Name: Charlotte Cole (alias: Rouge Remington)
Year of Death: 1945
Total Reaps: -15
Place of Residence: A shack at the end of Stepford Way
Day Job: Assassin
I was a little disappointed to see the rookie carted off so quickly, but at least she wasn’t on my plate anymore.
I’d proved myself to the team with those simultaneous reaps. They all knew I very well had the ability-
I was brought out of my thoughts when I noticed the other new kid, Alex, taking notes.
I didn’t know what he’d done to get a ride back with Apollo, but I had a feeling that something was off with him. New reapers were usually either in disbelief or freaked out like Beatrice had been (believe me, I’d seen plenty).
He probably thought he was being clever, dragging that scythe around with him and ‘discreetly’ trying to get information. What a square.
I thought back to the days when I was that young and sighed.
Things just weren’t the same no more.
“That’s all for today.” Hekate sighed, probably annoyed with Beatrice’s emotional flare-up, “You can all head home.”
I cast a glance around at our oddball group and we all parted ways.
“There’s been some complications, boss.”
I leafed through the money in the envelope I was holding, switching the payphone onto my other shoulder.
“What is it, Floyd? Don’t tell me you’ve already been sniffed out by the cops.”
The booth I was standing in was soundproofed. I’d checked.
“No, no, of course not.” He replied hurriedly, “It’s all in the Caymans. We have a good amount-“
I cut him off.
“-then why the hell haven’t you knuckleheads started phase two?”
I could hear him contemplating what to say on the line.
“It’s only a matter of time, boss. Our people are all going to be coming into the city...we’ll be in the clear.” He paused before continuing, “There’s just one, tiny little problem.”
I emptied my glass and filled another from the tap, shutting my eyes tightly.
I was in the underground speakeasy, drinking alone the way I had for the past who knew how long.
It was somewhat pointless. As a reaper I didn’t need any food, but I couldn’t get drunk either.
It was just the sensation of the burning liquid coursing through my veins that had me emptying bottle after bottle, wishing that I could feel the giddiness of inebriation.
I pulled out the notebook I had stuffed into my pocket, pulling out another identical, empty notebook and setting about copying the pages.
It was a bloody chore, but the alternative was considerably worse.
I fingered my pistols and sighed. Time to take out another hit.