(no subject)
Title: Musical Chairs 04/?
Author: ThomasPower
Characters: George-centric; rest of the DLM gang
Rating/Length: R for strong language, PG-13 due to relationships. Unknown length.
Disclaimer: Blah blah, I don't own DLM. If I did; it would be on it's fifth season.
Summary: It's a few days after Halloween (and the last episode of the series); and Georgia Lass' life is about to get a lot more complicated...
---------------------------------------------
Chapter Four:
“Damnit, why do I get two post-its?” moaned Mason.
“Because,” said Rube with a sigh, “Daisy's out helping Plague division with a plane crash out of Seattle-Tacoma.”
“Why does she get all the good stuff and me all the bollocks?”
“Because she's not a fuck-up, that's why,” added Roxy in between bites of her breakfast. “Where's George?” she added.
“She already did her reap.”
“Bollocks!”
“Last minute change of plans from up high, Mason. Perhaps you might have wanted to go out at three in the morning and do it?” replied Rube coldly.
“On second thought, no.”
“No, you'd be too drunk at that hour to do it,” Roxy said as she put down the money for her meal on the table and left to carry out her reap.
Rube sat back in his seat and groaned. Out of the corner of his eye; he caught sight of movement towards the pile of money Roxy had left on the table and rapped the offending hand.
“Bad Mason.”
Glaring at Rube for foiling his attempt at obtaining money, Mason left Der Waffle Haus, leaving only Rube at the table.
With a groan, Rube leant back in his seat, rubbing his temples.The undead perversely enough, could still get headaches; and he had one hell of one after the surprise rescheduling that morning and now with Mason's bullshit.
“They don't pay me enough for this crap.”
Seattle-Tacoma International Airport
“You ever been involved with one?”
Daisy Adair looked at the reaper next to her, a guy from Plague division named Louie.
“Once, back in the thirties. Of course, back then, it wasn't called the mile-high club, and they gave you more than just peanuts.”
“Those days were easier, a lot easier.”
“Yes they were, you could easily find someone for some fun - nowadays they're all so worried about STDs or pregnancy.”
“Uh...” stammered Louie, who wasn't used to the way that Daisy regaled the world with tales of her past exploits. “I was referring to the handling of the souls, not getting laid.”
“There is that,” replied Daisy with a smile.
“Back then, planes flew so low and slow that there was always a possibility that someone could survive the crash, and a lot less people travelled in each one, making reaping them much easier. Now, we have a hundred, two hundred people on the same plane, and odds are, all of them are gonna die, and in horribly messy ways; so we got to pop their souls early, else we have to find a fingernail. That's no fun, I can tell you.”
“So how do you handle them now?”
“Well, you see that ticket attendant up there?”
“The one with a poor makeup base, and looks like she just woke up?”
“That's Cindy; she shakes people's hands when they present the tickets; they're pleasantly surprised by the 'personal touch' these days; so they don't notice it.”
“You can't do them all that way.”
“No. For that there's Rebel,” added Louie, pointing towards a dog and his handler working their way through the people waiting for their flight.
“Kind of cute, but not my type.”
“I wasn't referring to the man, but the dog.”
“Wait....the dog is reaping people?”
“Yep. Makes our job so much easier. People don't care if a drug dog sniffs them. Most people go 'aww, look at the cute doggie, can I pet him?' and bang, you're done.”
“A dog...” repeated Daisy.
“Yep. Took some convincing of the higher ups to let us use dogs, but when we pointed out that nowadays you have lots of dogs at airports, from drug dogs to bomb dogs, and that people don't mind them sniffing around, lights finally went on upstairs.”
“So what do we do?”
“We're looking for a M.Sanders.”
“I think that one looks like a Sanders,” said Daisy, pointing to an older woman standing in line.
“Let's go.”
As they walked up to the woman, Louis looked over her, and noticed on her luggage a name tag with the name Marilyn Sanders. So this is the one who survives, he thought.
“Excuse me, are you Marylyn Sanders?”
“Who wants to know, dearie?”
“I think I went to college with your son, he couldn't stop talking about you.”
“Oh, that's my Jeff.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Louie spotted Daisy reaching out to reap Marylyn, and shook his head.
Giving him a look like he'd grown a second head, Daisy muttered all the way back to their lookout post.
“What the hell was that? Her name's on the post-it. So why can't we reap her?”
“She's not going to die.”
“What?”
“With today's plane crashes, it's just easier to give us the post-its for those who survive, than for those who die.”
Nodding towards M.Saunders, Louie drew Daisy's attention once again to the middle-aged woman. As she watched, Rebel and his handler walked up to the woman. After sniffing at Saunder's luggage, Rebel immediately sat down.
“Another advantage of drug or explosives dogs on our payroll, my dear. We can legimitately pull people off and cause them to miss their flights a lot easier than in the old days. No false arrest charges, because who's going to complain about a dog? And later, when they're in the mood to sue, that's about when the news comes on about a plane crash, and they forget all about suing, and thank God for the dog's false alarm.”
“Looks like you don't need me here,” said Daisy, annoyance creeping into her voice.
“Actually, we do. See, in about thirty minutes, Halland Flight 314 is going to go down in a field about two miles from here, due to an electrical fire in the cockpit shortly after takeoff. You ever handled over two hundred souls at once, all demanding to know what's happened, and shouting each other down? It's a fucking nightmare for just a few guys, hence why we pulled you and a couple others in for extra help.”
“Hmpfh.”
---------------------------------------------------
Commentary: So this is how I imagine Reapers handling todays' modern high-casualty events. Sure, tradition is upset by non-human reapers, but it's the most efficient way to process a couple hundred people in a reasonable amount of time, so you're not resorting to finding fingernails....
As for the "old way" of handling plane crashes in the thirties or so, I imagined that they put a reaper or two onto the flight as either crew, stewardesses, or as passengers; and they'd be the ones who "miraculously" survived the crash, after of course reaping everyone aboard. Nowadays, with planes travelling so much higher and faster, even someone surviving is going to be pretty notable; and remember, reapers stay in the shadows....
Author: ThomasPower
Characters: George-centric; rest of the DLM gang
Rating/Length: R for strong language, PG-13 due to relationships. Unknown length.
Disclaimer: Blah blah, I don't own DLM. If I did; it would be on it's fifth season.
Summary: It's a few days after Halloween (and the last episode of the series); and Georgia Lass' life is about to get a lot more complicated...
---------------------------------------------
Chapter Four:
“Damnit, why do I get two post-its?” moaned Mason.
“Because,” said Rube with a sigh, “Daisy's out helping Plague division with a plane crash out of Seattle-Tacoma.”
“Why does she get all the good stuff and me all the bollocks?”
“Because she's not a fuck-up, that's why,” added Roxy in between bites of her breakfast. “Where's George?” she added.
“She already did her reap.”
“Bollocks!”
“Last minute change of plans from up high, Mason. Perhaps you might have wanted to go out at three in the morning and do it?” replied Rube coldly.
“On second thought, no.”
“No, you'd be too drunk at that hour to do it,” Roxy said as she put down the money for her meal on the table and left to carry out her reap.
Rube sat back in his seat and groaned. Out of the corner of his eye; he caught sight of movement towards the pile of money Roxy had left on the table and rapped the offending hand.
“Bad Mason.”
Glaring at Rube for foiling his attempt at obtaining money, Mason left Der Waffle Haus, leaving only Rube at the table.
With a groan, Rube leant back in his seat, rubbing his temples.The undead perversely enough, could still get headaches; and he had one hell of one after the surprise rescheduling that morning and now with Mason's bullshit.
“They don't pay me enough for this crap.”
Seattle-Tacoma International Airport
“You ever been involved with one?”
Daisy Adair looked at the reaper next to her, a guy from Plague division named Louie.
“Once, back in the thirties. Of course, back then, it wasn't called the mile-high club, and they gave you more than just peanuts.”
“Those days were easier, a lot easier.”
“Yes they were, you could easily find someone for some fun - nowadays they're all so worried about STDs or pregnancy.”
“Uh...” stammered Louie, who wasn't used to the way that Daisy regaled the world with tales of her past exploits. “I was referring to the handling of the souls, not getting laid.”
“There is that,” replied Daisy with a smile.
“Back then, planes flew so low and slow that there was always a possibility that someone could survive the crash, and a lot less people travelled in each one, making reaping them much easier. Now, we have a hundred, two hundred people on the same plane, and odds are, all of them are gonna die, and in horribly messy ways; so we got to pop their souls early, else we have to find a fingernail. That's no fun, I can tell you.”
“So how do you handle them now?”
“Well, you see that ticket attendant up there?”
“The one with a poor makeup base, and looks like she just woke up?”
“That's Cindy; she shakes people's hands when they present the tickets; they're pleasantly surprised by the 'personal touch' these days; so they don't notice it.”
“You can't do them all that way.”
“No. For that there's Rebel,” added Louie, pointing towards a dog and his handler working their way through the people waiting for their flight.
“Kind of cute, but not my type.”
“I wasn't referring to the man, but the dog.”
“Wait....the dog is reaping people?”
“Yep. Makes our job so much easier. People don't care if a drug dog sniffs them. Most people go 'aww, look at the cute doggie, can I pet him?' and bang, you're done.”
“A dog...” repeated Daisy.
“Yep. Took some convincing of the higher ups to let us use dogs, but when we pointed out that nowadays you have lots of dogs at airports, from drug dogs to bomb dogs, and that people don't mind them sniffing around, lights finally went on upstairs.”
“So what do we do?”
“We're looking for a M.Sanders.”
“I think that one looks like a Sanders,” said Daisy, pointing to an older woman standing in line.
“Let's go.”
As they walked up to the woman, Louis looked over her, and noticed on her luggage a name tag with the name Marilyn Sanders. So this is the one who survives, he thought.
“Excuse me, are you Marylyn Sanders?”
“Who wants to know, dearie?”
“I think I went to college with your son, he couldn't stop talking about you.”
“Oh, that's my Jeff.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Louie spotted Daisy reaching out to reap Marylyn, and shook his head.
Giving him a look like he'd grown a second head, Daisy muttered all the way back to their lookout post.
“What the hell was that? Her name's on the post-it. So why can't we reap her?”
“She's not going to die.”
“What?”
“With today's plane crashes, it's just easier to give us the post-its for those who survive, than for those who die.”
Nodding towards M.Saunders, Louie drew Daisy's attention once again to the middle-aged woman. As she watched, Rebel and his handler walked up to the woman. After sniffing at Saunder's luggage, Rebel immediately sat down.
“Another advantage of drug or explosives dogs on our payroll, my dear. We can legimitately pull people off and cause them to miss their flights a lot easier than in the old days. No false arrest charges, because who's going to complain about a dog? And later, when they're in the mood to sue, that's about when the news comes on about a plane crash, and they forget all about suing, and thank God for the dog's false alarm.”
“Looks like you don't need me here,” said Daisy, annoyance creeping into her voice.
“Actually, we do. See, in about thirty minutes, Halland Flight 314 is going to go down in a field about two miles from here, due to an electrical fire in the cockpit shortly after takeoff. You ever handled over two hundred souls at once, all demanding to know what's happened, and shouting each other down? It's a fucking nightmare for just a few guys, hence why we pulled you and a couple others in for extra help.”
“Hmpfh.”
---------------------------------------------------
Commentary: So this is how I imagine Reapers handling todays' modern high-casualty events. Sure, tradition is upset by non-human reapers, but it's the most efficient way to process a couple hundred people in a reasonable amount of time, so you're not resorting to finding fingernails....
As for the "old way" of handling plane crashes in the thirties or so, I imagined that they put a reaper or two onto the flight as either crew, stewardesses, or as passengers; and they'd be the ones who "miraculously" survived the crash, after of course reaping everyone aboard. Nowadays, with planes travelling so much higher and faster, even someone surviving is going to be pretty notable; and remember, reapers stay in the shadows....