“You walk the same path as Song,” Love muttered.

Hatred covered her doppelganger’s mouth. “He walks the right path. Because he’s smarter than Song.”

Missing his suit, naked from scruffy hair to sharp-nailed toes, Ash flexed for the gawking reapers of the Concourse. His eyes, however, locked on the distant heights beyond their workplace.

Scorched, bloody, and fresh with new scars, Ash bided his time. Calling her name would bring her wrath, he knew, and to bring Time’s wrath was to court disaster.

Existence stacked atop itself like pancakes. Humans love pancakes. In this case, those same humans would be awash in melancholy to discover their precious Earth was the first, bottom cake, where all the syrup pooled and drowned them.

Ash was crossing the second pancake, seeking passage to the third pancake--which was a much smaller flapjack. Still, the third was a much bigger one than the fourth and final pancake.

The final cake was Sol, the sun, the god. Only him. All alone.

The Concourse rolled off Ash’s heels. Beyond, suffering greeted him. He endured the sweltering cold and stinging heat that ravaged the places between pancakes. He wondered how much of his pain was manufactured. Was it any different from the weight of Love and Hatred piggybacking him?

“Why were you with the other two?” Love asked.

“Silence,” Ash spat, with both arms crossed over his face. Flame bursts turned to ice shards. “Patience rewards the wise and Impatience betrays the fool.”

“Clever words, Ash.” Hatred stole a smooch on his cheek. “But I think Time will notice you’re missing your suit.”

He had to stop for a moment. A wet kiss felt nice against dry skin.

Still, as Ash often did, he ignored Hatred. “What are you two doing here in any case?”

“The atomic devil blew right through the bayou.” Love pouted.

“Boom! Those humans can’t ever stop blowing each other up.”

“So, why not tag along with our favorite reaper? Your trajectory is painfully interesting, Ash.”

Flaming ice pelted his skin, cauterizing wounds and washing away filth. Orange sparks, blue splatters, his arms drew closer until he was kissing his forearms. Blond and black hair snuck down in front of his eyes.

Then the storm passed. His arms lowered. Love and Hatred allowed him a moment’s reprieve.

A green, sprawling estate greeted the trio. A meticulously tended terrace led all the way to a blocky Edwardian palace. There, between colonnades, Time supped a meal at the central bridge of an inorganic Spanish garden.

She used to mill around a dark cave, a long time ago.

In all her wisdom, Time glanced at the coming Ash and waved. The obsidian violin rested at her legs, untouched. She called "I expected to hear of your Grand Gorge harvest by now. Where is your suit?"

"Lost to your lust. Is Sol now blind to boundaries? Our way was balance."

Time returned to spooning her clear soup, pushing the Celtic stargazing chair beside her out with a long, pointed heel. Her words were laced with slurps. "I wish you understood the calculation that goes into every harvest. Accidents happen."

Not one to insult his superior, Ash settled in across the table. Love and Hatred frollicked and fought through the garden’s flowing motes.

Ash thumped his knuckles on the table. “Balance--”

"Balance, balance, balance." Another scoop of soup went down the hatch. “Ash, Grand Reaper Decay made it clear to me that you’re unhappy with the recent shift in responsibilities. I understand that. We’ve done the same chores for millenia, starting before the spoiled babies knew how to start a fire. I never stopped to ask ‘Why?’”

“Your solution is wholesale murder then?” Ash asked.

A sticky sushi roll grew from the table before him, like dough rising in a furnace. Cooked eel topped glistening, perfectly formed rice, avocado, and seaweed. Sushi was Time’s favorite illusion. She could surround herself with all the ancient European architecture she desired but nothing, ever, pleased her more than those Far Eastern delicacies.

Reapers needn’t sustenance; no more than they needed a pub, or a slummy place to crawl in the off-hours. Taste-buds worked, true, but why indulge false machines? Still, Time dined with all the urgency of a modern office worker.

She said, “Eel blood poisons humans. In fact, for the longest time, that was believed to be the only honest truth. Then, as humans do, someone in their infinite wisdom thought to cook the eel. Surprise, heat rendered the blood harmless.”

Ash was already three perfect rolls in, cheeks puffed full with rice and eel. A tincture of spice hidden in the dark sauce pinched the back of his throat. He coughed.

“That’s how many natural poisons lose their potency.” Rice flew when he spoke. He was a sucker for any kind of eel. Time knew that.

“It doesn’t end there. An eel’s blood provokes anaphylaxis. It swells them, suffocates them. It should kill the humans. The vermin used this discovery to better their kind--to learn and to conquer. They used it to create a solution.”

“Good for them. All part of the balance you no longer want to hear about.”

“The balance you lust for is a fairytale. We hold no obligation to regulate Life and Death, no more than I want anything to do with Love and Hatred.” For the briefest second, Time flicked severe eyes on the two women splashing buckets of water on the pavement.

“You still tolerate them.”

“We’re the eel. Given enough time, humans always find life in death. Finish your sushi and go home, Ashen. Pretend you’re a human. Grieve your loss and be ready in the morning. You want a singular harvest? You’ll get one with the rising sun. This I promise you.”