Rommel sat down on a cold bench in Central Park and unwrapped his egg salad sandwich, putting down his coffee. It was his seventeenth birthday and he had done his first professional hit of the new year earlier that morning. The package was delivered, somebody made the drop, nothing on the morning news. All good.

Death stood on the overpass of the park's tunnel, securing a deal with two young gentlemen.

"This all you have, man?" said one of the fellows.

"This is all you'll need."

"Aw man, it's not enough to sell, yo!" The other fellow, eyes downward, nodded in complacent silence, needing the rock. A cloud hit the sun, trees leaned towards death, grasping him with shadows.

"Who are you kidding. Plus I guarantee you, no cops."

The young men took the vial and stumbled off. The vocal one turned his head around and yelled out. "Maaaan, it's cold out here for real, kid--you better get somethin on over that hood, dog!"

The gray hood expelled a mixture of steam and smoke. Whispers grew from the cold air, saying "I'll be fine."

Death walked down the grassy hill to the bench and sat down, saying nothing to the young man. Busker's heartbeat quickened ever so slightly. He reached into the inside of his thick Dodgers coat (Brooklyn, of course) and felt the cold leather holster. Thinking twice, his fingers moved up the quilted cotton, past the smooth nylon band of the pocket and pulled out a pair of aviator glasses. He had to admit--the Axel Foley-Beverly Hills Cop II was such a good look, which of course somebody had seen him in a few years ago. He grinned and thought "Fuckin' Hollywood."

Tucking his shade rims under his skullcap and looking forward, he declared to the silent newcomer, "I'm not buying anything from anybody today." He bit his sandwich. "Unless it's a packet of mayonnaise I swear to God. Almost everything is right, tomato, bread like I like it, Look at thi--"

He noticed the pale hood and the steam. Such a well made hoodie. "...Look at this motherfucker." More steam poured out of the dark features inside the hood, gray eyes blinking to say "who, me?" The cold air grew bitter, the shape of him expanded to breathe, the steam spun in a reverse spiral.

Death finally spoke.

"Hi," he said.

"So you do have mayonnaise." Death patted down his hoodie pockets in search. "why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Pat y'pockets like that. You know you have it. You know you can get it." Rommel grinned. He felt Death grin too.

"It's keeping up appearances. It is not normal for two strangers to request and receive a packet of mayo." Death passed the slivery object to Rommel, who nodded in the gesture of appreciation and gingerly applied it to the sandwich of near-perfection.

"There."

"Welllll, maybe somebody will think it's crack, nowadays everybody's on it. I don't get it. And what were You doing up there?"

"Oh, that. You saw that? Experiment. Two rocks. Two people...Two heart attacks. One of them will change society, the other will try to ruin it. The only thing is... I can't tell which one."

"I thought you knew everything."

"Misconception. Most people think I was there in the beginning, in the first second. Not true. The first inkling of a microbe grew in a millisecond, and I was brought to end it, shortly thereafter."

"S'pretty close."

"It's not the beginning. I don't even know why I'm telling you this."

"Don't, then."

"I can't help it. It is strange."

"Okay. Aren't you cold? Wait. 'Icy Fingers of Death.' Ooh, spooky."

"Another misconception. I'll see you later, mind your coffee."

Death got up and paused before he left. Tugging on his hood strings, he said, as if uncontrollably, "...Insulation--it's really well insulated."

"Another secret? Crazy."

"I've never seen anything like you...and I've seen Everybody."

Death disappeared into the overpass.

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Next: The Archers of 42nd Street