Dear Reddit.com/r/Overwatch!

I've written an Overwatch short story and have linked/posted it below. I hope you enjoy it. (If you read it!)

There are a few things to note before you get started, should you even wish to spend your time reading when you could be playing video games:

1. It was a one-and-done effort. And it's a bit daft. And there might be a few mistakes!
2. It is not Shakespeare. But it is written in British English!
3. I split infinitives like Jean-Luc Picard splits... well... infinitives.
4. This story is not canon and I am not a Red Shirt guy. My apologies if any liberties taken are an affront. It might be a little off-piste.
5.a I am not some lowly game developer required by law to have their technical, creative and human capacities ridiculed and/or dismissed by the internet masses--I am a real person. With actual feelings. (!)
5.b That said, please do leave any and all scathing criticism in the comments section below and I will do my utmost to reply where necessary and/or question my general worth as a human being. :]

Happy Halloween, heroes!

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Jez

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PS: There's a Word version. And a PDF version. For your convenience. Hopefully I've linked and uploaded those correctly.

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The Reaping: An Overwatch Short Story

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1

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ON the surface it was a night like any other. The pale light of the full moon and the warm glow from the distant city clashed on the surrounding wheat fields. The battle ebbed and flowed as the cold wind cut through their ranks and scattered their formations.

But that was just on the surface. In the air, something darker lingered.

Lennart and Roderick met at the middle of the western rampart that comprised one quarter of the village's defensive perimeter.

"There's something in the air tonight, Lenny. I just know it," said Rod, shaking his head uneasily and peering out into the darkness.

Lenny wafted the space behind him and winced. "Yeah, I'm sorry, mate. It's this autumn veg. It doesn't agree with me. And I swear my Hilda serves up bigger helpings to justify telling me to sleep in the other room. We've got a new bed and she wants it all to herself." Lenny huffed.

"What?" Rod sniffed the air. "Oh, gross!" He shuffled to his right, widening the space between them. "No. I mean there's something in the air." He looked out across the fields. "I can... feel it."

Lenny frowned, thought for a second, and then twigged. Halloween!

"Oh, here we go," smiled the watchman, rolling his eyes knowingly. "It's that time of the year again. There's always a handful of crazies who get the jitters when the longer nights roll in. Don't tell me you're one of them, Rod! Let me guess, your Nan told you silly folk stories when you were young and you can't shake them off? I bet you're afraid of the dark, too!"

Watchman Lennart turtled his head into his coat and staggered towards Watchman Roderick. "ooOOooo!" Rod pushed him away.

" Afraid of the dark?" said Rod. "No! But I am afraid of what's in it. And you should be too!"

"Out there," said Lenny, "in that particular dark? Hmmm. Maybe you're right, Rod," he added, casting a suspicious eye over the wheat fields. "All those... small mammals hibernating away. Who knows what they're plotting in their sleep. Come spring, we could really be in for it!"

"Okay, now you're just being silly," huffed Roderick.

"No, no. I'm serious, mate. Maybe they're not even hibernating. Maybe they're burrowing under the foundations and one day--" The watchman clapped one hand onto the other. "--splat! The whole village crumbles into dust."

Roderick rolled his eyes and looked away. Lenny ruffled his friend's hair. "Truth is, though," continued Lennart, "you're right to be wary. S'what a watchman is for, being wary and all that. You need a healthy amount of suspicion in this game, Roderick." The less superstitious watchman hefted a torch from its holder and lit it.

"Put that out!" hissed Rod. "The Chief said no unnecessary light. We don't want to attract..." he looked across the fields "...anything."

Lenny waved off his partner's conformity and held the flaming torch out towards the fields below. "What if there are really big mice out there, up to no good and down to cause trouble. Look!" The wheat flickered in the wind. "There's one, heading west at a rate of knots with a small child in its mouth! Thief! Scoundrel!" shouted the watchman.

Watchman Lennart settled back down, certain that nothing could be done for the (imaginary) child.

"Stop it!" snapped Rod, lurching for the torch. "And put that out before we're... we're... told off!"

"There!" gasped Lenny, dodging his partner's clutch. "A giant mouse tail! Sound the Warning Bell!--"

Roderick's face dropped. Ha-ha, very funny!

"--Oh, no, wait," said a relieved Lennart. "I think it was just a very, very big snake. Phew. Rather a snake than a mouse, I say!"

Lenny laughed to himself, stowed the torch, and fished through his pockets for his flask.

"Lenny, you're not funny," said Rod sarcastically, rubbing the chill from his arms and reluctantly edging towards the warm flame of the torch. He looked around nervously for any signs of imminent danger--or worse, the Chief Watchman!

"No, Rod, you know what's not funny? The things out there, in... The Dark. Sharp rocks to stub your toe on if you forget your boots. 'Orrible things. Hard wooden fences to walk into when you're stargazing. And... soil!" The watchman dared to peek back down the rampart wall and scowl at the mud below. "Sinister stuff. Walk it in the house and it'll cost you a hot dinner and a nice warm bed--especially if your missus is anything like mine."

Lenny smiled at his friend and slapped him on the arm.

"Oh, come on, Roderick. I'm kidding."

"Yeah--and you don't know when to stop!"

"You're right," said Lenny. "I'm sorry. I tell you what, let's check the perimeter again. It'll put your mind at ease. But look at this place!" He flicked Rod's chest with the back of his hand to get the man's attention and gestured to their surroundings. Roderick snapped to and nodded. "You and me have never had an incident on these walls, have we? We're Lenny and Rod, Guardians of the Ramparts and Protectors of the People! "

Lenny puffed his chest out and rolled his shoulders. He held his head high and looked down authoritatively at the fields below. We shouldn't be afraid of the rocks or the mice, or the... what was it...? Fences! They should be afraid of us!"

"I'm not talking about mice or rocks or fences, Lenny. I'm talking about... Well, have you ever heard of... The Reaper?"

"Oh, that old chestnut. Ha!" Lenny rolled his eyes. "Yeah. I've heard of The Reaper. Merciless killer. Blacker 'n the night. Spooky skeleton-looking chap that comes out of nowhere and drains the life from people..."

"Yeah!"

"... just. like. every. other. bogeyman. in. history," said Lennart, who snorted deeply and spat a globule of mucus over the ramparts and down to the soil below. "Give me a break, Roddy. It's the year two-thousand and... whatever. You'd think these creative types would have come up with something new besides a 'Scary Man Dressed In Black That Kills People'."

Lenny shook his head disapprovingly.

"Do us both a favour and think about it logically. Technology is incredible these days, apart from in our wooden village for some reason... but this 'hyper-regeneration' lark? Puh-lease. That's a step too far!" Lenny muttered to himself for as long as it took him to take a swig from his flask.

"Yeah, you're probably right," conceded Rod. "I've just got the jitters. It's probably just this time of year. Let's check the perimeter. See you in a few minutes, Len."

"Exactly! Good man," nodded Lenny, approvingly. "Here, take this--oh, wait!" He took another quick swig and handed Roderick his whiskey flask before snapping his coat collar up around his neck. "See you on the other side! ooOoOOOoo!"

Rod chuckled through pursed lips and shook the superstition out of his head. He doused the flaming torch and set off south, down the western rampart, clockwise towards the meeting point on the eastern wall.

A few paces in, the rampart boards under his feet creaked. Nothing unusual there, of course. Old floorboards do creak. Just like old joints and old people. But, then again, they had creaked when he'd stepped on the end join between two boards--and that hadn't happened before.

Roderick shook his head. It was the wind. Of course it was. Blowing in from the west. No wonder the old wooden ramparts were creaking. You're being silly, Roderick, his Dad would say.

The watchman reached the southwest watchtower and trudged up the three steps to the lookout platform. He felt around for Lenny's flask in his breast pocket, keeping his eyes locked on the horizon. He unscrewed the top, took a swig, and flicked the metal cap back over. It creaked. Didn't it? Wasn't it supposed to clank? Or chink? Or clink? Clinking was a good compromise, surely? Maybe it did and he was just...

Roderick shook his head. But as much as he shook his head, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something in the air. No, it wasn't heavy. It didn't weigh him down, but there was a weight to it. It rested on his shoulders, down the back of his neck, on his mind, and maybe even on his soul? It was feather light, if even that. It wasn't just on him, either, it was around him. It felt like he was walking through it, breathing it in. He looked across to Lenny, watching as his colleague whistled and swayed along the northern rampart without a care in the world. It was a great way to live until it got you killed, Rod thought.

The nervous watchman carried on. Finally, the southeast watchtower. Eyes on the horizon. The Battle on the Wheat Fields had slowed down. Both lights had dimmed. The city in the distance slept deeper, the full moon to the north was dulled by the wispy clouds high above the village. Even so, it's pretty dark for a full moon, Roderick, don't you think? Another swig. This time a reassuring, unmistakable, tinny clank. Better save the rest for Lenny! Roderick soldiered on.

Forty more paces, he thought, and I'll be able to sleep when the shift changes at dawn. Rod made his way down the watchtower steps and headed north along the eastern rampart. One... six... thirteen paces... then a cute-but-nervous little skip... how quaint--good job it's dark and Lenny didn't see! Wait, does a skip count as two? No. Stay calm. Twenty-one... two...three-four-five. Slow down. Twenty-six. Don't be such a baby, Roderick. Walk like a watchman! Thirty-four... thirty-six... There! Forty paces. The middle of the rampart. Now then, where's Lenny?

The watchman scanned the ramparts. There. The slow resurgence of the moonlight along the northern rampart reflected off the metal on his partner's uniform. Hurry up, Lenny! thought Rod. Although I suppose I could run and meet him. 'Walk! You mean walk,' his dad would say, 'like a real watchman.'

No. I'll wait, thought Rod. One last swig of whiskey. Eyes on the horizon.

The metal screw-cap flicked back. Bang.

Wait. What?

"Err... Lenny?" Roderick peered towards the northeast watchtower. "Lennart? This is..." he coughed and deepened his voice "This is your commanding officer. What's going on? Respond!"

No reply. Roderick looked at the flask. How much had he had?

The staccato rustlings of a few nocturnal animals died off as the last of them fled for safety through the fields. 'Good idea! Run!' thought Rod to himself. But from what?

Oh.

Hold on.

This is Lennart. Of course. Swaying down the rampart in the dead of night? No torch to hand? He's stubbed his toe--ha!--not in the fields, but on a wonky board. He's come a cropper. Taken a tumble. Had a fall. Silly old--

"--Lenny?" whispered Rod. "You, errr... okay, mate?" Still no answer. Rod looked at the eastern torch stowed in its cradle and waved off his reservations. He lit a match and lit the torch.

After some umming and arring, Rod made the decision. "Okay. Northeast watchtower. Forty paces. Go."

Thirty-six... "Lenny?" Twenty-eight... "Psssst!" Twenty. "It's not funny." Fourteen. "I've got a torch now, anyway, so I'm not scared. So there!" Five... four... three... two...

"Oh! Ha!" Roderick doubled over with relief. "Lennart. There you are!" He chuckled and then laughed and then guffawed. "Looks like you've had a bit of a spill, old boy. Seems you've landed in a lump with your coat flung over your head. Here, let me just compose myself, and set this torch down... like so... and your mate Roderick will sort you out. Too much whiskey on the job, I think, Lenny. Imagine if the boss found out! You'd be done for. We both would!"

Roderick fumbled around with the coat lining that covered his friend. It was slippery. Yes, his fingers were cold, and he couldn't get much of a grip. But he also couldn't find an end to the fabric--at all. What size was Lenny these days? Sure, he was plump... but this fabric just went on and on and... Roderick sighed.

"It's no good. You're going to have to stand up, mate. I can't help you when you're in an unconscious heap on the floor. Quick... before the boss finds out and we're sent out into the fields with the giant mice and the very, very big snakes... and the sharp rocks and... errr... what was the other thing?"

The coat lining stood up slowly, drawing in the surrounding darkness. A sudden gust of frigid wind stabbed at the stowed flame. The fire vanished. In a flash, the moonlight returned. The peak of the darkness sharpened into a pointed hood. The fully-formed figure turned to face Watchman Roderick, and through its deathly white mask it replied.

"THE REAPER!"

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2

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Some people say that pure darkness is like blindness, or that if you switch off the lights and close the curtains and hide under the covers and close your eyes really tight, you can see pure darkness for yourself. But pure darkness isn't something you see, it's something you feel. It's a swarm of hopelessness and loneliness and bitterness and rage and malice. Colour has nothing to do with it. It isn't black because black is moody or cool, it's black because it doesn't really need a colour, and you can get black at a pretty good price if you know where to shop.

The Reaper's eyes--if they even truly existed--stared into Watchman Roderick's. Rod fell backwards and looked up in fear. The Reaper stepped forwards, drawing the last wraith particles into him. They revealed the body. Bullet holes had ripped through the victim's back. A pool of blood grew from under his torso and another from his mouth; both dripped through the slight gaps between the wooden boards of the rampart. Wide black pupils, in stark contrast the pale white skin, stared into the abyss.

Watchman Lennart was dead. Murdered by The Reaper.

"You... you... I... I..." Roderick mumbled but he couldn't speak, at least not properly. He couldn't even cry despite his friend lying dead a few feet away. The Reaper! He was real--and he was standing right in front of the watchman!

Rod trembled. He wasn't cut out for this. He was a watchman, not a fighter. He patrolled the ramparts--usually on the night shift--and rang a bell if anything bad happened or someone was misbehaving and needed telling off. But now? He wasn't sure he could even stand up. He couldn't feel his fingers, that was for sure. The Reaper took another step towards the watchman. His footsteps echoed down the ramparts. They were loud. Not in the ears, but in the soul. Roderick felt their vibrations crunch up his spine.

'I'm going to die,' he thought to himself. 'This is the end.' "Save me a seat, Lenny," he called out.

Roderick was going to die. He was certain. But maybe, if he could just reach the Warning Bell in the village square and give it a good whack, he could save others.

Another harrowing footstep. Many people would have frozen stiff--or fainted on the spot like those weird goats--but somehow Roderick found the resolve to act. He had to get to that bell. He struggled for traction as he crabbed backwards, finding just enough grip to stay a few feet ahead of the approaching monster. Death stalked the watchman. The Reaper lived for moments like this. Or maybe he'd died for them. He savoured the fear in the eyes and hearts of those he hunted. He waited for the moments of hopelessness and despair and of resignation to the inevitable. Maybe that's why Roderick had survived as long as he had. Maybe the killing only happened when The Reaper got bored of seeing the fear flood the faces of those he pursued. Maybe The Reaper had been here all along, savouring the moment.

Yes. Of course. The odd feeling at the start of the shift, the extra chill in the air, the weight in the atmosphere, the creaking boards, the dulled moonlight.

Roderick scrambled backwards faster. For every five kicks he hoped would propel him away from the Reaper, only one or two found purchase. The others rushed and panicky, slipped forwards as the terror neared. Roderick hadn't noticed yet but the palms of his hands were grazed. Not just grazed, in fact, but cut and bleeding. Old boards, hardened splinters of wood and rogue nails lay in wait as he palmed further backwards. The watchman backed into something and froze stiff... he glanced backwards, beyond reason, taking his eyes off the Reaper. Phew. The southeast watchtower. Already? That was quick. But time didn't work properly in moments like this. You were alive until you were dead. The wave of adrenaline didn't allow you to think in minutes or seconds.

Roderick looked forwards for The Reaper one last time before rounding the corn--

What? He'd gone.

The Reaper has disappeared.

In short sporadic movements, Roderick scrambled onto his hands and knees and looked around, wide-eyed and frightened. His bloody palms rested on the old rampart boards. He hung his head and finally remembered to breath. A huge gulp for air. He surfaced after what felt like ten thousand years under the darkest ocean. Waves of adrenaline and panic crashed over him. The panic wouldn't help, but the adrenaline would. 'Focus, Rod! The Warning Bell! You need to--'

--he noticed his hands. Immediately the pain registered. They were sore. They ached. They were numb enough to render his fingers pretty much useless, but not numb enough to dead much of the pain. He looked at his knuckles and then down to his wrists. His veins pulsed, his heart pounded, and his eyes widened as the black smoke rose through the gaps in the floor and up between his fingers. He scrambled again, down the southern rampart, this time forwards, clumsily, keeping both eyes locked on the darkness behind him that coalesced in the moonlight. He checked his heading as quickly as he could but when he looked back the smoke had stopped rising. Instead, it lingered.

Roderick froze. What was going on?

The pillar of black smoke, having grown to about four feet in height, shrank back down and narrowed at its head. It turned towards the watchman and snaked along the boards, slowly at first but then faster. Much faster. It was quick. Roderick shifted back into gear. Twelve paces until the watchtower, but then what? It wasn't like The Wraith would slow down. The Reaper wouldn't stop until Rod was... well, better not think about it.

The watchman tumbled onwards, lagging perilously close to the tip of the serpentine wraith, unable to gain any notable ground as the familiar rampart boards chose this moment to betray his footing. He wobbled and crashed into the side of the walkway, bouncing off the wood and spinning onwards. This was it, wasn't it? This was how it ended. Roderick was made to embarrass himself. Made to feel like a novice on his own ramparts! He was being played. He was being toyed with--and, you know what?

He'd had just about enough of it! He was a watchman, thank you very much! Yeah, sure, he might not know how to fight, but he sure as heck knew how to tell on people when they were misbehaving--and The Reaper was most definitely misbehaving!

Rod wasn't going down without a fight, but--wait--he was going to go down that ladder! The watchman vaulted the inner wall of the western rampart, grabbed on to the ladder, clapped his boots to the side, and slid down to the floor. A fast descent. Too fast. His ankle gave way at the bottom and turned over. He grimaced, the expected roar of pain stopping somewhere just above his stomach.

But why hold it in? Why not yell and wake people up? 'Excuse me, folks, but The Reaper is here!' Because they wouldn't wake up, that's why. He'd be just another drunken reveller from the town over, or one of the village old boys still making their way home from the card game. People wouldn't flee for their lives if he started yelling, they'd huff and puff and fluff their pillow over their head and mutter themselves back to sleep. 'Stupid watchmen not doing their job! Can't you do something?'

No. It had to be the Warning Bell.

Roderick hobbled to his feet. There! In the distance. The Warning Bell. Large--maybe four feet high--and painted gold for the look of it. It hung down from the intersection of two beams that connected the four surrounding pillars. Four oil lamps halfway up the pillars illuminated the surrounding area with a warm orange glow. Roderick stumbled towards the landmark. The adrenaline softened the pain in his ankle and he was getting closer, but it was getting harder and harder to see. He blinked and blinked but the light.. began to.. fade.

Wait, was he dying? He checked for new injuries. No! So why the haze? Of course. Wraith essence! The thickening wall of darkness cut off his direct route to the bell. He looked right, but hobbled left, through the empty market stalls. The wraith followed, snaking around pillars and table legs in its pursuit of Watchman Roderick. Roderick's hand padded along the wooden panelling of the nearest wall. Blood oozed out every time leaving a trail of breadcrumbs for the merciless Reaper. Rod turned a corner, looked back, lost his footing and collapsed through the door in front of him. Dust clouds billowed all around him. Watchman Roderick reset himself, scrambled onto a nearby workbench and wormed headfirst through a small window, certain that he didn't want to go back the way he came. His shirt caught on the catch. He pulled at it hurriedly. It ripped. Who cares, it's not like he'd be buried in it!

Finally. Outside again, and closer to the bell by half. The watchman looked back to the tool shop that he'd bulldozed through and scrambled out of. More cuts and bruises. He hobbled backwards over the cobbled stones and in the direction of the bell. The black smoke had followed him out of the window--but stopped half way. It turned to face him--more mind games--before retreating slowly, back through the tool shop window and into the darkness like a hungry crocodile biding its time by the water's edge. But this wasn't nature. There was nothing natural about the Reaper. There was just darkness and malice and hatred. The villagers needed to be warned!

Roderick stumbled up to the warning bell. He hefted the metal pole out of its holder on the nearest pillar and tightened his grip. He looked around nervously. His breathing shuddered, irregular and short. He swung back...

"DEATH COMES..." whispered the voice. It echoed through Roderick's soul.

The watchman screamed and struck the waist of the bell. The sound rang out. The pole shook. His hands bled and his bones trembled. He paused. A short wait to build his strength. He looked around for The Reaper. Another strike. A sinister cackle echoed around him. Watchman Roderick swung blindly at the air behind him, hoping to catch the monster off-guard. Another strike. The metal pole felt heavy now. Roderick shook. He was scared, angry, numb... terrified, enraged and empty. Lights in the nearby dwellings flickered on. Hushed whispers indoors rose to insistent chatter and again to impatient shouting--'Wake up! Quickly! Light another lamp! Take the children! Get the gun!'--as the weary, metronomic clangs drew the villagers from their homes.

"TIME FOR THE REAPING!" came the voice, from all around him. Roderick screamed angrily at the invisible monster. He swung out wildly, hitting an oil lamp and smashing it to pieces. The oil gushed down the pillar and the flames shot upwards.

Oops.

But maybe it was a good idea? It would take more than a gust of wind to put these fires out--and The Reaper would have to show himself first. The only thing worse than a monster is a monster you can't see. He smashed the other lamps, sending flames fizzing up the pillars. Each blow took every ounce of strength he had left. The fires quickly grew and combined. Roderick shielded himself from the flames as best he could and rang the bell again and again. The roof above the Warning Bell blazed. The approaching villagers stopped at a safe distance from the crazed watchman. They formed an arc in front of him, looking around for the army of invading omnics firing lasers and missiles. But there was no army. Just Watchman Roderick, doubled over, the ringing pole falling slowly from his weakening grip.

The Chief Watchman, with an oil lamp in one hand and his youngest daughter in the other, waddled to the front row of the expanding arc of villagers. His jaw dropped. Behind Rod, the fires blazed. The rope around the headstock burned and snapped. The roof supports cracked and gave way--surprisingly soon after the fire started!--sending the headstock and the Warning Bell crashing to the stone floor. The villagers lurched back in panic as the flaming beams landed mere feet away. They turned to the watchman. Roderick, breathing heavily, stood up. The reflection of nearby flames flickered across his cold stare. He dared not blink.

"Watchman, what's the meaning of this," trumpeted the Chief Watchman, in fine form.

As the village waited for an explanation, Roderick's shadow thickened. It seemed to materialise not on any surface, but in midair. The unusually dark smoke from the fire gathered into it as a black hood formed around the watchman's silhouette. Roderick felt the cold steel of a gun pressed to his back. Another joined it. The watchman's eyes shot to attention. He looked at the villagers. Their faces froze.

The Reaper fired. Rod shook from the impact. His skin faded to a ghostly white and with his last breath, as the last gong of the fallen bell rang out, Watchman Roderick told on The Reaper.

"He's here!"

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3

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The watchman fell forwards. Dead before he hit the ground!

--Watchman Roderick is dead?!--

Yes, Watchman Roderick was dead. Murdered by The Reaper. Where he fell, now stood the black robed terror, with his head bowed as he harvested the soul of his latest victim. The Reaper took a step towards the villagers and looked up. His sharp hood was silhouetted by the fire blazing behind him and his deathly white mask glowed a menacing orange from the fires in front.

No-one moved.

Finally, The Reaper spoke. "BOO!"

As he said the word, tendrils of black smoke shot out from his robe. At the end of each tendril, a black, clawed wraith hand with sharp pointed fingers spiked into the air. The hands lingered menacingly, poised to strike, like a quiver of vipers from the depths of hell! The screams of the villagers cut into the night as the people fled. Most ran into one another or fell over those who had already fallen. The lucky ones stumbled but kept their footing. Those less fortunate were left to claw at the cobblestones that paved the village square, hoping and praying they didn't get trampled--or worse... --Murdered by The Reaper!--

Families of the fallen tried to help their loved ones to their feet. Those less familiar rushed by in a panic. Small gaps that formed in the rushing crowd were quickly filled by the people further back, people certain that the extra few feet meant the difference between life and death.

After the initial panic, different groups of villagers broke away from the crowd and headed for the sturdier buildings. Some children were separated from their parents in the chaos but their cries couldn't be heard over the panic, and their tears went unnoticed--except by one man.

Against the flow of people, the old soldier strode into battle. He carved a path between the stream of villagers below him, wading through the terrified masses like a giant among men. Many scurried past, a few took the time to gaze up with wide, watery eyes, wondering why he was walking towards certain death. But none stopped to intervene. Those deemed capable by the soldier were stopped in their tracks and a child--not theirs--was thrust into their arms. "Take him with you!" he ordered one. "Look after her!" he told another. No-one protested.

Finally, with the crowd behind him, the old soldier stood in the village square and scanned through the smoke and flames for The Reaper. He looked to the floor, at the lifeless body of Watchman Roderick, and frowned. He had seen many deaths. But here? In the village he'd come to call home? Never! He closed the watchman's eyes and hefted the metal ringing pole onto his shoulder. No, he didn't have a gun--and by the looks of it, The Reaper had two--but the old soldier had faced many enemies over a long career and none of them had bested him yet! He tightened his grip on his new weapon, looked up, and stepped forwards with a distant bang.

The door to the tavern exploded inwards. The fierce wind that accompanied the destruction battered the flames of the candles dotted around the walls. After the dust and debris settled, dark moonlight flooded into the room, followed by The Reaper. He appeared in the doorway, wisps of darkness flowing behind him as he paced up to the bar. His thunderous footsteps pounded the floorboards. He snatched an unopened bottle of whiskey from behind the counter, unscrewed the cap and took a large swig before casting the nearly-full bottle to the floor. Not to his taste, obviously. Or maybe he was certain there'd be no-one left alive to enjoy it. Perhaps it was just a strange superstition. Either way it was just plain wasteful.

The Reaper turned and scanned the tavern, finally catching the flicker of candlelight under the pantry door that betrayed the group of villagers huddled within. He sank into the ground and reappeared next to the door. A short (but not that short!) length of time after teleporting, he raised a gun knocked thrice on the pantry door.

Knock, knock, knock.

There was some shushing and some mumbling, until finally someone spoke.

"Who--who goes there?" said a man behind the door.

His question met with silence. The Reaper knocked again, this time even louder.

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!

"C--can you hear me?" said the man, leaning towards the door in hope of a reply. He poked an eyeball through a miniscule gap in the door but all he saw was darkness. "Identify yourself!" the man demanded, boldly.

Still silence.

The Reaper drew two monstrous shotguns from the depths of his black cloak and knocked thrice one final time:

BANG! BANG! BANG!

The first shot smashed through the door, hitting the doorkeeper in the chest and killing him dead before he hit the ground. The second and third shots obliterated the two larger airborne panels of wood that had made up the rest of the door. Splinters of wood and dust rained down on the cowering, terrified villagers. The Reaper stepped into the middle of the room. He pointed his guns at the villagers and laughed wickedly and they scrambled into the corner. During the carnage, however, one of the older women in the group had edged away from the others in search of either A) a weapon or B) an increased chance of survival. As The Reaper took a step towards the villagers, the old lady behind him swung. The broom head careered towards the black hood of the unsuspecting villain, closer and closer until, finally--Fssssshhh! It whispered straight through the pillar of black smoke. The old woman stumbled forwards and bonked one of the villagers on the head. The darkness billowed for a split-second before coalescing violently. The Reaper reformed instantly, facing straight at the old woman who had just about kept her footing. His ghostly white mask rested inches from her face. The woman grumbled and wound up her broom for another swing, but before she could take the shot, The Reaper grabbed her by the throat and lifted her off the ground.

She inhaled sharply as the broom clattered to the floor. Somehow she found the resolve to stare her disgust at The Reaper. The Reaper, unmoved, stared back at the old woman. He drew a shotgun to the woman's stomach and shot her dead! The other villagers screamed and attempted to flee, but The Reaper was ruthless. After the last shot was fired, he walked over to the candle that flickered in the darkness and pinched it out.

More shots. More screaming. The old soldier picked up the pace. His powerful stride hit the cobblestones. They didn't boom quite like The Reaper's but they were fearless and unstoppable in their quest for justice. LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT LEFT left RIGHT right LEFT left RIGHT right. --Wait, was he skipping?-- No! He was being followed. But by whom? He looked behind him and scanned the square.

Nothing.

The man turned back around and--

"Hello!" beamed the little girl.

The old soldier jumped back, raised his weapon, and looked down at the child. "Girl!" he growled, perhaps a little embarrassed that she'd made him jump. "What are you doing here? The Reaper has arrived. It's not safe. The village is in danger."

"I know!" said the girl. "That's why I'm with you!"

The old soldier paused momentarily and then nodded his understanding. She had an excellent point. But, nevertheless, when the final showdown with The Reaper came, she would only get in the way--and he didn't want her blood on his hands.

"You're the Tinkerer's daughter, am I right?" said the soldier, looking her over and taking in the residue and soot that dirtied her clothes. "He's a good man. A little odd, certainly, but he doesn't deserve to lose a daughter--no-one does. Come with me. I'll take you home."

--What?! The only other person brave enough to fight The Reaper and the soldier sends her away?--

"No!" stomped the little girl. "I'm here to fight The Reaper. With our powers combined, he doesn't stand a chance!"

"Ha! You? Fight The Reaper? With what?!"

The soldier was right, of course. The girl was unarmed, untrained and unskilled in the art of combat. But would that stop her? It didn't look like it. She grabbed the metal ringing pole from the hands of the soldier and swung it about--or, rather, more accurately it swung her about as she wrestled the inertia of her one and only swing all the way to the ground. She landed in a grumpy little heap.

"Ha!" laughed the soldier. "Hahaha!" --But one shouldn't laugh when someone is trying their best?-- No, they shouldn't. --So the soldier apologised pretty quickly!--

"I'm very sorry," he said, promptly, as he helped her up. "You've got some real fight in you, but you'll need more than fight to defeat The Reaper. I'm sorry but I must take you home."

The young girl looked down, disappointed, but she rallied when she saw a smaller stick on the floor. It was a little charred on one end, but it had largely escaped the flames when the Warning Bell had been destroyed. Here was something she could use! She picked it up and swung it about, looking to the old soldier for approval. He took the stick and, with his powerful arms and huge hands, snapped it in half.

The girl's head dropped again. The soldier knelt down and nudged her chin up with an index finger. Her eyes locked onto his. She certainly was spirited and strong, he thought. But she was also young--and that mattered more than anything else. The village would need heroes like her in the years to come, when the old soldier had fought his last and the generations to come needed someone to look up to. Watching the young girl die to The Reaper today would cost the village dear tomorrow and for decades into the future.

"Let's go to your father's workshop. There may be something there you can use in battle," he said, uneasily. The young girl didn't twig. She took the soldier on his word, but it wasn't his job to make her happy, it was his duty to keep her--and as many others as he could--safe. If tricking her into going home where her family could keep her safe was the only way to do it, then so be it!

"Okay!" said the girl. "Let's go. Father's workshop is underneath our house. This way!"

The soldier exhaled, nodded, and the two marched onwards, keeping a close watch on their surroundings for signs of The Reaper.

​

.....(Continued in Reply) (I Hope)

Submitted October 07, 2018 at 06:15PM by HeroJez https://ift.tt/2zVSmzN