Braiden Harper was sitting in front of his television watching Saturday morning cartoons. He was twenty five years old, much too old to watch the shows, but for him, it reminded him of his youth. It made him feel thirteen years younger and a hell of a lot more innocent. Of course, Braiden refused to watch the cartoons played for the rest of the country. Instead, he had bought…well stolen, a special receiver that allowed him to tap into the restricted television channels. Restricted cartoons that were played when he was twelve years old and were now considered dangerous.

He lit a cigarette before standing up to get himself a bowl of cereal. He knew the risk of cancer, but that didn’t stop him from smoking and he knew that the habit wasn’t as dirty any more. Sure, you died. But now, it was a fashion statement and people made things to take the smell out and to keep you looking young and fresh. Life had changed in the past twenty years and it was obvious by just walking outside. He turned his back to the television, digging through cabinets before surfacing with a clean, plastic bowl, which caused him to scowl as he remembered he’d actually have to do his cereal dishes if he were to eat the next day.

Braiden lived off cereal. It wasn’t that he didn’t have enough money to eat healthier things; it was just that he didn’t trust the things you could buy in stores. He worked in the government long enough to know the things they often did and all of his fruits, vegetables and meats were bought from small, organic, private farms. Expensive? Definitely. But Braiden enjoyed his romp beneath the radar and he was paid well enough to keep doing it.

He poured himself a bowl of cereal, shutting a worn cabinet door with a brush of his hand and as he opened the refrigerator to grab the carton of milk, he heard a very suspicious noise. He didn’t move, letting his eyes slide shut in order to be able to focus in on the sound. It was from behind him and his hand slide to the inside of his coat, where a small gun kept itself nestled against his chest. It sounded like a person and immediately, he felt fear spike in his gut, knowing full well that if he was caught… On three. He thought, eyes snapping open once his fingers curled around the gun. One…three! He turned on his heel, slamming the refrigerator shut with his elbow and had the gun leveled and aimed at a dark haired man sitting in his chair. His chair. The plaid chair that had been his grandfather’s and held several thousand dollars sewed into the bottom of it. “If you’re an agent for G1 or 2, you can get out. Now.” His eyes narrowed as the thing, the man, the feminine man turned to look at him. Braiden knew he could hear the cold, iron like tone in his voice and to his utmost surprise, the man grinned. “What are you smiling for? This isn’t a joke!”

“Braiden Harper.” The man replied, voice smooth as silk and it seemed to carry an unnatural chill that entered through his ears, causing Braiden to shiver. “More commonly known as Bray. Why is that your nickname, Bray? Do you bray like a donkey?” Braiden didn’t move.

“No.” He snapped, after a moment. “It’s because my name is BRAIden.” The man in the chair chuckled lightly.

“Well, Bray, you seem like the rebellious sort. Working for G2, watching restricted TV, why even your food is illegal. Tell me, do you enjoy not getting caught?” He didn’t answer and merely stared in shock that this man, whoever he was, knew so much about him. Well, he reasoned, the TV wasn’t too hard to figure out, but his food? He went weekly and bought the legal stuff, just like always in order to keep up appearances. He swallowed. “You’re probably wondering who I am. And I can tell from that look on that cute little face of yours that that’s true.”

“I do not have a cute face.” He stated, coldly. “I look older than I am. Shut up. Now. Who are you?”

“Braiden, what would you do if I told you that you were going to die tonight?” The question was sudden and Braiden’s eyebrows rose. This was not how he was planning on dying, after all.

“I’d be pissed.” He replied, shortly. “Really pissed. Who are you?” The man in the chair stood up, his grin turning into that of an animal.

“I’m Death.” Braiden laughed. “You think I’m joking.” One of the man’s hands shot out and went straight into Braiden’s chest, causing him to gasp. His gun fell, clattering on the linoleum floor. Death’s hand was moving around and he was humming and Braiden felt as though he was going to pass out…or die.

“Get out of me!” He rasped out, clawing hopelessly at his chest. “I don’t want to die! I’m twenty five, get out!” Death suddenly withdrew his hand, a thin, glowing thread coming along with it.

“Do you know what this is? I’d hope not. See, this is your life, Mr. Harper. I have half a mind to take it right now since you should not be able to see me. However…” Suddenly, it felt as though he had the life knocked back into him and Braiden took a sharp, gasping breath knowing full well that he’d just narrowly escaped. “It’s against the rules. Aren’t you happy.” Braiden nodded, trying to suck in as much air as possible. “I have a proposition for you, though. I need you to job sit for me.”

“What?”

“Yes, job sit. I need you to be Death while I take a vacation.” Death’s lips curled into his signature smile, something Braiden decided looked awfully pained. “I know that sounds positively crazy, but…”

“I’m confused.” He replied, folding his arms across his chest. “Why me? Of all the people in this world; of all ten billion plus of us, why me?” Death’s smile widened.

“Why, Braiden, that’s because you can see me.” Braiden’s mouth dropped open and, with practiced ease, dropped down to pick his gun up and had it pressed against Death’s chest.

“Stop kidding with me.” He hissed. “You aren’t death. I’m gonna kill you.” He suddenly smelled something delicious and warm, so strong that he swore he could feel it in his mouth. It was like cinnamon apple pie, vanilla ice cream and it was getting dark rather quickly...