Death is a pretty girl in a black dress and heavy silver jewelry. She looks like the goth girls of his misspent youth, which is strangely reassuring. Of course, given the results of his misspent middle age, that might not be a good thing.
"You seem pretty okay about this for a guy who just got shot in the back in an alleyway," she says, nudging him with an elbow.
Jack shrugs. "I made my choices." And then there's a child's voice screaming at the end of the alleyway, beyond the police line, and he doesn't flinch so much as curls in around himself in belated self-protection. He'd known it would be bad, but oh God, he hadn't known how much. "Can we get out of here?" His voice sounds like it's been drug across the concrete.
"Yeah," she says, and the screaming is gone, and the cops, and the alleyway, and the city. "Anyway," she adds, "you've got a date with Saint Peter."
Jack thinks about the life he'd led, the life he chose to leave behind. He can't actually remember the last time he went to confession. "I'm not so sure about that," he mutters into his collar.
Fill 2/7, Jack and Death
"You seem pretty okay about this for a guy who just got shot in the back in an alleyway," she says, nudging him with an elbow.
Jack shrugs. "I made my choices." And then there's a child's voice screaming at the end of the alleyway, beyond the police line, and he doesn't flinch so much as curls in around himself in belated self-protection. He'd known it would be bad, but oh God, he hadn't known how much. "Can we get out of here?" His voice sounds like it's been drug across the concrete.
"Yeah," she says, and the screaming is gone, and the cops, and the alleyway, and the city. "Anyway," she adds, "you've got a date with Saint Peter."
Jack thinks about the life he'd led, the life he chose to leave behind. He can't actually remember the last time he went to confession. "I'm not so sure about that," he mutters into his collar.
Death laughs.