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Scythe was rarely around, yet everyone knew him. His reputation wasn’t the best; he was known as the Reaper, the soul-stealer. The one who was the root cause of all death . Everyone thought he was someone to be wary of. Someone who no one should get close to. Someone … someone who was dangerous. But Scythe wasn’t like that.
The SFOTHs knew that he wasn’t anything like that. He was never like that. While he had those ghastly white eyes that stared right into your soul, Scythe never dared hurt anyone. Quite the contrary, he guided them. He would guide lost souls and lead them into the afterlife; he led them to Illumina. Many thought his job was Ghostwalker’s job. But Ghostwalker … Ghostwalker was in charge of keeping the souls in check. He would hold the records of when one was born and when one died. The two were close as they worked together frequently. Scythe would guide the lost souls while Ghostwalker would decide whether they are to be sent to the Banlands or Illumina. If Ghostwalker was the judge and Illumina was the paradise, Scythe would be the bridge.
He was also odd. His appearance was a lot more … intimidating than Ghostwalker or Illumina. Or any of the SFOTHs. He wasn’t a part of them, but they were all familiar with him. They treated him like their own. He was a deity too after all. He couldn’t die, he could never die. But he wasn’t alive. He could never be alive. Illumina signified life. Ghostwalker signified death. Scythe was the boundary between living and dead, being both at the same time. The three were known as the Trinity; life, death, and a balance of both.
Today was an ordinary day. The Phighters are on the battlefield, some fighting for glory, others just grinding for bux, or maybe both. Darkheart watched the combat with slashing of blades and explosions abundant in the background. He turned around and chuckled.
“Scythe! Dear friend, what brings you here?” Darkheart asked.
Scythe didn’t respond like always. No one knew what his voice was like, only Illumina. From what he heard, Scythe’s voice sounded like the ghastly screams and pleas of the souls. At first, Darkheart kept talking and tried to engage in a conversation with Scythe, curious to hear if it was true. It kept going until Venomshank and eventually Ghostwalker, stopped him.
Scythe watched the Phighters, his eyes never leaving the arena. He didn’t move and was as still as a statue, as though he was waiting. As if he was waiting for a soul to die. Darkheart smirked and laughed.
“If you’re waiting for one of them to fall, that won’t happen.” Scythe tilted his head, his wide eyes not changing. He opened his mouth and for the first time, Darkheart heard his voice. It sent chills down his spine.
“Elaborate.” Scythe’s voice was indeed ghostly. It was shallow, as though it was smoke or air. It was almost a whisper. His voice echoed quietly as his white eyes stared at Darkheart.
Darkheart sighed. “Those kids will respawn, Scythe. This is a match after all, do you really think Firebrand would let anyone actually die?”
Scythe shook his head. “I am not here for souls; I sense none.”
“Then what brings you here?” he asked.
“Entertainment.” Scythe talked in soft yet audible whispers.
When the fight ended, the blue team (Medkit, Sword, Katana, Subspace, and Biograft) won. Everyone bit goodbye and went their own way. However, Sword and his friends decided to hang out for a bit. They wandered around Crossroads, checking out diners, looking through clothes, occasionally practising, and did the usual. After a few minutes of roaming around and going shop to shop, they settled in Rocket’s favourite restaurant.
“I’m telling you guys, this place serves the best ribs!” Rocket laughed as he eagerly dragged his companions inside.
Slingshot grinned. “We know, we know. Is there a chance they have dessert here?”
“The only desserts they have is ice cream, cake, and sundae,” Skateboard replied, looking at a menu.
“Aw man, I wanted to buy some parfait.” Slingshot pouted before slouching on a chair.
“C’mon guys, I’m sure it won’t be that bad,” said Sword. “I haven’t tried ribs yet. This should be nice.”
“You’ll love their ribs! I know for sure ‘cause I’m a regular customer!” Rocket exclaimed, beaming with pride as he raised his hand and waited for a waiter to come by.
“Does it matter guys? I’m starving!” said Boombox. His stomach growled as he rested his head on the table, his visor blinking. “I haven’t eaten anything since morning … other than that parfait Sling gave me.”
Boombox groaned. “Dammit, I’m so hungry right now.”
“You and me both,” Skateboard replied. “I’ll take anything.”
“Anyway, wanna talk about something else?” Rocket asked. “All this talk on food … I won’t be able to wait if you guys keep it up.” He chuckled.
“Hey, Sword, how’s your dad?” Slingshot asked.
Sword shrugged. “He’s fine. Just doing the usual; training, eat, sleep, training, eat, sleep.”
“Doesn’t your dad like do anything else other than training?” Boombox asked, his head still lowered on the table. “Because that’s such a boring way to live.”
“He occasionally meets up with the other SFOTHs.”
“Say, how’s progress on becoming a part of them going?” Rocket asked.
“Great, actually! Venomshank said that I—”
Sword stared at a figure outside of the window. It was a hooded demon who wielded a large Scythe. His eyes widened. He knew who it was; Scythe. He frowned and shifted in his seat, his hands fiddling with his shirt as he looked at the window in unease. The other Phighters noticed him tense up and looked behind them as well. The hooded figure was still there. Scythe was standing under the shade as the skies poured down. Everyone tensed up and stared at him.
“What’s the reaper doing here?” Boombox asked. “Did someone die here or something?”
Scythe was often associated with death more than Ghostwalker was. Who would blame the citizens? He was the one showing up to collect the souls, not Ghostwalker.
Sword shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Sword, haven’t you met Scythe?” Rocket asked. “After all, he’s close with the SFOTHs.”
“I’ve met him before through dad. But that was when I was like a toddler.” Sword shivered. “And he didn’t show up to me looking like that.”
“That’s because your dad didn’t let him,” Slingshot remarked.
“Do you think someone died?” Boombox asked. “I heard he only shows up when someone’s dead.”
“I don’t—”
In the blink of an eye, Scythe was gone. Everyone sighed and relaxed a bit, going back to their meals and desserts. Perhaps it was just a false alarm. Or maybe Scythe already reaped a soul. Who knows? Only Illumina can tell.
Scythe stood on the tower, his wide eyes watching the citizens below him. Another soul has passed, this time a young girl who was sadly hit by a car. Scythe never cared who died or who lived. Life doesn’t last forever after all, so what could he do? He waited patiently for Ghostwalker as he held onto the girl’s hand. The girl’s ghost gazed at Scythe with a baffled look.
All souls acted like that around Scythe once they died. They forget their memories as living beings and set off to the afterlife with fresh minds. It was an opportunity and a blessing. To forget everything and become a new person. An opportunity to start over. It was all peaceful. Scythe’s expression remained stoic as he held onto the girl’s hand, contemplating. How many souls has he reaped today? There was more than he could count.
Scythe turned around as soon as he heard Ghostwalker’s footsteps. The demon chuckled at his reaction, his X-marked eyes gazing at Scythe.
“My friend, another soul?” Ghostwalker crouched low to meet the soul. “A young one too. How did she die?”
“Run over by a car, Walker,” Scythe replied. “On April 22, ████. █:██ PM.”
Ghostwalker chuckled at the nickname. “And what age?”
“3 years, 9 months, and 6 days.” Scythe was straightforward, unlike most of the SFOTHs. But then again, he wasn’t actually a part of it, was he?
“Precise as always, Scythe,” he commented. Scythe grinned and his stoic expression softened.
“Where should she go?” Scythe asked.
Ghostwalker stayed silent, thinking for a moment. “Illumina. That young girl hasn’t done anything bad. Or at least, not as bad.”
“And the Broker?” Scythe asked disgust in his voice. That demon was sentenced to the Banlands when he wasn’t even dead yet. Scythe had always believed that living beings must be sent to neither Illumina nor Banhammer until they were dead. But it seems, some always managed to find a loophole in all of it. Most of them met demise rather than peace. Yet for some reason, the Broker managed to get out of Banhammer’s wrath. While he was amused by the demon’s skills, he was disgusted beyond it all.
“On the outskirts, on the alleyways,” Ghostwalker replied calmly, “on the loose, like usual.”
“Are you planning on sending him back?”
He chuckled. “Well, Scythe, it’s a game of cat and mouse, isn’t it?”
“Retrieving souls like the usual?”
Scythe turned around and looked at Venomshank. The SFOTH waved a simple hello as he approached the deity, watching him as he bent down, reached his hand on the corpse, and pulled a translucent ghost out of the rotting body. The ghost’s eyes popped open and started looking at everything. Then it looked at its hands. Then at Scythe and Venomshank.
“Be not afraid, I shall guide you to your fate.” Scythe opened his hand. The shivering soul reluctantly took it, its eyes still filled with horror. While it didn’t remember anything, it was still very much dead . And it was very aware of that.
“Ghostwalker,” Scythe whispered, his voice soft and grim. “Another soul.”
Find, reap, call, send. Find, reap, call, and send.
That routine repeated for the reaper they know as Scythe.