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It’s become something of a catharsis ritual, the whole thing with that prisoner. He’s initialed as ‘DS’ on his jumpsuit. Despite the amount of time they spend together, Death doesn’t think she’s ever going to learn his name. On show days, they call him the Clerk, and they let him be in charge of Death specifically the entire day. For as much fun as they have during their time in the MOAT, Death will never forgive him. She’s learned to look forward to this.
He’s some kind of political prisoner, they think. Son of a politician, got caught doing something stupid, kept here to keep Dad in line. Easy to use as a test subject since they know they’ll never let him go. He’s in the Gemini program, but Death is pretty sure they’re doing the full reprogramming suite on him, too. Make him palatable, if they ever do decide to release him back to society, she guesses. She doesn’t know enough about Draag’s current political climate to know any officials’ names. Despite the extensive education they put her through about the country’s history and political regimes, no actual names ever came up. She doesn’t even know His Grand Immortal Dictator’s real name. He’s just his title. So, then, is the Clerk.
He doesn’t seem to remember the show days when they’re in the MOAT. He definitely remembers the MOAT on show days.
The woman in the sunglasses, the one Death has only ever heard referred to as miss and ma’am, leads them down the dimly lit hallway to the Clerk’s room. It’s in the surgical ward, for some reason – not quite an operating room, more of a holding chamber. She opens the door, letting Death inside. The room is dark and empty, save for the bed. No windows, no decorations, just a single, movable hospital bed, a dim spotlight, and a drain on the floor.
As always, the Clerk is belted down around his waist. As always, the woman in the sunglasses hands Death a dagger. As always, she inclines her head towards the bed and says, in clear, unaccented English, “Have fun.”
As always, she shuts the door, leaving Death to do what must be done.
They take a deep breath. Stretch. Roll their neck from side to side. Flip the knife in their hand once, twice, just for fun. Showtime.
It’s a practiced motion at this point, how they climb onto the bed. It’s easy. The Clerk’s legs don’t take up that much of the bed, and if they sit on his thighs in just the right way, he won’t be able to kick them off. After the week they’ve had, they’ve earned this. It’s a chance to blow off a little steam.
The Clerk starts to wake, like he always does, as they clamber up. Like they always do, Death pushes him back down as he starts to sit up, smiling as they raise the knife. The fear in his eyes now makes up for all the times he’s killed her and all the times he will kill her again. Maybe it’s cathartic for them both.
That punched-out exhale as Death first stabs him always makes her smile. It’s easier than it should be to plunge the blade into his chest, over and over and over again. Maybe she’s just gotten stronger. Maybe the Clerk is particularly fragile. Either way, his gasps of pain are particularly fun once he starts choking on his own blood. They’re not quite there yet, but Death’s working on it.
To their chagrin, though, he’s got some fight left in him still. As they stab him again, he fights back, lashing out and scratching their cheek with shockingly sharp nails. Death hisses and clutches the wound, feeling blood well between their fingers, and twists the knife where it sits in the Clerk’s chest. He tries to kick; they don’t let him. He tries to claw; they wonder why the officials don’t tie his arms down. He tries to fight; they slash across his stomach and open him wide.
This is her favorite part. She reaches directly into the wound, getting her hand around his guts, and pulls. It’s warm and wet inside, sticking to her gloves and creeping up her wrists as she stretches a length between her hands. The Clerk cries out in pain, blood flecking his teeth. Death begins to unwind his small intestine from its usual seating. Like a magician pulling kerchiefs from a hat, it just keeps going. She decides to pity him, just a little bit, and helps him put some of the unspooled intestine back. It’s cute when he’s starting to really expire. Adorable, honestly. She must hit an artery with the next stab; the blood sprays at her with surprising force, hitting her full in the face and dripping into her mouth. Death can only laugh. There’s that warmth she’s been missing. There’s that human connection.
The Clerk’s hyperventilating turns into a death rattle. Satisfied with their work, Death collapses on top of him, panting, pushing that last aftershock out of him. His arm goes limp at his side. Blood seeps sluggishly from Death’s cheek, but the Clerk’s is the only one on their lips. It tastes like a job well done.
Once the body’s gone cold and the blood has turned sticky rather than slick, the woman in the sunglasses returns. She knocks on the door, voice muffled through the barrier.
“Is everyone decent in there?”
Death doesn’t respond, just getting up and opening the door with still-bloody hands. The woman in the sunglasses raises her eyebrows, but offers a palm up expectantly. Death gives her the dagger without question. This, too, is part of the ritual. She then leads them to the shower block, lets them rinse off, and only smiles once they’re back in their prisoner’s greys. She doesn’t mention the scratches, but Sylvia is already waiting for them with an antibacterial spray. It stings. No one seems to mind. Death certainly doesn’t, not when Sylvia smiles at them like that.
Sated, Death returns to their cell without protest. It’s the best night’s sleep she’s had all week.