Chapter Text
Frank was a twenty one year old barista. Actually, that’s a lie. Not the barista part,he does actually work in a coffee shop selling overpriced caffeine to thin-faced office workers and overly loud college students. It’s the age part that’s a lie. He is a bit older than twenty-one... a couple of thousand years older, if we’re being honest. But he decided that if he had to endure human existence, he might as well do it at an age where he could have fun and get drunk legally; so, twenty-one it was.
You see, Frank wasn’t exactly human. He could still enjoy eating his weight in veggie burgers, get wasted, and find companionship. And yes, if you cut him, he would bleed (for a little while and mostly for show). But he could also instill abject fear with a stare, open locked doors with a flick of a finger, and know people’s deepest, darkest desires and sins, as well as a few other specialized skills.
, Frank was a Reaper,a special designation of cosmic being whose job it was to collect the souls of the guilty. Not the classic reaper in a cloak who haunts the halls of hospitals waiting for an adulterer to pop off; no, Frank was a harvester. He didn't wait for death; he was the cause of it, taking out the trash before the stench spread through the neighborhood. Of course, Frank didn't call himself a harvester; he preferred the title "cosmic assassin." Much cooler.
The innocent souls were a different department because, let's face it, no Good Samaritan or selfless martyr wants their soul collected by some young tattooed punk with piercings even if he did have a selection of flashy suits if he needed them.
Now, I know what you’re thinking: humans aren’t essentially good or bad. We fuck up. Sometimes, we have the ability to do very bad things for very good reasons. A guy who steers his broken-braked truck into an old lady crossing the road to stop it from driving into a bus stop full of school kids is guilty of causing one death, but he saved fifteen. So, when the time comes, what happens to his soul?
The answer: no one knows. Not Frank, or any of the other reapers, that’s for damn sure. None of them have ever met reapers of these "grey" souls. He could let it nag at him, ask more questions, or take it higher, but he prefers to just ignore the issue. Life’s too short, right? Well, maybe not for him, but that’s besides the point. He’s posing as a human; he might as well think like one too.
It was avoiding universe-sized questions like this that made Frank wake up with a groan and a planet-sized hangover, which is no way to start a workday, especially not at 7:00 AM on a Monday. After dragging himself to work and completing the ritual of opening up, he made himself a large black coffee and settled in for the next eight hours.
As he waited for his first customer, his mind wandered to how it was possible that a cosmic being (with some pretty cool abilities) was able to walk away after getting run over (don't ask; he was chasing a dog) but still had to suffer through the worst hangover known to mankind. The best answer he could come up with is that while in human form, he was susceptible to human consequences.
Drink too much? Get a hangover.
But... if those consequences would interfere with the night job, he healed.
Get hit by a car going 70 mph (whilst trying to save the aforementioned dog)? Get up and walk away.
It might not be the full answer, but it was the best he could come up with while having a tribal drum circle pounding in his head.
His existential thoughts were disrupted by the bell ringing over the door—another weary office drone after a caffeine fix to get him through until lunchtime. The guy looked terrible. His suit looked like it hadn't been pressed in a hundred years, and Frank was pretty sure the shirt collar was meant to be white, not some ill-looking yellow. The guy looked like he'd gone to hell, then realized he forgot his wallet and had to walk all the way back.
After plastering on his usual customer service smile, Frank got to work making the guy’s flat white. As he took the payment, there was a small spark as their fingers brushed. Of course, this spark was only seen by our barista. As their eyes met, the sound of the perfectly bland playlist of inoffensive music that was playing stopped. The hands on the wall clock stopped as Frank got a full technicolor playback of the guy’s sins.
Our disheveled office worker was, in fact, guilty of causing his wife’s death. Not for any big reason ,she didn't cheat on him, spend all his money, or overcook his steak. Quite the opposite: she was loyal and frugal and took night classes to learn how to cook while they were only dating. The point is, his only reason for killing her was that he had a bad time at work. Apparently, smashing your wife’s skull with a rock while she was looking at a particularly lovely looking flower on a weekend hiking trip was a great stress reliever. So much so, in fact, he was planning on doing it again if he could persuade the particularly cute office cleaner to join him.
The room slipped back into time. Frank handed the change to the guy, flashed him a smile and a wink, and told him to "have a killer day, dude." Because, come on—he may have been a reaper, but he wasn't a grim one.
The rest of the day was blissfully uneventful. At 5:00 PM sharp, he was sitting on a wall in the carpark of a nondescript office building as the killer office guy stepped out of the door. Frank flicked his eyes to the next floor up. An air-conditioning unit gave a metallic groan, then a louder one, and then dropped. Thankfully, the unit’s dance with gravity was halted quite suddenly by the head of our office worker. The unit stayed mostly intact, unlike the skull it hit, which was now fatally dented and leaking some pretty sick looking blood and brain matter.
Frank jumped down from the wall and sauntered out of the carpark, whistling a tune by the Smashing Pumpkins.
The rest of Frank’s week was an unstoppable boulder of normality: serve the coffee, clean the tables, go home, eat. Rinse and repeat. So, when Friday came around, he was ready to indulge in his favorite pastime of getting blackout drunk and dancing (we use the term loosely) around his living room to The Misfits.
Unfortunately, a rather large spanner was well and truly placed in the works when his ancient and technically broken printer wheezed into life like a pensioner with an eighty-a-day smoking habit and spat out a new job: Anthony Duke, Owner and CEO of Vision Industries.
Anthony ran a film studio. Not the "help out your local film student" type or an art-house movie type; no, we are talking the "take kids off the street and make snuff movies" type of studio that has a particularly avid and very rich fanbase. The People Upstairs wanted this guy taken out quickly, as his next actress was actually meant to perform CPR outside a restaurant and save the life of a politician who was currently being fought over by two departments. His vote could either start a war or stop one, depending on what department won.
This is how Frank finds himself standing in his bedroom wearing a pitch-black suit that probably cost more than the entire apartment block he lived in. It was made from the finest wool a bespoke Italian tailor can find. The shoes were shined to perfection, also Italian, and guaranteed not to squeak when you walked on a hard floor. The outfit was finished off with a black shirt of Egyptian linen, a black tie with a silver tie pin, and silver cufflinks that, honestly, he should be embarrassed to wear given the cost.
He gave himself one last fit-check in the full-length mirror. His hand and neck tattoos gave him the perfect rockstar vibe that would get him into any event, even without his "extra" abilities. His dark hair was, for once, not an unruly mop on his head, but instead styled to look like he actually gave a shit. He had even, err... procured? A sleek, top-of-the-range BMW to arrive in, tinted windows and all. Because honestly, you can't turn up to a party hosted by a soon-to-be corpse in an Uber. It's just not a good look. Besides, what's the use of a cosmic expense account if you couldn't abuse it occasionally?
He pulled up to the event, hosted at a swanky nightclub (because of course it was, so on-brand). Frank tossed his car keys to the valet parking guy and prowled his way past security without being asked for his invite. The inside was a stereotype of every bad pseudo-gangster movie ever made. Neon lights flooded the dark space, creating a visual migraine of many colors. The air smelled of too many brands of designer cologne and the finest champagne a nightclub owner could get his hands on—or at least the magnums on the bar shelf were. The stuff being consumed was definitely made out of bruised grapes swept up from the floor of a backyard winery. That’s capitalism, folks—even monsters get ripped off.
After making his way through the fake chrome and vinyl sewer and fending off rats who tried to convince him they could make him a star, find him the finest Colombian marching powder, or give him the best five minutes of his life in a bathroom stall, Frank finally locked on to his target.
Resting on the dancefloor rail, Frank’s eyes went dark, scanning the crowd like an eagle looking for the fattest rabbit for lunch. Then, the body vibration he felt told him he'd found the guy. Anthony Duke looked like a weather-dried surfer in an off-the-rack Gucci suit. His blond hair was shoulder-length and gave the impression that there wasn't enough conditioner in the city to give it moisture. His face reminded Frank of a "before" shot in a men's grooming magazine. And to top off the poser look, he was wearing boots... Yes, boots with a designer suit. Just goes to show you can buy people, but you can't buy class.
Frank’s first plan was to simply bump into the guy a quick case of heart failure that the coroner would assume came from an unwise mix of cocaine and alcohol. Quick, easy, simple, and he’d still get out in time to indulge in his own living room disco to the dulcet tones of Danzig. But after seeing the guy, he decided a little "up close and personal" was called for.
The next time Anthony headed to the bathroom, Frank followed. Walking in while Anthony was taking a leak, he did his best impression of a guy who had one too many. One quick shoulder bump and Anthony was pissing on his own shoes. As he turned with furious red cheeks, he was met with obsidian-black eyes. The bathroom door locked, and Anthony backed into the wall as Frank gave him a megawatt smile and a tiny finger wave. As Frank moved forward, Anthony struggled in vain to take his gaze away from the black eyes. When Frank spoke, it was with a low, deep, threatening tone.
"You don't feel well. Your stomach hurts and your head pounds. You are going to leave here and drive to the pier. You will sit on the bench closest to the water and wait for me."
Frank’s eyes returned to his usual hazel tone as he took a step back. Anthony then doubled over and groaned in pain. Frank smirked and then left the event to wait in his car for Anthony to leave.
When Frank made it to the pier, he found a very sick-looking Anthony. He is on the bench with his head in his hands, slightly rocking back and forth. From a distance, he looked like a guy who's just found out his wife is banging his brother and they blew all his money on lingerie and sex toys.
As he stalked towards him on silent shoes, Anthony jumped when Frank sits down, unaware of his presence. The black eyes and deep voice return as Anthony looked at him with wide, watery eyes as his final sentence is passed.
"Anthony Duke, you have sinned. You take pleasure from the destruction of others. Worse than that, you make their deaths public. You are a waste of a soul and a putrid infection on this earth. Your sentence is death, and I am your executor."
Before Anthony could speak or utter any kind of rebuttal, Frank’s hand found his shoulder. He was thrown to the end of the pier, landing flat on his back. As Frank stood over him, Anthony's shirt ripped open. His chest, from throat to sternum, slowly began to separate. As the blood began to leak from the wound, it grew deeper. Muscles were torn apart to reveal the white bone. As Anthony opened his mouth to finally scream, Frank looked into his eyes and told him not to make a sound. His lips sealed shut.
As tears leaked out of screwed-up eyes and sweat ran like a river from his brow, the bones in his chest began to bend outwards, exposing the panting lungs and fast-beating heart inside. A slow smirk graced Frank’s face as he reached down, took hold of the heart, and pulled. Blood splatter flew in the air as arteries gave up the fight to stay attached, and Anthony Duke was dead. Frank placed the heart on Anthony’s head and gave his face a slight tap.
"Congrats, dude. You're finally a leading man"
As Frank walked back to the car, the blood and pieces of flesh on his skin and hands disappeared. He whistled a version of Achy Breaky Heart.
Frank was woken at 6am on Saturday morning by a thunderstorm, not your usual summers day storm that lasts 30 minutes and somehow only seems to occur when you're on the way back from the store wearing cut offs and and t shirt , no this storm sounded like it had been made by a weather god who'd got out of bed, stubbed his toe,, tripped over the cat then stood in a pool of split water while only wearing socks
After failing to go back to sleep he figured he'd be productive so he started some coffee and went for a shower, this it turns out was mistake No1 of the morning, not remembering that the city power grid and storms were lifelong enemies, so there he was a 2000yr old cosmic entity with a particular skill set, standing in his bathroom wrapped in a fuzzy beige towel with a head full of shampoo looking like a sad melting ice cream cone, not even coffee could save this cluster fuck of a morning, the coffee maker died mid brew giving him just under half a cup of lukewarm swill
Someone was getting reaped today..... Reaped hard
After fixing himself up the best he could he left the apartment in search of a large coffee, obviously not from where he worked, he'd made that mistake before and played for it by being dragged behind the counter to cover for a no show and frank DID NOT work weekends, well not not as a barista anyway
He resigned himself to a place that was a hollow salute to capitalism, you know the kind, soulless, too clean 70% mark up on products and a ridiculous ordering system that made asking for a large black coffee like speaking another language, he grabbed a table and settled in for some people watching
The place was inhabited by your usual motley crew of early weekend caffeine addicts, retail workers needing their fix before spending the day dreaming of stabbing Karen's to death with various items from shelves
Couples heading to life draining family get togethers out of state and the dishevelled catwalk line of last night's party goers heading home on the walk of shame, trying not look like they regret their life choice quite as much as they do
The door to the cafe swished open with annoying sci-fi movie hum and Franks eyes slowly raised, there was a guy maybe 30 something dressed in black, baseball cap pulled low and shades on, even from the other side of the room Frank could smell the nervous energy radiating off him as a single bead of sweat fell from beneath the guys cap, as he walked to the counter with eyes that wouldn't stay still he placed on hand in his coat pocket and passed to barista a note with the other, it didn't take a genius to figure out this guy was gonna Rob the place
Frank moved like a panther, in three silent strides he'd covered the distance and grabbed the guys elbow, the cafe hushed, the milk the barista was pouring frozen mid pour like an iced waterfall, their eyes met and and the playback began
John Milford was not by default a bad man he just made some questionable choices that to him owing a backroom casino owner a large amount of money, the stress of this resulted in his wife taking the kids and moving into her mom's and John's life talking downward trajectory faster than an olympic bobsleigh full of Steroid fueled athletes, see John worked as a home help for elderly people, he'd turn up at their houses,cook, clean, tend to their personal needs and help himself to some family heirlooms while he was at it, strike 1 thou shall not steal and all that jazz
This was working fine, his debt wasn't going down quick but at least he still had two working arms and no one had mentioned him getting fitted for a nice pair of concrete shoes so things could be worse, that's until he met Gladys and feisty 80yr old who had too many street smarts for a woman her age and a back for knowing exactly where every item in her house was supposed to be, when she had accosted John as he entered her house she demanded to know where the tree piece of jewelry she kept in a box on a shelf in her wardrobe where John had taken the frankly stupid idea to follow upstairs to look for said items, quickly overtaking her when he reached the top he had turned and given her a hard shove back down the stairs, the poor old dear didn't stand a chance, once quick thump of her head and she was gone, strike 2 murder
Technically there wasn't a strike 3 cosmically speaking but frank has in the middle of a morning from hell and either of the options was enough to buy this guy a one way ticket to reaper city baby!
Frank removed to note from the shops counter and the sound of life returned, the milk made it to its destination, snippets of conversation flowed through the air and John was turned towards the door and led out, they moved to a shaded back alley away from any prying eyes, it stank like week old garbage and was covered in a layer of grime and depression, the kind of alley perfect for illicit deals and quickies with a stranger from a dive bar your drunk eyes found hot (don't judge he's 21 it's a right of passage)
Franks black eye bore into John's the deep voice returning as he delivered his eulogy
" You are a thief and a killer John Milford, you extinguished a soul before its time, I am the judgement and the executioner"
With that frank grabbed Johns face and smashed his head back into the brick wall until he heard the distinctive crunch of breaking bone and the wall was dyed red with, once John was dead frank picked him up and threw him into a dumpster, he paused to look at the pale dead eyes he gave a sardonic grin
"Looks like there no stairway to heaven for you sunshine "
With hands in pockets Frank strolled out of the alleyway whistling that classic rock tune and went in search of lunch
Three days later frank was sprawled on his sofa licking cheetos dust off his fingers while decked out in star wars pajama the were holier than a human bible, he was watching was watching his guilt pleasure, daytime soaps a delightful land where humans killed other humans and the only consequence was new hot 19yr old wife or fat paycheck, his practiced morning slob routine was disturbed by the wheezing death rattle of the printer
James deLuca
Construction worker
Sin:, murder
Frank let out a sigh with enough force to make the slightly browning leaves on a pot plant quiver and trudged off to the bedroom like a petulant child h, found
He found himself stood outside a normal house, trimmed lawn, white woodwork, the American dream of suburban cloning, it made his decision to break out the suit a good call, when James answers the door frank painted in his most charming of smile and spoke
"Good afternoon sir, do you have a moment to talk about your soul upcoming relocation package?"
James tried to close the door but franks shoe was in the way, he forced his way inside and used his low voice to tell James to sit on the sofa (one quick heart attack and frank could get out of there,just as frank was begining to slow James heart the room froze.
A man walked from the kitchen, he was the very definition of blank, grey suit, grey skin and definitely grey personality and when he spoke,the most monotone voice
"REAPER 302 TOY WILL LEAVE THAT SOUL ALIVE"
Frank raised an eyebrow. James remained fully conscious but frozen still as granite, the only sign of life being his eyes, which rapidly flicked between the two men in the room. Frank addressed the Grey Man with the indignation of a man whose capability had been questioned.
"I don't know who you are, but I have the paperwork. This soul is mine."
The Grey Man slid a finger down the paper on his clipboard and replied in a disinterested, monotone voice.
"I am the Auditor of the Grey Souls. It seems there was a clerical error; this man’s future has yet to be decided."
Frank stood and stepped toward the Grey Man.
"He took a life. That is a sin."
The Grey Man let out a resigned sigh.
"We are aware of his sin, Reaper, but there were... extenuating circumstances. He killed the man in a fit of righteous anger after catching him abusing a child. It leaves his soul in limbo. You will leave him to live his life. If he does one more major sin, he’s yours; if not, he heads to the pigtail department. Now, for pity's sake, erase his mind before you leave. It’s bad enough I have to leave the office; don’t leave humans to run around knowing we exist."
Frank released James and fixed him with his obsidian eyes.
"You will forget this encounter and everything you heard... oh, and buy better coffee. Offering visitors that swill is insulting."
With that, Frank left. James looked around the house, wondering what the hell it was he was supposed to be doing—and why did he suddenly crave an expensive dark roast?
Frank sat behind the cafe's counter, head in one hand and the other hand tapping out a monotonous tick-tick-tick rhythm on the counter. Since his unsuccessful encounter with James DeLuca, he had been stuck with nagging thoughts knocking at the back of his head like a particularly enthusiastic woodpecker. It didn't help that his acquaintance had decided to frequent his cafe, and yes, it was difficult for Frank to sit comfortably with the new rod he'd made for his back. Of course, only one of them knew they had met before, and that one may have subtly checked what the other had been up to..
As he sat there trying not to think about universal questions, he heard a small voice ask for a coffee. When he looked up from his seat, he saw no one.
"Hey."
Frank looked down over the counter to a dress... Oh God, the dress. It was pulled straight out of a 1950s Stepford family guidebook: baby pink in colour, embroidered with strawberry-red flowers, a delicate lace collar, and a skirt that puffed out to her knees with what looked like an entire textile shop of underskirts and lace. The sweet, tooth-rotting outfit was finished off with lace-trimmed ankle socks and shiny red buckled shoes. Frank shivered, not from fear or cold, but because this sweet-as-candy child was visually repulsive to his obviously cooler punk vibe.
The girl grinned and asked with a voice that matched her aesthetic, "I want a coffee."
Frank raised an amused eyebrow and reached out with his mind, mentally taking hold of her pigtails with invisible hands.
I... (tug)... SAID... (tug)... No... (tug).
The girl let out a defeated sigh and the cafe went quiet. She looked up at Frank,now the only other thing moving in the cafe with her tiny, chubby hand placed angrily on her waist. She addressed a slightly annoyed and really-so-far-over-this-bullshit Frank.
"Are you a reaper too?"
Frank laughed. In fact, he laughed so much he went red-faced and a few tears fell from his eyes.
"OMG, I thought the pigtail department was just a nickname, but look at you! This is what’s supposed to put good souls at ease?"
The girl looked cosmically offended, her eyes taking on a slightly darker edge.
"It does work! Better than you. Imagine being a massive murderer and then having your soul collected by a painted twink in an outfit that should have died with Kurt Cobain."
Frank's mouth made a perfect 'O' shape.
"Listen, Princess Peach, first of all, no one takes Kurt Cobain’s name in vain. And secondly, children your age should NOT know about twinks!"
The girl rolled her eyes so hard she could probably see her own brain.
"Look, as amusing as this is, now that I've found another reaper we should talk. Can I please have hot chocolate?"
Frank got to work as the room slipped back into its usual chatter. Frank took the girl and the hot chocolate to a seat by the window and told her he was off in thirty minutes.
Frank took the girl back to his apartment. While he reluctantly made them both coffee looking like a child or not, he wasn't going to deny another cosmic being a caffeine fix,she twisted her mouth in disgust, brushing orange powder and crumbs off the sofa before sitting down and straightening her skirt.
Their conversation was... strained. You see, reapers are solitary creatures by default. Mostly because it gets messy if you have to sneak out at night to reap a soul without waking someone else up, or come up with an excuse as to why you spend your time dressed like you're going to Warped Tour and work minimum wage while also having suits that cost more than a family hatchback. Not to mention the whole reading souls part that's a whole new nightmare. (I mean, really, just think about it for a second.)
There's also the fact that reapers, as a whole, take great pride in their work. Imagine having a room full of them, all talking over each other about their best, most gruesome, or poetic reaps. Imagine a room of advertising experts or hedge fund managers.
After a few minutes of mutual complaining about their departments, the girl got around to her point. It turned out she has a connection that works for the Grey department, and he’s been complaining about his numbers not adding up. Souls are being taken too early by both sides; there are not as many as there should be getting processed by the Greys.
Frank was about thirty seconds away from sticking his fingers in his ears and singing real loud. Nope, nope, nopity-nope. He did not want to hear this. Hearing it meant doing something about it. You've heard what curiosity did to that cat, right?
The girl had a look on her face that only a child could pull off the one usually reserved for family gatherings where the child realises they are the only sensible grown-up in the place. She silently waited for Frank to stop his tantrum before continuing.
"Frank, I know you don't want to get involved, but you also don't seem to see the big picture here. If the big guys on the top floor get wind of this mess, they will be forced to clean house. The Greys can only hold back these reports for so long; once they go out, the lights go out. No humans, no souls, and no reapers."
Frank sat in silence for a minute while he pondered her words. Two thousand years he's existed. He's seen civilisations rise and fall, collected more souls than he could count, seen reruns of every evil sin, and stared into the eyes of thousands of evil men and women. The thought of not existing anymore was... well, pretty horrific, actually. No more coffee, no more chances to fill the few spaces he has left with tattoos, AND he has tickets to go see The Bouncing Souls next month.
He puffed out his cheeks and blew a long, slow breath. "Okay. I know a guy. Come on."
They made their way to James DeLuca’s house a lot slower than Frank would normally walk, but then, he wasn't used to being in the company of a seven-year-old girl with little legs. They walked past a record shop that Frank could lose hours in and a pizzeria that once delivered him the wrong pizza. It had taken much willpower to not storm round there and go reaper on their asses; in the end, he settled for a pretty in-depth fantasy involving fresh-cooked pizza sounds and the roasted heads of the staff with tomatoes in their mouths like grotesque suckling pigs. As they reached the end of the street waiting for the light to cross, Frank grabbed the girl's hand (because he's responsible and caring, y'know), which earned him a scowl and a sharp kick to the shin.
Reaching James's house, Frank groaned. The outside looked unkempt: the neat grass was overgrown, the paintwork darker, and the windows were wearing a thin film of grease and dirt. He stared at the door and it unlocked to grant them access. The inside was even worse. A layer of dust covered everything; the scent of polish and pine cleaner had gone. There was a plate of half-eaten vegetables and meat that was covered in enough mould it could probably be considered a new life form. Frank would not be reaping that, thank you.
The house didn't just feel empty; it felt like a void. Air that should have been heavy was thin, like someone had come along with a high-powered vacuum and just sucked the soul out of the place. It was a feeling Frank was not used to. The girl clearly felt it, too; she scrunched up her little button nose and shook her head to try and clear her senses.
Frank was just about to tell her his grand assessment of the place—and probably make a very inappropriate joke about the room getting sucked off when his head began to vibrate like he was standing in front of a whole stage full of subwoofers. The vibration increased into a full-blown psychic migraine. As he doubled over, teeth clenched, he turned his head to the girl. She wasn't showing signs of pain; she was wearing a horrified look, tiny fingers clutching her pink skirt. She reached into the pocket of her dress and pulled out an ornate pocket watch with a delicate filigree design. As she opened it, the hands on the watch were spinning wildly. In a shaky voice, she said:
"It's gone, Frank. Everything that made this man,not just his soul, but his memories, his body, his humanity it's all just... gone."
Frank reached out and pulled her towards him. With a strained voice, he asked why she wasn't having the same reaction he was.
"I reap good souls, Frank. The ones that pass naturally. I arrive and I capture their light. I'm not like you."
Frank had never given much thought to what happened to the good souls, but now he thought about it, he guessed it made sense. Even through the pain in his head, he couldn't help picturing her in that haunted doll attire with a black cloak and a teeny-tiny pink Barbie scythe.
As the unlikely duo stood in the living room, one trying desperately to stop his brain moshing around his skull and the other sheet-white like she was carved from cold candle wax the noise in Frank's head started to morph into something else. Not vibrations, but... voices? Thousands of them, screaming and begging and asking for help. Their voices overlapped in a terrifying chorus of desperation. Out of the corner of his eye, Frank caught a movement. On the stairs was a flickering outline of a man, his body nothing more than static dots like an old TV with no signal. The voices seemed to be coming from the dots that he was made of, each one a human soul torn out of existence and consumed by this thing. As Frank darkened his eyes and stood straight, he stared at the thing... no, not a thing. A reaper. Or what was left of one.
The thing moved in glitches,one moment on the stairs, the next moment he was closer, like some badly modded video game character. Frank (in a moment of rare heroism) grabbed the girl by her Stepford collar and threw her behind him. He turned, his eyes more black hole than obsidian, and his voice growled:
"You put your feet up, Princess. I got this."
With that, the thing moved and backhanded Frank onto his ass.
The girl moved; Frank needed a distraction. She reached her hand out to the side and the air moved. She's holding a scythe, and not a teeny-tiny Barbie one. This thing has a black, wooden, carved handle with a blade that shines like sunlight through a magnifying glass. She swings at the thing. The blade goes straight through its middle and... nothing. The two halves just come back together.
Frank was back on his feet and was PISSED. In two thousand years, no one had hit him like that. He rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and the space around him dimmed. He pulled all the shadows and darkness out of the house as the thing moved closer. Frank sunk his hands into the creature, his void eyes locked on the thing's head.
"YOU WANT TO CONSUME SOULS? YOU WANT TO EAT HUMANITY? WELL, I’VE FELT THE SOULS OF THOUSANDS AND I’VE SEEN THE SINS OF THEM ALL. YOU WANT A FEAST? I’LL GIVE YOU ONE!"
With that, Frank unleashed his full power: every soul he'd taken, every sin, every violent thought, the pleasure they had felt from taking lives, the desire, shame, and regret. From the fall of Rome to Julian Duke, every emotion, every face of every victim,their pain, tears, and pleas,all unleashed in a duet of cosmic power.
The thing was overloading, flickering and vibrating at a terrifying rate. An electric pulse with a high-pitched scream followed, and then the power blew the circuit. As Frank fell to his knees, taking rapid breaths and trying to catch his breath, the thing burst into an explosion of small night lights that bounced around the room in confusion, not knowing where to go.
In the kitchen strode a tired looking Grey Man with a clipboard and a briefcase. He placed the case down and popped the lid, and all the lights were sucked inside it. He closed the case and checked the paper on his clipboard as the girl got up on shaky legs and wrapped her arms around Frank, who was still on his knees and still trying to catch his breath. The Grey Man addressed them with a curt:
"Thank you for your assistance. I will file requests with your departments. I think a week off for the both of you is in order."
With that, he picked up his case, checked his watch, and left.
As Frank knelt there open-mouthed, the girl tapped his shoulder in sympathy.
"You know, for a tattooed twink, you're kind of scary when you're angry."
Frank slowly nodded.
"Your scythe is bigger than you are. Where the hell do you keep that thing? No, wait,don't answer that. I don't wanna know."
As they left the house and made their way down the street,Frank sauntering, the girl skipping,the sound of a whistled version of "Don't Fear the Reaper" followed them.
Frank spent the first day of his week off... working. It seems the other members of staff have developed a nasty case of "sun’s out, can't be arsed," which, in Frank's opinion, was a sin equal to sleeping with your wife's sister or playing hardcore rave music out loud on the subway.
He finds himself drenched in a cacophony of the city's finest: a line of stressed mothers trying to hide life's regrets behind a mask of Maybelline concealer and lip gloss, and students regaling each other with tales of how much they drank and who they hooked up with at a party. Frank raised an eyebrow at that one; even without cosmic powers, he can tell it was three solo cups of lukewarm piss-water beer and their own hand, but he smiles along and keeps the drinks flowing.
When a particularly loud bunch of office workers enters already halfway through a story, Frank's interest was slightly piqued. Seriously, who was Joanne from accounting, and what did she do with the stapler? But he's soon back to wondering how much trouble it would cause him if he went apocalyptic and reaped the lot of them. Surely there was a clause somewhere that labeled giving a guy a headache a punishable sin.
For the first time in three hours, Frank got a break. The line was empty, and the shop had returned to its usual low chatter and clicking of keyboards.
Frank finds the students curious beings; they pay for accommodation, stocked libraries, and communal spaces but still prefer to sit in a cramped cafe. Kids, right? As he raises the cup in his hand and inhales the rich aroma of his perfectly strong dark roast, the bell over the door chimes—because of course it does. He may work for the universe, but it doesn't mean it likes him!
Frank took one last inhale and a quick sip, which in hindsight was a mistake as it was freshly made and black. Great, now he had to greet a customer with a headache and a lisp!
As the customer reached the counter, Frank gasped and then wore an expression that could only be described as a "confused puppy." Surrounding this girl was... nothing? She had an aura of gentle silence, no background hum that always followed these humans around; just warm, blissful quiet, like slipping naked into freshly washed, smooth cotton sheets. He had to bite his already burnt tongue just to stop the almost pornographic moan that was caught in his throat.
"H-hello, what c-can I get you?"
It did not escape Frank's attention that here he was—an ancient being, sore tongue, holding back a moan—and now, to top it all off, he'd turned into the oldest teenager on the planet!
The girl ordered a quite honestly impressive triple-shot espresso and went to sit down.
Frank felt the loss immediately. The hum returned, the warm calm a forgotten memory. Frank rested his head in his hands on the counter and took a good long look at the girl. She was plain—not ugly, not beautiful, just pleasing to the eye. Dressed in a wide, ankle-length cream skirt, a white shirt, and a brown cardigan, she looked like a librarian who gave soft smiles to her customers and spent her weekends tending to her plants and twirling around in sunny meadows. To Frank, she was a pure shot of cosmic heroin, and since she left, he was now in serious withdrawal. Staring at her like a starving man looks at a sandwich, he had to get more of her.
Reaching out with invisible hands, he delicately tried to waft her aura his way. As he breathed it in, his eyes closed and his lips fell open... It was at that point Pigtails walked in to get her weekly hot chocolate (with a sneaky shot of coffee). The shop stilled, the fridge stopped its hum, and she flicked her eyes from a blissed-out Frank to the unsuspecting assault victim frozen at the table.
"FRANK! Why are you smelling that poor woman?"
Frank was slapped out of his aura-toking.
"I w-wasn’t s-smelling anyone! I-it’s the... new c-ounter cleaner. It smells nice."
"Frank, you were staring at her and you looked like Glenn Danzig just praised your aesthetic."
"Firstly, it's Danzig, and secondly, he definitely would love my look."
"Whatever, Frank, names aren't important. What's going on? And don't lie to me."
"Fine! BUT I wasn't being creepy. Look, Pigtails, she's a blank, okay? She has no background hum, no vibrations. She's just... peace. It's like a big fuzzy hug. I've never felt anything like it."
Pigtails looked over to the woman as the room slipped back into its usual noise. She grabbed her drink and took her little legs over to the woman; with no invitation or explanation, she climbed into the seat, smoothed out her little skirt, and said, "Hi, I'm Sally. What’s your name?"
The woman, whose name was Clara, gave a warm smile while looking around, slightly confused as to why a seemingly lone child was: 1) in a cafe alone, and 2) drinking a hot chocolate that smelled suspiciously of coffee.
Sally smiled and, with a mischievous grin, waited until Frank was looking at her before she pointed at him with a tiny little finger.
"I'm not here alone, silly. I'm with Uncle Frank."
Frank is frozen behind the counter with a look that switches between shock and indignation. He's a 2,000-year-old being who can inflict ultra-violence on sinful souls without breaking into a sweat, and he'd just been reduced to a babysitter by a short Overlook Hotel reject. He has reaped the souls of serial killers, wartime generals, the guy who invented decaf coffee, and dictators, but right now, Pigtails is THE most evil being on the planet. If he thought it was possible, Frank might just reap himself out of shame.
As Sally continued making up a myriad of tales about "Uncle Frank"—including one particularly fantastical story involving a fictional family gathering, a large hairy dog called Fluffles, and a pool—she subtly pulled out her pocket watch. As Clara turned away to drink her coffee, Sally checked the hands on the watch.
They weren't moving. Not even a flicker. They were as still as a teenager who's just stood on a creaky stair while trying to sneak home at 2 a.m.
Sally made her excuses and skipped over to the counter. Frank threw a sweet-as-sugar smile to Clara and then grabbed Sally's elbow, dragging her unceremoniously out of view as her feet struggled to keep up with the momentum.
"Look, you overgrown Baby Annabell, I don't know what you're doing, but I can assure you I would never name a dog 'Fluffles' and I've never been shoved into a pool! I have fallen into a couple at house parties, but that was cheap vodka's fault, not mine!"
"Shut up about the dog, Frank," she whispered, her voice suddenly losing the 'sweet niece' pitch. "Look at the dial. She’s a Zero. She’s not just a 'blank' human. She’s a walking hole in the database. If the Grey Man finds out there’s a soul-less body wandering around a public library, he won't just file a report. He’ll delete the whole block to be safe."
Frank dropped his head and rubbed his temples.
"So what you're saying is... she's dead?"
"Technically no? Yes? I'm gonna be honest with you, Frank: I know what she is (or isn't), but I have no idea how, why, or what to do about it. I just know it's probably for the best if the big bosses don't find out. But we should tell her."
Frank and Sally got back to Clara's table. She was engrossed in a book titled The History of Knitting. She glanced up to see the cosmic duo: one little girl wearing a solemn face and one tattooed barista who honestly looked like he’d just had the best orgasm of his life while also on one too many Xanax.
Clara slowly closed her book, marking her page on the chapter about medieval purl stitches. She looked at Frank—who was currently vibrating with spiritual relaxation—and then at Sally, who looked like she was about to announce she'd run over the family cat in her electric Barbie car.
Clara sighed and signaled for the two to take a seat.
"I don't know what's wrong with you," she pointed at Frank, "but I have some pamphlets at the library on local group meetings that could help with your...err...issues, if that's something you're ready for." As she spoke, she moved her hand forward and gently patted Frank's hand.
What should have been a simple, sympathetic gesture actually caused Frank to make an embarrassing, high-pitched noise, then force his lips shut while his eyes went wide.
Sally cleared her throat. "There's... something we need to discuss with you, Clara, and you may find it hard to believe, but I assure you we are telling the truth."
Clara gave them the most inoffensive "no-shit, Sherlock" look possible. "This is about how I've not aged since the Spice Girls' first hit, isn't it?"
Frank stopped slapping his own cheeks long enough to nod (after the noise he made, there was no way he was trusting his brain to form actual words right now). Sally had the smirk of an ancient being who knew damn well she had enough ammunition to tease Frank for the rest of eternity.
"Please excuse Frank; he's used to hearing constant noise from people. Your... situation means you are the only calm quiet zone he's had in a very, very long time. You are essentially a walking drugstore of bliss for the poor guy. But getting back to the main point: yes, Clara, you technically did die, but there seems to have been some kind of clerical error. Your soul was never processed, so you're stuck here. I'd like to tell you why or how, but I'm afraid that's above our pay grade, and we think it's for the best if we just leave things as they are. Taking this error upstairs would have... consequences. And not just for you."
Clara looked at her hand, then at the man who looked like he was vibrating out of his skin. She didn't look scared. If anything, she looked like she’d finally found the missing piece of a puzzle she’d been working on since 1996.
"Consequences," Clara repeated softly. She looked at Sally—the child with the eyes of a galaxy—and then at Frank, who was now holding his breath so hard his face was turning a shade of purple that clashed with his tattoos. "I don't like consequences. I like my roses, my books, and my Tuesday morning tea."
She turned her gaze back to Frank. "And if the price of my 'unfiled' life is letting a very stressed-out, very loud-headed man sit in my library once a week... well, I’ve dealt with noisier teenagers in the reference section. But I have to ask: it's clear you two are not entirely... human?"
Sally tilted her head and glanced at Frank, who was now holding his breath so hard his head was going purple (lord knows he's suffered enough today; there's no way he's risking another sound escaping).
"It's true. We aren't human at all. We are Reapers. We collect souls. I specialize in the good souls, and Frank here... well, he deals with the bad in a much more cough hands-on way."
Clara looked at Frank—vibrating like a subwoofer and looking like a blueberry wearing an Iron Maiden t-shirt and skinny jeans with a cute pink belt. A small giggle burst out of Clara.
"How do you do that? Sneak up on them from behind?"
Frank finally had to breathe. He exhaled with a sound like a tire losing air, his face fading from "blueberry" back to his usual olive-colored, tattooed skin. He looked at Clara, then at Sally, who was vibrating with a very different kind of energy: pure, unadulterated schadenfreude.
Frank stood, indignation overriding bliss, and walked as far away from Clara as the space would allow.
"I'll have you know, once I turn up, even the most evil soul knows the party is over! I can demonstrate if you want!"
Sally: "No."
Clara: "Yes."
With an eye roll, Sally gave in. Between Frank's bruised ego and Clara's curiosity, there was no getting away from this.
"Okay, Frank, go ahead. Just try to make it quick."
The room stilled. Frank slowly rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. His eyes darkened and the room went cold. Frank spoke with a low, spine-chilling tone: "Is this enough 'presence' for you, library girl?"
As the cafe came back to normal, Clara cleared her throat, looking a little older than usual but only losing a little composure. "Yes. Thank you, Frank. That was very impressive."
Clara straightened her cardigan and picked up her knitting book. "It was very dramatic, Frank. Really. Though you might want to work on the eyes; they’re a bit much for a Tuesday. I’ll see you both at the library next week. I’ll make sure the 'Quiet Zone' is ready for you."
She walked toward the door, the bell chiming a cheery ting as she left. Sally looked up at Frank, who was still standing there trying to look intimidating.
"You're still a blueberry, Frank. Just a scary one now."
Frank didn't even look at her. He just turned back to the espresso machine. "You want another hot chocolate?"