For Reapers, they looked old. Ash and Detritus admired the latest graffiti on their way home. A crudely painted young woman, an elephant blowing bullets from its trunk, someone had tagged every other alleyway with the word ‘Puritan.’

Two millennia of reaping between them, no promotion in sight, never tired of seeing what the newest reapers covered the old brutalist buildings with.

The Concourse was like the lights behind closed eyes; too familiar, too ephemeral. Reaper Detritus had accepted being overlooked a long time ago. Depleted ambition allowed him to rediscover the simple pleasure of a good harvest.

Reaper Ash, however, still walked with potential prickling at his heels. In fact, when a position as Grand Reaper opened a few decades ago, he really thought it was his to take.

“Pile-up on another interstate. Five dead. Several more injured.” Detritus flexed lean muscles, which no one could see under such a dense cloak. The suit brimmed with the glow of purple soul juice, screaming in perpetual terror. “Still waiting on Time to give me a mission update before I head back down.”

It's important to understand that the term 'soul' is strictly mortal slang. Sometimes, even reapers might let it slip into their conversations but only because 'soul' is much quicker to say than 'life essence.'

Ash smacked his suit. The harvested life essence that coursed through the black fabric rippled like waves. “A single, lonely man. Johnny Lie.”

“That’s not a real name, my friend.”

“It was to him. Real enough for his death to register with us.”

The Concourse echoed with unlife. Hundreds of reapers hurried about their business. Suits trailed like black waves, lapping along granite paths. The northward husks were filled to the brim with fresh souls, eager to reach the Harvesting Citadel to unload their hauls and kick back. Contrary to mortal beliefs, reapers were given plenty of time between harvests to enjoy exquisite meals and chug brew. If only the living knew the delicacies they’d never taste.

Ash held the door for Detritus. It was a running joke between the two old friends. He who held the door always delivered the greater harvest that day.

The average reaper was lucky to pull in ten souls on a good trip to the mortal plain--the kind of day where they were assigned two pile-ups instead of one, or a mass murderer dominated a few minutes of the news cycle instead of talking heads.

The big hauls like genocide and disease were handled by the four Grand Reapers.

At least, it had been. The untimely demise of Grand Reaper Vagrant saw a lot of scrambling to fill his prestigious place. Let’s keep it simple: a few reapers came back with far more souls than they should’ve. Ash wanted that position, it’s true, but he’d never take lives that weren’t assigned to him.

A lot of unnecessary deaths led up to the crowning of Conquest as the newest Grand Reaper. At least a dozen reapers lost their credentials. Time herself had traveled down from her estate to dole punishment.

It was rare to see Time beyond the estate. Her deathly writs arrived by telekinesis--or time distortion message--or whatever she was calling it at the time. Which made her appearance on the ground floor of the Citadel that day disconcerting.

Time wore an armored kimono, emblazoned with Sol, the Sun God, across the parted chestplate. Ruddy cheeks punctuated a timorous, pale face.

“Any news on the pile-up?” Detritus asked.

Time clutched a violin. Its obsidian lacquer shined in rainbow hues. “Not now.”

“Well, remember, I get first--”

“Time!” Another reaper stole her attention. “I’m not doing it. I won’t.”

Ash would’ve carried on toward the pulsating, revolving harvest chamber, if not for Detritus catching his arm.

“Hold up, Ash.”

Time’s violin locked snugly between chin and shoulder. “What’s the matter, Reaper Song.”