Chapter 2: The Reaper's Contract
The word hung in the air, a cosmic ultimatum wrapped in a single, ridiculous question. Become a Reaper.
Arthur Lynch could only stare, the sound of the dusty jazz record warping in his ears. "Huh?"
This was it. The breaking point. The anxiety, the sleepless nights, the cheap whiskey—they had finally conspired to paint this elaborate, terrifying delusion across his vision. He was having a full-blown psychotic break in a Hiroshima pub, and his mind had conjured the most dramatic companion possible.
"I'm telling you, brother..." the Grim Reaper across the table grinned—or at least, Lynch felt it was grinning—and wiggled its bony fingers in a shooing motion. "It's a sweet deal! A thousand souls—which, trust me, goes by faster than you think—and then bam! Eternal paradise. No more," it gestured vaguely at the gloomy pub, "this."
Wait. Wait. He blinked his eyes, again and again. Was this all for real? Was this Grim Reaper an actual thing, and not psychosis? Not the whiskey crafting illusions? What the hell...
"Huh..." The Grim Reaper tilted its head. "Don't like the offer? Oh, I get it. You probably have people—what do you humans call them... friends, families. Probably don't wanna leave them behind. I get it, brother." It placed its hands on its imaginary chin.
Well, speaking of family... he was certain his orphanage back in Chicago would probably be happy with his demise. After all, it meant fewer mouths to feed. No one in this thriving, warring era wanted a co-dependent adult. But this Reaper... so it was for real? He thought all this stuff only happened in folklores and novels, never in reality. He could become a full-blown journalist if he could get this on picture... but again, the fact that people couldn't see it or hear it speak discouraged the idea.
He sighed, betraying his earlier resistance, and took another sip of his alcohol. The Grim Reaper leaned towards him.
"See... I was once like you, perhaps... in the early 1700s. Forgotten the place or the face... I was passed this mantle by another Grim Reaper." Its bony hands pointed to its chest. "I remember being terrified. Well, not entirely... but I was. And it said something about if you are able to see Reapers, it means you've been chosen. Something like that." It crossed its hands behind its head, or whatever gave that shape. "And bam... I accepted. And look at me now, after a century... I'm now at the door to paradise."
"Wait... are you saying this is some fictional, predestined stuff?" he whispered, not wanting to earn the gaze of a creep who was muttering to himself.
The Grim Reaper leaned towards him too, its dark void of a face close. "Yep. Maybe. But you can usually decide if you wanna sign the contract or not," it whispered back. "But in your case... I strongly advise you do, brother."
First, he found it awkward that he was conversing with a Reaper. Now he was being pummeled by terms. His brain was getting it, but his mind was reeling from the absurdity.
"Why...?" he whispered. The jazz music pierced the air of the pub; once or twice, he saw the Reaper nod its head to the rhythm.
"I was tasked with this city," the entity said, a note of grim pride entering its voice. "It has taken me a century to curate my thousand souls. A slow, meticulous harvest. But I have been patient. Because I knew... I knew... a cataclysm was coming. A convergence of death so vast it would eclipse a thousand years of my work in a single, brilliant flash."
Lynch's blood ran cold. "A cataclysm?" His reporter's instinct kicked in, overriding the fear. "What kind? An invasion? A bomb?"
The Reaper leaned back, a master withholding the final piece of the puzzle. "I cannot disclose the specifics. Not until the mantle is passed. The rules are… strict." Its glowing eyes fixed on him, all traces of humor gone. "But know this, Arthur Lynch. When it comes, you will not survive. Not as you are. This city… everything in it… will be unmade." Then its humor returned in a cheering voice. "Just imagine reaping tens of thousands of souls in one day... Damn. That would cement my legacy as the greatest Reaper of all time. But... I'm casting all that aside for you, brother. You can survive what's coming. Just sign the contract, and bam, all these perks plus an eternal Paradise. This is probably the best deal at the moment."
He gulped. If what the Grim Reaper said was right, then it perhaps was a nice deal. He'd only be a Reaper for a short time, survive an apocalypse, and gain a legacy and an eternal paradise. So much better than his depressing, damning job.
But something unnerved him.
His eyes drifted past the Reaper, through the grimy window, to the quiet, doomed city beyond. He thought of the constant drills, the whispered fears, the military buildup. He wasn't a fool; he knew what was coming. They all did, in a vague, unspoken way. A storm was gathering.
"So... should I become a Reaper, like you said? Do I kill people, or... anyway, what do I do? I get that there's a cataclysm coming. So how do I reap these souls and all?"
"You don't kill them," the Reaper said, interrupting his dark calculation. "Geez, no wonder we have a PR problem. You just… usher them. They're already scheduled for checkout! You're the cosmic bellhop. It's a service!" Then it added,
"They die when their time is up. You take their souls in orbs, something like that, then store them till you have a thousand... or decide to douse them in the underworld. You'll probably understand more if you become... one of us." It stretched its bony hand towards him. "All you have to do is a handshake. Deal done."
He sighed, his hands framing his face before raking his dark hair. Well then, be it delusion or reality, this was a damn good deal.
He extended his hand. Damn the weird stares; he was bored of them anyway. This, perhaps, would be a nice change. Surprisingly, instead of phasing through, his hand held its bony one. It felt like a cold skeletal palm.
"Deal..."
The world around him stilled. The low hum of the record player stretched into an infinite drone. The amber light from the bar bulb bled away, leaving everything in stark monochrome. The air grew thick and silent, as if the universe itself had taken a sharp, indrawn breath.
Then, the darkness shrouding the Reaper retreated, flowing from its robes like living ink, seeping into Lynch's skin. It was a chilling cold that crawled up his arm, a frost that spread through his veins without freezing them, a presence settling deep in his marrow.
As the darkness drained away, the Reaper's form shifted. The robes dissolved into motes of shadow, revealing the human visage beneath—a teenage boy with warm brown skin, dark, lively eyes, and a cheeky, anachronistic smile.
"See you soon, Lynch," the boy said, his voice now young and clear. His body began to break apart into shards of gentle light, dissolving from reality. He winked, a final flash of personality, and then he was gone.
Color and sound rushed back with the force of a thunderclap, the sudden noise from outside making him flinch. For a moment, everything seemed normal. Then his new senses ignited.
The world was now overlaid with a terrifying, silent film. Above every person in the bar, a faint, shimmering hologram flickered to life.
He saw the bartender, Kenji, with a pale white timer floating above his head: [Natural Causes: 22 Years, 4 Months, 12 Days].
The soldier in the corner was crowned in a pulsing, ominous red: [Traumatic Injury: 3 Hours, 17 Minutes].
A woman laughing with a friend had a neutral black tag: [Illness: 7 Months, 3 Days].
He could hear the rustle of their clothes with the clarity of a microphone pressed against the fabric, could see the individual dust motes hanging perfectly still in the air.
Amidst this sensory overload, a voice, vast and impersonal, boomed not in his ears, but in the core of his consciousness.
"Welcome, Entity 4062, Arthur Lynch."
"You have been designated with the Title: Grim Reaper"