Here's where things got a little complicated: several weeks into Grade 10, and a few days before the two-year anniversary of my sudden awakening, Marx and another Reaper were sent to help with a huge incident a few settlements over, and—I was really starting to get used to this—I was the only one free for another assignment. Specifically, a single-victim car crash. I had nothing better to do that day and that soul wasn't going to reap itself, so I printed off the file, grabbed my things, and headed out.
Michael, that was his name, he was swerving down the entire street, and watching him finally veer into a wall was the strangest thing. The vehicle was beyond salvation the moment it hit, but Michael—well, he took a little longer than that. Several minutes of pointless fighting, smashing his fists against the collapsed metal and recoiling at each new flame that found its way to his face. I just waited. Waited and then headed over, cutting open an access route to his soul and leaving as soon as I went over his Record. And that was it.
Days passed and I found myself back in school. Monday was miserably rainy and the kind of foreboding I felt that morning, it wasn't what deaths gave me, but there was something wrong and I knew it. But I paid no mind. In retrospect, that was almost certainly a mistake, a very bad mistake to what I'd figured out over the years, but the brooding, immortal teenager in me simply didn't care.
How accurate my empathy was these days, I didn't know, but the anger I felt coming into the building was stronger than I could've ever expected from any student. Raw and burning, something more like what Elliot would give off on a bad day. I felt it from everyone, but the kids in my own first period class were the worst. When I walked into class, everyone immediately turned—and I mean everyone. An article from the local news was up on the projector, along with several different shots of the same face, all fuzzy. Suspicious person, they wrote. Seen around several crime scenes.
"Late again," someone muttered. "What was it this time?"
"I slept through the alarm," I answered, indignant. "What do you think I was doing?"
"That's you, isn't it?"
"What?" I took another look at the article. "Oh—what the fuck?!"
David—Cunty, I still called him that—he always considered me a freak in general, but it only got worse after graduating. Whether he'd seen me at one too many funerals or he could just feel the energy coming off me, I didn't know, but the suspicions he carried with him made him right dangerous. Today was no different, I realized when he stood up and knocked me to the ground before I could even react.
"David—David, man, chill," I huffed, struggling a little under his weight. "Gimme a second to explain, would you?"
Part of me was glad my glasses bounced off in the impact; I could only imagine the kind of expression he had on in that moment. I was scared, but more of having to fight him than actually getting hurt. Chances were, I wouldn't be able to hold back, and I didn't even want to think about what might happen then.
"Little bitch," he said, fist raised in the air. "You think I'll believe you?"
"Believe me about what? That I'm not a fucking murderer?"
He didn't answer. His hand was still up and I saw him quiver for a moment, and then—
I blinked. Just a little blink and he was nearly motionless, along with everyone and everything else. One hand reached out and replaced my specs, and the other pushed me up off the floor and out of his line of sight. I took a deep breath and glanced back at his frozen form. I could've let him at my face—he hardly would've broken anything, and even if he did, it would've healed in no time. But I didn't.
I took a long, deep breath and looked around, gaze falling on the article again. Botched invisibility, I figured. That was the only real possibility. Never once did I stop to double-check that I was as unnoticeable as I should've been, and it was only a matter of time before it would come back to bite me. That was now. The shock must've thrown off my focus, because within seconds I was back to a regular flow of time. David's fist collided with the floor and all I could think about was how stupid I was for reacting like that, for letting my instincts take over.
All he did was stare at me, wide-eyed horror against my flat stupor.
I could've said something, tried to talk him out of whatever he was thinking. But I didn't. I frowned and simply walked out the door, down the halls and out the building, where I sat down in the freezing rain in a vague and awful attempt to clear my head. God knows how much time passed like that before I heard voices behind me, and I turned. One by one, my class walked out, our teacher and several others who'd heard the commotion along with them.
David was near the front of the crowd, blue eyes cold as ever. He took a few steps forward and stopped in front of me, and I gave a wry smile.
"What the hell was that?"
"You were going to punch me, man. I panicked."
"Don't be a wiseass—that thing you did back there, what the fuck?"
I pondered his question, chuckled a little in a weak attempt to lighten the mood. "Short answer? Time manipulation. Made myself move faster than everything else so I could dodge the hit. Like I said—you freaked me out."
Whatever skepticism he had in him was evidently gone after that incident, and so the next thing he asked was, "What are you?"
To that my reply was an innocent, "I'm human." Part of me really did believe that, but then there were things like my cemetery eyes, the way children stared at me—the kind of things that were impossible to ignore. So then it came as no surprise that no one, not a single person in the crowd lacked that look of furious disbelief, vicious little glares that told me hey, you tried, but did you really think you'd last until Grade 12 before someone noticed? Deep down: nope. Not even a little.
"Really thinks it's like us," David said, head tilting in an almost comical way. "What a load of bullshit."
My face went tight and I lunged, dragging his arms behind his back before I even knew what I was doing. "Call me an 'it' again and I'll break your fucking neck, Cunty. I have had it."
A second went by and I loosened my grip, watching him run off into the crowd. The sound of rain against asphalt was all I could hear for miles around and I frowned, waited for someone to break the silence. Well—no one ever did. That task fell upon me alone.
"Shit. Shit, okay. Today was crazy." My frown deepened. "I just—I gotta ask. What the hell happened all of a sudden? You're going off some shady article saying, wow, this guy just happened to be nearby when these people died. He definitely killed them. Is that what's going on?"
"Yeah. Yeah, that's exactly what's going on."
"So that's what you think too," I said, absently scanning the crowd for the voice's origin.
"That's what the entire school thinks!" That was someone else. "That's what the police station thinks, it's what everyone thinks! Why else would you always be nearby when shit like this happens?"
"Oh—jeez, that's a long story." I recoiled a little in spite of myself. "I was sending them off. Reaping their souls, Death-style."
"What?"
"Yeah, like, Scythe and all that, making sure they reached the afterlife. I didn't fucking kill them and honestly, I'm cracking up inside right now, just thinking that you guys actually believe that. That you even think I'm that kind of person. So then—yes, David, you're right. I'm not a human. I'm a Reaper. Got the job a few years ago and I guess I just sucked at hiding it. That's all there is to it."
A long chorus of mutters sounded in the crowd, and I waited, fiddled with my brooch until they finally died down.
"So now I'm just thinking, well, I probably can't come here anymore, can I? That'd be awkward for all of us, knowing your classmate has your age of death down like the back of their hand." I gave a wry laugh. "Good luck on the exams, and uh... bye."
That was the last thing I said before heading off, and likely last thing I'd say to any of them in a very long time. I quietly walked the ten minutes home and warped into my bedroom, where I set to work stuffing clothes, money, and some personal possessions into my backpack. When that was done, I took a few minutes to write a note saying this:
A lot is going on and I need some time away from here. I'm safe and have a place to stay, and it won't be forever. Love you. Sorry.
I placed it on my pillow, tidied the room a little, and then left the same way I came in. I was sick and tired and goddamn, I was scared. Scared what would happen if I stayed. What they'd say to me. Running away sure as hell wasn't the answer, but maybe it would help me find it.
Topsy was sitting under my window with her tail wagging when I came out. I stopped to hug her, and said, "I'm dealing with a lot of stuff and I have to leave for a while. I wish I could take you with me, but it gets pretty dangerous sometimes, and I don't want you to get hurt. I'll try to visit."
She sniffed, said something like, "Why, though?"
"'Dunno." I shook my head. "People here don't like having non-humans like me around, I guess. They fear the unknown. Hopefully I can come back once everything's sorted, but for now, there's really no other option. I'll miss you, buddy."
A long ten minutes passed with me scratching her back and letting her slobber over my hands, the kind of things I wouldn't be content going without for who knows how long. I would've spent much longer there, but pretty soon I heard a car pulling into the driveway, and I panicked. So one last little kiss and that was it. I was gone.
O O O
There was something oddly comforting about the cold, endless expanse of the district base. The flat greys of the buildings, the ring of mountains at the edge. It was too big, too quiet. It gave the feeling of a post-apocalypse world. But there was something calming within that. Familiar.
The sky was the same perpetual robin's egg, and the garden was still there, kept alive by a series of invisible sprinklers trailing from the fountain. Wildflowers—some pink, some blue, some a mix of colours. And some of them, as I could distantly recall from stray personal research, symbolized exactly the kind of bullshit that could be expected in a place like this. Death and old memories and forgiveness—whoever picked them out must have thought they were being pretty clever. Nah.
Marx's apartment became my new home for the next week. I slept on his couch, wrapped in an old, magenta blanket I nabbed from home. Whatever happened those few days, there wasn't a single assignment out for me—not one. I didn't have homework or the courage to talk to my parents, either, so most of what I did was just typing up nonsensical Google searches on my laptop, things I didn't really expect to find answers to. How to deal with a situation like mine.
I had no doubts it was obvious something was wrong. But if anyone noticed, they didn't say anything, or else they just didn't care. Elliot and Marx were the only ones who knew the whole story, and while William had his own very blatant suspicions, he didn't probe.
Sometimes I expected Elliot to come over and play therapist again. Part of me hoped he would, knowing he was far better at it than any professional. But the few times he showed up at work that week—that month, he seemed worse than I'd ever seen him, always face tight and a bottle of eighty percent in his lap like no big deal. Leaving without a word when someone tried to talk to him, not even bothering with his usual antics. The general consensus was yeah, this kind of thing did happen sometimes, but it was definitely rare. Very little made it past his wall of snark.
Two weeks had passed since the incident at school, and that was when he really just broke down completely. Huddled close to a Reaper I didn't know, tried very visibly to calm himself a little, and when that didn't work, just started crying. Bawled his fucking eyes out. Elliot was like that for hours, never quite letting up completely, and I'm sure that any other day, he would've gotten the very same reprovals he always did for not working. But if there's one good thing that comes out of a society built on suicide, it's sympathy. No one had the heart; someone simply filled in for him, and that was that.
Elliot, though, didn't return the next day, nor the day after. Marx called sometime around the fourth day and understood that he was still alive and well, but chances were I wouldn't be seeing him for a while. Alone time was usually what worked best for Elliot in cases like this, he said, and if that meant a week, a month away from everything, so be it. It was usually better than the alternatives.
Still more time went by and I was assigned a job; eight people, all killed by fatal headshots. Someone somewhere had found a way to rent out an empty building downtown and host a party, and another someone would open fire on the crowd. That was four days from now.
Shootings were a ludicrously rare occurrence for miles around and the casualties never went over a person or two, so I was definitely surprised, but I didn't question it. I went home—whatever the hell home was at that point—and waited. Some of that time was spent reading up on the victims and seeing what work could be done beforehand. Most of it was playing slashers against a soundtrack of classic rock.
I couldn't sleep that night and I couldn't sleep the next. A consistent and bitterly familiar paranoia kept me up into the mornings, and it was that very last night, a few hours before the incident, that I made my way down to the lounge and began to brew some coffee. I drank it as it was, without watering it down or waiting for it to cool. Straight from the pot, in fact. And then I made more, and thought about what absolute bullshit it was that graveyard shifts—pun fully intended—existed in a society where sleep remained a fundamental necessity for unspecified reasons. I kept wondering as I went into the bathroom and dunked my head in cold water, and as I stared unblinking into my own eyes. If the rumours about my strength were true—and as far as I knew, they were—then I imagined I'd be able to last at least somewhat longer without sleep than most. But the marks were definitely beginning to show. The lights I could always see shifting inside were sparser and slower, and the green wasn't as bright. Small things, but I still worried a little about my condition and exactly how far I was from my prime.
It rained hard that night. Against the police lights and fogged-up moon, it was a sight to behold, and behold I did. Between souls, I took all the time I could to just sit and watch. But there was no calm, no bliss, no lack of worries; none of the things I felt when it rained.
Just paranoia.
By then it was clear there was something more, and I tried to think up a possibility, but nothing sat right. No one seemed suicidal and the only energy for miles around was that of my own Death Scythe. No demons, no other Reapers. Nothing.
I was already exhausted and nearly numb with cold, and that fear was a supremely unwelcome addition to the mix. Fact was, I'd planned on sleeping in the lobby, knowing full well I wouldn't endure a second trip through the storm. But if that paranoia was still there after the reaping, well—something about spending the night alone just didn't seem right. So I slowly packed up, warping away everything but my weapon, and waved my hand.
Nothing happened.
It took a moment for the implications to set in, and when they did, I panicked. I hissed a little prayer and tried again, but the space in front of me remained the same as ever. There wasn't even a trace of energy.
It became obvious then that I would need to travel on foot, and so reluctantly, I headed off. I kept my Scythe in the palm of my hand and I made an effort to stay in the light, but the streets were empty. The buildings were dark and I couldn't see any cars for miles around. Maybe that should've been a sign, but all I did in response was tighten my grip on the brooch and keep walking.
About fifteen minutes in, I heard a huge splash behind me. I turned abruptly and stared into the darkness, but I saw nothing other than the faint flicker of a streetlight and the continuously pounding rain against the sidewalk—nothing that could have caused such a loud sound. I almost raised an eyebrow, and then slowly turned back around.
Not even a second passed before I heard it again.
At this point, I was thoroughly convinced that I was being followed, and when I looked behind me, one of the puddles was still giving off waves—and I convinced myself that maybe it was just a fox, or the wind had picked up and dropped something. Maybe it was just the paranoia. So, reluctantly, I turned around and kept walking.
Big mistake.
I'd barely taken another step when a hand suddenly clamped over my mouth, and I didn't have time to react before I was shoved into the alley to my right. I slammed head-first into the wet concrete, where the frames of my glasses jabbed me in the face and something split my bottom lip, and I barely kept from crying out. Fixing my specs with one hand, I slowly wobbled back onto my feet and turned.
His face was far from the light and underneath his hood, I could tell he had his hair tied back, but I recognized him at once. There was one thing he couldn't hide and it was more than enough to clue me in. I'd memorized it years ago.
"Elliot. You fucking cunt."
There was a long silence before he suddenly replied, a flustered, "How'd you know?"
"Your soul."
He sighed and pulled his hood down. "Was hoping this'd be easy, but I guess not." He frowned a little. "How are you, Johan?"
"'How am I?' Is that a serious question? You just shoved me into the fucking ground."
He went quiet.
I was ready to blame his behaviour on all the whiskey, but that wouldn't do—he seemed sober as could possibly be, and in fact, Marx had once said that was when Elliot was at his most unpredictable. And... Oh my God. The paranoia I'd been having, the paranoia that hadn't gone away after I reaped tonight's souls—only when I noticed that it was getting stronger by the second did I finally come to a terrifying conclusion: it was me. I was foretelling my own death. Holy shit.
Slowly, I took a step back. And another. "Fuck you," I hissed, trying to hide the fear in my voice.
That was when his face suddenly darkened, and he rammed me into a wall.
"Let's talk," he hissed, narrowing his eyes at me. There was a flash of metal and a sudden pain in my left shoulder, like a bolt of lightning. Elliot pinned me by my chest, kept me from moving as he slowly tore into my arm, and my sleeve along with it. Searing hot pain shot through me, and I screamed, trying to push him away with my other arm.
The gash was down to my elbow when I finally managed to kick him off. I stumbled back in agony, tightly clutching my arm and feeling every torn muscle like a thousand knives ripping me apart.
"Let's not," I coughed out.
"I'm not giving you a choice." His eyes flashed a little, and I flinched.
It was in that moment's pause that I was able to catch his Death Scythe's appearance; something that I could only describe as a pair of shears or something, with a series of intricate designs on the metal and a painful looking serrated edge on one of the blades. But a moment's pause was all I had—I had to roll sideways to avoid another sudden attack.
I ran for a few metres, giving myself some much-needed breathing space and a chance to draw up my own weapon. I held it in the best defensive grip I could manage, right in front of my chest.
"Elliot," I said, eyes locked on his Scythe. "Don't do this. Please."
He frowned again, gave a tight, regretful look, and slowly answered, "No."
And with that, he charged, slamming his blade into mine with an earsplitting screech.
It was in that very same instant that we met eyes, and all I saw was anger. No rhyme, no reason that I could make out, just anger of the purest form. And my only thought was—
He lied.
Elliot is
a dirty
fucking
liar.
I yelped as he gave a sudden push, tried to parry as best I could. His attacks were random, seemingly unfocused, and it quickly became apparent that the only thing keeping me alive at this point was luck.
It was hardly a few seconds before he landed a hit, sawing crudely through my other arm. Elliot yanked the blade out with a shower of blood. A heavy dose of adrenaline wasn't enough—I still felt most of the blow. And it showed. My legs spasmed and my vision shot to black for a moment, but I forced myself to fight, even as my eyes filled with tears.
"Liar," I choked, propping myself up with the sword. "I fucking trusted you."
To that he said nothing, only lifted his Scythe again; I immediately leapt up and slammed my weapon against his, trying to disarm him. I pushed harder, gripping with two hands, but he remained steadfast.
"Call me what you want. I don't care. I don't bloody care."
He knocked me back and went for my shins, but I sprung at the last second, leaving me with a deep slash on my upper thigh instead. I grunted and shoved him away with the flat of my sword, rolled when he charged again. I took my opening, slicing into the back of his legs, and I saw him flinch, but in seconds he was back up and resuming his barrage of attacks.
"Damn you," he hissed suddenly, smacking me in the face. I heard a dull clatter behind me and felt my breath catch.
I had no chance of dodging as his Scythe tore into my side, releasing a huge spray of blood. I dropped my weapon and stumbled back, nauseous from the sheer agony. It was too much. In the corner of my eye, I swore I saw Elliot smile wickedly before elbowing me in the stomach. I coughed sharply, tasting blood in my mouth right before I was shoved into the concrete. I tried to move, but it was no use. I was pinned.
"Fighting dirty," I growled. "Really? Fucking really, Elliot. I can't believe you."
Elliot ignored me entirely, saying, "There's a certain high you get when you're this close to death. You know what I'm talking about, don't you?"
I did.
I thought back to all those hours spent looking up suicide methods on the internet. All those times I was home alone and could've easily headed out and hung myself on a tree somewhere. Burned a stack of charcoal in a sealed room. And when those weren't options anymore, all the times I was a hair away from calling Marx, begging him to just reap me because I was so sick of the pain. All those times I wanted to die.
This wasn't that kind of time.
"You're sick," I growled, struggling against his grip. "What the hell's your problem, even?!"
"My problem?" Elliot leaned in close, flipping his weapon into a reverse grip and hovering it over a particularly dangerous spot in my chest. "You. You're my problem."
"So you're going to kill me? Fine. Do it, you fucking coward. Kill me!"
"Nah. Not yet."
"What?"
"Oh, we're just getting started, kiddo."
My breath hitched. "No," I said. "No no no no no. Elliot, no. Please."
But Elliot ignored me, chuckling a little as he continued, "You and I are going to have a nice, long chat," emphasizing each word, scraping at my shirt with the blade. Doing everything he could to make sure I was terrified.
I tried to wriggle my leg free, see if I could knee him in the balls or something, but he must've been using every ounce of his strength to keep me there. Oh—oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. I couldn't do this. I was going to die. I was going to die. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to calm myself down. I was going to—
—Clang!
A second passed.
Then another.
I waited a bit longer. Still nothing.
When I realized I wasn't being tortured to death, I opened my eyes. Elliot was still close enough that I could make out his figure without my glasses, and all I saw on his face was a blank stare. His left hand was covered in red and his weapon was—my gaze shot to the side. Pinned to the ground. Pinned by—
William.
It wasn't the Scythe that gave it away, or the voice; it was the calm I felt in that moment, the way his soul worked me over like a shot of morphine. How just his presence was enough to lessen the pain a little.
What I managed to determine then was that William immediately retracted his Scythe, sliding down with it and landing on Elliot's head just as he turned to see what was going on. I yelped and crawled back a few inches right before he slammed into the ground in front of me with a sickening crack.
William leapt up off Elliot and landed a few metres behind him, clicking his Scythe back into its default length as he did. Elliot's own was hurled into the concrete, spinning a few times before settling with a dull clatter.
He wobbled to his feet, muttered a string of curses before screaming out, "The hell was that?!"
"That? I was in the area when I noticed you two, and decided to step in," William answered flatly.
"In the area? Wha—this isn't even your district, for crying out loud!"
"Nor is it yours."
"But I—" Elliot cut off abruptly, clearly struggling for a comeback.
"I see I was right to suspect you, Luunford," William continued, hatred edging his words. He gave me what seemed like a deeply apologetic glance—I couldn't quite tell. "Now, Johannes! I'll explain everything later. Just keep out of my way for a moment, please."
Too startled to question him, I crawled over to the side and leaned against a dumpster, leaving a trail of blood in my wake. I cringed as my arm brushed against the steel.
"... Of all the people," I heard Elliot say, a tremble to his voice. "Damn you, Spears. D... Damn you."
He seemed ready to make a break for it, but like hell William would let him run away. He wasn't that kind of guy. He finished things.
And then—just as Elliot took a step back, William suddenly leapt forward, piercing cleanly through his arm in a single blow. He froze instantly; I had a similar reaction.
"Listen to me," he hissed, pulling his weapon out with a gush of blood. "Any other day, I might have given you another chance, but you... have gone too far this time."
And he shoved his Scythe right into the centre of his chest.
There was no gasp, no cry of pain; just a blinding flash of light as both the blade and part of the shaft were pushed through, right to the other side. I didn't know how long it lasted for them, but on my side, it was something like half a minute before his record finally seemed to be coming to an end. Elliot coughed.
"You. Fuck you," he wheezed, with the most intense hatred I'd ever heard in my life.
William glared coldly at him. "Likewise."
With that, the last of the light flooded into his Scythe, and the remaining glow in Elliot's eyes vanished. William stopped, gave a weak, shaky sigh before finally pulling his weapon out, leaving him to topple limply to the ground. All I could hear was the heavy rain that continued to pound the concrete.
Slowly, he walked over and picked up my glasses, wiping off the muck before sliding them onto my face. I only stared, dazed.
"I'm sorry I couldn't come sooner."
"Fucking perfectionist," I coughed out, grinning a little. "I don't care. You saved my life."
William nodded distantly, placing his Death Scythe to the side. "I'll carry you."
"W-where?"
"The hospital?" He raised an eyebrow.
"But—" My sentence gave way to a sudden coughing fit, and I stumbled to my knees.
"Wha—Johannes!"
I stopped breathing, trying to lessen the blows, but there was no change. I was sprawled on the ground before I knew it, choking on blood and vomit, vision static. Fading in and out. Until—
—it stopped, stayed fogged up where my glasses were and clear where they weren't.
Like my powers were gone, nothing there to hinder my eyesight anymore.
Like I was human again, just a normal fucking human.
Like I was dying.
