Disclaimer: see chapter one.
Chapter seven
Too much of a good thing is bad.
Too much of a good thing is, in actual fact, quite good.
Too much of a bad thing is bad.
Too much of a bad thing is good, too.
It's all about that tenuous balance, and that is applicable to everything. It's walking a tightrope, but not having a safety net if you fall. It's the most lethal weapon known to mankind.
The balance is the fine line between life and death.
There had been talk of some new Angels hitting the block, some new competition on the market to challenge me and my colleagues. Yes, there are more of me; contrary to popular belief, even Death can't defy the laws of Physics and be in two or more places at the same time.
International Rescue, I believed they were called, but none of us had seen hair or hide of them. It appeared to be just a rumour, which suited me just fine.
Fiction is based on fact.
Rumours became reality.
International Rescue has been a reality for five, coming up to six years now. International Rescue has cut down on my, as a collective, demand, saving more people than they lost. Despite their best intentions, it was a futile operation; for every life they saved, another would be taken in its place. It would catch up to them eventually.
The fact that one of their own is up for grabs?
That's just par for the course.
We begin at almost the stroke of midday. My collection shuffles in, hands and legs bound together to a chain around his waist. His shoulders are slumped, not unusual for a man in his position.
Dead man walking, and he knows it.
The guards unshackle him and strap him down to a table. A click as his arms are fastened to the chair and the restraining strap around his torso is secured.
The Death Grip.
The rip of the alcohol swab that's used to sterilise his arm echoes around the room, and IV lines are stabbed into his veins. Spectators surround him, stare at him like he's an animal in the zoo, but it makes little difference to me. This is between him and me.
His blue eyes, normally crystal clear, even in the face of me – I know because I've seen him at least four times before this – are clouded over. His skin is sallow, yellowed like old paper, brown hair all mussed up. His body is rigid, taut as a knotted muscle, and the injections haven't even started yet.
But I'm wrong.
I can see the liquid sliding through the IV line. I can watch him clench up, his mouth wide open in a silent scream, and then unwittingly relax as the liquid reigns control over his body. I can taste his reluctance of leaving, taste the fear he has of leaving his family behind in the wake of the imminent disaster.
In the distance, something rings. I swivel towards the sound and see smoke rising from a funeral pyre on the horizon. It's time for me to go elsewhere.
After all, I can't lose if I walk away before the game is over.