The job of a reaper was to abstain from offense. The harvest rarely presented a pleasant scene; which more often lowered a reaper’s opinion of mortals. Still, as was the case when Ash walked the remnants of a bustling school, he had to resist the temptation to seek out the perpetrator, no matter how queasy or disappointed he felt.

The harvest started like a ritual.

Ash followed the traditions. It was considered kind for the reaper to present his or her harvesting tool to the floating, disembodied life essence. One issue: There was more essence clogging the school than air.

Decay laughed.

“You don't have to do that. We’ll be honoring the dead long after the morgue arrives. Trust me, the Grand Reapers never--”

“The Grand Reapers never. I'm not a Grand Reaper. Neither was Song.”

“Ashen.” Decay took his arm, forced the maul to his side.

In a flash, Ash anticipated some semblance of empathy from Decay. He wasn’t sure why. Instead, he received this:

“Reapers never had an objection before. Mortal history is littered with tolls far higher than this. The black plague that consumed Europe, the collapse of twin towers, the bombs that swallowed Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Remember the fright that sent Time on a warpath when Little Boy knocked on our door, and then Fat Man nearly breached the Wavering? Every reaper wanted a taste of death camps. Which death camps? Pick a nation.”

Ash broke free from her constraint. The maul struck essence, and the essence evaporated, the last vestiges of young life was collected. He careened through nacinct halls. Weapon and reaper moved in triumphant dance, filling the harvesting suit to bursting.

“Disease remains under the skin of every dejected boy, the bruise of every lost girl, in the hearts of soldiers and slaves. History conducts against their bones. Ashen, love, this is your future. Mass death. The Grand Reapers have scarce time for the triflings of slobbering beasts. We have found something far greater--something apocalyptic beyond the bounds of mortality and immortality.”

Snap. Crack. The obsidian hammer broke down lockers and shattered walls. Ash forced through cluttered desks to reach the bodies of those who had fallen without warning.

“The human race is on the brink.” Decay seethed behind the carnage. “A melting pot about to explode.”

An errant strike cracked a boxed fire extinguisher. Pressure rocketed white foam across the passage and blinded Ash. He needed no eyes.

When he was able to see again, much farther in and with a suit vibrating full with life, the front doors slammed open. Now, this was often when the police broke in, or the ambulance blared outside, which just meant Ash could no longer go wild.

However, a single man in a bright orange suit with barely a presence sauntered through the threshold. His breathing fogged the gasmask. He went first to a young woman who had tripped over a classmate, scooped her in his arms like a broad-chested hero, and scurried for the restroom.

“Is he doing what I think?” Ash asked.

“Quite a risk if so.” Decay hurried past, letting her morning star scrape behind her. “It'd risk exposure and--”

Ash shoved around her, giving chase to the deviant. He met the orange man in a stall, where he had tossed the girl like a ragdoll.

The man had ripped a hole right through the hermetically sealed pants and fished around inside. He jumped--nearly out of his suit, which was made much easier by the hole--when something shattered in the atrium. He spun so quick that Ash could see dizziness grab ahold.

Ash grabbed him instead. This is an ideal time to take a deep breath. An immortal grabbing a mortal by the balls was against unnatural law, in technical terms. It lacked any real repercussion outside of exposing humans to a force they're already well aware of. Ash in so doing justified his action with the basic knowledge that the man arriving at a biological attack to engage in statutory necrophilia was so much worse a betrayal of nature than anything he was about to do.

His fist twisted sharply. Two small, emasculated grapes popped. The orange man’s banshee squeals were cut short as obsidian maul shattered his chest and popped out the other side, constrained by a broadly stretched spine.

The man fell. Ash added one more to the pyre.

Decay called from the atrium. “Could use another drink after this one, right?”