Ash didn’t get that drink. He tried.

Reaper Detritus intercepted him on his way to the pub after unloading a full suit (Ash had unknowingly dethroned Detritus with such a haul). Reapers didn’t have family; that wouldn’t make sense. Yet, Ash and Detritus enjoyed emulating sibling rivalries and comraderies learned from humans wherever possible.

The wild eyes Detritus greeted Ash with revealed the false sibling had another, classic reawakening. See, first, Detri had aspired to be a Grand Reaper.

Then he accepted his place and fell in love with peeling hit-and-runs off the pavement.

Now, though, he looked younger than he had in a thousand years.

Mottled hair was slicked back. Joy gleamed in his eyes. The same damn grinning jowls that had once convinced Ash of their eternal friendship cut deep lines.

“We’re in on this right here.”

Detritus peeled back his eyelid. A number sprayed out like a projector. Five unfathomable digits. A flat, unwavering ‘20,000 souls.’ All part of Sol’s new brilliant mantra of ‘Fuck the balance.’

“Hoo-boy, twenty-kay. Are these suits even meant for that many?” Detritus knew the answer. “Handed down by the sun himself.” He slapped his buddy’s chest. “I think you might be talking to the next Grand Reaper if I can pull this one off.”

Out of loyalty and a sense of dread, Ash said, “I'll assist you, friend.” He had received a request, too, only his was for the harvesting of seven souls.

₰

Lore stated that the first reapers snapped atoms as a means of traveling not out of necessity, but because it simply looked and sounded badass.

Two reapers snapping atoms together formed a wickedly volatile duet. A sweet, colorful, catastrophic duet that streaked through the ether for all the other reapers to enjoy.

Nuclear Armageddon had arrived in Fort Lipton, Mississippi, shortly before Ash and Detritus. Ash made a mental note to ask Time if she ever planned to call a newborn reaper Nuclear Armageddon.

Touchdown at the Grand Gorge Nuclear Plant was far less colorful than the journey had made it seem. A nuclear reactor was on the precipice of complete meltdown. Sirens designed for air raids and tornado warnings howled into the night sky.

Every damn lamp in town seemed to be aimed at the cooling tower. Emergency lights twinkled red and blue near the reactor.

Detritus peeled his gloves off in an indulgent flourish, holding his whiskery chin high. He said “Tell me I'm wrong, Ash. Is this not the harvest of a future Grand Reaper?”

His bare hands didn't wait for an answer. From the inconspicuous football field where the reapers had landed, Detritus shoved his palms away from the nuclear plant. An explosion echoed from the reactor. The humble town on the edge of Midwest and Southern comfort waved bye-bye.

Cacophony chased Detritus’s gestures. He stripped houses of their facades. Neighborhoods splintered apart under clenching fists. He stirred the blast like a cocktail, spreading like atomic froth across the land, and the cloud that arose from the plant screamed death.

“It's been too long since Chernobyl,” Detritus cried. “And when did humans stop loving the bomb?”

As the atomic doom reached out, Ash nearly fell on his ass, for a wave of life essence crashed toward them with all the hatred and confusion of a world gone wrong.