Disclaimers Are Fun!: Discworld is a product of Terry Pratchett's imagination, and it does not belong to me, blah, blah, blah...
A/N: Okay, so anyone that's read my stories before knows that I have a tendency to get about halfway through and then just... Stop. But I really think things might work out this time! I've already got a buncha chapters written, and I'm having lots of fun with it, and I've already gotten most of the story arch figured out. Anywho, I haven't written in a damn long time, so I'm a bit out of practice, so try and find it in your hearts to forgive that. I've wanted to do a Discworld fic for ages, and I did my best with this chapter, but I'm still not sure I'm totally happy with it, so when I beg you for reviews, as I usually do, know that there is also an implied request for constructive criticism. Thanks a bunch!
A/N/N: Also, anyone that's read my other stuff will know that I'm prone to obscenely long author notes. I apologize for that, as well.
Ridiculous. Utterly, completely, and wholly ridiculous in every way.
This was the recurring thought, phrased in a myriad of other ways (with a myriad of other, often more obscene, adjectives), that stuck in the head of the girl with the fiery orange eyes. A scowl sat firmly and sourly on the girls ashen features as she stormed down the snowy streets of Ankh-Morpork. A black cloak billowed behind her, and citizens darted out of her way in a most frightened manner, although few could tell you why, as her slender figure couldn't rightly be called imposing. Regardless, she was dressed like an assassin – and an angry assassin was not one to annoy.
"Decline my application, will they?" she muttered to herself. "Well, we'll just see about that...Totally ridiculous..."
She turned down a side street, and hurried up the front steps of a shabby little cottage. Throwing the door open, she stepped inside. She tore the black leather gloves off her hands as if they had done her a monumental injustice, and brushed snow viciously out of the acorn-colored hair that sat in a short pixie-cut atop her head. She tugged the cloak off her shoulders and tossed it onto a nearby table, then proceeded to thunder up the stairs with every intention of throwing herself into a nice, hot bath and enjoying a cup of tea. However, her dreams of herb-infused beverages and lavish-smelling soaps were to be short-lived, as the grim realization soon came to her that her pipes were frozen.
Today was not going so very well for Deirdre Mulloy.
Death strode down the long, endless aisles of his Room of Lifetimers, peering carefully at its inhabitants. He passed quite a bit of time hereabouts, and rather enjoyed the very soft hiss that came with grains of sand being funneled through the slender glass forms. He was about to turn a corner, when something quite unusual caught his eye. He turned, and bent his head low to examine the oddity.
OH, DEAR... Death said fretfully, wondering what to make of this discovery. ALBERT? He called tentatively. WOULD YOU MIND HAVING A LOOK AT SOMETHING..?
He heard the stumbling footsteps of his butler echoing through the halls. Albert soon turned down the aisle where Death stood, now holding his find in one, bony hand.
"Yes?" Albert asked, stepping toward his master with a frying pan, containing Gods knew what, clutched in one hand. "Yes, what is it?"
Death held up the object in question. It was, of course, one of his near-infinite number of hourglasses. But there was something a bit funny going on. The sand inside the glass was in a frenzy -- ricocheting off the walls of its container, stirring itself up in a most peculiar fashion.
Being something Death had never seen before, this on its own would have been unsettling enough. But to make matters much, much worse, the name etched oh-so-elegantly on the outside of the glass was, in fact, Jonathan Teatime.
Jonathan Teatime was walking slowly through a place that was very much not a place. Leastways, not like any place he'd ever been. It was vast and seemingly empty, although there was a very dim light coming from... somewhere, that was allowing Mr. Teatime to observe his surroundings, or lack thereof. Was this a corporeal embodiment of his mind, perhaps? He pushed the philosophical thought away. His mind may very well have been dark, and it was certainly vast, but if it was anything, it wasnot empty.
"So," said Mr. Teatime softly to himself. "This is... Death." He allowed for a small smile, in spite of himself and his current state.
NOT QUITE, MISTER TEATIME.
Teatime's heart skipped a beat, and he turned on his heel, before hurriedly regaining his composure. He wasn't entirely sure he'd ever been snuck up on before. He looked inquisitively at Death, and raised a questioning eyebrow.
"This isn't death?" he asked. "But I was quite certain..." He looked pointedly down at his chest, from which there was protruding a very sharp fire poker.
ER... THIS IS SOMEWHAT EMBARRASSING, ACTUALLY... YOU SEE, YOU AREN'T REALLY SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD JUST YET.
Teatime grinned his wicked, disconcerting grin, and crossed his arms over his torso, careful to avoid the metal rod that had impaled him, as the wound was still a bit raw.
"Well, this is interesting..." he said, barely containing his glee. "Now, I don't mean to argue," Teatime said, brimming with charm. "But I pretty definitely remember dying. I'm not sure I see how this is all fitting together."
WELL, STRICTLY SPEAKING, DEATH ISN'T SUPPOSED TO KILL PEOPLE.
Teatime furrowed his brow, and opened his mouth to ask a question.
BY 'DEATH' I DO, OF COURSE, MEAN MYSELF. Death corrected himself. PARDON MY MISSPEAKING. ANYWAY, MY DUTY IS TO TAKE SOULS FROM THE DECEASED. I DO NOT GET TO CHOOSE WHO IS TO DIE AND WHEN. THE SAME RULE APPLIES TO SUSAN. AS SUCH, WHEN SHE... DID AWAY WITH YOU, SHE WAS IN VIOLATION OF A CERTAIN CODE OF CONDUCT. IT IS BASED ENTIRELY ON A TECHNICALITY, HOWEVER, AND I IMAGINE IT SHOULD IN NO WAY INTERFERE WITH YOUR AFTERLIFE.
"What a marvelously fascinating loop-hole " Teatime intoned, exuding pure pleasure.
Death (who, incidentally, did not see this loop-hole as Marvelously Fascinating, and in fact found it to be more accurately described as Utterly Inconvenient or Extremely Annoying) grimaced.
"So, if this isn't death... What is it?"
THINK OF IT AS A KIND OF... WAITING ROOM. WE'RE STILL IN THE PROCESS OF DECIDING HOW BEST TO DEAL WITH YOU, AS IT WERE.
"Aha... And how long will I be waiting?"
IT SHOULDN'T BE MUCH LONGER. THERE ARE ONLY HAVE TWO OPTIONS, REALLY. EITHER YOU WILL GO BACK TO THE WORLD OF THE LIVING UNTIL YOUR TRUE TIME COMES, OR YOU WILL STAY DEAD. I'M RATHER INCLINED TOWARD THE LATTER, BUT IT'S NOT EXACTLY MY PLACE TO DECIDE.
"Oh. I see."
A/N: Whooooooooooo! Remember those reviews I mentioned before? Yeah. Now is when you write them.