Tuesday: Late Evening, Borough of Babylon
It was almost a quarter to 11:00pm when George stepped off the transfer bus and into Babylon. She missed two transfers from the train station before she figured out what she was supposed to do. She'd never really gotten the hang of public transportation when she lived in Seattle -- Metropolis' version was little better in the non-confusing department. When she had a little money set aside, she thought to herself, she'd have to invest in a nice bike.
George shivered a little and tried to ignore the slush that leaked into her trainers as she walked. Snow blew down onto her from rooftops, awnings, and window ledges, giving the appearance, at street level, of a snowstorm. She pulled the Post-It from her coat pocket and glanced at the lettering: G. Carsno, 37 Jaffe St., 11:08pm.
She passed the Planet, pointedly not looking into its darkened windows, or thinking of the possibility that she might be forced to reap one of Shane's roommates in a few short minutes. She was certain Shane herself wasn't the reap; she vaguely remembered that her last name began with an M, not a C. Had Shane given Tara's last name that morning?
She shivered again, clenching her hand around the Post-It, and thrusting it back into her pocket. Even if she was reaping one of Shane's friends, she'd handle it a lot better this time than she had with Kitty Pryde's death. She lived alone, now, didn't have classmates; she wouldn't have to look any of her friends in the face the day after.
She finally arrived at Jaffe Street, and stopped to peer up at the street sign. Okay, this was the 50th block. Two blocks south, and she should be where she needed to be. She walked south, glaring ahead with determination.
37 Jaffe St. was a apartment building on a busy city block populated with similar swanky apartment buildings. Lights were on in almost every window except the ones on the second floor, and music drifted down to the street. It was such a nice building that it possessed a security system that refused to let her inside.
Grumbling and cursing to herself, she checked her watch. Not much time left. She walked over to a nearby bench and, stopping briefly to dust off as much snow as possible, sat down to wait.
She didn't have to wait very long. As she sat, impatiently scuffing her trainers on a rough patch of ice below the bench, the front door of 37 Jaffe Street flew open with a bang. She started a little, surprised. An old man -- no, not old, ancient -- hobbled out.
If she hadn't been suddenly struck with the horrible realization that this was most likely her reap, she probably would've laughed at the ridiculous plateau the old man presented. He was bundled up in wool like a child, small black eyes shooting daggers out at the world beneath beetled brows and a mop of thin, unruly hair. He turned and used the cane in his hand to hook the door and slam it shut behind him before stepping on to the sidewalk.
"Mr. Carsno!" George blurted loudly, jumping to her feet. She grabbed the bench to keep herself from slipping on the ice.
The old man paused, whirling around to fix her with his piercing glare. "Is that you, Patricia?" he demanded with such rancor that she actually took a step back. "For the last damned time, I'm not leaving! You people think you can come in here and take over everything! An old man can't rest, can't even step out of his own house without being attacked!" He started back down the sidewalk, increasing the speed of his crab-like walk.
"No," she called, hastily. "I'm not Patricia."
He turned again, frowning with bemusement. "You're not?" He tapped his cane impatiently on the concrete. "Well, then who the hell are you?"
She stepped into Reaper Mode and pasted a friendly smile on her face. "My name's George," she said, taking his free hand in her both of her own before he could protest. She felt the familiar tug of resistance before his soul broke free.
He looked at her strangely, yanking his hand from her grasp. "I have no idea who you are, so how the hell do you know my name?" he asked.
"Your neighbors," she said, lamely. "They're friends of mine."
"They're no friends of mine," he snapped. "In fact, I'm on my way to the police station to report them for disturbing the peace! If the police won't come to me, then, by god, I'll go to them!"
And with a growl of impatience, Mr. Carsno continued on his way, leaving George to watch events unfold. He made it about a block before a cab blew through an intersection ahead of him. A second car swerved and braked to miss the first car, but the ice on the roadway cause it to skid into the crosswalk where Mr. Carsno was walking.
She turned away before the car hit the old man, staring instead at her feet. And that's when she saw it: a key ring filled with keys. An electronic key card that apartment buildings and hotels normally use as part of their building security was also attached. When she bent to pick it up, she saw a label stuck to the back of the key card: IF FOUND, PLEASE RETURN TO 37 JAFFE STREET, APT. B, METROPOLIS.
"You, there -- young lady." Mr. Carsno called. "Those are mine; I must've dropped them when you assaulted me." He was standing only a few feet away from her, now. "Is your name really George?" he wondered out loud.
George shoved the keys into her pocket and met his gaze. "Yeah, that's me."
He clicked his tongue. "What an awful name for a young lady."
"It's Georgia," she replied tersely. "But my mother doesn't even call me that."
"Well, I shall," he said, and she shrugged. It wasn't like she'd have to deal with him much longer -- unless he was an Alzheimer's sufferer, too. She groaned to herself at the thought.
"Now, then, that was a damn stupid way to die," he continued without pause, allaying her fears. "These cabs, with all these foreigners driving them. They don't understand our traffic laws, they don't speak English. I think it should be illegal for them to drive in this country."
George snorted. "You're dead, what do you care?"
His black eyes narrowed as he peered at her speculatively. "What are you going to do with my keys, eh, Georgia?"
She shrugged, wondering the same thing. "You don't need them anymore."
"True," he agreed. "I suppose I don't."
The wail of sirens could be heard in the distance, and the brisk wind that had thrown snow onto her earlier as she walked had died down.
"We don't have to hang around here, you know." she told him, fingering the keys nestled in her pocket. "I can, you know, help you take care of things, if you want."
"Gosh, that's awfully nice of you, Georgia," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Why don't you just come out and ask me?"
She blinked. "What?"
"Go on," he barked. "Ask me. You want to know if you can rummage through my apartment."
"What?!" She burst out laughing. "You probably only have a 12-inch black and white TV, and a bakelite rotary phone!"
He smirked at her. "Well, my dear Georgia, you shall never know." Then he turned on his heel and began to walk away from her.
She watched him for a moment before taking off after him. "Hey!" she cried, resentfully. "Do you want me to rummage through your apartment? Because if that's what you want, I have no objections."
It was his turn to laugh. "You have my keys, my address, and me, very recently deceased." Behind them, two police cruisers and an ambulance pulled onto the scene. A crowd had already begun to gather only moments after the accident.
She reached up pinched the bridge of her nose. "Okay, fine. I'll rummage, but I probably won't like it."
"I have one condition," he said, holding up a finger. "One!"
"And that is?" she asked warily.
He stopped and leaned towards her on his cane. "You're not one of them queers, are you?"
She stared at him for a moment, then shook her head in disgust. Old people! "Not the last time I checked." she said dryly.
"Fine!" He cackled, and started walking away from her again. "Magnificent. Then enjoy yourself, my dear Georgia. I must bid you adieu!"
George leaned against a light post and watched as he walked away. Just before he crossed onto the next block, a doorway of light opened before him, blocking out the sidewalk ahead. She shielded her eyes, temporarily blinded. When she blinked, both he and the doorway of light were gone.
She sighed, a little bemused. That was probably the strangest reap in recent memory. Not very many of the recently deceased offered their property up as if it were pirate's booty. She could only imagine what awaited her. Must not've had any surviving family or something, she mused. Ah, well. Finders keepers.
She took Mr. Carsno's keys out of her pocket and weighed them in the palm of her hand for a long moment before heading purposely back toward 37 Jaffe Street.
George shivered a little and tried to ignore the slush that leaked into her trainers as she walked. Snow blew down onto her from rooftops, awnings, and window ledges, giving the appearance, at street level, of a snowstorm. She pulled the Post-It from her coat pocket and glanced at the lettering: G. Carsno, 37 Jaffe St., 11:08pm.
She passed the Planet, pointedly not looking into its darkened windows, or thinking of the possibility that she might be forced to reap one of Shane's roommates in a few short minutes. She was certain Shane herself wasn't the reap; she vaguely remembered that her last name began with an M, not a C. Had Shane given Tara's last name that morning?
She shivered again, clenching her hand around the Post-It, and thrusting it back into her pocket. Even if she was reaping one of Shane's friends, she'd handle it a lot better this time than she had with Kitty Pryde's death. She lived alone, now, didn't have classmates; she wouldn't have to look any of her friends in the face the day after.
She finally arrived at Jaffe Street, and stopped to peer up at the street sign. Okay, this was the 50th block. Two blocks south, and she should be where she needed to be. She walked south, glaring ahead with determination.
37 Jaffe St. was a apartment building on a busy city block populated with similar swanky apartment buildings. Lights were on in almost every window except the ones on the second floor, and music drifted down to the street. It was such a nice building that it possessed a security system that refused to let her inside.
Grumbling and cursing to herself, she checked her watch. Not much time left. She walked over to a nearby bench and, stopping briefly to dust off as much snow as possible, sat down to wait.
She didn't have to wait very long. As she sat, impatiently scuffing her trainers on a rough patch of ice below the bench, the front door of 37 Jaffe Street flew open with a bang. She started a little, surprised. An old man -- no, not old, ancient -- hobbled out.
If she hadn't been suddenly struck with the horrible realization that this was most likely her reap, she probably would've laughed at the ridiculous plateau the old man presented. He was bundled up in wool like a child, small black eyes shooting daggers out at the world beneath beetled brows and a mop of thin, unruly hair. He turned and used the cane in his hand to hook the door and slam it shut behind him before stepping on to the sidewalk.
"Mr. Carsno!" George blurted loudly, jumping to her feet. She grabbed the bench to keep herself from slipping on the ice.
The old man paused, whirling around to fix her with his piercing glare. "Is that you, Patricia?" he demanded with such rancor that she actually took a step back. "For the last damned time, I'm not leaving! You people think you can come in here and take over everything! An old man can't rest, can't even step out of his own house without being attacked!" He started back down the sidewalk, increasing the speed of his crab-like walk.
"No," she called, hastily. "I'm not Patricia."
He turned again, frowning with bemusement. "You're not?" He tapped his cane impatiently on the concrete. "Well, then who the hell are you?"
She stepped into Reaper Mode and pasted a friendly smile on her face. "My name's George," she said, taking his free hand in her both of her own before he could protest. She felt the familiar tug of resistance before his soul broke free.
He looked at her strangely, yanking his hand from her grasp. "I have no idea who you are, so how the hell do you know my name?" he asked.
"Your neighbors," she said, lamely. "They're friends of mine."
"They're no friends of mine," he snapped. "In fact, I'm on my way to the police station to report them for disturbing the peace! If the police won't come to me, then, by god, I'll go to them!"
And with a growl of impatience, Mr. Carsno continued on his way, leaving George to watch events unfold. He made it about a block before a cab blew through an intersection ahead of him. A second car swerved and braked to miss the first car, but the ice on the roadway cause it to skid into the crosswalk where Mr. Carsno was walking.
She turned away before the car hit the old man, staring instead at her feet. And that's when she saw it: a key ring filled with keys. An electronic key card that apartment buildings and hotels normally use as part of their building security was also attached. When she bent to pick it up, she saw a label stuck to the back of the key card: IF FOUND, PLEASE RETURN TO 37 JAFFE STREET, APT. B, METROPOLIS.
"You, there -- young lady." Mr. Carsno called. "Those are mine; I must've dropped them when you assaulted me." He was standing only a few feet away from her, now. "Is your name really George?" he wondered out loud.
George shoved the keys into her pocket and met his gaze. "Yeah, that's me."
He clicked his tongue. "What an awful name for a young lady."
"It's Georgia," she replied tersely. "But my mother doesn't even call me that."
"Well, I shall," he said, and she shrugged. It wasn't like she'd have to deal with him much longer -- unless he was an Alzheimer's sufferer, too. She groaned to herself at the thought.
"Now, then, that was a damn stupid way to die," he continued without pause, allaying her fears. "These cabs, with all these foreigners driving them. They don't understand our traffic laws, they don't speak English. I think it should be illegal for them to drive in this country."
George snorted. "You're dead, what do you care?"
His black eyes narrowed as he peered at her speculatively. "What are you going to do with my keys, eh, Georgia?"
She shrugged, wondering the same thing. "You don't need them anymore."
"True," he agreed. "I suppose I don't."
The wail of sirens could be heard in the distance, and the brisk wind that had thrown snow onto her earlier as she walked had died down.
"We don't have to hang around here, you know." she told him, fingering the keys nestled in her pocket. "I can, you know, help you take care of things, if you want."
"Gosh, that's awfully nice of you, Georgia," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Why don't you just come out and ask me?"
She blinked. "What?"
"Go on," he barked. "Ask me. You want to know if you can rummage through my apartment."
"What?!" She burst out laughing. "You probably only have a 12-inch black and white TV, and a bakelite rotary phone!"
He smirked at her. "Well, my dear Georgia, you shall never know." Then he turned on his heel and began to walk away from her.
She watched him for a moment before taking off after him. "Hey!" she cried, resentfully. "Do you want me to rummage through your apartment? Because if that's what you want, I have no objections."
It was his turn to laugh. "You have my keys, my address, and me, very recently deceased." Behind them, two police cruisers and an ambulance pulled onto the scene. A crowd had already begun to gather only moments after the accident.
She reached up pinched the bridge of her nose. "Okay, fine. I'll rummage, but I probably won't like it."
"I have one condition," he said, holding up a finger. "One!"
"And that is?" she asked warily.
He stopped and leaned towards her on his cane. "You're not one of them queers, are you?"
She stared at him for a moment, then shook her head in disgust. Old people! "Not the last time I checked." she said dryly.
"Fine!" He cackled, and started walking away from her again. "Magnificent. Then enjoy yourself, my dear Georgia. I must bid you adieu!"
George leaned against a light post and watched as he walked away. Just before he crossed onto the next block, a doorway of light opened before him, blocking out the sidewalk ahead. She shielded her eyes, temporarily blinded. When she blinked, both he and the doorway of light were gone.
She sighed, a little bemused. That was probably the strangest reap in recent memory. Not very many of the recently deceased offered their property up as if it were pirate's booty. She could only imagine what awaited her. Must not've had any surviving family or something, she mused. Ah, well. Finders keepers.
She took Mr. Carsno's keys out of her pocket and weighed them in the palm of her hand for a long moment before heading purposely back toward 37 Jaffe Street.