The Reaper

𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫 ✸ Current Era ✸ Mature themes ✸ PFP: Mike D. ✸ Header: John Yau. ✸ 18+

death lives.

It's 3 o'clock. A top-down car waits outside with a man casually smoking at the wheel. @IDwidowmaker

Gun shopping.

The mask is enough; I won't wear a different outfit for the holidays.

The Reaper looks away from Soldier 24 and reaches for tools. Work tonight would be messy. He had frustrations to take out.

The face staring at him from the mirror couldn't be past its early thirties. It was a face that had been slapped on posters, been sculpted onto a statue, It made the expressions he made. O'Deorain's calibrations had worked.

It is well past midnight when he dials a number not among his saved contacts. @TheDrOdeorain

The buzz of an alarm and the fingers grip as mask. Still solid, strong. Time to be the messenger.

Cowardice or stubbornness.

Fingers resting in an ashtray. The wisps of smoke can't be seen yet. But he feels it. His flesh turning to ash. He'd put off the check-up for too long. Again.

Today's location is a Rooftop in the Metropolitan Heart of Redacted. Reaper's raspy voice carries the tinge of nicotine-craving as he asks, "Do you see them yet?" @IDwidowmaker

Counting bullets.

"Got your passport?" Organized chaos - the characteristic of an airport - went on all around the still line they were standing in. Boarding was about to begin. @IDwidowmaker

Another name on the list.

He's making a list, he's checking it twice. . .

Reaper sits until the last of his ice turns to water. He slowly stands to walk, leaving the bar behind, turning a nearby corner to step into a shadow and vanish.

For the second time in a day, there is a knock on her door. @IDwidowmaker

He'd already walked the length of Oasis for some time before entering the building. His cigarette had been put out three blocks ago. He rings the doorbell. @IDwidowmaker

It was the one time of year he could be neither reached or found.

'lo and behold, a pale horse. And its rider who is Death.