george lass excels at not giving a shit (andthenyoudie) wrote in safezonethreads, @ 2010-02-09 08:41:00 |
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Entry tags: | !closed, !complete, !narrative, george lass |
WHO: George Lass
WHAT: Her first reap in the Safe Zone.
WHEN: Just before noon.
WHERE: The Welcome Center → the Chelsea Hotel
RATING: PG-13 (mentions of NPC!death and disturbing themes)
STATUS: Complete
Her first day as the receptionist and already George was having to take an early lunch. It wasn't her fault, though. It was her other job. Her real job. Somewhere, someone was going to die today, and she had to be there to reap their soul. Which was fine. Maybe not great, but she really didn't mind as much as she used to. She just didn't want to get fired from her job as 'Millie' while she was busy doing the job she was saddled with as George.
And while she was at it, not losing her mind from trying to be two people in a completely new city where she knew no one, would be nice too.
Sighing heavily, the Reaper frowned at the post-it note that had been stuck to her front door this morning. She glanced up, taking in her surroundings, and hoping like hell that the map she'd looked at was right. If it was, the Chelsea Hotel was just another block away. If it wasn't... well, she really didn't want to think about not being where she should be, when she had to be there.
"Stupid post-it note," she muttered under her breath as she continued her hike down the mostly empty sidewalk. "Would it kill you to give me an actual address for once? Who the hell do I look like, Nancy Drew?" Scowling, she caught the eye of a man who was passing by her. At his odd look, she snapped, "What? Haven't you ever seen someone talking to themselves before?"
He scurried a bit faster down the sidewalk and George huffed, shoving her hands into her pockets and kicking at a rock in front of her. It skipped off into the street rather than down the path in front of her. Lucky rock, she thought darkly before finally rounding the corner and heaving a soft sigh of relief. Just up ahead was the Chelsea Hotel.
Once it had been a thing of beauty. A majestic building that stood as beacon to all those who could afford to stay there and anyone rich enough to even live there. It had been regaled as a safe place for families, for the upper class to raise their young in the heart of the city while protected from the darker side of the streets. The penthouse suites were said to be works of art and attracted celebrities both near and far. Everyone from Uma Thurman and Ethan Hawke to Mark Twain and Alice Cooper had, at one time, called the red-brick building home. Yet as George stood there and stared up at it, she had but one thought running through her mind.
What a piece of shit.
The windows were busted. The brick was cracked in places. The sign hung haphazardly over the doors. Boards covered the shops on either side, and she was pretty sure there were even blood stains across bits of the pavement by where she stood. Once it had been a landmark. Now, it was nothing more than yet another run-down, abandoned building in the wake of a war humanity was losing every single day.
And somewhere, inside, someone was about to die.
Getting into the lobby was a simple task and one that George wasted no time in doing. The front doors were simply covered in plastic sheets that were already ripped and tattered in so many places they might as well not even be there. Considering she was already technically dead, she didn't have to really worry about coming across anyone dangerous. Gun shot wounds stung like a bitch but they healed, given time. As did just about anything else that could be tossed her way. Including the Z1N1 virus.
So it was with little fanfare that she made her way into the building and toward the sign pointing to the stairs. A glance at her watch showed that she still had ten minutes before the estimated time of death for her mark. However, with a building as tall as this one, it could easily take half an hour just to reach the top. Clearly, it was time to improvise.
"Hello?"
Her voice echoed off the walls and up the stairwell. It bounced back down at her and George jumped a bit from the sound. That's it, she thought sardonically when she received no reply. Peering up the massive stairwell that seemed to go on forever, she gave a shake of her head. Ignore the girl that's here to reap your soul. God forbid we make this easy on the one person in this world who currently gives a shit about you.
It was a harsh thought, yet she was fairly sure it was probably a true one. Having been doing this for six years now, George had a fairly good handle on the deaths she faced and those who were involved in them. And in her experience, there was only one reason someone would be in an abandoned building like this, at high noon on a workday.
She had a jumper on her hands.
Trudging up the stairs, she busied her time thinking of the various reasons someone might want to commit suicide. Before the zombies, she had always had a hard time coming up with more than one or two. The death of a loved one, mental illness, and maybe job loss being the main ones that came to mind. Now, however, she was already up to a dozen or more, and she was just to the sixth floor.
"This is bullshit," she swore under her breath as she passed the sign that marked the seventh floor a few minutes later. "Hello? Can anybody hear me?" Her voice echoed once more. But, unlike the first time, this time she received a response.
"What do you want?"
Not much. Just your soul. Think you could hand it over so I can get back to my other shit job before they notice I'm missing? George peered upward and, ignoring her internal monologue, replied with a simple, "Any chance you've got a cigarette?"
Smooth one. Like the guy that's about to become a smear on the sidewalk is going to give out his last smoke.
To her surprise, following a brief pause, the voice answered, "Yeah. I got a smoke. Hang on."
So she did. She stood there, somewhere between the seventh and eighth floor, waiting for her reap to come to her. It was certainly a change of pace and one that she had to admit she almost liked the thought of. If the guy hadn't been about to die, of course. That added a rather morbid twist to the whole thing she didn't want to dwell on too much.
Nor did she have to. Thirty seconds or so of waiting and a short, balding man finally came down the flight of stairs separating them. He eyed her closely from behind thick glasses before handing her a cigarette with shaking hands. George flashed him a grin and took it gratefully. "Thanks," she replied. "I'm Millie," she offered. "Millie Hagen."
Patting her pockets, she paused and swore lightly. "Damn. Any chance you got a light too?"
The man's forehead crinkled as he passed her his lighter with a simple, "Brad Adams." George took it, brushing her hand across his as she smiled her thanks. There. Job done. Soul reaped. Now for some small talk and I am getting the hell out of here.
"Need a kick in the ass to get started?" he muttered but there wasn't much venom to his bite. Re-pocketing his lighter once she'd used it, he took a drag off his own cigarette and looked her up and down. "So," he questioned, "what brings you here of all places?"
George gave a thin shrug. "I was walking by, figured I'd see what happened to this place. I visited once, when I was a kid," she lied easily enough. A puff of her cigarette and she glanced casually at her watch. 12:15. You're gonna be late, buddy. Her gaze met his.
"What about you?"
A shadow seemed to cross his face as he stared down at his shoes. "Believe it or not, I used to live here," he answered.
You're right, she thought, I don't believe it. "Oh?"
He nodded, dropped his cigarette and stepped on it with his shoe. "Yeah." He drew in a breath, exhaled, and faced her directly. "My wife and son didn't make it. I did."
At that comment, the pieces began to click into place. George nodded, true sympathy swelling with her. "Oh. I'm sorry to hear that." Surprisingly enough, she meant it. After a pause, she added, "Well I should probably get going. Lunch breaks only last so long." And you have a date with the pavement.
Brad gave a grunt of acknowledgment and turned his attention back to the stairwell. "Yeah, I got something to take care of, too," he murmured.
For a minute, she considered trying to talk him out of it. Maybe shoving his soul back into his body and hauling him off to the nearest mental health facility. Then I'll just tell them that he was going to jump, I saved his life even though I was supposed to reap his soul, and we'll live happily ever after in matching padded rooms and straightjackets. Get a grip, Lass.
"It was nice meeting you," she said in lieu of being a hero. There were no heroes in reaping. It sucked but it was what it was. Crushing out her own cigarette beneath her foot, she gave him a small smile.
The man returned the smile with something that might pass as one himself. "Take care of yourself, kid," he said simply. "It's a fucked up world out there anymore. Never know what minute might be your last."
So says the man about to end his own life. "Right," she replied with a nod. "Thanks. I'll see you around."
As she turned to go, she heard his quiet, "Somehow I doubt that."
She didn't bother turning around though. She was right. She would see him again. And as she stood in the doorway of the hotel a few minutes later and watched his body slam into the sidewalk to the left with enough force to make it splatter, she couldn't help but mutter a darkly humored, "Told you so."
"What?"
Brad's voice, bewildered as all souls tended to sound when they first died, made her turn her head toward the side. He was staring in shock at his own body. George felt a swell of jealousy as lights appeared out of the corner of her eye. "Hey," she stated. He looked back to her and blinked in faint recognition. "I don't..."
She shook her head to stop him. "You don't have to. It's over." She tipped her head toward the lights in the distance. "Go on. They're waiting for you."
One more look of surprise and then his gaze fell to the lights. Jealousy once more reared its ugly head as George observed the look of wonderment that replaced his shell-shocked expression. He wandered away, as though in a trance, and she waited until the light had enveloped him before glancing back to his body. A small crowd had begun to form and someone was screaming hysterically. Death had arrived at the Safe Zone. The illusion they were all safe had been shattered.
With a soft sigh and the knowledge that she still had a full day of boring receptionist type work ahead of her, George simply shoved her hands back into the pockets of her jacket and began the trek back to the Welcome Center. As she walked, she thought of Brad. Of the fact that he was in a better place now. Reunited with his family. And while she did hate that those left behind were going to have to deal with the fallout, she could really only think one thing and one thing only in regards to a life cut short because of a sense of desperation and depression.
Lucky bastard.