Reaper's Glare

I jumped over a crate into a somersault, rolling across the brick flooring, and back onto my feet. I briefly checked my rifle, finding it still activated and in its normal condition. My eyes darted up from the weapon to my fleeing target.

No, I would not shoot now. My blast might collaterally hit a bystander before their time and then I would face prosecution.

I started back into a sprint as my target turned about a corner. Citizens in the street ducked out of my way as they spotted the Reaper insignia patch stitched to my vantablack uniform’s shoulder. I rounded the corner and leveled my rifle down the alley. I found the passage empty and hurried into it to find a longer alley on the right. I turned and watched as my target raced further away from me. I put the scope to my eye. The reticle in the scope outlined the area around the fugitive, detailing that no halls or objects to hide behind were within the next twenty feet. I placed the center of my scope on the middle of the target’s spine. My muscles loosened, my eye relaxed, I inhaled, and my pointer finger tightened on the trigger but did not pull. I held my breath for a few seconds and exhaled as slow as I could, waiting for the scope’s colors to change as my training required.

The way society perceives life has changed a lot since 2030. I am Dillard Coin. Allow me, as your narrator, to update you on the new modern world because much has changed.

It starts with a handful of madmen inventing interdimensional technology. After their breakthrough and subsequent confiscation of the technology, the American military succeeded in locating and killing Death, the entity, thus immortalizing humanity forever. People and animals no longer die of old age. ‘Death by natural causes,’ for the first time in human history, became an obsolete phenomenon.

Facing the repercussions of those actions, the world unified under a group of leaders from various nations to help navigate the ensuing panic fomented by media conglomerates. These leaders then permanently outlawed military and civilian use of the interdimensional technology. They concluded that without people dying naturally, our planet would soon overpopulate and, without the ability to travel to habitable planets, this would lead us to catastrophe. This crisis led to the creation of the Reapers: a global organization that performs Death’s job. A job that falls to me and my fellow agents.

This new globally coordinated society implants technological strips in the left forearm of every newborn baby. These strips are claimed to access an interdimensional log, formerly used by Death, that determines when people were meant to die. This system effectively replaces Death.

When a citizen’s time ends, a black mark appears on the underside of the left forearm which is when Reapers—men dressed like me—are sent to make sure that time does indeed end. If we do not perform our job, the entire world suffers in a matter of months and the ecosystem of nature is disrupted.

My eyebrows tensed as my patience grew thin. After a few more moments, my scope outlined the mark on my target’s left forearm and the color of the reticle changed from orange to red.

It was his time to go.

I stopped breathing entirely and squeezed the trigger, surprising myself with the rifle’s shot. The man in the corridor flung forward and slammed face-first into the stone road, sliding to a stop. My rifle whirred briefly as it recalibrated from its blast.

Suddenly, a man burst from the shadows. He charged me and smashed his knee into my sternum.

My eyes widened with shock. I grunted as my spine clashed with the concrete wall behind me and huffed after the man’s fist collided against my jaw. I thrust my left arm up to stop the knife in his right hand from plunging into my neck. Our forearms met and the tip of his blade hung an inch above my neck.

A strange, trickling sensation slithered along the underside of my left forearm as I stared at the point of the man’s blade. I glanced at my left wrist and spotted a black line materializing on my palm and down my forearm. My eyes met with my opponent’s who also noted the mark.

“Guess your fate was to die in this alley,” He sneered smugly.

I gritted my teeth and grabbed his knife-clutching hand with both of mine and twisted his arm, forcing him to spin away from me. I wrenched the knife out of his hand and put it along his throat.

The man relaxed and settled against my shins, “You gonna off yourself too after you check me?”

I grabbed his left hand and slid his sleeve up, finding a thick, black line on his forearm and palm—identical to the line on my left forearm. “Reapers don’t terminate themselves.”

"Guess they changed protocols. I was expected to kill myself when my mark showed."

I furrowed my eyebrows at his remark. It would be highly unlikely for him to be a former Reaper if his mark was expired.

My prisoner huffed as I continued my arrest, “Where do they find guys like you?”

My thoughts reminisced my time rigorously training in the academy to become a Reaper. My schooling there started at only thirteen years old and ended when I turned twenty-one. I never imagined my black mark would show at twenty-seven years old then, nor did I consider what I would do when my appointed death came. “A quick Google search’ll tell you all about where we come from and how we’re trained.” I stated gruffly.

“I don’t need to, I know all about it.” He huffed in annoyance. “Death is Life.” He glared back at me with a knowing glint in his eyes.

An expression of surprise came on my face, confused as to how he knew our secret motto. Only fellow Reapers used that for identification purposes—to help identify each other in sensitive situations.

A static voice spurt into my ear across the comm system, “Dillard Coin, you just fired your weapon in a populated area. Kill status of target?”

I gripped the edge of my collar with my thumb and pointer finger, pressing a hidden button beneath the fabric, and pulled the concealed receiver toward my mouth to answer, “Kill confirmed.”

“Copy that. Good work, Coin. Deliver the target to the mark’s address.” The transmission quieted.

“I’ve also apprehended another runner. He attacked me after I terminated the first target.” I reported. “Should I terminate this one as well?”

“Ah, scan his mark and we’ll identify him.”

I nodded as I felt my rifle’s whirring settle to a stop, meaning it had fully recalibrated. I sighed and forced the man onto his stomach, bending his arm further around his back into a ninety-degree angle. I knelt onto his spine, whipped out a device with the hand that held his knife, and rolled it along his mark. I engaged my comm again after placing the device back into my belt, “Transmission over.”

“Copy that. Your captive is Bartholomew Cline, aged forty-seven years. His expiration mark occurred on February 10th, 2087. Target number: 7689. Terminate immediately.”

Bartholomew flailed underneath me, “No! Let me go!”

I pressed him further into the brick road and tightened my hold on his wrist, “Understood.” I retracted my hand away from my collar and placed the knife at his throat, “You’ve evaded this for way too long. It’s time for you to go. Any final words or requests?”

“You didn’t offer the other man such a courtesy.” Bartholomew growled.

“The other man wouldn’t stop. I have you apprehended and can thus offer a proper termination.”

Bartholomew exhaled bitterly, blowing some pebbles away from his mouth, “Well, now that you’ve got your mark, it might matter to you to know that the higher-ups—our supposed ‘World Leaders’—don’t get marks like we do. They’re exempt. Everyone else takes a turn at death, but never them. They play God and outlive every single one of us. They decide who lives and dies. You really think these marks are determined by Death’s actual interdimensional schedule?” Bartholomew chuckled sadistically, as if he enjoyed brutalizing people’s worldviews, “These strips of ours are programmed devices, set to activate our marks by either manual input or by a randomized time governed by an algorithm. I haven't yet figured out exactly how they do it. And you know what an algorithm is, don’t ya? It’s an opinion in code. Makes this world very convenient for them to control. If they don’t like you, all they have to do is activate your mark and everyone you know will turn you over to a Reaper because it’s the right thing to do. After you murder me—cuz I know you have to—check my pockets. You’ll find a thumb drive with the information that corroborates my claim. I didn’t evade my time just because I didn’t want to die. I evaded because I have a truth this world needs to know. And if there’s any sense of selflessness in you, I beg you to look at my thumb drive. I know you Reapers are advertised as inhuman agents of Death, but I know differently.”

I swallowed, a bit overwhelmed by what he said.

I know there are conspiracy theorists that oppose the Reaping system, but I did not ever think about it the way he just described it.

“Please, promise a dying man you’ll just look at what’s on the drive.” He pleaded. “What harm could there possibly be in that? If I’m lying, it will be obvious and you’ll have done your job. Besides, you’re dead anyway.”

Usually, everything on an expired citizen is submitted for evidence to be catalogued, examined, and returned to relatives, but this is a special case.

I reached into his pocket and stuffed the thumb drive I found into my shirt’s pocket. “Is that all?”

“Yes. That’ll be my final words.”

“A very good final statement.” With that, I tightened my facial muscles and jerked the blade through his jugular vein, holding him steady till strength left his body. I gulped after he stopped moving and stood up, jumping over the pool of blood surrounding me.

This job requires a heap of callous action. I wish I could have asked him more about how he knew our motto, but I followed procedure as usual: minimal questions, stick to task.

I trudged down the hall, making my way to the other body. The man, Jack Kent he was called in my briefing, lay face down on the ground. I pushed him over with my foot, letting myself get a look at his face. I rolled my scanning device over his mark and transmitted it back to my station. I then clicked my comm on, “Jack Kent and Bartholomew Cline—confirmed termination.”

“Good work, Coin. Target numbers 7689 and 5273 accounted for. Group up with your partner and return to base.”

“Roger that,” I clicked off the receiver and pulled a black glove from my belt, slipping it over my left hand to conceal the black mark.

It certainly deviates from protocol, but I have a few things to do before my death.

A pitchy voice echoed down the alley behind Bartholomew’s lifeless body, “Whoa, this isn’t a casualty, is it?”

I turned to find my partner, Pascal Jones, examining Bartholomew.

Pascal is a lanky fellow with an athletic frame and a mustache that dusts the space between his nose and upper lip. His features are pointy, and his skin is a light brown tone.

“No, Pascal. Weren't you listening to the comm channel? He's an extra termination. Ran into me while chasing Kent.”

Pascal glared at me, "Would you stop using their names when you refer to targets, please? Jeez!" He stooped over Bartholomew's body, stroking his chin, “Why’d you knife him? This isn’t even your knife.” He pointed at the bloody knife Bartholomew had first tried stabbing me with.

“Just help me get these two out of here, would you?”

Pascal bounded to me and helped me hoist Jack’s body off the ground. We stuffed both bodies into plastic bags and loaded them into the back of our vehicle.

Later, on the road, I massaged my left-hand wrist as I sat next to Pascal who drove us through the streets on our way back to the station.

“Do you ever think about all the work we do? The hundreds of people we kill?” I asked Pascal.

He glanced at me, “Only when you use their God-forsaken names, Coin. I swear, you don't stop.”

“It's easier for me to remember their names than their target numbers, ok. It's that simple. You're just weird.”

Pascal frowned, “Oh, I'm not the weird one. You're the only guy I have a shift with who doesn't stick to that one blasted protocol. And I swear, it pisses me off every time.”

“Why?” I squinted, “Is it a matter of guilt?”

“Ha,” Pascal chuckled, “like guilt ever gets in my way. We're doing our job the way we're supposed to. And you know how we're supposed to refer to targets? By their flipping numbers!”

I nodded, “I know and I try. I'll be sure to remember better next time.”

Pascal’s eyebrows furrowed, “Yeah right. We'll get assigned to a Sally or something and you'll be like, 'Sally's over here, Pascal!' sounding super insensitive to any civilian in ear shot. There's reasons beyond just protocol to do as we're trained.”

I pursed my lips, realizing yet again that Pascal was not the person I could entrust with any sort of deviations from our training protocols.

Like almost every other Reaper I know, his devotion to his duty supersedes every aspect of his life. This argument is futile.

I sighed and leaned into my chair, thinking about Bartholomew.

I know the tenets of our training. I know it is not my place to sympathize with targets, but something in Bartholomew’s eyes bothered me. It was the complete surety in his belief and trust of the information on his thumb drive. I have yet to check its contents to validate if what’s there is true but witnessing just how willing he was to die as long as I merely looked at his drive shook me. I have never seen a man so content to die for so small a request, and I have seen many men die. I know what authenticity looks like.

I decided to change the subject, “You think Administration will listen to me about our compound’s security lock system overlooking the vehicle bay?”

Pascal chuckled, “It’ll take ‘em a few weeks, but they’ll get some engineers to work it out.”

I laughed, “Yeah, Admin always takes forever. I once couldn’t even get a file I requested about a mission until a week later when another team had already claimed the termination.”

Pascal nodded, “Yeah I remember that. It really sucked too, cuz we had so many leads.”

Once at the station, Pascal handled the morticians who would submit the bodies and their belongings to evidence. I made my way to the break room and slid my laptop onto one of the tables in the furthest back corner. I jammed the drive into it instantly, upon booting up, and clicked the files open.

Document after document I opened detailed evidence of obvious misconduct and manipulative orchestration by leading names in the global Reapers hierarchy.

Another file detailed the processes used to determine civilian marker timestamps—when people were supposed to die. This was evidently contrary to the public’s understanding that their deaths were decided based on their original timeline per Death’s list.

I opened the last file in the drive. I read down the list of names and noticed a strange comparison. The names of the supposedly extradited military officers that sanctioned Death’s assassination were now operating in the Reapers chain of command.

That is very concerning, because our leaders denounce the military’s attack as a grievous mistake and that all of the generals behind it are unfit to remain in government positions of authority, but here they are listed as our highest commanders.

I exited out from the file drive, ejected it from the USB port, and returned it to my pocket. I then opened an app that had access to all Reaper case files. In the Search tab, I entered: “Bartholomew Cline, 47 years.” His picture came up immediately. I opened it and began reading through his file. My eyes caught one line that made my spine tingle with fear.

It read: “Bartholomew Hawes Cline. Reaper Property, Class 10. Inducted March 16, 2043. Status: Expired: Accounted for.”

He was a Reaper a long time before I was. That’s insane. That might be how he was able to evade termination for three years.

Suddenly the page flickered and went white saying, “Content restricted.”

I squinted suspiciously, immediately exiting the tab.

Something was off.

My earbud whirred, “Pascal Jones—” and the transmission cut abruptly.

I closed my laptop and returned it to my backpack, looking up as my partner, Pascal, stared at me from the doorway. I noticed the tenseness of his jaw and the way he glared at me. It was the look civilians call Reaper’s Glare, an expression a Reaper gets when they are about to terminate a target. It is a faceless, emotionless, and worst of all--guiltless expression, void of all humanity. I have given that very look to many people in my career.

I noted shadows approaching on the ground behind him.

“What are you doing?” I decided to quip, aware it was no use talking to him, but I hoped it might delay his reaction.

The moment his eye twitched, I stood up, slid the chair out from underneath me, and drew my sidearm, blasting at him and the hallway.

Pascal ducked away, yanking his pistol away from his holster.

I continued shooting at the walls and hall as I moved across the room to an opposite exit. My pistol clinked when its clip emptied.

“Move!” Pascal shouted to his new partners.

I turned right and sprinted as fast as I could down an opposite hall. I fumbled with my pistol in attempt to reload it, but the sweat of my palms delayed me. Bullets began whizzing past my body, impacting the floor and walls around me. I weaved the path of a zigzag down the hall to make myself hard to hit. I made a sharp turn only to bump into another Reaper agent.

After our collision, I fit my pistol magazine up inside the handle and primed it. Without hesitation, I blasted two rounds into the Reaper’s chest, knocking him out of my path to the floor. As I past him, I capped a round into his head to be sure he would not shoot me from behind on my way out.

Reapers will not stop for anything to terminate a target.

The multiple footsteps of Pascal and the other agents behind me grew louder as they gained on my position. The entire compound rose to life in alarm. Sirens began pounding, halls filled with Reapers, and multiple doors started locking on me. I slammed against a door and glanced back, ducking in just enough time for Pascal’s bullet to land over me into the door. I fired back and hurried to the left, hoping to make it to the vehicle bay.

I know the way our building’s security system works. The doors will lock systematically in such a way as to funnel me a certain direction, but the vehicle bay is an overlooked part of that plan.

I burst through a door that had yet to lock and hurried into the vehicle bay. I instantly slid diagonally as a squad of four Reapers had already positioned themselves in the bay, kneeling in shooting formations. Their bullets destroyed the door behind me as I made it behind a patrol car.

I pulled a smoke grenade from my vest and tossed it at the door. It would obscure and disorient Pascal’s group when they reached it, hopefully. I reloaded my pistol and stood up, returning fire at the squad who had already begun mobilizing toward me.

I know I can not win against all of them.

I shot the window on the passenger side of the vehicle I was hiding behind and pulled the lock into the unlock position. I then crawled up inside and inserted my key into the car, twisting the car to life.

All Reaper patrol cars are operable by uniform keys.

I shifted into Drive and gunned the gas, running over a Reaper agent incidentally. I exited the garage, bullets ripping through all the vehicle’s windows, and turned right. I stayed low to my seat, only steering the car based on my memory of the compound’s road layout. The car jolted for a moment and came to a rolling stop, despite how hard I pressed on the gas. I looked up to find I had rolled over a spike trap.

“Damn,” I muttered to myself.

I grabbed a Termination rifle from the backseat and leapt out the passenger side door, racing to a wall. I turned around and armed the rifle, letting it calibrate itself.

The weapon will not fire unless it is able to read the interdimensional mark on my target, but I know what makes it do that.

I hurriedly tore the targeting box off the side of my weapon, praying that the gun would hurry up and finish its charge. The whirring stopped. I thanked God and peeked the corner, aiming down at my pursuers. The reticle stayed orange but when I pulled the trigger, it blasted the bolt into my target just the same. Everyone raced to cover as I peeled away from the wall and used their delay as more time to run.

I dashed down the road to the entry gate. The guard in the tower took aim at me, but I fired first with my Termination rifle, sending his head backwards against his control panel. I tossed the weapon across the gate and vaulted it a moment after. I bent to pick up the rifle but recoiled my hand as a blast shot at the gun. I looked up, seeing Pascal across from me, already outside the compound, with a Termination rifle of his own.

Taking the rifle’s recharge time into consideration, I darted across the street, hoping to lose him in the cityscape. Pascal charged after me.

I took a left, then a right, then another left down a few alleyways. My intuition told me to scurry to cover. I hid on the edge of an alleyway in the shadows, listening as Pascal’s footsteps grew closer. He rounded the corner and stopped, taking aim down the alleyway. I pulled a knife from my boot and leapt at him from my vantage point in the shadows. He turned with surprise, dropped the Termination rifle, and swung his arms into mine to stop my blade.

“What are you doing, Dillard!?” He shouted, “Just give up! Your mark has expired!”

I gritted my teeth and kicked his thigh, making him drop to one knee. “I can’t, Pascal! I have vital information that has to reach the public.” I jabbed the knife at his chest.

Pascal slid on his back, evading my knife, and swept his shin through my calves, knocking my legs out from under me. I slammed onto my spine and rolled to the right. Pascal pressed me, wrapping his arms around my neck. Instead of reaching to stop his arms, I jabbed my knife at his eye, but stopped inches away from it. I then pulled down on his left forearm so he could watch his mark trickle across it.

I heard Pascal gasp and he released me, backing away in shock.

I stood up, facing him. “That’s what happened to me too.”

Pascal’s face hardened, “Someone else will deal with me, I've been assigned with terminating you.”

I sighed, “Pascal, I have proof that the Reaper’s are just tools to manipulate the public.”

Pascal yanked his pistol from his side, “I don’t care!”

I dodged to the side as his shots zipped by me. I lunged for him and stabbed his stomach once. I then immediately raced down the alley, hearing him falter against the ground. His pistol shots hit the brick walls around me but were inaccurate due to his wound.

I glanced back, watching as Reapers caught up to him and stopped to inspect him and contact Admin. As I turned back to continue running, I heard Pascal cry out in pain only to be silenced by a gunshot. Adrenaline sizzled into my muscles as I heard the ruthless purr of a Termination rifle behind me. I started making evasive movements, hoping for a break in the alleyway for me to duck behind but none came. Then, as fate had it, the sharp heat of the Termination rifle’s bolt seared into my shoulder blade, weighing on my strength. I fell to the floor but scurried back to my feet.

This is my second chance.

I put all my strength into my run, hurrying away from my eminent death. I rounded a corner and felt pieces of brick sprinkle my back behind me as I did so, the second blast of the rifle being stopped on the corner. I gasped for air and sprinted to freedom, knowing I had put enough distance between my fellow Reaper agents.

There is no doubt in my mind that the information I came across was real. I have to get this out and I will. The world will learn the truth if it is the last thing I do. No longer will I live by my Reaper code and protocols. I will have to carve out my own individuality to succeed.

I just hope my fate is not to be stopped in an alleyway like Bartholomew Cline’s. His sacrifice will not go to waste. His death will bring life to the world. Freedom from tyranny. Freedom from globalism. Freedom to die free than to live in bondage to an uncaring system.

If there's anything I want to say to the world aside from the information in my possession it is this: My name is Dillard Coin. I am a former Reaper. To all the families out there who get this broadcast and have lost loved ones to my organization...

I'm sorry. I truly am.