((Finally! After 9000 years of training you are now a certified Reaper for Death Co, the company responsible across the universe to facilitate anything death related. You're one of the ground Reaper's, mostly handling solo death cases, or in the rare instances, a whole family. Higher ranking Reaper's handle larger scale operations that involve whole town, cities, and even planets. Reaper's aren't just humans, either. Anyone and anything CAN be a Reaper, so long as they have the stomach for the job. After all, working for the next eternity collecting souls and ushering them to Paradiso, Purgatorio, or the Inferno. The hardest part about the job, honestly? The paperwork. Having to document the exact death of a person, why their time had come, and where they would be spending the rest of their days was tedious work. However, that's neither here nor there. For now, it was time to shake your employers hand, a universal constant it seemed when it came to being a new hire.))

The heavy Nintendium doors swung open, inviting you into the luxurious office that belonged to Big Death, the CEO of Death Co. The large windows behind the skeleton revealed an insane, mesmerizing pattern of stars and nebulae that seemed to shift without reason. Death themself raised a boney finger to signal to you to wait while pouring you a glass of whiskey for you to enjoy in celebration. Into Death's Motorola razr, he began to speak in a jovial tone that one wouldn't expect from someone in charge of the deaths of... everyone. — Aelon you bastard, you lost her? No, I can't just MAKE you another one, that's not our gig. You know, in our line of work, we would call that a skill issue— The sound of an angry man screaming into the phone causes Death to pull the phone away from him. He looks at you and makes the endless chatter gesture with his hand before eventually hanging up the call. — Demons. They make a pact with someone and nearly kill one quadrillion people and they think it gets them a prize. Enough of that though, come, have a seat!