Soulless

What makes a human being a human being?

Is it the simple indescribable thing that makes them what they are? Their likes and dislikes? Their pain and suffering? If you were to distill a human being into something what would that result create? The answer to that is something that all humans would cling to forever if given the chance to: the soul.

The soul makes the human. Everything that makes them what they are is as simple as that, the soul that they were given at birth. But the process is not perfect either, and as consequence, some humans are born with partial souls. These humans can end up normal, or wild and crazy and wreak great havoc within society.

The Grim Reaper is responsible for the collection of all souls upon death as myth and legend would lead the world to believe, but he cannot be everywhere at once. He reaps and collects, and debts are paid in full by the souls that were once bound to them.

The last thing that Daemon remembered was hearing those car brakes screech like a banshee from the depths of the underworld and the shocked face of that young girl looking onwards like a deer in the headlights as she watched the car simply get closer and closer to her. As the young man watched it was if time was slowed and he could recall his youth: saying that he dreamed of nothing more than to save lives, that he wanted nothing more than to be a hero.

Throughout his nearly twenty years of living he helped everyone that he could, no matter what they needed.

The sun was high in the bright blue sky and not a single cloud obscured the bright blaze of the star above. Daemon Sinclair made his way through the city, on his way to go see his older sister in her new apartment and that was when he heard it. Bright green eyes locked onto the busy street to his right hand side and he saw the car that was the source of the terrible screeching.

"Emily!!!" a woman's voice cried as he saw the person stuck in the path of the car, a little blonde girl about seven or eight years old and her wide blue eyes staring at the car about to strike her. Time slowed to a crawl to Daemon, and before he could think, before he gave his body permission to do so, his legs launched him forwards like an Olympic sprinter. Daemon wrapped his arms around the little girl, Emily, the woman had called her and pulled her close to his own body. It was all that he was able to do in the seconds that he had to act and if she got hurt it wouldn't kill her since she was being shielded by Daemon's body. At least, that was his plan.

Getting hit by a car was much more painful than the movies or shows made it out to be. On TV it was as though the actors could just get up and walk away as if they had only tripped, a small little misstep. Pain flared throughout his body as multiple things cracked within him and there was a loud thud and a cry as he hit the concrete -- Emily beneath him.

"Oh my God!" a blonde woman cried as she ran over to Daemon and checked on her daughter. In the corner of his eye, a crowd seemed to just materialize from nothing as he choked on breath and blood gagged him.

"Are you okay sir??" another voice asked as people shouted over one another as a woman knelt down and looked at him. It was the blonde woman with soft brown eyes like melted chocolate.

"Is... she," was all the Daemon could croak out and she nodded as tears fell from her eyes.

"She's safe," the blonde whispered to him. "You saved her,"

"That's... good," Daemon answered as he looked back out over the crowd. His eyes managed to focus on a man in the very front of the crowd, dressed in an all black suit. He tapped his gilded watch and smiled at Daemon as mercifully he passed.

Or rather he should have.

Daemon's eyes opened slowly and he looked around the room where he found himself now, and tried to make sense of his surroundings. He found himself back in his apartment, laying on the couch and staring up at the ceiling that was a smooth off white color along with the walls.

"What the hell am I?" he whispered as he was able to bring himself up into a sitting position and he rubbed the back of his head. It was as if the last few things that he tried to remember were there, but being kept from him.

"I'm going to put this simply Daemon, you died saving a little girl not too long ago," a man's voice answered as Daemon focused on the spot in front of him where a man entered his living room from the kitchen. His skin was nearly bone white and his hair was dark and long, pulled into a small tail behind his head. He was a tall man, standing over Daemon at what had to be six feet and he wore a three-piece black suit with a black shirt and tie that only had a small amount of gold to break up all the darkness. This mystery man glanced down at his watch and then looked at Daemon once more.

The young man was still trying to make sense of it all and was barely able to speak as he simply croaked out. "Wait, I'm dead?"

"You're very astute, that is what I meant when I said you died saving a little girl,"

"Who are you?" Daemon questioned and the suited man ran a hand over his head.

"Throughout history, I have been called many things. Hades, Anubis, Hel, Yama but I am simply put Death, Collector of Souls," he explained with a calm expression.

"No, no way," Daemon whispered as he took a shaky step back.

"This is simply the job, nothing personal," Death answered as the suit he wore morphed and became a flowing black cloak that seemed to be made of living shadows. The fabric stretched and writhed as though it was breathing and he extended his left hand outwards. A golden scythe appeared in his hand, the pole long like that of a bo staff with a large curved blade at the end of it. His face was gone beneath the eternal darkness of his hood and as the scythe was raised, the mythical being before Daemon laughed.

It sounded like ancient things shattering and fear flooded every inch of the newly deceased man's body.

"I see now why you were brought here with me. You're another like me," Death laughed and Daemon's fear was replaced by confusion.

"Another like you?" he repeated and Death nodded.

"Another without a soul, but whereas I have never possessed soul to call my own..." he began as he extended his empty hand to Daemon. Darkness entangled him a thousand times over until he was draped in a cloak, but whereas Death wore a free-flowing long cloak, his clung to him like armor.

Black robes forged from the night sky, had a hood which connected to the main portion of it and a full-length cape down the back. Atop the robes was black armor across the torso. Both the upper arm guards extended higher than the shoulders and were pointed. Vambraces covered his forearms and greaves ran down his shins. A two-handed scythe appeared in his hand, it’s body not nearly as long as the one the Reaper wielded but about four feet in length.

Long enough for two hands or one.

It had a seemingly oak handle, beautifully gnarled and stained a dark brown almost black. The blade of the scythe was dual ended -- the front or main blade was about three feet long and slightly curved with the shorter blade in the back was about a foot in length and curved more than the main blade.

“Your soul is out there, Daemon Sinclair and you’ll need that to get it out,” Death said simply to Daemon as the faux world where they were now crumbled away like glass and the shadows that clung to him vanished and just as suddenly as he died it was another miracle.

Daemon returned to the world of the living, burdened now by order that Death had given him.

Your soul is out there, Daemon Sinclair and you'll need that to get it out.