Jack was almost pulled toward it physically, like invisible hands grabbing him and bringing him forward. The scent, the feel, of imminent death, a death unnatural, brutal, even. To a Messenger, the scent of death was about the same as smoldering ash and sulfur, mixed a bit with the coppery tinge of blood. And as they drew closer to where the scene would unfold, the scent got stronger, and the pull, something like hands on the shoulders, didn't let up. For Jack, the concept of death wasn't terrible. In fact, he dealt with it every day. It was his job, after all, as would be a funeral director's job. His own death had taught him not to fear it, no matter what.

Of course, Jack Williams had been killed in the mid 1800s, but he still recalled his rather disgusting death. He'd been gutted. In fact, some Jack the Ripper wannabe had sliced him up the stomach, through the sternum, and reached the base of the neck, spilling most of his blood and quite a bit of his internal organs. The psycho had probably detested their common names. Jack, now, was mostly hollow. It made him ridiculously thin, and having been tall, it appeared as though he'd been stretched a bit. He ducked down the alleyway to his left and ran down the narrow area between two tall buildings. Where was he now? He could still smell death, but it was mixed with mold, stagnant water, mildew on damp bricks and cool night air.

That girl. Jack squinted, narrowing his pale blue eyes. Death was just... just emanating from her! She'd be dead within the next few minutes. He sniffed deeply. Sulfur. Blood. Hot ash... So familiar. So lovely. She held an odd strength, though. Perfect Messenger material.

He was ugly. God, he was so ugly. The kind of literal ladykiller you'd see in a movie from the sixties. Scraggly gray-blackish hair, a bit bald on top and long in the back, and a stubbly beard that decidedly hid crooked, yellowed teeth. A flannel shirt stained with oil, mainly, and knobby hands. Scrawny, but obviously strong. His old work boots were especially loud as they clomped on the old wooden floor. Jack followed closely behind the smelly old man, though he also emanated that same near-death scent. Jack, as all Messengers did, could walk the line between the world of the living and the dead, becoming almost ethereal, and therefore, generally invisible until he wanted to be seen. He would kill this freak, but only after the freak fulfilled his duty tonight. Two lives for one Messenger, and to rid the city of a disgusting killer. That sounded like a fair trade.

The hallway they were in ended, and both came to a stop. The creep fiddled with his belt and the loop of keys there, which almost resembled a janitor's keyring, and as he finally found the one he was searching for, Jack raised both hands, putting them together. The movement forced into existence a black pole, a handle attached to a long blade. It resembled a scythe, which may have been rather cliche, but the Elders seemed to like the nostalgia. Besides, scythes are the image of death. The only other thing they need is a Messenger holding it. Jack was about as thin as a skeleton, he could resemble the well-known but fictional Grim Reaper. Then again, it was more than evident he had quite a bit of meat on his bones.

Finally the creep unlocked the door. Jack could hear the crying, the beating, the calling, only for an instant, then it fell silent. Grasping the handle at the base of the blade, Jack followed along as the killer began his descent, leaving the door open. He was obviously done with the girl.

Jack decided to let him into the alley. It was a nice night, despite the cool of autumn beginning to set its chill upon the cityscape and every crevice. Twirling the scythe in his hand, Jack considered his fight with the strong-willed girl. She was definitely good Messenger material. Definitely. He just had to take care of this little bug in the system of the city.

The smell of death was so much more powerful now. It cloaked him, covered him, beautifully dismal and everything the living feared, despite sometimes taking pleasure in enacting it upon others. Jack sped ahead of the killer, pausing before he reached the rather quiet street and returning fully to the reality the living could see, becoming solid and visible. The long-haired old man stopped and gasped, reaching behind him as though he had a weapon that could be useful against Jack and his own very long, slightly curved blade of eternally-cold steel. Jack laughed, unnaturally white teeth glinting in the bluish light above them that illuminated the alley. Though his sudden appearance startled words from the man's mouth, Jack didn't need to hear any. He'd heard---and saw---everything he needed to in that old butcher shop's basement. Stepping forward, Jack lifted his blade, stabbing the man through the chest and yanking forward, pulling his heart out from his cracked ribcage.

Letting the man fall, Jack stepped over the body. He'd eventually be pulled to Hell, that didn't require Messenger guidance. Going back through the shop, he returned to the now-unlocked basement and found the girl. She'd bled out from the deep wound on her throat. She must be awake, though... Jack could see the energy radiating up from her body as he stepped close and bent over her.

"Time to wake up." Jack said quietly. "I'm sure you're not too keen on Limbo, are you?"

((I think you did very good---and that's it, very good))

Jack tilted his head to the right. "I said, it's time to wake up." He put a hand on her shoulder and sat her up. The soul detached from the body, with a bit of resistance from an ectoplasmic residue secreted from the soul after death and before reformation. It stuck to the body, but would eventually dry up. "This place is a pretty popular squatting ground, best to leave before anyone finds your body, methinks." Jack didn't ask her after that. He grabbed her hand and hurried away from her body.

Up the stairs. Through the once-bright show floor that at one time held various types of meat. Into the alley and out onto the street. No one was nearby, and he felt it safe to stop. The heart of the killer he, in turn, had killed, was still on the blade of his scythe. Shaking it a bit, the heart released and fell with a wet splat to the ground. "Well now." Jack said, dusting off his black funeral-esque jacket he wore. "That was interesting. Finding Messengers is so much more difficult than it used to be." He glanced around to the girl. "Now then: What's your name?"

((Because she kind of has no name, so it seems...))

Jack studied her. Emily, so her name was. A common name. Like Jack. He glanced away before speaking, tapping the end of the scythe's handle on the ground so it puffed into a cloud of flies, which dispersed immediately. "My name is Jack." He said then. "Jack Williams, to be exact." He bowed low, able to let his guard down at that moment. "If you think back, Emily, I'm sure you can recall the recent events that led to that rather noticeable scar on your neck..." He studied it. The wound had been relatively closed, but it would need actual stitches to remain shut. Much like his own, very large scar which he kept covered by ways of his plain black mourning suit. "Unfortunately, despite your amazing fight, you were killed."

He looked down and nudged the heart on the ground. "I, however, did away with your killer. He was a rather gangrenous plague on the city's women, so I've done well to send him where... he belongs." He laughed rather lightheartedly, looking down at the ground as though he could see through it. "But anyway! Your strong, fighting spirit really has a scent of its own. Special, one would call it. Something specific to a Messenger type. Messengers are between life and death---They've been killed rather brutally, and for a while, their soul remains trapped in their body. A Messenger pulls the newly-dead soul from the body and can either make them into Messengers as well, or usher them on to the next world. However, few souls have the power to remain between the realm of life and death, and should they linger too long, they become soured and turn into poltergeists."

Jack turned around. The road was narrow, lit harshly. No one was near, though he could hear cars rushing by a few roads over. "I was enticed to follow you due to the strong scent of impending death about you, and for a while, it was rather boring. Until now, that is. When you were killed, your soul was trapped for a few minutes and I brought you out. Now we're both between worlds; you could say we're half dead." He studied the girl. "Do... you understand?"

Jack looked behind him. Cape? His jacket was of standard length. Many high-ranking Messengers wore them, since a plain black suit was reminiscent of a funeral. Did Emily simply exaggerate a lot? Perhaps that was something else to learn...

"Well, let's put it this way." Jack said, turning back to Emily. "Your physical body has been killed. Your neck was cut, and you bled out. However, your soul was trapped within your body due to the simple state, the cruelty of your death. And the fact that you fought back showed your serious battle spirit. A Messenger, secondly, is something like a Grim Reaper. Only we're many. We at one time were simple humans, tough in spirit. We wouldn't go down without a fight, even when we knew we'd be destroyed. Our job is not only to guide lost spirits to the other world, a world of peace, but to keep at bay the demonic entities that exist on our side of the veil. Humans are unable to see these creatures, but they exist to kill and to cause as much sorrow as possible."

Jack smiled. "The Elders watch over the ways of the Messengers, promote us by giving us their powers so we can continue on our own journey. We protect the living from becoming evil dead with our contact with the 'other side', a sort of spirit world that exists right beside the world of living humans. You've shown amazing passion for staying alive, for protecting, and for fighting back in near-impossible odds. Do you understand now?"

((Bah, I didn't catch that in the right context. Looks like Tachi dun goofed too!))

Jack put a hand to his head, running his long fingers through the mess of black hair on his head. "We're called Messengers for that very reason. We bring news of death, wherever we go. For the most part, whomever we're pulled toward will soon die, whether from natural or unnatural causes is later to be revealed. But these particular people have trouble moving on, have trouble understanding that they're dead, and can never return to the world of the living. These people we usher into the next life, and spare them from the suffering of becoming a poltergeist or being corrupted and devoured by demons."

Jack stepped down the street, ushering Emily to follow along. "The Elders are, of course, the strongest of the Messengers. They no longer assist newly-dead humans, but use their nearly-endless power to destroy demons and their clan leaders. Depending on the rank of the Messenger, their status and power changes over time, if they show they're up to the job. This is the same for demons. So only variously powered Messengers can even try to stand up to the demonic clan's leaders. When an Elder wishes to step down from the podium, they find a powerful Messenger underling and test them in various drastic challenges, from written tests to cite morality and knowledge of their job, to physical battles with very strong demons. Therefore, Elders remain where they are for hundreds of years, and only sometimes does an underling Messenger manage to show enough potential to take over for a tired Elder."

He looked toward Emily. "But all Messengers start out somewhere. I started out in 1853, after I was gutted by a mimicker of Jack the Ripper. He targeted random people, however, and instead of cutting the throat, he cut all the way up the torso, leaving most of my internal organs, including my heart, spilled out." He looked down to his thin waist. "That's more or less why I'm so narrow now..." He chuckled a bit at the thought. It was funny now. Funny how he could be in such a bad place at a worse time.

Jack looked toward her, a small smile playing on his lips. It seemed to be there more often than not. "Some accept their deaths and everything afterward rather well." He said. "It depends on how they were in life. Some who have the potential to become Messengers easily accept their place, and begin to conform to the idea that they're between life and death with little problem. Others, as it were, tend to struggle with the concept and situation of their death."

He looked up. They were headed away from the outlying city limits and toward a more calm suburbs, where he lived. "Unfortunately, when you're a Messenger, you remain here as both a spirit and a living person. You can be seen by humans, and to them, that's all you are, a human. But you can now step between the world of the living and the dead, becoming relatively invisible to the naked eye---your presence can still be felt by a very cold chill in the area you're at. Unfortunately, you have to stay away from your family or friends, who may have known you in life. And you'll have to hide that rather nasty scar..." He indicated the wound along Emily's throat. "I can stitch it up---you won't feel that, necessarily. You'll feel very little until a couple days pass, while you're still recovering from the initial shock."

They reached a quiet little road. It was a two-lane road, however, it had no lines. It led toward rows of houses nearby, each different, but very nice as they were.

((Don't worry about it! Besides, I was watching you stalk my newest thread. Stalker! That's my job!))

It was bound to come to this. Jack knew the feeling well. He'd wanted to go back to his family as well, at first. That was his first question too. "It'd be best if you stay away from your family altogether. While you're generally unrecognizable to them as you are now, despite having not changed your appearance at all, it'd be far too tempting to help them when they're in trouble or struggling with this or that. While we do need to watch over the city, you can't simply stay away from a particular part of the city. It's large, yes, but our presence must span the entire area. I, and two others, were the only Messengers here until now, so we need all the help we can get. And I've been searching for a partner for years."

He stopped, placing a hand out to make sure Emily didn't absently keep going. They were stopped outside a two-story house, with no lights on in the windows. It wasn't abandoned; Jack simply didn't like wasting electricity. "Here we are." He noted, stepping up the red brick walkway and up onto the covered porch. "It'll be rather difficult at first, I'm sure." He added, finding his keys and unlocking the door, flicking on the foyer light. "But I sense a powerful soul. I'm sure you'll be able to handle things well." He lifted a hand, silently speaking for her to enter.

((I'd noted that. And thank you, I've not had a character like that before and it was nice to try it out.))

((Oh, no, not competition! It's not a challenge!))

Jack stepped through the door, ushering her into the house. "The others do as well." He said as he went to turn on other lights in the living room off through the right archway. "A child of ten by the name of Angelina, killed in 1954 by her disgusting father. And a young woman of around twenty-five, killed in 1994 in a hit and run accident. I found them both about ten years ago, and we recently moved here."

With the lamps on, the living room could be easily seen. In the flame-toned light, the room was comfortable, and large. More than enough for at least five people to live well. Two dark brown couches, a couple matching armchairs, and a rocking chair in the corner, all situated around a large stone fireplace with a television above it. Potted plants littered the window sills, covered in heavy red curtains, and a large, thick throw rug underneath the furniture. A coffee table was planted with pictures, a couple candles, and some CD cases. Pictures of cityscapes and soothing scenes lined the walls, and a few of Jack with two females, one a child and one a young woman. The child was blonde, her curly hair spilling into her bright blue eyes and over her relatively tan skin. The other had dark brown skin, brown eyes, and light brown skin. Both looked happy, as Jack stood between them with that same calm smile.

"They're out for the evening." Jack said. "Should be back tomorrow morning, before breakfast. Yes, before you mention it, I can eat, despite having few insides." He looked toward Emily, then down to himself. "Anyway... You should get along very well with them, both are very sweet." He undid his tie, shrugging off his jacket as he went around to the coffee table, picking up a round container. "Come, Emily, we should get that wound stitched quickly." He nodded to the couch. It'd be easier to work while the wound was fresh and easy to manipulate.

((I suppose I feel a bit like that every now and then. Although I keep reminding myself this isn't a challenge! It's something to have fun with. And that's the best part.))

Jack sat on the middle cushion of the couch and opened the metal container. Various thick, heavy threads and equally heavy needles lined the bottom, and he chose a brown thread. "You'll feel a bit of a light pinch when the needle goes through the skin." Jack said. "No more than that. And a bit of pulling, but don't move with it. I need to pull it tight and make sure it won't unravel before it seals to your skin." He turned to Emily with a threaded needle. "Okay then, Emily. Look far up. I don't want to seal your head to a certain point, and that way, it'll have full movement." He put a hand under her chin, pushing her gaze up to the ceiling. "Now. Don't move."

He pushed the needle through the bottom flap of skin, pulling the two to meet. "Don't try to speak right now." He muttered lightly, focusing rather hard on his work. "He really cut you deep... Completely severed the jugular. You probably bled out in less than thirty seconds." He chuckled lightly. "Not to mention you'll need some new clothes. You may have to borrow one of Lori's outfits in the meantime. She's about your size." Halfway done, and yet, Jack still spoke. Though he always talked when busy with something, whether someone was around or not. "Soon enough you'll be meeting the Elders. Few appear quite as old as an 'elder' so to speak. One's a young teenager, as a matter of fact. Considering it's not outward appearance, but capability itself, that calls you an Elder. I'm sure, some day, you and I may take the place of two." Finished. Jack snipped the end of the thread with a set of small scissors, replacing the needle and thread in the metal container.

Standing, Jack went to put the container on the fireplace mantle. "You'll want to hide that with a choker from now on. It'll always be visible."

((Best to remember that every time you see a reply!))

"We're technically entirely dead." Jack said, loosening the cuffs of his shirt and shoving the sleeves up his arms. "We only call it 'half dead' because we still resemble, act like, and among all outer appearances, are normal humans. We can, however, see what the living can't. So we don't age. Angelina died at ten, and therefore, will always look ten. The elders vary in appearance, but are each well over several hundred years of age. They've conformed to modern day living, however, and it'd impossible to simply pick them out by looking at them." He went around the couch and started toward the foyer. "Come, I'll show you about."

As he led Emily into the dining room, which was spacious and airy, with a round wooden table and comfortable-looking chairs, he answered her question: "Messengers heal quickly. Especially when it comes to the wounds that killed them. Usually we're meant to be stitched up, and the binding will adhere to the skin within several hours, becoming a seam that will not pull apart, as if in clothing." He stepped into the kitchen, an updated modern place with copper appliances instead of stainless steel and hardwood floors. A counter island stood in the center, housing the stovetop. "And if, like in my case, you're gutted, your insides tend to be replaced with 'spare parts' that act as a human's inner workings. Any other time we're injured, we heal rather slowly, though if we're destroyed, our soul is thrust into a realm of eternal darkness, where you're alone forever, floating in absolute nothing. That's the price we pay if we... 'die' on the job." He glanced around at her, leaning on the counter. "You can handle that, yes?"