"Well, to what do I owe this bit o' pleasure?"
"Hm." A man walked into 1920 like a door, a normal man. Handsome by all accounts, the only thing off about him apart from his empty eye sockets, were the shadows that clung to him. They waved around his body like squid ink in water or its tentacles even and every step he took rose a new one. Being see-through didn't help either, but this man was real; so clicked his tongue. "Hm. Hm. Hm. I never realized that giving you life all those aeons ago was an invitation for disrespect, yet here you stand giving me cheek."
"Variety Dad, it's the spice of life."
"I'm not here to fight you Siegen, so drop your stance and remember who taught it to you. Urgh, I fucking despise this hideous form—don't you? It's been thousands of blue moons and I still can't believe this is what I turn to when I'm not me." Death turned and went to the bed, only when it sunk under his butt did it all became real to Sieg. His father was here...Death of the West himself. The Deaths never left their thrones.
They weren't supposed to...they embodied death, you see, and in the purest sense at that, the grandest. The Deaths personified the end with such precision, they brought it with them wherever they went. Case and point? The asylum; there were no beating hearts here anymore. Everyone had dropped soon as he'd arrived.
Sieg could feel their restless souls just waiting to be reaped and it took all he had not to pick up his scythe. His hands actually started shaking because he wanted to take them so bad...take them to their last destination and Death—empty sockets aside—saw this.
He goaded the boy. "Go ahead. It's what you were made to do, it is your duty. So do it before this gets out of hand."
Out of hand? Sieg paused and for a time, he was a young thousand year-old kid again, learning the dos and donts. For a time, the fear and reverence all reapers carried for their Deaths, the fear that he'd had before meeting her returned...then he snapped himself back to reality.
Out of hand? Things were already out of hand! Death of the West was off his throne and he out of the three was the worst to have up and about; He was too productive, put pitiless in a whole new sense, he who never left without a head. His reputation even carried onto his reapers, the Westers were known as the most ruthless of their kind. The poster children.
"I won't do it, Dad." He shook his head and firm too. Death was a foaming jackal, show hesitation or fear even a second and you were finished. Sieg had to stand his ground, he was done being a daddy's boy. "I won't kill her, I won't lay a hand on her, nor them. I'm done reaping."
"Then I suppose this is useless, huh?" He was in front of the orderly in seconds, hovering just a foot off the ground and holding-
"My scythe!"
"That's right. You remember the day I gave you this thing? A prim white oaks from every continent died so I could break my knuckles crafting it. A useless reaper deserves no such beauty and if you won't do your duty, believe me my son, there are plenty others who will. You hung round these humans too long, see. Now you're thinking like them. Now you think being strong, being in a high position means you can't be replaced—now that's just not true." And he swung.
He did it so quickly, Sieg faceplanted into the ground before he realized that the scythe had cut through the broom. He saw the bulbous head just at his reach and scooped it up for defense before it could roll away. But Death was undaunted.
"Come to your senses, boy." He leered, expertly swinging the weapon 'round his wrists and down, he took a good chunk out Sieg's robes in doing so. "No matter how hard you deny it, You are not human, so kill whatever fantasy you're fooling around with. You belong to me, to your duty, to your kind—you belong to the West end."
"Argh!"
Bullseye.
There, where the orderly's heart should've been sat a blade the size of a lantern. Death smiled when he saw the dark liquid that it brought out and wanting to see more, he heaved the scythe up by its middle, lifting Sieg from his knees and back to his feet groaning.
Death pushed him against the wall, one with little birds by the bed, and twisted. The sound of blade scraping the wall was only better compared to his screams and then there was the drip-drip-drop of his blood—a puddle was forming the size of a small sea.
It was for his laugh that Death didn't see Sieg's foot coming, didn't see what put that muddy boot print in his hairy, see-through chest 'til his ass hit the floor. But that was unacceptable.
"Enough!" He cried and chains exploded into existence and to Sieg. They shot at his arms and legs like vines, twisting and tightening til they'd successfully turned him into a fly on the wall—oh the little fruit couldn't move a muscle. But Death was still so pissed, he was growling through his nose . "Of all my time, of all my ones and I've a lot of fucking ones—oh, I never thought It'd be you!"
Death punched him, he said something, then he punched him again and again, and again, and again. He punched Sieg so hard, the old orderly enchantment wore off—dropped to the ground like glass. Punched him so my times, the sound of bone hitting flesh could've been heard miles away now...and by then, swollen, blue, and bleeding? The Prince of the West couldn't even be recognized.
But he was still Sieg Westen inside and that was all that mattered. Yet as the punches went on, he started wondering why...why had he gotten himself in this predicament? He had everything back at the West End, everything a red-blooded male could ever want, so why was he doing this again? Oh aye, Her...Sieg closed his swollen eyes a moment and he saw her.
Saw her in that stunning pink dress he liked so much, saw her freckles that he could've counted on the stars, saw everything that had tamed him to the punching bag that he was now. He saw her safe and happy...he saw her alive and that was all he wanted—even if he could not be with her for it.
"So you can jump off a bridge, Dad."
Death's nose flared. "Repeat?"
Sieg's chuckle showed his teeth and they were covered in drippy black. "You came here for her location, right? She's a Master soul so you wouldn't be able to find her so easy like everyone else; You want me to lead you, but It's too late. She's so far over the town limits, even I wouldn't be able to find her now and you can only go where your blood falls. Where you're called...like a dog."
Realizing that it had all been a distraction put a stopper to Death and his happy lil fists.
He just stood there awhile and that was worst than the beating.
For the thing about Death of the West was his demeanor, his calm was terrifying to behold and being his favorite, Sieg had only ever seen his rage...until now.
Death took in a breath, one unneeded in all aspects but to terrify Sieg, for steam came out of his nose when he exhaled and his eyes? A luminous red sphere, much like an M&M appeared at both centers, floating there unaided as if in space. Wind suddenly picked up inside the room and bits of papers started to fly—her drawings.
"I am Death, Siegen. I am nothing if not patient...I always conquer, remember?" He came closer, he put his glowing fingertips to Sieg's diaphragm and a ripping pain filled him like he'd never experienced and he still had a scythe dredging through his chest.
"I always outrun all. It is because of this that I know that one day, you will lead me back to her. One day willing or not, you will fulfill your given task. But until then, you will no longer wear our colors, you will not call West End your home, and you will not call yourself a reaper. For what is a reaper who cannot reap? Useless. You want to play a human in love, my son? here then—I'll give you a head start."
