Chapter 1: The Glitch Before the Storm
Hiroshima, January 26th,1945
The January wind cut through the streets of Hiroshima, a cold, sharp blade that held the lingering scent of the sea and coal smoke. Arthur Lynch watched the city slide by from the grimy window of a tram, his own ghostly reflection superimposed on the passing scene. Three years, he thought. Three years reporting on a war that's eating itself from the inside out. He saw the hollow cheeks, the stoic resignation. They were all waiting for a hammer to fall.
He stepped off into the chill, his destination a flickering neon sign that read "The Anchor." Pushing through the heavy door, he was met by a wall of warm, stale air smelling of tobacco and damp wool. The pub was a pocket of subdued life. A few men hunched over tables, speaking in low murmurs. A scratched record player hissed out a faint, melancholic jazz tune.
He nodded to the grizzled bartender, Kenji, who responded with a slow, familiar nod and poured two fingers of American whiskey without being asked.
"Quiet tonight," Lynch observed, his voice flat.
"Quiet is good," Kenji rumbled. "Quiet means the B-29s are somewhere else."
Lynch tossed back the whiskey, the familiar burn doing little to warm him. He left a few coins on the bar—a mix of worn yen and a single silver American dime—and turned towards his usual secluded booth in the back.
It was as he slid into the cracked leather seat that he saw it.
Through the window, out in the dimly lit street, stood a figure. Tall, shrouded in a tattered, hooded cloak that seemed to drink the light. In its grasp was a long, wicked scythe, its blade pale as a bone under the moon.
A Grim Reaper. Just like the stories from his childhood.
A cold, superstitious dread, thought long buried, seized his heart. It was a fiction, a folktale. They were in the middle of a war, for God's sake. But the figure didn't move like a man in a costume. It stood with an unnatural stillness.
Then, it turned its head. From within the profound darkness of the hood, two points of smoldering crimson light fixed directly on him.
Before Lynch could process the sight, the figure took a step forward—and phased directly through the solid wall of the pub.
It crashed into the seat opposite him with a sound like rustling dry leaves. The massive scythe clattered to the floor, half-vanishing into the wooden planks. Lynch recoiled, his back pressing hard against the booth. He could see the faint outline of the wall through the creature's robed form.
The Reaper tilted its head. Lynch's eyes, wide with terror, followed the movement. It swayed to the other side. His eyes tracked it perfectly.
Then, with a bony, empty hand, it pointed a finger at its own chest.
"You can see me..." The voice was not a sepulchral whisper, but an elated, almost teenage exclamation.
Lynch revolted, a strangled sound catching in his throat. Fear and absurd disbelief warred within him. Was this some insane cosplay? In the middle of a war? But how did it walk through a wall?
The Grim Reaper stretched its face—or the void where a face should be—towards him.
"You can really see me, right?!" it screamed, the sound vibrating in Lynch's skull yet unheard by anyone else. He glanced frantically around the bar. The couple at the next table were glancing at him, their expressions a mix of curiosity and concern for the lone Westerner apparently having a panic attack in his booth. They saw nothing.
It was real. And it was invisible to everyone else. The finality of it was a punch to the gut. Grim Reapers only came for those about to die. Goddamn, I don't wanna die.
"Yo! Chill!" The Reaper reclined back into the stool, its form becoming slightly more substantial. "I ain't here to reap your soul. Or as the folklore and stories paint us to be." It reclined its head again, the red eyes blazing with the same unnerving elation. "I'm just happy someone else could see me! Gosh, after centuries... damn..." Its voice actually sounded teary.
Was it crying?
Lynch stared, his fear slowly being displaced by sheer, unadulterated bewilderment.
"Talk...?" he muttered to the empty space. Was it the drink? He didn't remember getting drunk this easily. Or had the anxiety and overwork finally broken him, conjuring a hallucination for companionship? And why a Grim Reaper? Did he have some deep, unresolved goth fetish?
"Come on, human! Stop overthinking!" the Reaper shrugged, its transparent shoulders rippling. "You saw a grim reaper. You're talking to it. Simple as that. So, how does it feel? Being human? Been so long since I felt like that. Probably forgot my name and all... but it's ecstatic, right?" It leaned its head forward again, a pool of darkness waiting for an answer.
Seeing its eager, glowing eyes, Lynch sighed. Fuck it anyway. Be it an illusion or reality, there was always a therapist.
He signaled Kenji for another drink. "Well... being human means being overworked with little to no pay," he grumbled. "Sent far away from home into a goddamn, dying land. Scared to shit of waking up to being bombed." He drowned the fresh pour of whiskey. He gazed at the grim reaper. "Want some?"
"Nah. I don't drink alcohol," it muttered, reclining its head back. "Oh, that's the same with us, you know? We get overworked, having to reap a thousand souls from those about to die. Then we can pass the mantle and reside in eternal paradise." it added casually.
He emptied another glass, the burn a grounding sensation in the surreality. This would be his last; he didn't want to end his life before the bombs did. "Eternal paradise... must be nice for you guys," he said, his voice a flat, depressing monotone. His elbows hit the table, his forehead resting against the cool glass. "Wished I had a reward like that..."
Then the Grim Reaper snapped its head towards him, its voice screaming elatedly once more. "Do you really want that?!"
He raised his head. Who wouldn't want an eternal paradise? Was this thing dull? Well, given its transparency, did it even possess a brain? "If it's possible... yeah," his voice slurred. What was he even saying? Wasn't he delving too deep into this delusion?
"It's totally possible!" The Reaper's face jolted forward, and Lynch found he no longer cared about its scary features. "I mean, I have my thousand souls already. I'm just looking for someone to pass the mantle to before I head off to my eternal paradise."
Lynch slammed himself back in his stool, his face contorted as his mind frantically tried to place the puzzles together. "Wait... are you implying..."
This time the Reaper leaned so far across the table its hood was inches from his face, its crimson eyes gleaming like hellish stars.
"Yes!" it slammed its hands on the table—though they made no sound and didn't even ripple the surface of his whiskey. "Lynch! How about you become a Reaper?"
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