Skelengel: Retold

Death.

What is it?

Is it a force, a supernatural entity? Or something more?

Time.

How do we tell the passage of time?

Does it relate to Death? Do they get along or argue?

Space.

Does it contain them? Their endless possible fueds suspended in a void, or left to mingle and bubble over?

These are questions that need to be asked, yet nobody can give you a definite answer. Death may be unrelated to Life, like a bully on a playground, or they may be siblings, where one goes, the other follows. Where Time and Space mingle, is there a true meaning, or a human definition?

In the mind of Aaron Stone, everything can be defined as one thing, and one thing only.

Possible.

Aaron Stone, CEO of weapons manufacturing and distributing company "Fable", was sitting in his office, twirling around a prototype for a handle for his personal balisong. Its exterior was made of wood, but it had a thin line of titanium on the inside to give it weight.

"Hm..." Aaron hummed, "Less titanium might do this a world of good." He surmised, as the handle hit his knuckle, sending a sharp strike straight through his hand. He recoiled slightly, shook his hand a bit, almost as if he was shaking off water, or a particularly wet fly, before placing his knife on his desk.

Aaron glanced up at the clock on his wall. "Five to five, huh. Might as well start packing up now."

He started organising his desk, making sure it looked clean for the morning, before packing any important documents into his suitcase. Stuff like tax logs, forms and even an application from a promising young secretary.

As he left his room, locking the door behind him, he heard a bang from inside, and quickly opened the door back up to reveal his clock on the floor, shattered, and a bullet hole straight under it. Aaron sighed, re-locked the door, and started to clock out, putting on his jacket since it was cold outside.

He went, punched in his time card, and left the building, walking over to his car, a Nirsan Qashcow. It wasn't a new, or even fancy car by any modern standard, but it was reliable, and it'd served him well. He got in, and slowly moved out of the car park, making sure to avoid that one risky driver, James, on his way out. "I swear, he never looks when he's reversing." Aaron muttered to himself, getting out onto the main road. He sped down it, going at the speed limit, since it was a nice, fine day out. He noticed a few cars speeding past him as he did so, but he paid them no heed, since it was fully within their rights to do so. However, one turned to two, to three, then four, and soon, everyone was passing him. "Maybe they want to avoid rush hour traffic? Doesn't make sense on a main road, but whatever."

Aaron spent the next half an hour getting home, which was good, since there was no tractors on the road that day. If there was, he'd easily be an hour unless they moved off it. He had a near miss coming over a bridge with the one car who decided that Aaron's lane was also his, but he managed to keep his cool and maneuver around it.

He turned down his lane, and slowly entered the yard of his nicely-size countryside house. He parked the car, let the turbocharger recharge, and then turned it off. He got out, grabbed his keys,closed his pretty hefty-weighted gate, and whistled a melody while walking to his front door. He opened it, and with a smile, said "I'm home!"

There was no response.

He sighed, walked in and took off his jacket. He hung it up on the end of the banister, turned on the heating in the utility room and headed upstairs for a shower. He was fatigued from his day's work, and a nice hot shower would be perfect for him.

After his shower, he got himself into a set of pajamas, and sat down in his sitting room, watching the TV while he drank a cup of tea. He surfed through the channels, going from debates, to sitcoms, and finally ended on the news. He pulled out his phone and let the news play in the background while he scrolled through social media on his Streamsang T12, one of the most popular brands in the current day. Still not the same notoriety as the Pear series of devices, but the were up there.

The news went to and from topics, jumping between debate outcomes, refugee notices, healthcare warnings, and the final report was about a shocking increase in drunk-driving accidents. It piqued his interests, and he looked up. Barely a second later, he heard a crash and a bang outside. The sound made him drop his phone on the couch, but that wasn't important. He quickly ran out, trying to see what happened. He saw a kid, no older than seventeen, in the driver's seat, bleeding from the head. The car, which had crashed into his gate, was a write-off. Scrunched metal, shattered glass, no saving it.

"Hey! Are you alive!?" Aaron yelled as he ran over, eliciting no response from the kid. Aaron started trying to pull the kid out from under the shattered windscreen, but he couldnt move him. He went to call for an ambulance, but his phone was inside. He sprinted inside, grabbed it, and dialled 112.

"Hello, this is the Irish National Emergency Line, what's the emergency?" A woman on the phone responded. "Help! Some kid has crashed into my gate, and his car is mangled! I can't pull him out, and he's bleeding from the head! What should I-

Call Ended.

As Aaron had been calling 112, a second car had approached around the bend, and swerved in the exact same place. However, this one flew higher. It clipped the top of Aaron's gate, and fell directly on him, flipping over.

He never stood a chance.

And with that, Aaron Stone is dead.