I just want to add, I really loved this prompt. Thanks for sharing.

There's a tale in Cicada. They say there is a great warrior, hidden away, waiting for the right time to return, for the time when the rains return. And like all good tales, it has a kernel of the truth.

The village is small, little more than a hub for local farmers to come together. Most maps don't bother to show it. Few understand why it is there. Those who ignore the legend assume it was just for the spring nearby.

The name is a reference to the warrior, of course. And the town came up around them, not the other way around. In spite of what the older folks tell you, the warrior has yet to defend this town.

Many wrongly assume the statue in the square is the warrior. A purposely encouraged mistake, to hide the truth. Some who dive deep into the history believe they are the gnarled dogwood tree that has lasted far beyond its time. Another lie I told before we installed the statue.

The town came to be when farmers would see me, checking on my old friend. They'd walk over and start to chat and catch a drink. Soon, it became the place to meet, even when I wasn't there.

They knew a bit, pieced together from my visits, and realized I was visiting a friend, transmogrified long ago. Generations came and went, details were lost or changed. Some were made up. I quit correcting them.

Now, all this time later, I came back, storm clouds following me. I kept ahead of them, but not too far. I was terrified they'd break, or veer off. This land had been cursed, long before, to be a desert. No rain, no water, as a punishment for our actions. It was supposed to be forever. It certainly felt like it had been forever.

But I had done it. I had outdone our old gods. I had finally broken the curse. A storm was coming. Rains to water the land.

Those who knew my goal laughed at me. Why fight for rain when our lands had the water we needed? The spring gave us more than enough.

Each home I passed, farmers were hurrying, boarding up windows and battening down the hatches. As I came through the town, people were panicked, terrified of change. I came to the edge of the spring and I waited. I waited for the rains. I watched them cross the sky.

I had used the stone, all this time, to do my work, to reach my goals. She'd told me to take it. She didn't want any temptation to come back early. But I knew she felt it all. Every day passing, every bucket of water pulled, every plant and person growing from her sacrifice.

As the first drops fell on us, I dropped the stone back in the spring.

Not gonna lie, anything longer than a couple pages makes me grab the yarn and tacks. The tactile experience really helps get you in the mindset.

Big tip that changed my writing, "Everyone has a secret. They all have somewhere they won't cooperate." Basically, if your murderer is the only dodgy character, the mystery is too easy to solve. So every suspect has to be hiding something. And often, when they do, try to hide it, they inadvertently help the murderer stay hidden. Even if your detective knows who did it, those other characters may be ruining evidence.

That is a good bot, but I am surprised at the low rate of hippos. Also, I am slightly suspicious at the number of 9s in there. Research time!

Edit: Seems legit. Though it occasionally sounds dangerous and threaten at milestone numbers...

You have to reload guns, you have to sharpen blades, but a mace is always ready to go.

For years, I've had a mob enforcer following me, watching my every move, occasionally giving a warning look as I'd do something I thought was normal. I'd be mid conversation and a glance would tangle my tongue and start me sweating. I'd be eating in a restaurant, and he'd cough, making me worry about if I was chewing loud, or if I might be looking at the wrong thing as I ate.

I couldn't talk about him to anyone, and I couldn't just sic police on him, or they'd just send another guy, or do something worse. I never knew what he was there for. Did I offend someone? Did I represent some threat? Was it just for their amusement? I still can't say.

So I told my self not to worry, then that I wasn't worried. But how do you not worry about someone who will, someday, beat you to death? How do you live with that?

Only, it wasn't a man from the mob, it was my own mind, gnawing at me like a rat. And now... It's so quiet in here. It feels wrong now, it's terrifying now, but this? This is something I can get used to. And I will. And I can finally live.

I don't want to admit how much work I did on figuring out what the times should be. I will say, I did not burn any buildings for it.

Good book. Similarities weren't intentional, but are definitely undeniable.

Thanks, it was a great prompt.

He'd been handed over to a sibling, raised as their child, for most of his life. He was told about Mother the whole time, they never kept that secret. The whole nation was her children, all toiling away in their brief lives, working to keep each other safe from the outside world.

He had been one of the few men born, a one in a hundred chance, and had always been treated well. His education had suffered for the spoiling, but it was also fact that he would not work, he would not leave his home, and he would not live near as long as them. He, like every male, would be sacrificed, a price for the wonder that was Mother.

For a time, a brief moment, maybe he had considered another life, perhaps an escape from the Golden halls of the palace, but he knew it would still be death. A death without purpose. And isn't that even more terrifying? He was only 32, so young to his sisters(some lived past 200), yet so old to his brothers, but he felt he lacked the wisdom to really answer that. Even his sisters never questioned it. It was the will of mother, and estimates said she was over 1000, so who could be wiser?

Today, he made his pilgrimage, his final journey. He world be useful, for the first and last time in his life. He world see Mother for the second and last time in his life. And he would die when she was done with him.

But, unlike his sisters, who were useful their whole lives and perished, childless, he would continue in his children, his countless daughters. And, though he didn't know it, but Mother was not quite immortal, was even dying as he saw her, glorious and gluttonous. One of his own daughters would be treated, transformed, made into a new Mother. She would lead their nation for generations to come, and have sons and daughters.

She would never know her father. His purpose complete, his wings torn off, he would be cast from the hive well before she hatched. Such is the life of a bee.

Thanks for the prompt and the praise.

I know the firetrucks are still five minutes out. I cut them off on the way here, and they drive slower. I can sense the customer is inside, third story, pinned under some rubble. Little balding man in his boxers and an a-shirt. I glance at my watch again. 2:43.

I glance at the external structure and see a fire escape on the neighboring building. I can do this. I sprint, leap cars, show onlookers and get to the third floor of the rickety metal stairway. It's not a huge jump, but I don't like heights, and I really hate falling. 2:10, good luck.

I jump, torpedoing my body through a window. Not the customers, but I am on his floor. And of course, I hear cries for help from the actual residents here. Cries I try to ignore as I kick out their front door and head into the hall. Unfortunately, I see the 1:56 on my watch and decide I have time. I summon a bit of the eldritch power and shove a burning beam out of their way, and the three make for the stairs down. Now it's 1:31, and I'm making a mental note to treat my burns later.

I run to his door and slam my shoulder into it, only to bounce off. I know better, I was just panicking. And panic costs time I can't spare. I bring my foot to bear on the lock, busting the door open just as his floor gives out. 0:42.

I go toward the hole, ready to leap down after him, but burst of flames and another collapse from above prevent that plan. But I have the pie, and there's a gap it can fit through. 0:21 as I prep to throw.

The box leaves my hand. My customer is dead. I am not getting paid. I don't watch it tumble through the air, already running for the stairs in case it misses. If it falls short, I may have a moment to still pull this off. 0:05.

I burst through another door, ignoring the family from earlier, who are panicked because of the first floor stairs. Or the lack of first floor stairs. I see it. Flopped all over his corpse, slices and the burning box. The world is safe.

I lead the family to their downstairs neighbor's place and get them to the window. With a bit of work and part of a bed, we get safely to the ground. They try to stop me, to thank me, but my watch is already on to the next delivery, 28:37.

My first try took almost a decade. I just walked along, no prep, not worried about rushing. I wasn't used to that much walking then, and rested often. By my third, I was down to about four years. My personal best, I got down to two years, 97 days, 11 hours. Not a world record, but I'm no fan of getting to much attention. Which is why I was surprised when I stumbled on... stories, art, a sort of... fandom feels too small a word, but religion is the next one that comes to mind, and that's far beyond this.

A couple-three cycles back, I stumbled across a cairn or something. It had a pair of worn mocs I'd left out here, and a crude drawing of me. Middle of, I think, Mongolia. Maybe Kafiristan. Or New Jersey for all I know. I copied down the text and found someone to translate, in a the next city on my route. "Wandering Watcher," she'd said, then she stared at me. I said an awkward goodbye and started out the door, but she grabbed me in a hug. It lasted too long, especially since I didn't return it.

That was my first time where I had no idea why people knew me. I have friendly families I stop by some times. Folks I've known for 6 or 7 generations. Actually, probably more, being honest. But strangers? I rarely see them twice, much less leave an impression. Unfortunately, I was too shaken by the hug and just bolted out when she let go. I debated going back, but what do you say after an interaction like that?

A few months later, in, like Prussia or Denmark or something, I'm ambling through the woods and see a large carving, a life-sized wooden statue of me. Definitely me. The scars on my face from father's blade, the missing pinky on my left hand. It was truly impressive, and truly unsettling. I don't like attention. Worse, there were signs of age, it was at least a few decades old, but it was cleaned, not a one and done symbol of adoration, but something maintained out here.

As I kept walking, I kept finding more and more. It was, as an immortal, something like seeing a prominent wanted poster with your face on it. See, I'm not the only one of us. Well, I wasn't the only one of us. I hope I'm still not the o ly one, but it's hard to say. It's been a long time since any of them contacted me, and even then, I only set things up with maybe a half dozen. We didn't want to risk a weak will dooming our race. We maybe immortal, but that's no comfort if you get dropped in the ocean. Or a volcano. Or buried under a superstructure.

I started walking because I got tired of faking my death. The blasted scars make me pretty obvious, so I'd just disappear, lie low for a century or so, but sometimes a man gets bored. With the walking, well, no one sees you twice, and you don't do anything to make folks hunt you down, you don't need to hide. At least, that was the idea. Instead, I'm a cryptid-esque folk tale. All over.

So, I'm gonna lie low for a century. Maybe more. Bandages on the face if I gotta go out. And a glove with a fake pinky. Just to be safe. And make sure I pack some tamales. And goat biryani. Yeah, I'll be fine.

Nilor swung at my head, another perfect blow, I was doomed. Only, somehow, I wasn't, yet again. He had missed every swing. And it wasn't a skill issue. I certainly wasn't blocking, and though my equipment was powerful, it couldn't do this.

We both paused a moment, processing what was happening. He finally spoke in tired tones. "Can I have, just like, a hot minute."

"You know I like hot, go for it."

He chuckled, then stepped to the door and held out his blade. "What do you think you're doing?"

The blade glowed a dark blue.

"No, we went over—"

The blade suddenly had a red spiral.

"Don't you take that tone with me!"

The blade grew spikes and turned pure black. I had a sudden urge to roll my eyes, though I wasn't sure why.

"I will melt you down, don't test me!"

This went on for a few minutes before I finally just drew my sword and stabbed Nilor in the back. His blade clattered to the ground, somehow even blacker and spikier.

"What was that about?" Nightlark, my own blade, asked.

"Beats me. You know this sword?" I picked up it up.

"No, looks like a baby, though," Nightlark said.

"Pfft, whatever, old man," a nasally voice said.

"Ah, of course." I chucked the sword aside toward my trash can. "Gotta hate teens."

"So, we got another quest lined up?" Nightlark asked his usual question.

Maybe you just gotta hate talking swords.

Ha, no, but I'll leave this alone for now. Glad you enjoyed it. It was certainly fun to write

It had been... millenia? Eons? I don't really know. I was here a long time. Occasionally someone else would need a rules check, and we'd chat while Grim sorted the mess. I was backburner so long, I think he sort of... Stopped. He'd looked for loopholes, went over every second of my life, tried every trick, called in every favor, but each time he thought it was sorted, something new came up.

My backpacking in Europe put me back on Valhalla's radar when they found I'd passed out drunk on Ymir's kneecap or something, but then I'd also broken some fae laws on the trip, so their gods came into play, and so forth for all of time. Literally all of time.

"The last living thing just died," Grim said, massaging his temples. "And the final few embers are fading in the universe. I'll have to step out to collect its consciousness, and it might take a bit to judge. After that, I cease to exist."

"Wait, what? What happens to me?" I'd never really stressed about my afterlife before. Neither pre- nor post-death had made it a worry, even as the debate raged on for my soul.

The reaper gave a shrug. "I guess we'll see. Well, you will. I hope you know, I really hate you and am praying it is worse than the bowels of the worst hells."

"You hate me? What like this is my fault? You had one job!"

"Oh, what, Karen? You gonna ask for my manager?"

"Uh... Do you have a manager? I sort of assumed you'd have talked to them by now if you did."

"No, I don't have manager! Is your name Karen? It was an insulting condescension, you twit!"

I never took it well when people insulted my intelligence, I admit, and taking a swing at Death was not my brightest moment, but I gotta say, feeling his jaw crunch under my fist was one of the best things to happen to mean in that waiting room. He came back at me with a swift kick to the groin, which I still think was unfair. Both because I couldn't retaliate in kind, and because being dead seems like it should be a defense against that pain.

As I writhed on the floor, he stood over me. "Fine, forget it. I'm done. You go collect the universal consciousness."

"Wha-ow ow ow-what are you going to do?"

He paused, thinking. "Ah, screw it. I have no idea. I'm about to de-exist here."

"Dang, man. That's not fair. You do all this work for others just to disappear. Hey, you ever make out with the tree girl?"

"What? Ana? No."

"You go do that. I'm going to figure out this universe mess."

"Not to be a pessimist, but you can't figure out your own mess."

"Then it will take a while. More time for you and barkskin to spend together. She isn't my type, but you're definitely hers. Trust me, I was the best wingman back in the day. Now go."

He opened his mouth to say something else when an ebony arm reached out of thin air, then pulled him in after. I was alone in the waiting room. Not a first time, but it was a first time it happened for this reason. I walked over to his desk and started looking in the book.

"Universal consciousness... Universal... Consciousness..." I flipped lazily through, in no rush to do this job, but wanting to ensure I didn't screw anything else up like I had done with pretty much everything in my afterlife. Actually, I'd pretty well screwed up in my regular life as well.

"Excuse me," a woman's voice called from the other side of the desk. "Are you the Grim Reaper?"

"Uh, that's what it says on the nameplate."

She glanced at the metal plate on the triangular stand, which did, in fact, say "Grim Reaper," as I'd said. Technically, I didn't lie.

"Oh, you look different than I expected." I finally looked up from the book to see a redhead. What can I say, I have a weakness. And I sure didn't learn better from the mess with Sylvia and my soul.

"What, you looking for a skeleton? I have one inside me." Ok, countless ages may have weakened my pick up lines. "Sorry. You probably want to get on with your afterlife. You know where you're going?"

"I thought that was your job to sort out."

"Uh, yeah, but we normally have reps come in to make there claims. Weird no one is showing up."

"Maybe nobody wants my soul."

"Heh, that'd be a new one. Seems like everyone tried to claim mine. Don' t take it personally, I was nothing great. Just lived a bit wild, if short, life. How about you?"

"I don't really know. It seem short, but compared to others? I suppose it was long, but mostly amounted to nothing."

"I don't think any life amounts to nothing," I said.

And I think here is where we leave our hero, oblivious to the identity of the consciousness he is poorly attempting to flirt with, but happy for one more chance to hook up with a redhead. Not a bad afterlife at all, if you ask me.

She was just another original creation, like Squigoloth, the eldritch god of laughter. She is the ancient Tunisian collector of souls who are killed by trees, but aren't lumberjacks. Things have slowed down for her a great deal, especially as new entities tend to get first claim on souls, but there is the occasional logging truck accident that gives her tons of paperwork. She also enjoys spending her spare time making dreamcatchers and flirting with Grim.

Sylvia looked at the Grim Reaper, then to me, then back to him. "I slept with this guy once, so I own his soul?"

"He offered his soul to hook up with you, yes."

"Jeez, kid. Have some self-respect."

"Whoa, to be clear, it was a flippant remark, back in 2012."

The Reaper put a hand in front of me. "As no other entities assisted in the hook up, it was deemed you had best claim to it. So his soul is yours."

Saint Peter was behind her, tapping a foot and looking at his watch. Apparently, she had lived a good life after that spring break. Eighty seven when she passed.

"No, this is too disturbing. I am not accepting a soul, especially not for a one night stand I don't remember."

"Can she do that?" I asked the Reaper. "Just refuse my soul?"

He gritted his teeth as he said, "Yes." It had been almost 50 years since I'd died, and I could tell it was getting him.

"Alright, we are out," Pete said, and he and Sylvia Wagner (nee Berkowicz) vanished.

"Ok, guess you're back to the books," I said to Grim, getting only a low growl in response as he sat back behind his desk.

Sinter: There's a dragon, here and now. What better time and place is there?

Dorcas, poking Kingsley's eye: I mean, he's not wrong.

Oh, of course. With disadvantage, even.

The night janitor at a biomed research facility who really can't afford to lose this job has just released something and needs to contain it before anyone can find out

"Oh by George, he's dead. He's dead, isn't he? Oh, I killed him, oh Bant and Lung, I'm a killer. Oh, please, what do I do?"

"Nyugodt," Sinter called, gently strumming his mandolin. I could see the arcane energy reach out to calm the beast. It's breath slowed and it's muscles relaxed. Then it began sobbing.

"What are we looking at?" I asked Dorcas. She was a cleric, our healer. And right then, she was handling Kingsley's idiot corpse. The moron had rushed in, shouting, at the poor beast. It had tried to scramble up the wall and escape, but he caught its tail with his axe. Looked like a reflexive swipe that sent him flying across the cavern.

"Don't think there's an unbroken bone in his body. If I try to bring him back now, he'll be in pain, which he deserves, but he'll also probably die again, which makes it a waste. We had a plan, what was he doing?"

"No idea," I replied, knowing exactly what he was doing: being as big a prick as usual. "So we cart him back to the temple."

"You carrying him to the cart?"

"Hey, Sinter, you wanna—Oh COME ON! Where are your pants?"

Just then pop a man with a lion's head appeared. "There he is. What a man. Listen, Reaper, I got him from here."

"Easy, Erra," Saint Peter said as he laid a hand on the man's bare chest. "This one's already been claimed."

"What? By you? No way. I haven't had one in..." he started counting on his fingers and we all waited until pop an ebony (the wood, not just the color) woman in a diaphanous gown and matching insect wings appeared and immediately began massaging my shoulders. The Saint averted his eyes and started mumbling something in Latin.

"Wait," I said after a moment. "Why are you mumbling in Latin? Wouldn't it be Aramaic?"

"Oh, a lot of church folk came in speaking Latin, so it's what I've gotten most used to. More time dead than alive, after all."

The valkyrie chuckled at that, then went back to sharpening her blade and whistling.

The Grim Reaper looked up from his paperwork, "Ok, so Erra, you can leave. Your claims only apply if he died in Mesopotamia, or no one else has a claim."

"Is Saint Paul not between two rivers, the Mississippi and Saint Croix?" The lion man asked. "What does Mesopotamia mean, after all?"

"Let me look this up," the Reaper said, clearly annoyed.

The woman's hands started to moved down my chest until a blade was suddenly against her throat.

"He certainly isn't yours, Ana. Just look at his back." The valkyrie was referencing my shoulder tattoo of Mjolnir. Spring break of 2012 had more than a few bad decisions.

Ana rolled her eyes, spun me round, and planted a kiss on my. I felt roots reaching into my lungs (and was shocked to find I still had lungs) before she retracted them and pulled away.

The valkyrie lopped her head off, but the plant matter quickly adjusted to reattach it.

"Valkyrie, go home," Reaper said without looking up.

"But the mark?"

"It's the Marvel rendition, not the traditional."

"So he's a moron. Most of our men are."

"He is a moron, but a drunken tattoo doesn't give you claim."

She stomped off, grumbling to herself in what I assume was old Norse.

"Ana, you can leave, too. I'm not clear why you even came."

"Oh, I just saw he was getting a lot of attention," said with a sly grin. "Did you want some, Slim?"

He ignored her, and soon after, she disappeared, just as a mass of sharp teeth, cancerous flesh, and eyes bubbled up from the floor.

"Squigoloth? What are you doing here?" The Saint asked as he and Erra stepped back.

The response was a sound like a thousand bees scraping their fingernails on chalkboards, echoing up from the deepest mineshaft ever imagined.

"Huh, Squiggy makes a good point. Hey bud, you ever sell your soul? Would sort this mess right out."

"Not that I remember," I laughed.

"Are you sure?" Erra asked, while reaching a hand toward me.

"Yeah, I'm—" I suddenly flashed back to that Thursday night, April something, 2012. Like I said, bad decisions.

"You did get to hook up with Sylvia Berkowicz."

"Ok, but I just said I'd sell my soul to hook up with her. I didn't say to who."

There was a roar of primordial oceans being drained into a massive cavern lit by flowing magma.

"No," Saint Peter said, "He's right. He didn't clarify, and no one actually acted to increase his chances. The deal was out there, but none of you claimed it."

"Technically," Grim said, standing and somehow smiling despite only being a skeleton. "Technically, Sylvia facilitated the hook up. She let him sleep with her." He lifted the massive book, pointing at a line. "Here we are. So in a sense, he sold his soul to her. So we just send him wherever she is."

There was a solid ten seconds of silence.

Finally, Erra spoke up. "And where is she?"

Reaper frowned and slumped back in his chair. "Alive."

"So... Whose purgatory is he waiting in?" Peter asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Just... Just give me a moment, guys. I'll figure it out. I just need a short break."

pop A small lizard man in a tailored suit appeared and started measuring my limbs.

"Hold on, Kurt," Erra said, resting a gentle hand on the lizard man's shoulder. "There's some paperwork to sort on this one. We may be here a while."

A mind isn't made to change consciousnesses. Though he retains all memory and awareness as a man, his wolf mind is under stress to do so. Even she doesn't fully understand what she's doing