Page 49 of Reaper Said Mine

Her face appears above the compad in blue-tinted holo, scaled, narrow, and deeply irritated in the manner of academics interrupted during either research or sleep.

“Ms. Ramone,” she says. “I received your seventh question set.”

“I tried to keep it concise.”

“You asked whether ceremonial blood-sharing among Reapers constitutes hospitality, dominance display, courtship-adjacent ritual, battlefield commemoration, or political theater.”

“Yes.”

“That is not concise. That is a dissertation proposal wearing boots.”

I lean back against the wall and rub the heel of my hand over one eye. “Can it be all of those things?”

Her expression shifts, annoyance making room for interest. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“Unfortunately?”

“Cultures are inconvenient to people who prefer clean boxes. Reaper rituals are especially inconvenient because much of their original Ishani context is fractured, half-remembered, or expressed through practices that appear monstrous when removed from survival history.” Lorr adjusts something off-screen, and a stack of old glyph images appears beside her. “The Blood Feast is one of their most revealing traditions precisely because outsiders misunderstand it so thoroughly.”

I pick up my stylus. “I’m listening.”

“You had better be. I am supposed to be reviewing student submissions, and at least three of them will use the phrase liminal violence.”

Despite myself, I smile. “My condolences.”

“Accepted. Now, the feast. Among Reapers, eating publicly is not a passive social act. Appetite has moral dimension. Strength has communal dimension. Refusing food without cause can be read as refusing the host’s protection, refusing the host’s world, or declaring yourself too delicate to share risk.”

“That explains why diplomats keep inventing medical excuses.”

“Cowardice often arrives with paperwork.”

I write that down because I like it.

Lorr continues, “However, there is an important distinction. Reapers do not necessarily expect outsiders to behave as Reapers. They do expect outsiders to acknowledge that Reaper customs have meaning. A guest who gags but tries may be mocked and then respected. A guest who sneers will be remembered.”

“What about asking for human utensils?”

“That depends on context. Asking quietly because your anatomy differs is practical. Asking loudly because you wish to distance yourself from the ritual is insult. Making a servant fetch delicate tools while implying the meal is beneath you is a fine way to discover how many people at the table can imagine you seasoned.”

I glance toward the frozen recording, where an ambassador from some League world is refusing a dish with both hands raised. A Reaper beside him laughs so hard he nearly falls off the bench.

“What matters most?” I ask.

“Attention,” Lorr says immediately. “Watch before acting. Do not imitate randomly. Reaper dining contains hierarchy. You eat after the host begins or after the table leader signals. You do not reach across another guest’s kill. You do not touch a shared blade unless offered. If live prey is served, subduing it cleanly is preferable to panicked cruelty. Reapers dislike wasteful suffering when it serves only fear.”

“That seems like a subtle distinction for people outsiders call barbaric.”

“That is because outsiders are lazy, Ms. Ramone.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Good. Notice harder.” Lorr leans closer to her camera. “You are attending one of these feasts, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“On Guyver Station?”

“Yes.”