Chapter 5: Your Funeral

"No," she said, "they don't fit the requirements."

A pair of drunks had walked the nearby, dimly lit street, laughing and giggling like idiots about things that probably weren't event funny. Zack was natural to suggest them as their next targets, like, y'know, a two-for-one deal. Ray quickly shot him down, giving an adamant shake of her head. Zack turned up his nose at that word of hers, already knowing this little code of conduct was gonna be a hassle.

Bitch, everyone fit the "requirements."

He recalled what he'd seen her recount of her life before the building. "Think a couple lucky families might disagree with ya on that one," he rolled his eyes dismissively. "They laugh now, yeah, but the second they get home," a cruel chuckle, "well, you know exactly what I mean." He only hummed, and of course, Ray was silent. A bit of a low blow, sure, but she wanted to get this done, didn't she?

"That's different."

"As if," he brushed her off. "Think of it this way, what if I'd come along and cut your dad's ass down before you'd even had the chance? Shit would'a been a lot simpler, right?"

Sure enough, he'd hit the nerve he'd been aiming for, the little girl hesitated before looking down, ultimately walking past him. "He wasn't always like that," she finally replied, still making excuses for him. For a long time, he'd been a really reliable, loving provider for their family. The first eleven years of her life were made wonderful near exclusively by him and her mother.

"But at some point," the man finished knowingly, "somethin' changed, eh?"

She felt her heart swell with a past feeling. Zack had struck a chord with his mention, but she wasn't quite sure why. Was someone like her father really worthy of death, just because he drank to save himself from pain? No. He couldn't have been, he'd just been hurt, spent, and manipulated. After a moment, Ray gave in to him and went on. "His work was stressful on him. He was... a police officer," she explained.

She could almost hear Zack rolling his eyes. Checks out.

"Wow, sounds like a big excuse," Zack replied humorously, supposing that streak streak ran in the family. Part of her knew he was at least half-right, she had no right to feel resentful.

"I just think we need to be methodical about who we decide to go after," she brought the subject around. He heaved an audible, agitated sigh and sound of annoyance.

"Alright, well, I'm listenin'," he held out his hands, growing impatient. He leaned in a bit, "In your," fucked up, "mind: what kind of person 'deserves' to die?" Rachel stared vacantly.

"I," she hesitated, "I don't know."

"C'mon," he pressed, "what kind of slimy motherfucker deserve a swift kick in the shin and a scythe in the lung?" he pretended to swing his weapon like a baseball bat. "If dear old daddy was an officer," he tried to coerce her yet, the answer was obvious, but he doubted she'd be able to understand, "so you must know all about 'bad' people, right?" Silently however, she looked off to the side, because she wasn't so sure. After a moment, a stern look emanates beneath his bandaged visage. "You said you were serious, so get serious," he told her adamantly. Rachel gave a deep exhale.

He was right.

The young woman paced forward slowly, contemplating the fact. She needed to think carefully and critically about the matter. Yesterday's victim was easy, because he was so in-the-moment. It was easy to tell he was the kind of person who needed to die, because they caught him in the act. Adamantly, she still stood by the notion, unlike was the case with her father, not in the slightest.

But what about the one who put her father in that situation, she wondered?

At first, like she'd said, he'd blamed his drinking on his work. The "bad" people Zack spoke of, those he arrested—were they the ones who made him this way? No, she had to think. All things considered, he seemed to enjoy the authority and dignity of his job. In any event, her father and the ones like him took care of those "bad" people. So, who was the one that hurt him so terribly?

Suddenly, a metallic sonance filled her mind, followed by a flat static tone. Her pulse raced and images flashed like channels on a television set.

That's it. The kind of person who really deserved to die. Of course, a bad person. Those who targeted the weak, the ill, the spent. The cruel, the conniving, the predators.

She was certain, she knew exactly the type of person now.

"Rachel, this is Ethan King."

A vacant expression showed on her visage, she didn't look directly to him; her gaze was focused on the wall beyond. The man knelt down in front of her, an all-too agreeable smile on his face. "Hello, Rachel. I used to work with your father."

Rachel's fleeting attention drew to his word. She studied his face best she could, he appeared to be in his thirties, maybe. "Mister King here used to work with the police, but now he volunteers to help troubled children find better opportunities for adoption in the big cities," the orphanage owner knelt at her side as well. "Isn't that kind?"

He put a palm on Rachel's shoulder; her absent gaze drifted slightly to his hand. "Miss Roberts here tells me that you... killed a puppy, then sewed it back together," he asked. "Is that true?" The girl didn't respond, instead turning her gaze to her lap.

Child adoption volunteer. That was an interesting career choice for a former police officer. Or at least, this particular police officer.

"If you want," he said warmly, "you can come with me, and we'll find you a place where you—"

"No," Rachel cut him off suddenly.

The man, naturally, was caught off guard by her quick rejection. "What?"

Her explanation was blunt: "I don't want to go with you."

The man's eyebrows knit together, clearly displeased. Miss Roberts gave a look of confusion. "Why not, Rachel?" The little girl signaled no response. Rachel's gaze turned away into the distance again. The adults stood, hushed words passing between them; Rachel could get feel the older man's gaze yet set on her, but she didn't acknowledge him.

Back then, she used to wonder what kind of person Mr. King must've been, but now, more than ever, she was certain she realized the person he was. The kind of person that deserved to die.

"King."

A beat. "''Scuse me?" Zack said flatly, hand on his hip. She zoned out for a whole damn minute, and that was her only incoherent revelation? "First you call me God, now king? Make up you mind, freak." She shook her head and paid no mind to his snark, intent on her realization.

"King, she repeated, "Ethan King." Zack rolled his eyes. Wow. That sure cleared things up. Could she just make sense for once in her life? "He's a man who used to work with my dad." Zack raised an eyebrow, unsure if he took her meaning correctly. She was blatant: "We'll go after him, first." He was almost taken aback, unsure if he was keeping up.

Dare he ask: "Why him?"

Rachel gave a long pause, never looking away.

"He's like me."

Unlike Rachel, however he didn't live life with a noose around his neck. Ray had already committed to her own death, but King walked free.

Zack pondered for a moment. Certainly not the answer he thought she'd give, and he wasn't sure he quite understood her meaning (hell, not that he ever did) but a man of the law? When he thought about it, Zack merely hummed, a smirk appearing beneath his wraps. He withheld no objections and felt not the need to ask why, how, or all else. If she was certain, he was too.

"Well, then," a dark glint lit in his golden optic, "let's get started."

In the evenings after school, she used to sit and watch TV in the living room. She'd wait for her father to get home from work while her mother made dinner in the kitchen. She'd watch cute, animated shows about little kids and their creature companions that'd work together to get stronger, or shows about teenage girls who lived double lives as super heroes. But today, for some reason, only static played on every station. It was routine, though, so it didn't stop her from the same agenda, so she just sat there, staring at the fuzzy, black and white screen.

Suddenly, the door flew open with a "wham".

Turning her head, Ray looked to see her father. Wasting no time, he pulled his boots by the tabs, taking them off. Not unlike normal, he looked exhausted, but perhaps more-so than usual, today. His hair looked greasy from sweat, and his shirt was unbuttoned at the top.

"Hi, Daddy," she greeted him regardless.

He looked up to her call. The man exhaled a sigh. "Hey, Sweetie."

"How was your day?" she asked him like usual.

He seemed lost in the question for a moment. He chose the safe answer. "Fine," he said simply, but after a moment of studying his expression, Rachel saw right through him.

Oh.

She didn't press him, as she could tell he wasn't much in the mood to converse; he was like this sometimes. As his heavy footsteps treaded by, Rachel caught a strange scent in the back of her nose. She looked to her father out of the corner of his eye, he held something in his hand, it looked like a bottle of something. Rachel stood as if to follow, but upon entering the kitchen, her father closed the door behind him with a "thud." The little girl stood at the door with an unfazed expression.

"Hey honey," she heard her mother say distantly. The sound of a dining chair being pulled out echoed on the tile floor. "How was work?"

"Shit," he replied, finally letting out his true, pent-up feelings on the matter. "King's facing suspension."

From beyond the other side of the door, Rachel tilted her head. Ethan King, that was her father's trainee. What did it mean, that he was "suspended"?

Her father went on to explain how they'd been pursuing a homeless child, one with a record of theft, after he'd been caught shoplifting a pair of shoes. The longer the conversation went on, she could tell her father was stressed. King got too anxious and shot the kid after he refused to turn himself in. Rachel was confused, but she supposed people had been killed for less. What made her depressed is that her father seemed angrier than normal because of it. Ray wasn't sure why, but it seemed like the tension in their voices was growing for reasons she couldn't recognize.

"I thought you told me he was fine to carry again," her mother eventually said, tone sounding accusatory. "Don't tell me this is gonna come back to you?"

"Huh?" Rachel heard her father swear beneath his breath. "Are you serious?" he asked, almost incredulous, but her mother said nothing. "I watched a twelve-year-old kid get shot dead today, and now's the time you decide to ride my ass?"

What should've been a normal conversation started to evolve with both parties raising their voices. As was often the case lately, Ray found herself tuning out to the sound of the distant static, only zoning back in as she heard a loud thud.

"I don't know, Maria—figure it out!" Her father must've slapped his hand on the table. "That's how his works!" (How what worked, Rachel wondered?) Her mother cursed under her breath between his concerns. "If you haven't realized, I've got more important shit to worry about!"

"More important than this family, I guess," she scoffed quietly. The sound of liquid clinking around in the bottom of a glass filled the air as he placed the bottle on the table. "So, what?" Maria said simply. "Now you're drinking again?"

Directed presumably at her mother, Rache's father said a word, a bad swear word, the likes of which he'd slapped her for repeating once. The sound of a chair screeching against the floor echoed, loud footsteps grew closer to the door. Opening the door, he was caught off guard in seeing the girl staring up at him with a blank expression. Realizing she'd likely heard all of what had been said, the man looked away guiltily. He said nothing ultimately, pretending as though she weren't there at all, walking right past her and to the stairs.

"Hey, Dad?" she said before he left the room.

A pause built with the surrounding tension. "What is it, Rachel?"

"The TV isn't working," she said simply, and to his surprise. "Can you fix it?"

He stared off in the opposite direction, a sort of silence following that always sounded angry when it came from him. As he finally acknowledged her, his tone was clouded with a sense of agitation, like he'd been tasked with an unwanted duty. "Not today, Honey."

Heavy footsteps heaved up the stairs. A simple "okay" was all she could muster before sitting back down on the couch, as once again, there was only static.

Her father watched his partner shoot an innocent person today, and not for the first time. How terrible and weighing it must've been, knowing that blood was partially on his hands. It must've been stressful. His partner, King: what kind of person must he have been to shoot a child? He wasn't like her father, that was for sure. Rachel contemplated the fact, staring deep into the snowy screen.

Needless to say, it took a while before her father got around to fixing the TV.

"No."

Zack threw up his hands. "Whaddaya mean 'no'?!"

"I mean, no, we're not going straight to the police station."

"Pussy," Zack muttered beneath his breath. She made it sound like a suicide mission, it wasn;t like he was suggesting they waltz right in the front door or something! "Like you got any better ideas!"

Ray gave an exhale through her nose, and it was hard to think with him fussing so much. Contemplating about how they'd be able to track someone from so long ago did seem difficult, she didn't think they'd find him at the police station, anyway. As she was one to, she took a moment to tune him out, putting two fingers to the side of her temple as she pondered, reaching a thought. "My old orphanage," she finally concluded.

Zack raised a bandaged brow. "What about it?"

"When he got fired as an officer," she explained, "he went to volunteer there." Every Sunday and Wednesday (not that either of them had any earthly idea what day of the week it currently was.) That was also to say, if he was still there, maybe that'd be enough to incriminate him. While it was likely nothing compared to where Zack grew up, her orphanage wasn't what one might call "up to code". After all, they either had no or ever idea about Doctor Danny, and in either case, it wasn't a good look.

Interesting, how it was set up for "troubled" children, those like herself.

Even back then, though her eyes may have been stained by the blood of murder, Rachel wasn't blind. She had heard from the other children at the orphanage, how often the "opportunities" program didn't work out so picturesque. Kids were put in harsh situations, often resulting in the worst. They were sent to neglecting homes to be used, abused, and killed, and it was horrible, yes, Rachel reminded herself that their intent was not to provide a punishable for past actions, reprehensible as they may have been. They had to make certain their actions would reflect a difference in the future. They were merely out to save, not to judge.

Zack muttered a "tch" through grit teeth, because the last thing he ever wanted to do was go back to a place like that (honestly, couldn't they just go in, guns blazing, instead of creepin' around like a couple'a cowards?) Ultimately, he just shook his head, "Whatever."

Formerly leaning against the brick wall in the ally, he stood upright and gestured, as if to say, "lead the way". Ray looked to the nearby street, dimly lit by the overhead lamps. She wasn't sure she remembered the towns layout perfectly, if ever well in the first place, but she had a faint idea of where it was. If they could make it to Main Street, she was certain she'd know the rest of the way, and while she felt a little reluctant to go off her memory, the matter wasn't much of a worry to Zack, he shrugged again, slinging his scythe over his shoulder. If anyone saw them or tried to talk to them or something...

Well, you know how he'd take care of it.

Peeking around the corner, Ray looked to the left, then the right. The street was empty, the coast was clear. She took a step onto the sidewalk, beneath the street lamp. The low light lit her blonde hair radiantly, making it glow near-golden in shade. It was enough for Zack to finally take notice to her new look as well. After a moment, he huffed a laugh, giving Ray a once-over.

"You know," he said, "you're lookin' less like a ghost." (But still like a doll.)

"Oh?" she muttered, somehow uninterested. She supposed a hot shower and a fresh set of clothes would do that for a person.

He put a chin to his hand, fashioning a smirk. "Think the look's missing somethin', though." Not that he had any idea about this kind of thing, but hey. Maybe she needed a leather jacket, too.

The girl gazed down at her form. Come to think of it, it been a long time since she'd last looked in a mirror, she supposed that kind of thing didn't really matter for someone like her. Regardless, she took a few steps to stand in front of one of the glass displays, as if to gaze upon her reflection, and despite everything, a little girl stared back at her even now. Her gaze was drawn from her transparent form as something sparkled distantly in the display window. Realizing what it was, Rachel's eyes widened a bit—her attention more centered now in what she saw.

Zack, surprised to see even a moderate change in her expression, seemed to notice as well. "You recognize this place?" he asked.

"I," she hesitated, answering ultimately, "no."

He tilted his head, intrigued. Zack followed her gaze deeper into the window display. Inside was a mannequin adorned with a dark, Victorian-style dress. While extravagant, Rachel didn't quite seem focused on the piece as a whole. Knowing her too well for his own good, Zack was quick to realize what had caught her attention in full.

Around the mannequin's neck was a solid black choker, from which a holy cross pendant dangled.

That's right, he thought, she wore one of those things before. He motioned to the window, "What, you like that?" the man asked. At first, she was unresponsive, or maybe hesitant, but after a moment, gave a small nod. Well, if that was the case, "Then go on and take it."

Ray only sighed, his thinking so very simple that she was almost envious. For another moment, Ray was silent before ultimately shaking her head "no", because garments off a clothesline were one thing, and stealing a high dollar item from a store display wasn't nearly as easy as he made it out to be. "Let's just leave," she said, and despite her emotionless tone, it was easy to tell she was downcast. Ray turned, her slow steps starting down the street, when suddenly Zack spoke up once more.

"I really have to do everything for you, don't I?"

As the final word fell from his bandages lips, Ray pivoted on her heel. Her view was suddenly entertained by sparkling shards and an erratic grin. A lagging tone of shattering glass rang in her ear, only overlapped by the now-resounding store alarm. Zack had broken the window with the blunt end of his scythe. Stepping beyond his work, the man extended an arm and took the choker in hand. It was velvet, delicate, pretty. With a sly smirk (clearly satisfied with himself,) he held it out to Ray without a word. Her pulse raced with realization of his notion.

The little girl reached forward, placing her smaller digits in his palm, over the necklace. Her hand lingered for a moment, her gaze set on the bandages that held her. "Zack..."

Her seemingly absent heart beat faster with an unknown feeling. It reminded Ray of the days she had spent with her parents. It was like Christmas morning, or opening a big birthday present, all over one little choker. Her fingers curled around the dainty treasure, she took it on her hands. Holding it up to her neck, she reached around, clasping it. "There," he smirked, "I knew you were missing something."

Ray, didn't need to look in the mirror, because she already knew how she felt about it, and that in itself was an extravagant thing.

She loved it.

"It's perfect," she said softly, her pointer and index pressed delicately to the glass cross. Her long, blonde lashes drew to a close, as if cherishing the gift, however more-so the sentiment. "I'll never take it off."

Almost amused, Zack rolled his eyes. "Don't get too excited," he laughed. The sound of glass crunching beneath his boots echoed among the yet-sounding store alarm. "If anyone catches you wearin' it, it's your funeral."

His mood resonated to her, and she gave a respectful nod. "Don't worry. No one will kill me besides you," she said, the closest thing she could give to a humorous reply. He seemed to enjoy the effort, huffing a laugh and gesturing for her to follow before the police showed up.

He made a mental note not to get blood on it when he slit her throat.