do you have any idea what a scythe wound feels like? A sting, an itch followed by aching? Maybe to someone else, not to our kind. I've taken normal blades before. I've been stabbed, slashed, cut up, even full on disemboweled once; 'tis but a scratch and it heals up in a few minutes. That's with normal steel blades, our weapons are made from this lovely substance known as Gray Metal: it's steel forged hard as diamonds and infused with the energy of death force. Gray Metal draws out the life force of any creature; extracting the Cinematic Record with the soul following behind. Imagine what just a little cut feels like on a creature that is death force embodied.

Imagine a blade coated in powdered acid cutting through flesh and muscles, scraping across bone, nicking internal organs. The pain doesn't just sting then throb, it eats at you, it aches everywhere. That's what it feels like. This isn't a fun ache, this isn't passionate pain; this is pure agony. That is what I was reduced to in one swipe of that blade. When the reality dawned on me, I couldn't help the feeling I was about to die right there; the glory of immortality now rendered meaningless. The thought of being another cold corpse lying with the thousand others on a sinking ship all because of one seemingly innocent old kook.

Then I heard the grunt and gurgle right next to me. Little Ronnie, who just had seven years of his new condition, is drenched in red from the same exact slash. I actually felt bad for the kid, just thinking he was way too bloody young for this. He's a tough lad, I'll give him that. I don't remember much, only that we both picked our arses up and got right back to our jobs.

I don't remember what happened from there, only the knowledge that we did get off that bloody boat, ended up back in the office, and Johnny was in his proper place. It gave me this warm feeling amid my aches; it made it easier to pass out cold.

The damage reports for both of us were rather bleak on their head; the blood loss alone did us no favors and that's not even counting the torn skin and muscles from that little swipe. The worst damage on my end was a nasty cut across my liver. Ron got the worst of it; slashes through his spleen, stomach, gallbladder, and liver. Reaper healing normally can do little against a scythe wound. We all know anything large needs to be sewn up manually, meaning full out surgery for deep internal wounds. Amazingly all of our internal wounds were nearly closed by the time we returned to the office. They kept us under close watch for a few nights, but neither of us needed more than external stitching.

Apparently being away from the office for so long meant Johnny never got the chance to reenergize his blade through the proper cleaning and sharpening process. The death energy weakened with the lack of care, rendering the blade a little less potent. It could still extract a Record (as Bassie learned the hard way) but this means we were able to heal the internal damage on our own; we were very bloody lucky.

The stitching was rather extensive given the nature of our wounds. I was told I got about 130 for my troubles, Ron got more than that. I tried not to look down at the red gash crosshatched with black thread that ran from my lower right side through the left side of my chest. This would scar permanently, I was told; Ronnie's cut too. We both would end up with gashes just like Johnny's, though more heroically earned. Someone said that such was poetic irony; the Undertaker earned such scars murdering his own kind, and he gave us our own as we captured him. Senior and junior would bear the same red mark of valor for their brave service against a hated rogue. What a lovely story that made.

Perhaps I would keep this in mind to keep me from mourning my lovely flesh that was marred so badly. Reaper alteration could take care of this over a period of time, though it would take effort. I was willing to put in as much as possible once I healed. I was horrified by this prospect at first, my vanity speaking a bit loudly. The thought was embedded in my hazy mind that no man would want to make love to me with this scar, I was so hideous. I managed to calm the thought. It wasn't on my face, the scar was easily concealed, plus the men I preferred were made of tougher stuff and wouldn't balk at the sight of a little old scar. Perhaps it would make my beauty even fiercer. Ronnie would have a similar one too; all from the same weapon at the same moment. Perhaps there was a nice story out of this, though rather I was enjoying the company with my misery.

Any superficial worries were swept away in a wave of burning aches. We might have lucked out in every situation but the pain; scythe wounds tend to ache, the deeper and nastier the wound the longer the healing time. Morphine is such a wonderful thing for times like these; just a little shot and back to sleep, though eventually you have to stay awake. That stuff made my stomach turn horribly, after a while I was asking for less and less of it for that reason alone. I'll admit I was in a few Chinese dens during my living days, though I believe that was why I stopped dabbling with that stuff in the first place. I do have a bit of a high threshold for pain, meaning the experience wasn't as awful.

Little Ronnie was so bloody tough. I would still wake up at night to the sound of heavy breaths and grunts in the bed across from me. Through the dim light, I would put on my glasses to see him half asleep, bracing himself with his arms, face contorted and teeth visibly gritted. I felt bad for the kid, though he was pushing through it.

It was in my aching, drugged haze that I would hear about Johnny's story, recognizing William's voice from time to time or one of the higher-ups. We were supposed to be two more of his victims cut down for simply being in the way. He meant to finish us off too if Bassie hadn't intervened. In the end Ron and I were lauded as heroes, we received commendations for bringing in such a deplorable fugitive not to mention cleaning up that many souls under such chaotic circumstances. Apparently everyone had a rosier view of me; a once wayward soul who cut up innocent women was now a reformed hero who brought in a true monster.

Neither of us attended the Undertaker's disciplinary hearing, we were both too cozy in our infirmary beds and just starting to wake up a bit more. I was a little more upright and Ron was a bit more awake when the magistrate came by for our testimony. Two days later, both of us were in much better shape. We then received the news that Lord John Pennington was sentenced to die; he was to be beheaded by scythe at the next sunrise. Words cannot describe the absolute glee in my heart at this news. It made my lingering aches a little less heavy, or rather gave them an answer.

By that afternoon I had been formally released from the infirmary. Ron was going to be there a few more days. I could tell by the looks on his face when the pretty nurses served him his porridge and discussed when he would have his next bath that he was taking everything in stride. I promised him I would tell him how the execution went. You bloody well bet I was going to be there. I wanted to stand right up front and watch the bastard's head fall off in a spray of blood; I wanted to see him covered in the prettiest red and smile upon his corpse. Let's see how hard this nutter laughed now.

I was collecting my nice red nightgown and slippers when William walked into the infirmary cradling a folio under his arm. He simply looked at me; it as not the usual cross or irritated look he so commonly gave. This was different, I could not put my finger on what it was thought it was beautifully cold regardless. He then opened the folio and pulled out a piece of paper.

"The bosses asked me to offer this to you and Mr. Knox, though it appears you are a bit more upright to enjoy the fruits of this decree," William said quietly, looking back at Ron, who was sleeping like a baby in his bed.

William then handed me the paper. The title was simply "Certificate, Code 505: 6a: Right of the Injured Party." I furrowed my brows and read it over a bit more carefully.

Pertaining to Code 505: Reaper Elimination

Section 6a: The Right of the Injured Party

Should a reaper commit such crimes for which elimination is deemed the most suitable punishment, any other reaper who is gravely injured in the process of such crimes (The Injured Party) shall have the right of final reprisal before the guilty party is eliminated. The Injured Party has the right to impose personal punishment on the condemned as he/she sees appropriate and do so with impunity under the following conditions:

1. The Right must be granted by permission of the Council and formally presented to The Injured party by his or her immediate supervisor.

2. A designated certificate must be presented to the gaoler and signed by the designee as indicated on the document.

3a. Scythes or other materials containing Gray Metal are not allowed to be carried in the detainment space of the condemned must be surrendered to the gaoler before entering the detainment space.

b. No extra normal powers may be used in the process of reprisal.

4. The reprisal must be carried out before the last designated hour of the condemned's life.

5. This right may be waived by the Injured Party if he or she so chooses.

This certificate is presented to the Injured Party:

Grell N. Sutcliff

For reprisal on the condemned:

John Pennington

By signing, the party agrees to adhere to the above regulations. Failure to do so will result in disciplinary action.

There were lines on the bottom for a signature and date. I stared hard at this paper, skimming it over again. What the bloody hell was this? Was I reading all of this correctly? I looked back up at Will.

"If I'm reading this right…" I started.

He put a finger to his lips and looked around, signaling for me to keep my tone low.

"You are reading it correctly, though it is an obscure and a rather morbid code. The quieter this is kept the better," William said in a low tone. "I was told the last time this was enacted Cromwell was in power. I was tasked with presenting this to you and Mr. Knox. I did voice my concerns about your own discipline history for the record lest a privilege like this encourage you, you are still under probation."

"But that didn't make a shred of difference to the bosses?" I asked.

"They thought the circumstances merited this, plus you did show exemplary service during that whole incident aboard the Campania," Will said. "The way they phrased it gave me little reason to argue."

I expected to hear his usual annoyed tone, though there was no trace of it. He didn't sound all that disappointed with the circumstances; it was almost chilling yet exciting.

"John Pennington is to be executed tomorrow morning at 4:30 on the dot," he said quietly. "At the present he is heavily locked up in shackles made from an iron ore formulated to keep his energy is at its lowest level for him to even stay conscious. He will be as docile as a drugged kitten. You have until 3:30 in the morning should you decide to take advantage of this privilege."

William patted the folder under his arm.

"Should Mr. Knox wake up and suddenly pull himself upright, I will present him with his own certificate," William said.

He adjusted his glasses by the side of the frames and flashed me a pointed look. It wasn't a look of scolding or irritation; it was almost knowing. It seemed to say, "You'll know what to do." I smirked a little in response. He then looked ahead and walked from the room.

Ronnie remained fast asleep, I personally couldn't stand being in this place any more so there was no reason for me to stick around. I had already signed the discharge papers and been given my care and cleaning lecture. I collected my effects and scoured enough energy to phase back to my room, the sudden shift making me dizzy for a moment though the moment passed. I was healing a bit better than I thought.

It felt so good to be back to my lovely room. This was the first time I'd been here since leaving for that bloody ship. How I missed my lovely red wallpaper with gold flowers and my soft couch. I prepared myself a cup of tea and relaxed a bit, finding a good position so as not to aggravate the stitches. I was tempted to change from my plain white shirt and black trousers into my soft nightgown., though I lacked the desire at the moment. Whilst casually reclining and sipping my Darjeeling, I found myself pulling out the certificate and looking upon it.

This was a rather morbid declaration, it would be tempting to describe it as uncharacteristically Draconian of the higher-ups. They liked their rules and order, though were not as happy to spill the blood of their own unless there was merit. Then again this was Lord Johnny we were talking about; this was a hated murderer wanted by the Sheffield office. He brought his corruption to London and over a thousand people died horribly for it.

Reapers tend to be most arrogant; I have no qualms about admitting this. Reapers tend to be the most arrogant when it comes to transgressors, I know this from personal experience. Fortunately I have as thick skin and have secured many true alliances since returning to the office. I have my own collective who do not cast a downward gaze at me and whisper behind my back.

I'm not proud of my crimes, though they were stealing candy compared to the shit Lord Johnny pulled through the latter end of his career. This was something you heard whispered when someone had a horror story; a story about a true monster among our kind. The fact he slaughtered four other reapers in the midst of his escape carried more than a bit of weight for everyone. As quick as reapers are too look down on the scofflaws among them, they are more quick to rally around a fallen comrade. A reaper who murders those of his own kind is truly a dead man walking even among dead men.

They wanted to make an example of this Undertaker, show him what decent reapers feel about murderers and necromancers…and he just happened to leave two survivors. The bosses knew Ronnie was in no shape to properly punish our boy, though I am sure he would do so enthusiastically. Underneath the façade of a pretty, stupid boy lies a vicious snake that rears his head once given the chance to be let out. I, on the other hand, am in a bit better shape for such a task and oh how the bosses know how I love to play. Perhaps they could think of no worse fate for our miscreant than to give little old me free rein on him. I didn't know if I should take that as a compliment or an insult.

I did debate whether I should give the bosses such pleasure. As much as I might vocalize to the contrary, I really don't tend to take combat wounds personally. Usually I take them as encouragement to press on harder, whether that is with a grin or a snarl depends on my mood at the time. The involvement of a scythe is a much different story. I took a small look under my collar to reinforce this concept. All fun and games end when an opposing scythe is involved; the stakes get raised that much more and simple combat becomes a bit more frightening. When a sneaky bastard decides to hide his scythe in some stupid flying sticks it's another matter, though what of when the first time you realize a scythe is involved is when your chest explodes in sheer pain?

Perhaps I didn't take combat wounds personally, but this situation was a bit more different. I take it seriously when someone truly tries to kill me. Bassie leaning over me with my own scythe last year was the result of my own stupidity, this was much different. Will got to Bassie before any cutting happened, Johnny got his slice right where he wanted it. I had never taken a scythe wound that serious before. We all take a small slice to the finger during training to appreciate the power of what our own weapons can do. I've gotten some very minor nicks before. Never before was I in a position where my very eternal life was in that much danger, the experience was more than a little sobering.

I only needed to think about the scar I would have for eternity unless I used my energy for a prolonged period to be rid of it. What about my Designated Junior still lying in the infirmary? I have had over a hundred years in my state, he is still a young man in mortal terms. And he was nearly cut down as easily as I was, this bothered me a bit. My fingers tightened around the paper.

This was a carte blanche to collect as much as I wanted from the dear Undertaker. He nearly took it all from me, he nearly took the rest from Ron, how much could I take for my own before the executioner's scythe took the rest? I had some fun during that ill-fated voyage before things turned serious; I was due now for some uninterrupted merriment.