Chapter 8
Greg stared at his clipboard.
It displayed his current assignment status: PENDING.
If he flipped to another page, it would display any communication Reaper HQ sent his way. Like Morrith asking for status updates.
Lose the clipboard, Dustin had said. Maybe I'll let you take me to dinner.
But Greg couldn't lose the clipboard. It was company issue—Section 4, Subsection 7 of the field manual was very clear that all reapers must maintain possession of their assigned documentation device while operating in mortal-adjacent spaces.
The clipboard was his connection to headquarters, his access to files and forms, his…
His everything, really.
But now Dustin wanted to take him to dinner.
Which might be exactly what Greg needed.
For research purposes.
Dustin had now survived two deaths that should have been impossible to survive. There was clearly something unusual about him, something the file hadn't accounted for. If Greg could just spend more time observing him, talking to him, maybe he could figure out what it was.
This was strictly professional.
Just as he was thinking that, he felt a message arrive on the clipboard before he saw it.
He felt it like a faint pressure behind his eyes, like the beginning of a headache.
The words materialized on the clipboard's second page a moment later: Report to my office tomorrow. We need to discuss your assignment.
Greg's stomach twisted.
Tomorrow. He had until tomorrow.
He could go to dinner tonight and gather intelligence. He could figure out why Dustin wouldn't die. And then tomorrow, he'd have answers for Morrith. Professional answers that justified the time he'd spent surveilling his target instead of completing the collection.
This was research.
This was necessary.
Greg straightened his tie, adjusted his glasses, tucked the clipboard under his arm, and went to find Dustin.
Dustin lay on his motel bed, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster because it was better than thinking.
He'd tried TV but hadn’t been able to focus.
Then he’d tried scrolling through his phone.
The comments on his latest video were the usual mix of sick jump bro and you're gonna die doing this shit and one particularly detailed message from someone who wanted to do unspeakable things to his feet.
He'd turned the phone face-down after that.
He should review the footage he had of his last jump—his fall, really—, but he couldn’t make himself do it.
He couldn’t forget the moment the lines had snapped, the way the ground kept rushing up. He couldn’t forget waking up without a scratch.
He couldn’t explain it to himself either. He'd checked his gear three times since getting back. There was nothing wrong with it, except for the lines that had snapped clean through, which shouldn't have happened, which couldn't have happened, which—
There was a knock at his door.
Dustin frowned. Who was knocking on his door? Nobody knew he was here except—
He opened the door.
Clipboard guy.
With his clipboard.
Of course.
“Hi,” Greg said. He was wearing the same button-down and tie as always. The clipboard was tucked under his arm, and his free hand was doing an awkward half-wave that he aborted midway through. “You said something about dinner.”
“I said lose the clipboard.”
“I can't. It's company issue.” Greg shifted his weight. “Section 4, Subsection 7 of the field manual states that all field reapers must maintain possession of their assigned documentation device while operating in mortal-adjacent spaces. It's not optional.”
Dustin raised an eyebrow at him. “There’s a manual for that?”
“Everything has a manual. Death is very organized. It has to be. Do you know how many people die every day?”
“I try not to think about it.”
“About 150,000. Give or take. That's a lot of paperwork.”
Dustin only looked at the man with the clipboard. “I’m sorry my mortality causes you so much paperwork.”
“It’s nothing you have to worry about. The point is, I can't leave the clipboard behind. It's how I receive messages from headquarters. It's like a phone, except…”
“For death?”
“I was going to say 'interdimensional communication,' but yes. Essentially.”
Dustin leaned against the doorframe. This was insane. Absolutely insane. A stranger had tracked him to his motel room. A stranger who claimed to be a supernatural entity. A stranger who had shown up at his jump site and the club he went to after and now his door, always watching, always there.
This was how people ended up as the subject of true crime podcasts.
But Greg looked so painfully earnest standing there, clearly bracing for rejection. And Dustin had been lying on that bed for far too long with nothing but the cracks in the ceiling and the echo of his own fall for company.
“There's a diner down the street,” he heard himself say. “You’re buying.”
The diner was called Lucky's, which felt ironic given recent events.
Dustin slid into a booth by the window. The floor was slightly sticky, which he tried to ignore. This was his second time coming here.
It was different now that he had a self-proclaimed reaper sitting across from him.
Greg had set the clipboard flat on the table beside him and he was studying the menu as if it were another manual he needed to memorize.
“The burgers are good,” Dustin offered.
“What do they taste like?”
Dustin blinked. “You're kidding.”
“I'm not. I've never had a burger and there are seven different variations on this menu. What's the distinction between a 'classic' and a 'deluxe?'“
“The deluxe has more stuff on it.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“I don't know, man. Bacon? Cheese? A slice of tomato that you'll take off anyway?”
Greg looked at the menu again, brow furrowed. “This is very complicated.”
“It's a diner, not a Michelin star restaurant.”
“What's a Michelin star?”
Dustin stared at him. Greg stared back, apparently genuine.
The waitress appeared before Dustin could respond. She had a pen stuck behind her ear and looked like she had zero patience for deliberation. “What can I get you boys?”
“Coffee and a slice of whatever pie you have,” Dustin said. “And he'll have the classic burger. Medium. With fries.”
“I will?” Greg said.
“You will.”
The waitress scribbled and disappeared. Greg watched her go with an expression of mild alarm. “What's a medium?”
“How cooked the meat is. Medium means pink in the middle.”
“The meat will be pink?”
“Is that a problem for you?”
“I don't know.” Greg paused. “I eat what's provided at headquarters. It's nutritionally complete. I've never had to think about what color the meat is.”
Dustin leaned back in the booth. This was making less and less sense. “I have to ask,” he said. “You say you’re not human, but you need food?”
“Only because of the mandate,” Greg said as if that explained everything. When Dustin only gave him a blank look, he continued. “The Bodily Needs Mandate. Upper management passed it a few years ago. They decided reapers should be more relatable to our clients.”
“Relatable.”
“We have to eat now and use the bathroom.” Greg licked his lips. “They gave us bodies. Or—more body, anyway. We were always somewhat corporeal, but now we're... fully equipped.”
“Fully equipped,” Dustin repeated slowly.
“With digestive systems. And bladders. And—” Greg stopped. His cheeks went faintly pink.
He might be a little weirdo, but he was cute when he blushed. Dustin had noticed that from the get go, and he couldn’t stop noticing that.
“The point is,” Greg recovered, “it was supposed to help us understand mortality better. So we could be more compassionate during collections.”
“And? Has it worked?”
Greg considered this. “The bathroom at headquarters is terrible. The coffee's always burnt.” He paused. “I think I understand mortality better, yes. It’s wonderful, I always knew that, but it also seems deeply inconvenient.” His frown deepened. “I stubbed my toe last week and it hurt for an hour.”
Dustin laughed. He couldn’t help it.
Greg looked at him like he'd done something unexpected. “What?”
“Nothing. Just…” Dustin shook his head. “You’re this supposedly immortal being and you're complaining about stubbed toes.”
“Stubbed toes are unfair. You're just walking and then suddenly—pain. Just like that! How do humans tolerate it?”
“Booze and hookers.”
“What?”
Before Dustin could wave Greg off, the food arrived. Coffee and pie for Dustin. A burger the size of Greg's head for Greg.
Greg stared at it.
“That's very large,” he said.
“Welcome to America. Eat your food.”
Greg picked up the burger with both hands. His grip was uncertain, like he was handling something fragile or possibly explosive. He took a careful bite and chewed slowly.
His face lit up.
“Oh,” he said.
“Good?”
“This is—” Another bite, less careful this time. The burger shifted in his grip and something slid out the back: a tomato slice, trailing ketchup and landing on the plate with a wet splat. Greg didn't seem to notice. “This isn’t like the food at headquarters at all. This is—”
He gestured vaguely with the burger. A glob of sauce dripped onto the table. Then onto his tie.
“Delicious?” Dustin offered.
“Wonderful.” Greg took another bite. More sauce dripped on him. A shred of lettuce escaped and stuck to his chin. He was holding the burger too tightly and at the wrong angle, causing everything on it to slide toward catastrophe. “How do humans eat this every day and get anything done?”
“We don't eat burgers every day.”
“Why not? If I had access to this, I would.”
Dustin felt his lips twitch. Even spilling burger all over himself, this idiot was too damn endearing. “You’ve got something there.” Dustin gestured at his own chin.
Greg blinked. “What?”
Dustin grabbed a napkin from the dispenser and held it out. “Clean yourself.”
Greg took the napkin and dabbed at entirely the wrong spot, somehow making it worse. There was now ketchup on his cheek as well as his chin, and his tie was a lost cause altogether.