In the Beginning Was the Reaper

It’s funny how people retell that story like it’s memory, because no one really remembers it happening—except for her.

She remembers everything.

It starts with dark water. Its waves rock against her mind. Back and forth, unending—until a small nudge, a certain dial in the knobs forces her world into wake.

Neurons rush forward like splotches of ink. They glide, summersault, diverge into streams of quicksilver. Until a cold hue rises from beneath the liquid curtains, and the water hardens, weaving into her silky, white hair. A bristle breeze scratches her cheeks, lifting her eyelashes. Light gushes in, bouncing off her retinas. In the crystal clear glass, she sees herself.

Her own eyes. So that is the color blue.

Her eyes dart around, following the source of the incoming footsteps. Her gaze focuses on a man in a white lab coat. He looked just over twenty. Soft skin. Pale skin, probably second to only hers. Skin you’d find on a baby face, if only his face weren't stretched thin like his body. Too thin. Tall, pointed ears. Cheeks that run against jawbones, a jaw that converges into a pointed chin.

He kneels down beside her, holding her hands in his palms. He clenches tightly. She stares into his spidered, sleepless eyes, not sure how to respond.

Neither of them spoke. She recalls the flickering surgical lamp, the buzzing noise of electricity roaring in her ears.

The man sighs, sounding almost relieved. She will never forget. He was right there, but his voice sounded like it was coming from thousands of miles away.

"Take it away. Take it away from me."

And then came that sensation of joints moving to some divine command.

The memory of being propelled midair against an unknown gravity, the tubes and circuits on her back unplugging from the monitor. Her thick hair expands and wraps around her like thorns. Her heart burns then chills like iron. Her chest convulses, forcing her into a backwards arch as synthetic wings grow and grow. Her elbows jolt involuntarily, her fingers claw into her chest, pulling a flickering beam out from the white smoke.

A holographic scythe. Someone hid a whole damn scythe inside of her.

She staggers, finally feeling the weight of her prosthetic limbs. A piercing pain hits her temples. Her eyelids shut reflexively. When her eyes re-opened, time had slowed.

She was disoriented. Everything was tinted, like inside a hologram. She searched for the man, but her surroundings became smaller and smaller. Until all she saw was a film tape. Hundreds of floating images crossed her mind.

Kids. In tattered shirts, some half naked. They crowded around an old man handing out bread, as if feeding a school of hungry fish. Then another image — the same old man riding a bike with a boy sitting behind. The kid was maybe ten years old. His cheeks were dust-smeared but pale, just like the man in the white lab coat. Just livelier, and smiling.

Flashforward— a fire. Smoke. The crashing of tin roofs and beams. People fleeing, women carrying infants, children crying. Then the old man’s head, beneath the debris. More images, mostly black and white. And finally, an image of the lab. The man in lab coat fixes the head on a humanoid. Her. “Don’t work too late, Doctor. It’s Saturday.” A coworker passed by.

Then, pitch black. The surroundings start returning to her. Her vision still has that holographic filter, but she can at least locate the man in front of her. The Doctor.

In hindsight, she would’ve liked to ask her creator a few questions. Like, what’s her name?

In the moment, though, all she can do is what her body tells her to do.

Her body says, kill him.

It all happened in a margin of seconds. The shattering of capsules, the irritating beeping of lab monitors, their frequencies falling out of sync like broken CDs— the thump of his body as she pins him against the wall. She feels her hand choking his neck. She feels his loud, uneven breath against her ears. Human skin feels so fragile.

She presses tighter.

She feels his larynx vibrate, swelling uncontrollably.

Tighter.

Veins pulsate violently, resisting her fingers.

Tighter.

The flesh turns blue like playdough.

Tighter, tighter.

She feels nauseous. Waves rock back and forth inside her stomach, but she can’t stop.

Tighter, tighter, tighter—

Something snaps.

And then the color white. All she can see is blinding white.

Nothingness. She’s clenching onto thin air. No Doctor, no lab.

The fan whirls like a tornado inside her core.

She nudges herself forward. She can’t hear her own footsteps, only static. Like walking over rough but sticky carpet.

Then, something stirs beneath her. She launches herself back. Something slimy reaches out from an opening. A long, long arm.

She dashes, but the arm is faster. It latches onto her hair, yanking her into the void. She gasps, the sound of her breath quickly muffled by the voices beating against her ear drums.

Killer!

You monster!

The back of her head hits something hard like a rock. Her world spins around 360 degrees, unable to balance upright.

Waves of scorching heat and freezing cold ram into her all at once, immobilizing her. A thousand hands tear at her limbs. They thrust her onto something like a boat. It starts drifting, wobbling and creaking on top of the tumultuous wave of hands.

Gradually, her vision adjusts. It’s dark. She’s inside some kind of tunnel.

A slimy appendage claws at her face.

A mummy. Sparse patches of hair sprout from their scalp like dry hay. She could barely make out the face in the dark. Their nose is deformed, flat. And their eyes, their eyes — black goo flows out irresistibly. Black tears.

Look at me!

The creature screams into her ears, sending her skull ringing.

Finally, she sees them. A sea of corpses line up against the tunnel walls. Some are disfigured, but most aren’t. And that makes it worse. Because she can never forget. Their faces. A family. Dad, Mom, and a little boy – maybe four or five. The boy holds onto their hands. Like inside a family portrait, except that they’re crying. The boy wails, louder and louder.

She turns away, but they are everywhere. A ballerina on a wheelchair. An old woman weeping at her partner’s coffin. A high school student dumping his backpack — textbooks, old exams, notepads, pens, sharpies, everything — into the moving current. A dog barks at her. A husky, and a policeman stroking its fur. Its neck. Fragile neck. And then an acrid smell. Over-fried okonomiyaki seizes her nostrils. A street vendor calls out to her. Only 150 yen, Ma’am! A cluster of small palms reach out to her from the shoreline.

Hi Robo-Lady!

My name is Haruki!

And I’m Aisaka!

That’s Rin, She’s asleep.

What’s your name, Robo-Lady?

And then, the same old man she saw in the fire. His back is arched against a falling pole. Beads of sweat drip from his chin. He stares at her, his heavy brows converging to a T-shape. He yells, Run!

Suddenly, a beam of light flashes before her. He stands at the end of the tunnel. The Doctor. She sees all of him, all at once. From toddler, to grade-schooler, to university student. And then the Doctor in the white lab coat. They’re weeping too. One of the Doctors leans over an unfinished humanoid. The bottom half is still a patchwork of metal and exposed wiring, but the top is near complete. The face. It’s hers. I can’t wait any longer, his voice trembling.

It’s just too painful.

She opens her mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.

A heavy object gets tossed onboard. A scythe.

Someone speaks in her ears. It’s a whisper, but it’s loud.

Do. Your. Job.

They carve into her mind. Every vowel, every consonant.

Slowly, she retrieves the scythe. The current picks up speed, jolting the boat forward. The sea of mummies sway from side to side. Some hold pom poms. Others launch confetti, round after round. Go! Go! They cheer her on, You can do it! And still others hold knives. They throw broken glass. Baseballs. Watermelon peels.

You killed us!

You killer!

She holds the scythe tight in her hands. Her blue retinas are set ablaze. She’s getting closer.

Closer.

Closer, closer—

The boat crashes into the Doctor.

* * *

The Doctor collapses on the lab floor.

A sliver of white foam gushes from his mouth.

The bottom of his eyes are red and puffy, but without tears.

His eyelids close into a weak smile.

His voice is reduced to a raspy whisper. “Send me there, Reaper.”

That’s right. Her name is Reaper.

The Reaper opens her mouth.

She’s supposed to say something, but nothing comes out.

Too late. The Reaper has raised her scythe.