Jerilyn opened the door out into the chilly, Autumn filled streets. The lighting was dim, and blue. Her shoulder-length chestnut hair was in a pony tail, and her rich, brown eyes scanned the street. She wore jeans, tennis shoes, a white, long-sleeved shirt, and a no-sleeved jean jacket. The street was empty. She got out her bike, and started to ride down it, chilly air biting at her face. The silence was calming and eerie at the same time.

Jerilyn was fifteen years old, and an actress. Not a really good one, but she was improving. Or she'd thought she had until she landed the part of Servant Number Two in Romeo and Juliet. The smallest part in the play, having only one and a half lines. It really bugged her, because acting was the only thing she thought she had been good at, and if she didn't have it then what was she? Just an average person. She stopped when she came to the train tracks. There were no more houses nearby. To the left was a small wood, and to the right was just rocks, grass, dead leaves, and track. The atmosphere here was so good she wanted to just sit, and think. Now that she was here, what to think about? There was that new book that had arrived-

"Hello." said a child-like voice.

Jerilyn spun around to see who had spoken, while a quote ran through her head. Startled at the stillness broken, by reply so aptly spoken...

There stood a man, not that much taller than herself. He looked young, in his mid-twenties. He wore a long, black coat, had blonde curls, and might've been good-looking if it weren't for his eyes. One was inky black, and the other had a tiny pin-prick of a pupil in an ocean of white.

Jerilyn smiled, though an icy fear had bitten into her heart. "Mr...Teh-ah-tim-eh?"

He tilted his head to the side, making him look more demented, and said in a voice tinged with bewilderment, "You got it right."

She smiled again. "Yup. ...I'm going to be dead in a few minutes, aren't I?"

"Most likely. You seem to have me at a disadvantage. How is that?"

"Well, you see, here you're a story character. Written by a dude called Terry Pratchett."

Teatime nodded slowly, and said in a gentle voice, "Fascinating. And if you believe me to be fictional, why do you believe I am really me?"

"Because...it would be very cool. If you existed, I mean. So why should I add further trouble to your existence with disbelief?"

Teatime nodded. "That seems to be in order. Except, I am about to kill you, so wouldn't you prefer I were...not here, so to speak?"

"Well, we all have to die eventually." said Jerilyn, shrugging. "I'd rather it be by some interesting way rather than boring, and death by an Assassin from Discworld is definitely interesting." She wasn't nearly as calm as she pretended to be. Her whole body was tense with nervous energy, and she was letting that energy out in the conversation. Besides, what was the point of running and screaming? Teatime would catch her anyway.