Ash rolled back in a black mist, knocking Harakiri off her feet and into the fountain.

The halberd that thirsted for his essence smashed through the arching ivory statue, forcing Ash into spurting water. The unwitting pedestrians who were already on edge from a nuclear blast hundreds of miles away screamed out in terror. Because of course the next attack would land in a paradise like Savannah on a gorgeous day like this.

Reaper Volatile lifted the halberd, slow yet skilled, tangling in the moss that hung from every tree. Any hopes that Time had sent a new pup to dole out justice were dashed. Every howling swing of the blade cut down a dozen innocent souls in its path and the ratty man thought nothing of it.

“Surprised that Geduld had another suit ready for you,” Volatile said, stomping forward in the military boots of a defunct dictator. A black skort (it’s a real word) revealed bulging thighs. Except for a black tank top, his harvesting suit was fully exposed as were his gray arms. “Or did you steal the suit from her?”

One might assume humans ran from disasters. Time certainly believed the mortals acted like rodents. But Ash knew the truth, as he rolled and flopped through the gushing stream: Peril means nothing compared to saving one another. It didn’t matter if death struck in the most affluent of neighborhoods or the deepest slums, someone was always ready to run toward fire.

The sun cast red and orange shafts through bushy trees, painting Volatile like the flame so many moths fluttered into. He relished the challenge of keeping a clear path between him and his prey. “This is the world you've created, Ash. I hear Time’s changing your name to Warmonger with how much you destroy.”

Between juking the halberd, Ash pointed an angry finger. “That’s a pile of horse shit. None of it was my fault.”

Bodies sailed, life essence sucked into the blade’s edge. Volatile spared the mariachi band, all of which continued to play as if their lives depended on this one last show.

And, with the howl of trumpets and battling of violins against a single guitarist, a deathly dance spilled from a mossy park to the heart of Savannah.

Unseen still by the human eye, the reapers toppled pillars and bounced from manicured yards to balconies. The local news would blame faulty water lines once the immediate fervor died down. National news waited in the wings to deliberate over who was to blame for the Savannah Showdown.

Ash learned that he was the best at cat-and-mouse while Volatile fought like a dog, preferring to crash his lumbering might into everything he could. Fire raged in his eyes. Spittle flecked his cheek. The twisting of his torso elicited growls--of pain or excitement. Ash didn’t want to know.

Worst of all, as another plantation home collapsed, Ash spotted Harakiri chatting with Love. He needed the help. He desperately needed--

“You aren’t a theme, reaper,” Ash blurted out.

Volatile brought the halberd to a grating stop, pinning a barber shop under its mighty tip. “What?”