There will be death dealt tonight, blood shimmering on the sidewalk under the neon orange streetlights, slices delivered so quick that there will be no time for the ghostly silence to shatter. It is the city's time to rise from its years of restless sleep, gain revenge on those who scorned it, break out from its indignant indolence, and finally do something about the ocean of blondes lapping at its shores. The Gray Lady has left the shelter of the city with her fearsome arsenal; the Disciples of St. Sue have let slip the dogs of Broadway and themselves gather arms; the Bronx Society has been suspiciously silent, as if waiting for a sign; Los Metros have been plotting in corners, rapid-fire streams of Spanish coming in whispers as they make unknown plans. And all through the city, directed by an unseen hand, the forces of Our Lady prepare for war.

The Reaper is the most menacing of the Lady's aspects, more associated with the darkness than the Lady of the Lilies whose kiss is oblivion, more deeply into the mythology of sundown than the ebon Lady of the Night. No colors mark her worship the way white marks Our Lady of Peace or blue signifies the Lady of the Snares. She is always depicted as a spare, sharp-edged figure clad all in black, with long black braids that slash across her face and a wickedly curved scythe in her strong, bony hands.

The siren beauties who serve the Lady of the Lilies style their hair high, slip on brilliantly green dresses, and apply lethal poison to their lips; the hunters who follow the Lady of the Snares tighten knots on their nearly invisible lassos, adjust the strings of pearls that mark their kill totals, and polish their rifles; the saboteurs of the Lady of the Night draw veils across their faces, don the gloves with their false fingerprints attached, and sharpen their wits to find the best ways to affect the battle; the nurturing guardians of Our Lady of Peace, called the zookeepers for their care of New York's wild fauna, make sure that everyone is fully prepared for whatever their mission is. And in the darkest depths of Our Lady's main building, the most feared of the Lady's followers, the Reaper's walking dead, sharpen their blades and watch the chaos with flat, lifeless eyes.

Only those who have attempted suicide, and failed through some outside agency, can serve the Reaper. Only these few have the necessary cold rage that causes them to follow the Lady who means death. As far as they are concerned, they are already dead.

He moves mechanically through the spartan cell in the basement of the windowless building. The complete darkness hides the scars on his wrists, the ones that match the jagged line on his right thigh. He knows that his friend meant well by binding his wounds and bringing him to the doctor, but he also knows that it no longer matters; his soul is dead within him, and his body only the instrument through which he can exact his revenge for the loss of all that he once loved, before he even lost the ability to love. This is what brought him to the Reaper, to mask his face and don black silk that barely whispers in the night, to raise a scythe high against the black sky before bringing it down for the harvest.

The Reaper's servants are known as reapers, with a lower case r to differentiate them from their mistress. At all times they wear black and carry a scythe, like the woman they serve. Most of them no longer speak; it is generally held that if a reaper has something to say, serious trouble is brewing in the land. Because of their 'deaths', they tend to avoid things from their life before the attempted suicide.

Luna de Sangre, he calls his trusty blade, the bloody moon that fills his visions, the dream of death blended with the powerful female image. As he departs from his lair, the moonlight pours down the angled planes of his face, what little can be seen of it past the jet-black mask that covers his eyes. His sandy brown hair is bound tightly in a braid that goes past his shoulders. He's as slender, as sharp and as deadly as a throwing knife, forever on edge, forever poised to kill. A wake of awed silence follows him as he slips down the street.

Generally, those who choose to become reapers have lost something very dear to them; they are not the usual depressed youths who think that the only way out is suicide. The few stories collected from the Reaper's servants indicate that Britney's actions caused them to lose loved ones, either to the government's system of brainwashing or at the hands of the brainwashed. Desperation, not instability, is the hallmark of a reaper.

It hadn't been a long trip, he knows that deep down inside. She was already blonde and blue-eyed, a giggly Yankee fan with no patience and little depth. The day after the Closing Ceremonies, she had called him and said that she was moving to Hartford to get away from all the crazy people that lived in New York, all the- and here she had listed a string of slurs that made him cover his ears. He'd never heard her use words like those before, and when he tried to tell her that they weren't right, that she was overreacting, that he loved her more than anything, she laughed in his face and told him that someday he would understand the insight that God had given her. Whispers underlaid her voice, terrifying whispers that beckoned to him with seductive promises, and he hung up on her before either voice could convince him that he was wrong.

Despite the classical paradox, reapers do tend to have a strongly honed sense of justice and fairness, and often fight their battles for the sake of those who cannot fight back. Some say this tendency comes from the reapers' patron lady, although the stories about Our Lady the Reaper vary. As represented by the artisan Alex Sloan, the Reaper bears a striking resemblance to martyred gay rights activist Tina Washington, although some chalk that up to coincidence.

When she had left him, he thought the ache would never go away, but his friends were there for him, including the girl who always told him that he had made the wrong choice in taking up with the blue-eyed blonde. Brown-haired, brown-eyed, tan-skinned, she had dated him in their high school days; part of him had always had tender feelings for her, even as he professed to hate her for trying to break up his other relationships. Looking back, he realizes that she was on to something, but he didn't, couldn't, know then. Only in his darkest hour did he realize that she was the one meant for him. They had several years of joy, and his broken heart mended- until the day when she stood up to a mob of enraged tourists because they wanted to lay waste to a Chinese neighborhood. They'd killed her for standing in their way; she died before he could reach her and tell her that he had always loved her. Darkness had fallen over him that day, a shadow rising in his hazel eyes that no bloodlust could remove. That night, he had tried to join her with a few swipes of a merciful blade, only to have his best friend take the knife from his hand before he could finish.

At last he understands why. At last he has a purpose. For all the lives Britney has taken, for all the blood that stains her delicate electronic hands, for the minds she has destroyed and the souls she has stolen, a price must be exacted. Her puppets will be torn from her, strings cut as they lie limp and lifeless on the ground; her power will be broken as the lines are severed. Even if she survives the battle, without her followers she will be powerless, and he is sworn to bring down her followers by any means.