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The collection of souls is a systematic process. Ratio goes where he is needed and guides who he must. A wispy mother, lingering in the hospital for her newborn babe. A lost child, wandering lamp-lit streets for a destination gone with time. A shadow of a man, stumbling into the road to escape a pursuer who long since succeeded.
There is nothing that deviates from the norm. There is nothing that should deviate from the norm. Change requires an influence, and none exists that could act on Ratio’s design—no other reapers, no awareness among the living of what transpires among the dead. Ratio’s collection system has remained unchanged since the beginning of his existence. It will likely remain so until the end.
__________
“So, you’re the grim reaper,” someone drawls, as Ratio reaches for a soul caught amid a storm of broken glass and blood. He turns to find a blonde man leaning against a graffitied wall, arms crossed and dark sunglasses masking his gaze. The man raises a brow. “Tough guy to find.”
“I imagine much of the human populace hardly wants to find me,” Ratio remarks dryly. He considers the newcomer's bruised knuckles and casual stance. So, this must be the assailant.
The man’s lips curve up, shades tilting down to reveal a glint of pink and blue. “I’m not most people.”
Most people would not care to find Ratio. Most people cannot even see Ratio.
Ratio arches a brow right back. “Evidently,” he says. Then, he takes the soul and leaves.
(Strange, Ratio thinks, guiding the soul to its afterlife.
He doesn’t dwell on it.)
__________
Ratio thought it was a one-time occurrence.
Then, he arrives at another crime scene a mere month after the last.
“You again?” he asks, exasperated, as the blonde man gives him a nod of acknowledgment.
“Me again,” the man confirms, stepping back to admire his work—a woman, stabbed to death, brown hair pooling across the floor like copper threads. He holds up a small, teal-green stone. “Where do you think I should place this?”
Ratio blinks. “Is that… your calling card?”
The man laughs. “The police call me ‘Aventurine,’” he explains, handing the stone over for inspection. It’s small, a shade darker than Ratio expected and flecked green at the edges. How unusual.
Ratio eyes him. “Are the police truly so incompetent?” he questions, placing the stone neatly in the palm of the corpse’s hand. The soul within shudders from the contact. “All they have to do is trace these unique stones and obtain a warrant for your arrest.”
Aventurine shrugs with a smirk, gloved hand repositioning the aventurine stone so it gleams just right. “I’m a man of many talents.”
Truly astonishing. Ratio pulls the anxious soul from its body and they're gone with the wind.
(“The Aventurine Killer still remains at large,” crackles a radio as Ratio collects a gossipy old soul weeks later.
Ratio rolls his eyes.)
__________
There is no pattern to Aventurine’s crimes. There are no motives, no consistent victim profile, no particular timing. Just murders as Aventurine pleases, day or night, be it months or mere hours apart.
Once, as Ratio was coaxing a confused soul from Aventurine’s latest victim, Aventurine came down the alley with another shaking man held at gunpoint.
“Ratio!” Aventurine called, delight in his eyes as he enthusiastically waved his free hand. “You’re here!”
Ratio dipped his head in acknowledgment, ignoring the dry sob of the man at Aventurine’s mercy. “I am simply cleaning your mess.”
Aventurine pouted, flinging his arm around his still-living victim as he pressed the gun to the other side of the man’s temple. “You’re no fun,” he complained. “And here I was, about to give you a gift.”
The man held at gunpoint looked like he was about to cry. “Who are you talking to?” he whimpered.
Aventurine rolled his eyes, neatly putting a bullet in his head. “Do you mind?” he scolded the new corpse, letting it slump as blood seeped into the greedy concrete. “I’m trying to have a conversation here.”
The faint soul in the newly cooling body flinched like a delayed reaction.
“Why are you doing this?” Ratio asked with a small sigh as both souls hid deeper in their corpses. Why seek death? Why conjure it? Why associate with it?
Aventurine hummed, tapping his chin with the muzzle of his gun, and shrugged. “Maybe I’m just lonely.”
(Not quite a lie. But was it truth?)
__________
They meet again, in a dirty alleyway, as Aventurine pulls his knife from his victim’s heart.
Ratio says nothing as Aventurine tilts the blade in the moonlight, blood hiding the gleam of metal like the shadows hide the crime. He watches as Aventurine trails a finger along the blade and raises it to paint his lips in blood.
“Red suits me, don’t you think?” Aventurine comments, still facing away as he admires his reflection in the dirty metal of a rusting pipe.
How unsanitary, Ratio thinks as Aventurine finally turns, smiling over his shoulder, blood trickling down his chin like smudged lipstick and sin.
“What are you, a vampire?” Ratio scoffs, the victim’s wary soul stirring as it separates from the body.
Aventurine laughs, tongue flicking over his bloodstained lips. He tilts his head down, half-lidded eyes gleaming in the moonlight as he holds out his crimson hand, stained fingers curling in a “come hither” gesture, his smile sharper than the knives he wields. “I could suck you off.”
(Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. Most mortals dread death; Ratio almost can’t believe someone would attempt to proposition it.
Then again, it’s Aventurine. Somehow, that’s explanation enough.)
__________
Despite the years, Ratio still collects the souls of Aventurine’s victims. Clearly, time is as ineffective against Aventurine as the police are.
“You’re here,” Aventurine notes, as pleased ever to see Ratio, poised to toss a pot-bellied corpse into the bay.
Ratio crosses his arms as he watches Aventurine tuck an aventurine stone into the corpse’s pocket and zip it closed, keeping the stone from drifting away with the tides.
Aventurine says nothing when Ratio lingers longer than usual, observing until he must take the soul before it’s swept away. Aventurine gives a cheery wave when he leaves.
Ratio dips his head in turn.
(Patterns breed habit, they say. For Aventurine, Ratio finds he doesn’t mind.)
__________
The collection of souls is a systematic process. Ratio goes where he is needed and guides who he must. A wispy mother, lingering in the hospital for her newborn babe. A lost child, wandering lamp-lit streets for a destination lost to time. A shadow of a man, stumbling into the road to escape a pursuer who long since succeeded.
There is nothing that deviates from the norm. There is nothing that should deviate from the norm. Change requires an influence, and none exists that could act on Ratio’s design—no other reapers, no awareness among the living of what transpires among the dead.
After delivering the soul, there is no reason for Ratio to return to the scene of the crime. It isn’t efficient. It isn't necessary.
“You missed a spot,” Ratio comments, watching Aventurine clean up the consequences of his actions. Aventurine jumps, whirling around.
“Ratio,” he beams, blood splattered across his face as he wipes crimson fingerprints from a broken vase. “You’re back.”
He is.
(Maybe, Ratio’s just lonely too.)