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Ghosts wait for him on Christmas Eve.
His memories of the years are like a film reel chopped up. Legs swinging off a pew during Midnight Mass. A guitar from his abuela. Stale cake and decorating the mess hall. Trading family stories alone together in the enhancement program’s recovery wing. Unwrapping a sewing machine as both of them watch, beaming – the HQ common room smells like rum because they spiked the eggnog, not his problem, wasn't his idea –
Now he makes a habit hiding in dark corners of the world. The killing is easy in cities, and it keeps him busy. He skates through the wet air, the smell of ozone and bus fumes. Others left for their homes: Paris, Dorado. Gabriel Reyes had a home. Reaper doesn’t.
Things changed. He changed.
The shriveled corpse rolls into back-alley grime when he's finished his business with it. He learned long ago that thugs lack a sense of self-preservation when faced with death. Rain beats down on his hood when he pulls it back over his head. Lousy weather. It never used to rain in Los Angeles. Maybe the world is ending. The thought makes him laugh a little.
He leaves the corpse in the gutter and makes for a way out of the alleys to hunt a new target. Keep moving. Busy body, busy mind. Grey light peeks in the building gap from the storefronts lining the street. Cars plow their way through the storm at the intersection. Reaper skirts the corner, and then three people come to stand under a black umbrella on the sidewalk ahead.
A flash of lightning, gifts on the table, smiles, spiked drinks –
They're waiting to cross the street. Ana holds the umbrella. She was always the responsible one, between the three of them. Only natural she remembered to check the weather. Jack’s wearing his old bomber jacket, beat up from years of wear and tear. His shoulders shake when he laughs. He always had a nice laugh, deep in his chest. Nice on the ears. There's a child with them. Gabriel can't see well. He doesn’t know who it is, who it could be, maybe little Fareeha –
A car whizzes by to beat the red light, he blinks –
A family waits ahead of Reaper at the crosswalk, three of them, standing under their black umbrella. It's held by a woman wearing gloves. The strong hand on her shoulder peeks out from a bomber jacket’s sleeve. Below them, a child gripping onto a parcel. Regular family, just like any other. Reaper drifts forward to the edge of the alley where it meets the sidewalk, and he places a hand on the wall next to him. The traffic light turns, and the family walks across the street. They huddle together. Reaper’s chest is colder than the rain, and he watches them grow distant.
They turn the bend and disappear.
He stays there at that dangerous border for a moment. The emptiness of the rain and the sound of feet on wet cement echo in his ears. The world moves on, and, after all, it's almost Christmas. There's one Christmas story told with a ghost in chains. He doesn't know why he remembers that. Reaper’s seen too many ghosts. He's one of them. The world moved on, and it dragged him with it.
He's alone. He's been alone for years.
His coat drips with water. He thinks rain is lousier now than ever before. Jack used to catch drops on his tongue and give him that smile, hair wet and messy, a lifetime ago.
Reaper collapses into smoke. He retreats back to the shadows of the world, and the night all around him is silent.