Death is a Girl

Morrigan walked along the sidewalk with Noir at her side. There was the honking of traffic further back, and police and ambulance sirens blaring, but otherwise, it was a nice day. The sun was out, it wasn’t too hot with a nice breeze and Morrigan felt herself slipping back into the rhythm of her new daily routine. She hummed as she took her list out of her pocket and confirmed the third name of the day was crossed off.

Blake Washington, age 24, 1:34pm car accident.

“Alright, that's three down, four to go,” Morrigan said.

“You seem in a rather good mood today,” Noir commented, looking up at her.

“Do I?”

“Yes, you’re going through your list quite effectively so far.”

“Well, I guess I’m just kind of getting used to it, you know? Besides, its a nice day. What’s there to be bummed about?”

“Well, I’m glad to see you are finally adjusting.”

“Yup, all I have to do is throw my human sentimentality out the window, and everythings good, right? Besides, it’s not like I have to be the one that kills them. I guess I’m trying to look at it as—” The ambulance made its way down the street in a dizzying blue, drowning out her voice. Her hair and the tail of her hoodie blew in the wake of the ambulance roaring by. Once it was past she continued. “—I’m trying to look at it as I’m pretty much the clean-up crew.”

“I suppose that’s a reasonable assessment of the job. Though, I would caution you not to let your empathies dissolve completely.”

“There’s really no winning with you, is there?”

“I believe the issue is in that you seem to have an all-or-nothing mentality.”

“Meaning?”

“Either your empathies are drowning you until the task is impossible for you to complete, spending all day making sure the deceased is as happy as possible before they move on. Or, you approach it with complete detachment.”

“Maybe detaching myself is the only way I CAN get through this? Ever thought of that?” she asked, irritation seeping through her voice.

“I have.”

“Alright, you know what? I’m done with you. Do me a favor and stop talking for the rest of the day…” she sighed. “Okay, who’s next?”

She looked down at the next name on the list.

Micheal Roy, age 65, 1:30pm - 3:45pm, Reaper’s Choice

She blinked. “Huh? Reaper’s choice?” She looked down at Noir who looked back at her with that infuriating rise on his brow. “Well, you going to explain?”

“I thought you asked me not to speak for the rest of the day.”

“And since when do you actually listen to what I want?”

“If you think back, I’ve almost always followed your orders.”

“Bull.”

“I played translator for Momo, I gave you a physical version of the list when requested, I saved you from the demon, I turned around while you were getting changed, and now I’ve silenced myself when requested. You, on the other hand, rarely heed my suggestions.”

“What about Death? Weren’t you his guide? Doesn’t he not have one now?”

“You’ve been a reaper for four days, my master has been a reaper for over ten millennia. He can make do just fine on his own.”

“Right… right… Well, anyway, what’s Reaper’s Choice, then?”

Noir paused before speaking, as if measuring his words carefully.“Reaper’s Choice is an unusual situation. In most cases, the cause and time of death are predetermined. However, there are rare instances where the choice is left to the Reaper’s discretion.”

Morrigan stared at the list, the implication sinking in. “So... what? I have to decide how and when this Michael Roy guy dies?”

“In essence, yes,” Noir said, his feline eyes unwavering. “However, the choice is not to be made lightly. You’ll need to assess the situation and determine what would be the most fitting end.”

Morrigan felt a cold shiver run down her spine. “Fitting? Uh… I mean, so I can decide if it’s quick and painless or something else?”

“If that is how you choose to approach it. Though, the death must be a likely outcome for their lifestyle or situation. For example, if Micheal Roy is a construction worker, you might push over his ladder and kill him that way. If he is a drug addict, you might use your power to stop his heart, effectively making his cause of death seem to be an overdose. If he is swimming, you may drown him, if he is—”

“And if he’s a food critic I’ll slip in a little rat poison! Okay! Okay! I get the point! I mean, just touching him and stopping his heart is probably the easiest method, right? And it will cause him the least suffering, so I’ll just do it like that.”

“What if he were a healthy twenty-three-year-old?” Noir said. “How would his loved ones make heads or tails of a sudden heart attack?”

Morrigan raised the list and tapped his name, ruffling the page. “Says right here he’s 65. Old men have heart attacks all the time.”

“I’m merely giving you an example,” Noir said. “The truth is, you won’t know what is appropriate until you observe him. Oh, and for your rat poison example, that is no good. However they die, it must be a reasonable outcome without your intervention. Unless they work with rat poison regularly and an accident like that could feasibly occur, then you can not use that method.”

“I don’t get it, I thought it was that fates don’t determine this stuff, they merely report it, or something like that. Isn’t making it my choice kind of intervening more than we are supposed to? Like, if someone spills juice in a grocery aisle the manager tells the janitor, me, to go clean it up. You know?”

“This is still the truth in the case of a Reaper’s Choice.”

“Doesn’t seem like it,” Morrigan countered.

“The precise nature of the fates and how they operate are a secret to all but themselves. This death, however it is to occur and however it ended up on your list, is something that has been determined as a necessity. You are not to question it, only to comply.”

Morrigan let out a long sigh. “This is a hell of a job description, you know that? I’m supposed to walk into this guy’s life, decide how he should die, and just… make it happen? How does anyone do this without going crazy?”

“Who says they don’t?” Noir said, an inscrutable expression in his eyes. “The work of a Reaper is not for the faint of heart. Yet, master selected you because he believed you could handle it. Even if it doesn’t feel like it yet.”

“Yeah, well, no pressure or anything,” Morrigan muttered. She rolled up the list and tucked it back into her sleeve. “Alright, let’s go find Mr. Michael Roy. Lead the way, oh wise one.”

Noir sniffed, almost as if he were chuckling, and led the way through the city streets.

***

They eventually arrived downtown in the corperate area of the city. The residences changed to large office buildings made of glass and steel, reflecting the sky and clouds. People in business suits hustled down the sidewalks, their faces buried in smartphones or locked in intense conversation. Briefcases and high heels clicked and clacked against the pavement with an air of urgency, as if everyone was rushing to seal a deal or meet a deadline.

Amidst all this seriousness, a lone street musician was seated on a corner, strumming a guitar and singing. The sound of his music seemed oddly out of place, yet comforting. Some people paused for a moment to drop some coins or bills into his guitar case; but most didn’t.

Finally, Noir led Morrigan to a towering building, one that seemed to stretch into the clouds. The sleek architecture made it look like a monument to modern efficiency, and the large emblem etched into the glass facade read, “RoyTech Industries.”

“This is where he is,” Noir said, pausing at the entrance.

“RoyTech Industries? This is, like, one of the top tech firms in the country. They’re into everything—computers, satellites, even biotech.” Morrigan looked puzzled. “Oh crap… I think I know where this is going…”

“How so?” Noir asked.

“I mean… I thought the name was familiar but it didn’t really click. This Micheal Roy guy, I think he’s the CEO of RoyTech. He’s one of the most influential people in the city.”

“That is not for us to question,” Noir replied. “We are simply here to do a job.”

Morrigan sighed. “Right. Of course. No pressure or anything—just choosing how one of the most influential people in the tech world should die. Screw this up and it could turn into an international crisis. But no pressure!”

“An international crisis?”

“Sure, you know, what if it turns out I screw it up and it seems someone assassinated him. The least of the problems would be the message boards flooded with conspiracy theories. At worst I might start a war or something.”

“I do believe you are being a little dramatic. And by the way, it could very well turn out that an assassin making an attempt on his life is what is meant to happen today.”

“...Seriously? Well then what the hell does he need me for?”

“It would be your duty to make sure the assassin succeeds, of course.”

She raised a finger, mouth half open as she processed that. She gave up on finding whatever words she was searching for and instead said, “Whatever. Let’s just go.”

As they made their way through the building, Morrigan couldn’t help but overhear snippets of conversations—talks of mergers, of upcoming projects, of stock prices and market shares. This was a world far removed from the ordinary experiences most people knew, a high-stakes game that affected millions, if not billions, of lives. And she was about to toss a massive stone right into the middle of it.

“My perception blocking does not necessarily make you invisible,” Noir reminded her. “It is more that it creates a sort of cognitive misalignment in the minds of any who observe you. In the case of my master, they can technically see him, but they won’t register that he is a skeleton. Nor will they see you as a teenage girl who has no business in this building. You can even get away with talking to someone or asking questions, so long as they don’t become too focused on you.”

“So you’re saying they’ll see me, but just ignore the fact that I’m there?”

“More or less. Death, and therefore reapers, are a common part of every day life. Everyone occasionally crosses paths with a reaper, but there’s a psychological blind spot. For them, you’ll blend seamlessly into their reality.”

“Handy,” Morrigan said.

“Indeed. Now, let’s put it to use. You see the receptionist behind the counter? You could ask her where Micheal Roy’s office is, and it’s possible she will just tell you without thinking about it, due to my magic. However, if she focuses too closely on you, and therefore the request, it might strike her that it is abnormal and she will notice you as you are.”

“Okay, so what do I do?”

“Wait until she’s busy, or distracted by something.”

Morrigan nodded and waited in the lounge area near the receptionist’s desk. It felt awkward lurking around, especially since she was so out of place—looking like a goth girl who recently won a year’s supply of white makeup surrounded by all these business types. But, as Noir had claimed, nobody so much as glanced her way.

She waited, and watched, wondering if the receptionist slacking off and focusing on her cell phone would be enough of a distraction. But then, a sharply dressed man walked briskly into the lobby and right up to her counter. “Excuse me, I had a meeting with Mr. Roy at 2:00pm that I had just heard may have been cancelled.”

“Okay, can I have your name, sir?” the receptionist asked.

“Johnathan Whick.”

She tapped the keyboard and said, “Yes, it looks like this meeting was canceled. I do apologize, but Mr. Roy is busy with other matters now.”

“Well, I need someone to un-cancel it!” he shouted. She seemed at a loss for how to respond, and he took the silence to make another demand. “Is there someone you can put me in contact with who can rectify this?”

“I um… well, that’s not really my department. Who have you been—”

“Get me Thomas Burgundy. I know he’s in the office.”

“Sir, I apologize but—”

Morrigan watched as the receptionist became flustered and tried to explain there was nothing she could do and he would have to call someone else. Morrigan decided this was her chance to test Noir’s magic.

“I flew in from New York to be here!” the man was yelling as Morrigan approached.

“Pardon me, sir,” Morrigan said, and he stepped to the side as he continued his tirade. “Excuse me ma’am, I’d like to talk to Mr. Roy. I don’t have an appointment or anything but now would be great. Where’s his office?”

She was tapping on her keyboard, trying to find a way to deal with Mr. Whick as he continued yelling at her. Despite that, she offhandedly said to Morrigan, “Top floor, last door on the right. You can’t miss it.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Morrigan said, quickly making her way to the elevators. Johnathan Whick continued his loud discussion with the receptionist, and they were both acting as though Morrigan was never there at all.

Noir padded silently beside her. “Well done,” he said as they stepped into an elevator.

“Wow, that’s amazing!” Morrigan laughed. “Can I learn to do that myself without your help?”

“Of course. Though, magic takes some time to master. I’m afraid you’ll be relying on me for quite a while still.”

Morrigan smirked, for once thinking maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. Noir just took a little getting used to, she supposed.

The elevator ascended smoothly, the floor numbers on the display panel ticking up until they reached the top floor. When the doors opened, they were greeted by a hallway that was markedly different from the ones they had passed through earlier. Less bustling, more austere.

“Last door on the right,” Morrigan whispered to herself. Even though she was basically invisible, walking into the lion’s den, as it were, was inherently nerve-wracking.

They reached the office’s imposing wooden door with “Michael Roy, CEO” etched onto a nameplate beside it.

“So, do we knock?” Morrigan asked, a note of sarcasm in her voice.

“Master gave you a skeleton key, did he not?”

“Oh, that’s right… so, I just… um…” She took the key out of her pocket and looked between it and the door handle. This door did not have a keyhole. It had an electric card reader on the side. “Uuuh… Noir, I think we have a problem here.”

“Go on, just use it,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow at him.

“With everything else you’ve seen, is this really the thing you are not going to trust me on?”

“Fair point…” she said, then moved the skeleton key towards the card reader.

Sure enough, as it got close it started to morph and flatten out into the shape of a card, but it had a skull printed into the plastic and the end of the key was still straight and round between Morrigan’s fingers. She blinked, and slid the skeleton key (now a skeleton card) through the slot and the door dinged as the lock clicked open.

“Well, how about that…”

Morrigan softly pushed the door open. She could hear someone’s voice inside, though when she peeked in she saw the desk was empty. She carefully stepped inside and closed the door softly behind herself.