Poor Richard Smith. That was the only thing Momo could think as she walked like a dazed zombie through the beating heat of Chinatown. Poor Richard Smith, she thought again as the old elevator delivered her to the fourth floor of the University Club. Poor Richard Smith, she thought for the third and final time as she found the man of the hour swallowed up in a luxurious chair in front of the club’s panoramic dining room window, noisily eating a stale croissant.
Poor Richard Smith—because even the Grim Reaper herself couldn’t muster any sympathy for him in his final days. His death was as imminent as a middle finger on a New York intersection, and yet Momo couldn’t find it in herself to care.
She was simply too distracted. Too distracted by the fact that twelve entire years had passed since she left Earth, and she’d only been aware of one of them.
Flakes of Richard’s croissant collected on the rug below Richard in a pile. A no eating here sign hung just above him, attached like a piece of fine art to the wood walls. Momo smiled a bit at that.
But ultimately, she wasn’t sure what she was doing here. There were still twelve entire days left on Richard’s clock, and nothing in the quest description suggested that she needed to appear early. Only that she needed to appear. She brought up the details again, just to be sure, tapping her fingers to the side of her forehead. She had discovered that while on Earth, the System manifested itself differently—it broadcasted information straight to her eyeballs, like text floating down on a teleprompter.
If she were to make a guess, she imagined that each planet probably had their own manifestation of the System based on what its inhabitants were used to. In the late-medieval Alois, ink and parchment made the most sense; she was surprised Earth’s System didn’t manifest as a smartphone app or something equally stupid. But she supposed a direct-to-the-eyeball route fit best in the planet’s rough trajectory towards duct-taping giant virtual headsets to everyone’s forehead.
YOUR FIRST REAPING
Quest Description: At the time of target’s death, open a Nether rift and escort target’s soul to the designated replicant area. Use caution to not appear threatening. Avoid being perceived by other mortals. If widespread public perception occurs, please contact the Nether Lore Department so a suitable excuse can be concocted and the timeline can remain in balance.
Quest Rewards: Access to the full [Domain: Reaping] Lvl. 1 skillset
Use caution to not appear threatening. What did that even mean? How do you not appear threatening to someone who just died? The whole thing boggled Momo’s mind. She really wasn’t keen to watch someone die, either. But this was the path she had chosen. She wanted to do right by mortals in their most frightening moment, just as Valerica had done for her.
Or, well, Momo would hopefully do a better job than Valerica did. For one, she wouldn’t throw them in a dungeon and tell them they’re being kept alive by a skeletal gerbil.
In the reflection of the window, Momo watched Richard toss the remnants of his croissant onto the end table beside him and forcefully press the speaker of his phone to his mouth.
“Oh, drop the act for fuck’s sake, Rosemary,” he seethed into the microphone. “It’s not cute. It’s not endearing. In fact, it gives me violent indigestion. Look. I want you to know that I have zero problem taking your house, your other house, your Mercedes, your Ferrari, your Volkswagen, and your retirement fund if you don’t sign the goddamn papers.”
Richard somehow managed to sound like he was screaming while talking in a near-whisper—what Momo could only guess was a feeble attempt to conform to the club’s ban on work-calls in the dining area. Momo wondered who exactly he was barking at. Rosemary sounded like a woman’s name. Was he filing for divorce maybe? If so, his wife sounded ultra-wealthy. Several cars. Several homes. If Richard lived in any way similarly, Momo wouldn’t have minded being named in the upcoming will.
Richard snorted. “Oh, now you’re going to sue me! What a load of shit. You couldn’t touch me with a whole army. Get me the papers by eleven fifty-nine tonight. Any later and I’ll manufacture a reason for you to see jail time. Goodbye.”
He ended the call with a rough press of his thumb, threw the device into his lap, and groaned. What a pleasant man.
Richard abruptly stood, and he and his polished, wrinkle-free gray suit turned to face her. He was wearing a scowl that looked permanently etched into his features, and his deep set, ravenous eyes set themselves upon her. It made her wish she hadn’t chosen a human form to appear with on Earth. She could have just been sitting here, invisible and minding her business, but instead she had chosen to invite the ire of one of the world’s worst personalities on an otherwise heavenly Saturday afternoon.
After giving her a onceover, Richard gritted through his teeth, “mind your own fucking business,” and stalked toward the elevator. As the rickety doors closed, she heard him mutter, “goddamn cosplaying creeps are everywhere. Get a life and a real job.”
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
Cosplaying… creeps?
She looked down at herself, and flushed.
Oh. Right.
***
“Hello? Ma’am? I don’t mean this rudely, but I must kindly request that you refrain from trying on any of our clothes until after you have… how do I say this politely… showered?”
Momo’s head was buried in a rack of discount suit jackets when a voice promptly yanked her from her thoughts. She squinted at the mall’s blinding fluorescent lights, her pupils darting around to locate the source of the babbling—before finally landing on a squirrely teenager.
The child in question looked terrified to be here, and even more terrified to be walking her way into a potential interpersonal conflict. Momo immediately empathized.
“Oh, sorry, sorry,” Momo said. “Don’t worry, I won’t be trying anything on.”
“Oh.” The teenager relaxed visibly. “That’s a relief.”
“But, if I were to. Hypothetically…”
Momo jangled two of the jackets off their hangers and held them an inch away from her torso, biting her lip self-consciously.
“Which of these would look better?”
“Oh, ma’am, I don’t think I’m qualified…”
Momo interrupted, “However not-qualified you think you are, I can promise you I am less.” She lowered her voice, then whimpered, “Please help.”
If Momo was going to see her family again, she really, really wanted to look better than she had twelve years ago. No more hiding in Mallmart hoodies, or swimming in giant Dad-fit jeans. She wanted something elegant, professional, and form-fitting. Something that said—“I am no longer anxiety personified,” if that was possible to capture in an outfit.
She explained this to the teenager.
“Got it,” the girl replied quietly. Despite her previous reservedness, her eyes seemed to come alight as they discussed possible outfit choices. “Well I’d love to help, but again, ma’am—”
Momo nodded, putting up a hand. “Right, right. Just give me a second.”
Momo quickly ran to the mall bathroom, and behind a stall, called upon [Death’s Many Forms]. She was still occupying the form she took on back in Alois, but that Momo had unfortunately been sullied by the dumpster. She figured there’d be no need to shower if she simply swapped into a version of herself that wasn’t stinky.
Unfortunately, she received a negative beep-beep sound.
[Death’s Many Forms] failed. Something dead or undead is not in your current radius.
Crap. I forgot about that part.
What could she find that was dead but not smelly?
Maybe like… a ham sandwich? Would that work, technically?
She scrambled to the nearby cafeteria, the infectious smell of seven-dollar orange chicken filling her nostrils—a daring temptress. She had to remain strong. She only had four dollars, charitably gifted to her by Young Liang once she explained her destitute situation. Just enough for one slim slice of ham on some bread from Meatn’More.
With the sandwich firmly on her person, she returned to the bathroom stall and tried again, visualizing a version of herself that was a little more palatable to the American public. Goodbye dumpster-smelling cloak and tunic, hello skinny jeans and a graphic t-shirt. She was encouraged by the fact that she didn’t hear any haptic feedback as she chanted the spell, and then delighted to find her reflection in the smudged bathroom mirror. Her blue jeans were charmingly noodle-free.
Also—she had gone even farther, and visualized four hundred dollars in her back pocket.
Which had actually worked. Bless this wonderful skill. She spread the four bills across her hands in disbelief.
Maybe the universe did love her sometimes.
***
This garment offers no bonuses. It will not protect you in combat.
This garment offers no bonuses. It will not protect you in combat.
This garment offers no bonuses. It will not protect you in combat.
This garment offers no bonuses. It will not protect you in combat.
Momo annoyedly waved away the notifications as they clogged her field of view. She could barely see to begin with—the fluorescent lighting above her head was harsh and unflattering, casting sharp shadows across her face and giving her skin a slightly sickly pallor. The changing room itself was cramped, the walls too close, the air too still, and the mirror far too honest.
She tugged at the hem of the tight dress she’d been coaxed into trying on by her new teenage partner-in-fashion, the fabric clinging to her every curve. It was far more constricting than anything she was used to wearing—far more elegant, too. The sleek, dark material hugged her frame in a way that was both flattering and suffocating. She could barely breathe, let alone move comfortably. It cinched at the waist, tapered at the knees, and left her feeling like she was wearing a straightjacket masquerading as couture.
“I don’t care—” she huffed, pulling on the matching black heel. She could already feel the blisters forming, “—if this dress doesn’t provide any stat bonuses. As long as it provides the bonus of my family taking me seriously for once, I’m getting it. Okay, System?”
The System seemed to get the message, because the notifications shortly stopped coming. Satisfied, she wobbled her way out of the stall, coming face to face once again with the critical eye of the sixteen year old, who Momo had learned, after a quick look at her heavily (and most likely purposefully) obscured nametag, was named Emily.
“I think it’s perfect,” Emily said, giving her a small smile.
“Really? I don’t know. I feel like a barbie that had a factory defect.”
“Isn’t that what you’re going for? The barbie part.”
Momo sighed. “I guess so.”
So she bought the clothes, despite the System’s many warnings of their uselessness, and left the mall feeling a strange mix of pride and terror. She was so lost in her thoughts that she almost hailed a taxi to take her home, but her hand froze mid-air.
Home.
What a concept.
She had been so focused on crafting this new version of herself to impress her parents that she hadn't truly considered what awaited her.
Twelve years had passed—an entire lifetime.
Did they even still live at the same address? God—were they even still alive? The thought made her stomach churn, and her arms and legs began to tremble.
She slapped herself hard on the cheek. She’d gain nothing from worrying about it. She needed to face them sometime, and that sometime just happened to be now. After all, she had to sleep somewhere.
Right?
She was strong. She was ready. She was changed.
***
She ended up booking a hotel.