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Authors: Rien Reigns
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It was amazing how naïve some people could still be. Cameras were everywhere, and most were hidden in plain sight. Nothing anyone did was private when they were out in public. Even in the comfort of their own homes people weren’t alone. They were always with their CerAs who recorded everything.
“Did you seriously think that seeing some obvious cameras would prove that you just happened to steal your way onto a trixster show? You came to me, remember?”
“Maybe I made a mistake,” Paxton said.
“Maybe you did.”
I brought my recliner into the up-right position and opened a hidden compartment in the armrests. Inside were two small boxes, from which I drew forth my scythe gauntlets - beasts born of leather and razor sharp steel. Attached at the tip of each finger was a 7cm miniature scythe blade.
The gloves had actually been conceptualized and created after the nickname reaper came about, which is why they were made to resemble something out of a nightmare. In truth, they were just for show. Dreamt up by another Inquisitor as a gag for parties and ceremonies.
But I found them much more intimidating than the real gloves we used in the line of duty, which were non-descript, as that was the main goal of an Inquisitor.
The real gloves of a reaper came in many fashions and were all designed to match whatever the reaper was wearing for the assignment. What made them special though was that they were designed after a stinging nettle plant. When the Inquisitor wanted, hundreds of tiny hypodermic needles would protrude, loaded with various substances. An Inquisitor would simply walk by their mark and casually brush their hand somewhere on the victim, delivering whatever dose they chose. The Inquisitor would have already locked on to their victim’s Chrono, so then all they had to do was sit back and monitor the person’s cellular activity.
I slowly pulled on the intimidating gauntlets, leaned toward Paxton, blades extended, and asked, “Shall we begin the Inquisition?”
“Fuck you,” he said.
With a quick flick of my wrist, I cut him across the cheek. Not too deep. Just a little scratch. A thin red line appeared.
Paxton put up his hands. “Okay. I’ll do whatever you want. Just put those things away.”
I leaned back into my seat. He relaxed ever so slight ly.
“I wouldn’t be so hasty with a declaration of that magnitude,” I said. “But that’s more like it.”
I didn’t put the scythes away, but I rested my hands on the arms of the chair.
Paxton warily put his hands down.
“I received a new assignment this morning and I could use a little assistance, which is why I’ve decided to recruit you.”
“Recruit?”
“You do understand standardized English, don’t you?” I asked.
“Yes,” Paxton said. He sat up straight with proper posture for the first time.
“So then you’re just mentally slow?”
Paxton slammed a fist on the table. “I ain’t a tard.”
“Then why do you keep questioning what I’m telling you?”
“You’re blabbing dribble.”
“I’m making perfect sense, boy, so how about you keep your blow hole shut and let me finish explaining things. Think you can do that?”
Paxton gave a slight nod, folded his arms, and tried to lean back in the chair. He was still somewhat at unease.
I still had my claws out after all.
“As I was about to say when you opened your mouth before your mind could tell it to shut the hell up; you say you need my help, well, I could use yours. It’s why I let you lead me to that sham you call a bar. That reminds me. You owe me a drink, and I mean a real one.”
“But you’re a reaper, what could I possibly do for you?”
I clapped my hands. “Finally, a decent question. But, I counter - how much experience do you have in dealing with reapers?” For good measure, I scraped the scythe blades against each other like a cat sharpening its claws in anticipation of pouncing for the kill.
Paxton shrugged. “None, really, I just
It was amazing how naïve some people could still be. Cameras were everywhere, and most were hidden in plain sight. Nothing anyone did was private when they were out in public. Even in the comfort of their own homes people weren’t alone. They were always with their CerAs who recorded everything.
“Did you seriously think that seeing some obvious cameras would prove that you just happened to steal your way onto a trixster show? You came to me, remember?”
“Maybe I made a mistake,” Paxton said.
“Maybe you did.”
I brought my recliner into the up-right position and opened a hidden compartment in the armrests. Inside were two small boxes, from which I drew forth my scythe gauntlets - beasts born of leather and razor sharp steel. Attached at the tip of each finger was a 7cm miniature scythe blade.
The gloves had actually been conceptualized and created after the nickname reaper came about, which is why they were made to resemble something out of a nightmare. In truth, they were just for show. Dreamt up by another Inquisitor as a gag for parties and ceremonies.
But I found them much more intimidating than the real gloves we used in the line of duty, which were non-descript, as that was the main goal of an Inquisitor.
The real gloves of a reaper came in many fashions and were all designed to match whatever the reaper was wearing for the assignment. What made them special though was that they were designed after a stinging nettle plant. When the Inquisitor wanted, hundreds of tiny hypodermic needles would protrude, loaded with various substances. An Inquisitor would simply walk by their mark and casually brush their hand somewhere on the victim, delivering whatever dose they chose. The Inquisitor would have already locked on to their victim’s Chrono, so then all they had to do was sit back and monitor the person’s cellular activity.
I slowly pulled on the intimidating gauntlets, leaned toward Paxton, blades extended, and asked, “Shall we begin the Inquisition?”
“Fuck you,” he said.
With a quick flick of my wrist, I cut him across the cheek. Not too deep. Just a little scratch. A thin red line appeared.
Paxton put up his hands. “Okay. I’ll do whatever you want. Just put those things away.”
I leaned back into my seat. He relaxed ever so slight ly.
“I wouldn’t be so hasty with a declaration of that magnitude,” I said. “But that’s more like it.”
I didn’t put the scythes away, but I rested my hands on the arms of the chair.
Paxton warily put his hands down.
“I received a new assignment this morning and I could use a little assistance, which is why I’ve decided to recruit you.”
“Recruit?”
“You do understand standardized English, don’t you?” I asked.
“Yes,” Paxton said. He sat up straight with proper posture for the first time.
“So then you’re just mentally slow?”
Paxton slammed a fist on the table. “I ain’t a tard.”
“Then why do you keep questioning what I’m telling you?”
“You’re blabbing dribble.”
“I’m making perfect sense, boy, so how about you keep your blow hole shut and let me finish explaining things. Think you can do that?”
Paxton gave a slight nod, folded his arms, and tried to lean back in the chair. He was still somewhat at unease.
I still had my claws out after all.
“As I was about to say when you opened your mouth before your mind could tell it to shut the hell up; you say you need my help, well, I could use yours. It’s why I let you lead me to that sham you call a bar. That reminds me. You owe me a drink, and I mean a real one.”
“But you’re a reaper, what could I possibly do for you?”
I clapped my hands. “Finally, a decent question. But, I counter - how much experience do you have in dealing with reapers?” For good measure, I scraped the scythe blades against each other like a cat sharpening its claws in anticipation of pouncing for the kill.
Paxton shrugged. “None, really, I just
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