Name: Charlotte Cole (alias: Rouge Remington)
Year of Death: 1945
Total Reaps: -20
Place of Residence: A shack at the end of Stepford Way
Day Job: Assassin
Wonderful. Just wonderful.
I was standing at the corner of Yonge and 57th, yawning and glancing at my watch repeatedly.
The rookie I was stuck picking up was nowhere in sight and the strong wind had messed up my hair beyond recognition. Add to that my interrupted beauty sleep and you just about get the picture.
Oh, if Martillo could see me then, he would be laughing his sorry ass off.
I sat down on a park bench a couple yards from the intersection, pulling up the collar of my trench coat to hide my face. Sure, I was disguised as part of my reaper gig, but I still had my pride.
It had only been a couple seconds before I heard the loud screeching of tires and jolted awake (I had only been resting my eyes, I swear!).
My reaper senses kicked in and everything started to move in slow motion.
There was a girl crossing the street and a hummer careening towards her. She turned and froze like a deer in the headlights.
I jumped to my feet, whipped out a pistol and took my shot.
Now, before you get all weirded out on me, there's a few things I should probably mention.
There wasn't any blood or guts involved. A reaping is something that happens on another dimension. Taking a soul is a complicated process, and as a reaper you're entitled to certain...abilities that give you the upper hand.
One of those abilities is the heightened perception during a person's impending death. Another is being able to cut through the material that holds their soul to their body.
Anything in a reaper's hand has that property. Some reapers actually used their hands. The more old school stuck to scythes, but I found the idea seriously impractical.
So I used a gun. Lightweight (ish), portable and usable from a distance.
The girl, Beatrice or something, crumpled just before the hummer smashed into her, but I was sighing with relief.
Her soul had already been severed, and was weaving around the scene in apparent confusion. It was invisible to the people screaming and whoever in the hummer was putting it into reverse and flooring it out of the place, but I could see it loud and clear.
Or should I say, I could hear it loud and clear.
If there's one thing you can count on during a reaping, it's the soul making an absolute racket. Some of them are angry, some sad but most of them are just clueless.
Being a reaper means that their voice is amplified to the point of booming in your head, and it gets a bit chaotic after a while.
I had long put away my pistol and started to make my way out of the hullabaloo, knowing full well that the soul would have no choice but to follow.
Cutting the connection between body and soul creates a bit of a tether between the reaper and reaped. Kind of like a convenient dog leash.
I wasn't going to be guiding this little girlie to the pearly gates, though. She was stuck becoming a reaper.
I didn't mind the job, myself. Been doing it for about seventy years, and I didn't look a day over twenty. It was the bee's knees.
"Who are you?" the soul asked, finally managing to form coherent-enough thought to speak to me, "Where are we going?"
"To get a cup of joe," I replied, "And to meet our new boss."
The former I didn't mind, but the latter I knew was going to be a pain. If there was one thing I wasn't, it was employee of the week.