Grell Sutcliffe's high heels clacked noisily on the dark paved streets of East London. He'd never been very stealth with his love for all things gaudy and his rather loud choice of a deathscythe, the chainsaw. However, on nights like this, he almost wished that he had chosen a less painful and bloody weapon. He finally understood why William had chosen the pruning pole. It was quiet, quick and clean.
The streets of London were unsavory after dark, full of muggers and prostitutes. The prostitutes all were a little more careful these days, afraid of the bloodthirsty Jack the Ripper, who had never been caught, but rather had vanished into the night. It was a poor district, full of dirt and crime, but the people were at least entertaining to look at as he strode through the back alleys. A drunken sot there, a beggar here, a street-walker flashing her goods.
The flamboyant shinigami got more than one strange look from the humans here, but no one dared say a word to a chainsaw wielding psychopath with shark teeth. Normally he would flash them a wicked smile as he passed, just for his own amusement, but tonight, he just wasn't in the mood to grin. For once, his mind was on his job.
Grell came to the back entrance of a small flat tucked away in the corner. He stood at the door and took a deep breath. He really hated reaping children. It was part of the job, of course, but he couldn't help but feel guilty at times. Reaping a man, a woman, even a teenager was different. They'd had time to live, time to experience love, hate, pain and sorrow. They'd had a chance to sin, a chance to ruin their lives. For some, death was even valued as a release from the burdens of life. A young child, who barely had time to form cognitive thought, was so much harder. This was the kind of night that shinigami loathed.
Silently trying the doorknob, he discovered it was locked, which was not unusual, especially in this district. He pouted, and pulled a hairpin out that he always kept tucked behind his ear for situations like this. He tenderly leaned his deathscythe against the cold stone wall and set to work on the lock. It gave easily under his skilled touch. Reclaiming his beloved chainsaw, he opened the door as quietly as possible and stepped into the musty room.
It smelled of sickness in there, a faintly acrid, distinctly human smell, that a human nose couldn't quite pick up. The single roomed apartment was dimly lit by a flickering candle, burning on a rickety box. Next to the box, was a straw-stuffed mat, serving as a bed for a small child. Grell could not see the child yet, for she was buried in a threadbare blanket. He heard her cough and he stopped in his tracks.
"Mommy?" a small hoarse voice came from under the blanket, and a tiny blonde haired head poked out.
Grell felt a lump forming in his throat, which he silently struggled to swallow. He wondered if he should respond. Maybe if he stayed quiet, he foolishly hoped that maybe she would roll over and go back to sleep. Instead, the little girl struggled to sit up and looked directly at him. Her face was pale and drawn, thinner than any child should be, and her eyes were dark with the illness. She would have been a beautiful girl, had her small body not been affected so.
"Who are you? My mommy is working right now. You have to come back in the morning.'' she softly said.
The reaper's face went pale. He felt nauseous and began to sweat. He cursed over and over in his head, before finally deciding to respond.
"I'm not here for your mother. I'm here for you." he said, barely over a whisper, which was odd for the normally rambunctious shinigami.
"Oh. You must be Death, then." she sighed.
"What?" Grell's jaw dropped. How would she know that?
"My mommy told me that Death would come to claim me soon. So, you must be Death."
The reaper nodded, slowly, wishing he could have gotten a job in the Glasses Division instead of Dispatch.
He approached the little girl and knelt next to her, avoiding her gaze. "When I'm done, you won't hurt anymore. You won't be sick anymore."
"I know. Go ahead." she lay down again, still watching him carefully.
"Close your eyes." he responded, standing up again, his chainsaw gripped tightly. "And don't open them."
She obeyed, and Grell started up his chainsaw, its motor roaring ferociously in the quiet night. He held it over her body and aimed for her chest, hoping to make this as quick as possible, then squeezed his vibrant eyes shut. As the blade and its chain plunged into her body, Grell felt a splatter of warm blood on his face, gentle as a kiss. He heaved a little, disgusted with himself, as he cut the power on his scythe.
The shinigami stood for a moment, fighting his own revulsion and finally looked down at his work. Her poor tiny body was now just a mess of blanket and bedclothes, clotted with gore. He watched as the Cinematic Record began to play, showing her life, from the moment she'd been born.
He watched as her father left, shortly after her birth, claiming that she was not his child, watched as the girl's mother struggled to feed her child by turning to prostitution. He saw the girl begin her descent into sickness, with an inconspicuous cough. The whole record only took a few minutes, because her life had been so short. She'd never even been outside this ancient dirty district. Although, Grell wished he could save her, he knew the rules and this was not one he could break. The only way a person could be exempt from death, was if their life would bring about a greater good for many others. Even if she lived, her life would be nothing but suffering and scavenging, a constant struggle for food and warmth. Her life or death would have no impact on anyone but her mother.
When the judgment was complete, he took a deep breath and was startled to discover that he'd been crying, his tears mixed with the blood on his cheeks. All that was left was the paperwork. Grell wiped his face off on a clean corner of the girl's blanket and left quickly, his heart aching with odd feelings.
It never seemed to get any easier, Grell thought when he was back at his messy little desk, filling out a lengthy form with his favorite red pen. He usually loved his job, but there were some nights that he would do anything not to have that duty. Normally, after reaping a soul, Grell would run off and forget all about his paperwork, in pursuit of love or lust, whichever came first, but this was the kind of reaping he just wanted out of his mind and off his list. He quickly filled out the form, taking some comfort in the familiarity of its neat little typed words. He worded his report much like a confession, knowing it wasn't really his choice, but feeling guilty nonetheless. It wasn't professional and it wasn't proper, but William understood, anyway. He would see the report on his desk in the morning, and probably make some offbeat comment about Sutcliffe finally being responsible, which would make Grell feel better, even if it was sarcasm. William would make it all better, with his calm and tidy demeanor, the one constant in Grell's ever turbulent world.