Grim Reaper

Subject: Terilynn Veranos | Classif.: Barzakh

Lynn’s eyelids twitched. Fluorescent light demanded to be let in, only to be denied by her vision. The tiny rays that slipped through from the draped window by the side were already setting her corneas on fire. Her hand covered her face, scrunched up like a chew toy from the pounding within her skull, the ache made worse by the fact that she could not feel anything. Neither alive nor dead. An Immortal’s first hangover.

She tossed and turned, squirming like a slug. Lynn couldn’t be bothered by her conduct at that moment. Numb from head to toe, yet cognizant of the pain. That dull, damnable pain. She wanted to move and get rid of it, but moving hurt all the same. A prisoner locked within a blanket. And even as the mattress beneath her tortured her spine, she refused to leave, groaning in agony.

Suddenly, cold coursed throughout her face. Mild, but insufficient relief from an iced towel. Was she back at the manor? Were the servants taking care of her? It was too much work for her brain to even think.

“G-Go… away.” Her limp hand tried to shoo whoever was there. Whether it worked or not, she didn’t care enough to find out.

Minutes passed. Her throat was dry enough to be a cactus. Even the subconscious act of respiration felt like torture with all the pricks inside her neck. Her nose was sealed off. Each ghastly groan that escaped her mouth was her lungs working overtime. But her breath wouldn’t be the only thing that escaped her mouth.

Without warning, Lynn opened her unwilling eyes. Her hand instinctively covered her lips, but it was too late. A nuclear bomb went off in her stomach. Rainbows raced up her gullet and erupted into the pail right in front of her. For a good few seconds, the sound of a war crime being committed bounced around the walls of the barf bucket.

By the time she was done, she felt the bucket floating away from her. The touch of fabric caressed her lips, wiping away what was left behind by the biological weapon. Her eyes shifted to meet those of her caretaker.

Mia.

The little girl carried the pail away, unfazed by its contents. When she returned, she had another cold towel and the same, empty expression.

“Why—”

“—you’re not inside a box filled with water drowning again and again? I was wondering that the whole time, too,” Mia admitted. “But Dad wants to talk to you. Then we’ll see if I get to use the box or not.”

She… that had to be an attempt at humor, right? Lynn thought to herself. The girl’s deadpan tone made it impossible to decipher. Whether she was actually versed in the art of Immortal torture, Lynn wasn’t keen on finding out any time soon.

“... Where… am I?”

But Mia did not respond. In the corner of the room, the sound of running water from the tap she had just turned on gave a vague reply in her stead. The continuous rhythm of the water bounced around the small room and into Lynn’s partially clogged ears. Beyond the random faucet, a few shelves, and some odd decor, she had no clue where she was.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” The muffled voice of an old woman could be heard behind the door. As it slid open, she continued, “You can count your lucky stars. I usually charge an arm and a leg for this.”

Grace was wheeled into the room, her handicapped appearance instantly etched into Lynn’s mind. It stood in stark contrast to the assistant behind her who wheeled her in. Donned in loose, revealing robes, she brimmed with both health and beauty, a rarity in this decrepit town. She left with a polite bow, closing the door behind her.

“Your ass is in Bottom’s Down, finest massage parlor in all of Pitstop. And if I had a nickel for each time someone woke up here asking, ‘Where am I?’ I’d have enough to buy me a motor for my wheelchair.”

Lynn asked, “You run this establishment?”

“Run? I don’t run no more. One of my girls is in charge.” Grace wheeled herself closer to the bed, sniffing the air. “Mia! Be a sweetheart and turn on the aroma diffuser, would you? And could you get the hot tub in Room 2 ready?”

Leaning in to Lynn, the blind woman whispered. “You, young lady, are in need of a bath.”

“Okay, Granny Grace!”

The hairs on Lynn’s neck stood the moment she heard Mia’s peppy response. The innocence in her voice was the same when she first heard her, offering to prepare tea. But knowing what the girl was capable of, she felt a biting dread gnawing on her numb body. A chilling thought. Was this even her real form?

Was that really her soul, or was she just wearing one?

“How much did you drink?” Grace’s question snapped her back to reality.

“Huh?”

“Do you even remember how you ended up on my VIP bed?

Even through the migraine pulsing inside her head, sparks of her duel against death and his daughter ignited within her mind. Gunshots. Explosions. The euphoria of regeneration. The taste of that battle was still fresh on her tongue. And even though she lost, it was more exhilarating than anything she had ever come across. The frustration from losing was there, sure, but the thrill of the fight was what tingled through her numb skin.

Despite the thoughts flowing throughout her mind, the silence that came out of it painted a sigh on Grace’s mouth.

“Since your dementia’s worse than mine, lemme spell it out to you. You got so drunk, Mr. Tim ain’t got no house anymore. You brought the whole house down! Mr. Tim homeless ‘coz of you!”

“I see.”

“Don’t ‘I see’ me! You better fix this ‘fore I—”

A bullet ripped through the window, tearing a hole through the drapes, fracturing the glass, and unclogging Lynn’s ears.

Grace asked, “Alright, who just decided they want a smoking, new butt hole?”

“GRANNY!”

Mia rushed in, tossing a rifle over to the blind woman who snagged it out of the air with one hand. The weapon clicked obediently in the arms of its master, bolt cycled, locked and loaded.

“Thanks, dear. Could you help the girls downstairs?”

“Can I play with the machine gun?”

“Sure, sweetie.”

As Mia left, Lynn got up, stumbling and still groggy. But even with the world spinning around her, she made her way to the side of the window. Her hand kept her from falling by propping her up against the wall. Lifting the drapes slightly, she peered into the commotion happening outside.

Cars and trucks surrounded the building, skid marks still fresh on the ground as exhaust pipes coughed black smoke. Welded together with mismatched parts and reinforced with plastic and metal alike, these Frankensteinian vehicles carried similarly messed-up gangsters on board, taking up cover behind their transports. They waved their guns and laughed as the massage parlor’s customers streamed out of the building, naked and running for dear life. Lynn wished she could scrape the things she saw out of her memory, desperately needing bleach for her eyes.

But among the gangsters, one man in particular stood out. Dressed in a suit way too tight for him, the man stepped out into the open, belt fighting for dear life each time he limped forward.

“Grace! I know you could hear me, you blind bat!”

The old lady clicked her tongue, muttering under her breath. “Sourpuss.”

“Listen up! I know you're hiding someone inside that whorehouse! And it ain’t Molly we're talking about! Hand over that Surface-Dweller, and we’ll all go home outside of a casket.”

Lynn’s jaw clenched, her blood pressure skyrocketing. The disrespect in his tone was almost enough to ignite the alcohol left in her system.

Grace sighed, shaking her head as she wheeled herself closer to the window. “Oh, the things I do for Mr. Tim.” Taking up the side opposite Lynn, she yelled, “Pussyboy! You standing on Baudelaire turf! Tryna start a war with one of the Big Four?!”

“Oh it ain’t me, Grace. Ain’t me. Them O’Keefe’s want the girl. I’m just the messenger!”

“I’ll deal with them,” Lynn said.

“Oh your drunk ass ain’t going nowhere, young lady. You’ve caused enough trouble. You wanna deal with them so bad, then be my eyes.”

“Huh?”

Grace repositioned her rifle, the barrel sticking out of the window as she sat completely hidden by the wall next to it. At this impossible angle, she pulled the trigger, blowing off Sourpuss’s toupee as she missed his head by less than an inch.

Grace sighed, “I’m getting old.”

Falling onto his bum, Sourpuss crawled backward with his tail between his legs, squealing, “Shoot! Shoot!”

Bullets flew. Muzzles flashed. Sourpuss’s men rained shell and shrapnel onto the walls of Bottom’s Down, the ladies who worked there replying in kind. Despite their numerical advantage, the gangsters quickly found themselves pinned by the ladies' superior firepower, bolstered by Mia’s machine gun decimating everything in its path. The men hunkered down, hopelessly praying and returning fire. But with the little girl having tamed the tripod-mounted beast, their screams were drowned out by its unending roar.

To her, it was just the sound of loud popcorn popping. To them, it was the drums of death delivered straight from a red-hot barrel.

“Talk to me, sweetie!” Grace yelled at Lynn. “Directions! Coordinates! They’re not gonna be pinned forever!”

“Ah, errr… ” Lynn fought through the headache and ringing, her vision laser-focusing, trying to untangle the web of chaos unfolding before her. Sourpuss had seemingly vanished, so she set her sights on the next closest man.

“Five steps up from where you first shot. Hiding behind the car do—”

The blind sniper pulled the trigger. Her victim’s head smashed open like a watermelon, red juices marking the terrified gangster beside as the next target.

“One step to the right. One foot higher.”

The glossy wooden body of the rifle moved ever so slightly. Its metal parts played a short jingle of clicks and clacks directed by the old lady’s leathery fingers, manipulating the bolt like butter. The metallic tune ended with a staccato, firing pin hammering a thunderous bang from the tapered barrel to the target’s brain.

“Nine feet to the left. One foot down.”

Bolt cycled. Round chambered. Trigger pulled. Target pulverized.

Amid the chaotic symphony of steel and gunpowder, Grace’s solo stood out. Lynn its conductor. With every vague call, the sniper played her music, its tone taking another life. The applause came in the form of dull thuds. Bodies falling to the cement.

Lynn quickly understood why the geriatric was still kicking in a town where the life expectancy did not cross 20.

“Sniper! Sniper on the second floor!”

“I thought that hag is blind!”

“Grim Reaper Grace is real! Ah fu—!”

The panicked voices of the gangsters added a bit of color to the decrepit lady’s smile. Concentrating their fire onto the private room, the window between Lynn and Grace shattered into countless pieces. Bullets rained upward into the room, hitting the ceiling, but not the two of them hiding behind the wall.

With each shot that struck their cover, it dawned on Grace that the sound was off. The bullets weren’t hitting concrete, but dirt. The wall was unscathed. The old lady realized the Surface-Dweller next to her had reinforced the wall, magic coursing from Lynn’s palm and into the building’s structure.

The Shield of House Veranos closed her eyes, relying on her Soulsight to spot targets with even greater precision. Each time an orb of light was snuffed out, the symphony of gunfire grew ever so quieter. Pinned down, picked apart, and out of options, the remaining orbs of light scattered, some driving away, some fleeing erratically on foot.

But little did Lynn know, a single soulless eye high above watched the one-sided slaughter with indifference. It recorded the entire battle, relaying what it witnessed to a hidden shelter miles away.

The disembodied voice of a drone operator reported, “Confirmed traces of magic matching the ID. Ladies and gents, we have the Princess.”