At 9:33 pm on August 18th, Year of the Falcon, a robed figure stepped up to the dark wooden door of an apartment and knocked three times.
The man who opened the door had gray hair and a mustache, and leaned towards PanAsian descent. When he saw the scythe, his eyes widened—from fear, or recognition, or maybe both. Then he managed to suppress his silent emotion, and smiled.
"It's awfully late for a visit," he said.
"May I come in, Mr. Nakajima?" the scythe asked.
"Of course. Make yourself at home, Honorable Scythe…?"
"Rogers."
The scythe stepped over the threshold, his robes swishing softly as they brushed against the doorway. His robes were blue. A very dark blue, not quite dark enough to be considered black, but dark enough that anyone in the Scythedom could have raised a complaint if they wanted to. But no one ever had. Scythe Rogers was very good at his job.
"Would you like something to drink?" Mr. Nakajima asked.
"If you're offering." Scythe Rogers sat down at the dining room table and looked around the apartment. It was dimly lit, with yellow lamps and red walls interrupted by sections of brick. Just as he remembered.
A few minutes later, Mr. Nakajima emerged from the kitchen with a teapot and a set of teacups. He poured some tea into a teacup and set it in front of the scythe. Scythe Rogers nodded his thanks and picked up the teacup, his fingers curling against the white china.
"Are you here to glean me?" Mr. Nakajima asked, sounding nonchalant, although his voice shook. He took a sip from his own cup of tea.
"No," Scythe Rogers said. "I'm here to deliver a message."
He could tell by the way Mr. Nakajima's shoulders relaxed that this was good news. He allowed the man a moment of respite before continuing.
"Your son, RJ Nakajima, was gleaned at 4:15 pm today," Scythe Rogers said. "I'm sorry for your loss."
Mr. Nakajima looked away. His lower lip quivered. "Why?" he whispered.
"Because…" Scythe Rogers didn't know how to answer.
Because I didn't have a choice.
Because I was coming for someone else, and he was in the way.
Because it was my job.
Because I am a scythe, and my job is to glean. It always has been. It always will be.
But he couldn't say any of those things. Instead, he gave a lie, not better than any of the others, but hopefully something Yori—no, Mr. Nakajima—could bear to hear.
"Scythes have a quota of people we have to glean each year," he said. "We have to glean certain percentages of people with certain traits, to keep the population balanced. Your son was… in the minority of people I've gleaned this year."
"Is that all he was to you? A statistic?" Mr. Nakajima tried to pick up his teacup, but his hand was shaking so badly he had to put it down.
"No. Of course not." Scythe Rogers looked away and took a deep breath. "According to the laws of the Scythedom, you are granted a one-year immunity from gleaning, starting now. And you'll need to make arrangements for your son's funeral."
He pulled back his left sleeve, displaying a black metal hand adorned with a matching black ring. Some people found his hand off-putting. He saw it as a reminder that even granting immunity to people did not make him any more human than the cold metal.
After a moment of hesitation, Mr. Nakajima stood up, knelt, and kissed the ring. The ring glowed red.
Scythe Rogers finished the last of his tea.
Mr. Nakajima sat back down at the table. "Bucky–"
"DON'T CALL ME THAT!" Scythe Rogers jumped up and hit the table, sloshing some of the tea out of the teapot. Seeing the look of fear in Mr. Nakajima's eyes, he immediately regretted his outburst. He sat back down. "My name is Scythe Rogers. That's what you can call me. Or Steven, if you'd like."
"Steven Rogers." Mr. Nakajima pressed his napkin into the spilled tea. "Why did you name yourself after him?"
Because he was my friend. Back in the Age of Mortality, when things like having friends mattered.
"Because he was a good man," Scythe Rogers said, offering his napkin to Mr. Nakajima.
"He was a soldier." Mr. Nakajima pressed the scythe's napkin on top of his own. "He was paid to glean people, back in the Age of Mortality, before it was necessary. Is that how far you've come?" He looked at Scythe Rogers with what could only be described as pity. "Taking the identity of someone who was a scythe in all but name?"
"Steve Rogers tried to do the right thing," the scythe said. "Sometimes that meant taking people's lives. Sometimes it didn't."
"And what about you?" Mr. Nakajima asked. "Are you trying to do the right thing?"
"I'd like to." Scythe Rogers picked up the tea-soaked napkins and carried them into the kitchen. He saw nowhere to put them besides the sink.
A few moments later, after carefully washing his hands, Scythe Rogers returned to the dining room. "Thank you for the tea." He turned to go.
"Bucky," Mr. Nakajima called.
Scythe Rogers didn't try to correct the name.
"How do you live with yourself?"
Scythe Rogers couldn't force himself to meet Mr. Nakajima's eyes, so he focused on the blood-red wall instead. "I don't know."
He ducked his head and left, pulling the door shut behind him.
Later that night, Scythe Rogers stood in a small, sparsely furnished room. There was a table and chairs, a bed, a nightstand, a set of drawers, and not much more.
He began pulling items off his belt and tossing them on the bed. Knives. Throwing stars. A small brown notebook. A silver pistol.
Scythe Rogers hesitated, still holding the pistol, almost unconsciously turning the gun around in his hand until the muzzle pointed at his chest.
How do you live with yourself?
He could do it. Invoke the seventh commandment. That would be one way to stop himself from gleaning anyone ever again.
But if he did, what would happen? Nothing. A funeral would be held. Only a few people would come, if any. And they would simply replace him with another scythe.
The pistol tumbled out of Scythe Rogers' hand. He sat down on the bed and threw himself on his back, narrowly missing the weapons scattered across the bedspread.
There was a pen on the nightstand. Scythe Rogers grabbed at it with one hand, and fumbled for his notebook with the other. His hand closed around a blade, but it was his metal hand, and there was no pain to greet the sensation. He tossed the knife up in the air, caught it by the hilt, and hurled it across the room without looking. A dull thud announced that the knife had impaled itself in the wall.
Next to the knife was the notebook. He picked it up.
Scythe Rogers opened the notebook to a list. It was only nine words long. He brought the pen to the notebook.
RJ Nakajima.
He was done with the list for now. Ten names, to be read at the next conclave.
He dropped the pen on his chest and wiped his face, erasing any evidence of tears. Then he flipped to a different page in the notebook. There were only ten words on this page as well. He murmured them to himself as he read.
Longing.
Rusted.
Furnace.
Daybreak.
Seventeen.
You are doing good things, Bucky.
Benign.
Nine.
Homecoming.
One.
Freight car.
Scythe Rogers closed the notebook. "You are doing good things, Bucky," he said to himself, wondering why he'd thought that earlier.
Who was Bucky? He couldn't remember.
Author's Note: I'm not really sure what this is. Like most things I write, it just popped into my head one day. I might make it into a full story, if I have time and anyone is interested.
