Thunder rolled.
Then reality rolled.
In a twist that surprised nobody and annoyed many, the Unseen University rolled as well. To the dismay of everyone, it rolled highest. Sparks of thaumaturgic energy crackled where the existing structures of the building folded into other dimensions and something else was now passing through. In the library, an unwieldy shape shot up from its slumber and turned vaguely humanoid. The books were in a frenzy; the barrier between dimensions, especially flimsy in and around large collections of books, had eroded and through the open space came pure, unfiltered information in shape of a pale mist. Information aching for a medium. Even in his own head, the librarian could feel new memories inscribed in places where old ones trying to resist eviction, as concepts like language, space, even math temporarily lost their meaning. The books on the shelf ached as information was violently taken and forced upon them. Through the space that was no space the librarian wandered, struggling to hold onto his sense of self. A memory, belonging to a stranger, barely yet formed, floated past. Then, as sudden as it began, it ended. The foreign information burned away like morning mist on a hot summer morning and reality started to heal. The books on the shelves complained in an inaudible grumble as their bound pages started to reject the alterations like a body a foreign intruder. The librarian sat in the dark, closely examining the memory he caught, or rather the memory of a memory. Somebody, somewhere close, had deliberately punched a hole into reality, a move unwise in the best of conditions, an the worn out space around the university had temporarily given in. This in itself was not too worrisome; the wizards of the university, especially students, did all sorts of courageous and stupid things with the fabric of reality if the day was long and distractions scarce. No, what worried the hominid was that something came through.
Thunder rolled... and cursed at Luck.
The gutters of the city gurgled softly as the detritus of the night was carried along, in some cases protesting feebly. When it came to the recumbent figure of Captain Vimes, the water filtered through his worn out soles like coffee through a filter. He opened his eyes. It took him by pleasant surprise that he was still upright. In a just world(the world was seldom just), he would have woken up with mud running through his breast plate. It wasn't the first time he woke up upright, as a young guard he had spend many a night sleeping on his feet in the freezing cold, but he couldn't remember ever having walked doing it. But then, he couldn't remember much momentarily anyway. He took it another unearned favor of the gods and let his feet carry him down the street. Presently, his soles told him by the shape and pattern on the cobble, he walked along Peach Pie Street.
He raised his bell, a bronze instrument as dented and worn as its owner. "Three o'clock!", he bellowed while ringing the bronze object with an unwise enthusiasm. "And all is...", he paused. He couldn't remember what all was, though he was sure it had something to do with people reprimanding him.
He pondered all for a while, stepping through through thick mist. The mist from the the river Ankh was not like ordinary mist, it didn't rise mysteriously from the watery surface, like in more forgiving regions of the disc, instead it dragged itself from the toxic muck, along with some of the more fortunate victims of the night, and fled down the street, lest somebody or something may try to drag it back in. Its consistency was traditionally like fish soup; the opaque kind with unidentifiable bits swimming in it.
Vimes turned another corner; his feet told him now he was walking down short street, the longest in Ankh-Morpork, testament to... something. Vimes wasn't quite sure to what. The mist was now so thick, it started to obscure the rows of houses along the street, putting to question whether there ever had been any. The bits in the soup turned into something more specific, although less corporal. Vimes hardly took notice, which was not considered to be a clever move. His feet, compelled by an outside imperative, independent from the brain, carried him through a white void, now so violently empty, it seemed to tear on the edges of the guardsman's form.
What was all? He pondered, with an increasingly bad feeling in his stomach. He know it was something large, so large it was everywhere, something he should remember, but he couldn't for the life of him. Life... Wasn't there something about life, or... the opposite of it? The end? Sam Vimes stomach moved rapidly in the direction of his knees. Wasn't he on a funeral earlier? Whose was it anyway? Gaskin, said a quiet voice in his mind, but the concept of Herbert Gaskin, long time friend and fellow guard, was already losing its meaning.
Failing to remember reality, Vimes couldn't help but miss how his grasp on it slipped from him, in the most physical sense imaginable. He also didn't notice leaving short street onto a pattern of cobble his feet didn't recognize. Impartial to such vital trivialities, they carried him forward, step by step through empty white that now seemed to pull on his person. Not forward, just pulling.
Step. The concept of cobble lost its meaning. What was all?
Step. The ground retired as it couldn't work without the concept of down. What is all?
Step. Physical space dissolved. What would all be?
"I remember!", Vimes shouted to no one. "Three o'clock! All is-" Step. One too many.
Everywhere, all across the multiverse, taking one step too many can extinguish your existence. It also often has a side effect of leaving a hole somewhere, usually far further down(at least in places where concepts like "down" exist).
Both applied to Sam Vimes, whose only proof of ever having been a living person was a hole in the exact shape of Captain Samuel "Sam" Vimes, uniform and all. Usually, at least in Ankh-Morpork, such holes appeared on the surface on the the river; it generally took a good day or two until the outline was obscured. This specific hole, however, was unlike most, in that it lacked a physical medium. Reality crackled indignantly along the fray, demanding compensation, or at least some store credit; the pale yonder was happy to provide.
A shape emerged from nowhere in particular, filling the gap its previous occupant left. It didn't quite fit; it was taller than Vimes, and more burly, even accounting for the breast plate, and then there were the side burns... It wandered off toward being.
HM, commented a cloaked bystander in surprise. He retreated. It wasn't safe to linger.
The mist lifted, or rather it transitioned back into normal mist, as normal as it could be in Ankh-Morpork. The outline of buildings was now visible against the a sky that didn't fully belong to the night any longer. The shape moved with drunk determination through the dangerously unfamiliar streets. In the last corner of his mind, untouched the absurd concoction of substances he allegedly consumed in the past hours, reality had no record of those so he was legally in the clear, a voice reminded him that it was late and he'd do well finding a bed. Another voice, less rational, happily marinating in the cocktail it helped create, suggested he'd go with one of the lovely women, lining the dark side streets. Neither voice was in charge at the moment. Shivers ran through the strangers body in electric waves, from the soles of his feet, to the little hairs on his arms in frantic disarray. His spinal chord had hijacked his body, forcing him to continue his psychedelic march through the unfamiliar city. It was recalibrating.
The Bunch of Grapes in Easy street opened its windows, giving the used up smoky air a chance to escape. The bars of Ankh-Morpork never truly closed, at some point they simply shooed out the casual drinkers to make space for the much more lucrative alcoholics. Hosts had a nigh mystical ability to tell them apart; alcoholics made their palms itch, just like large amounts of gold did to dwarfs. The Host of The Bunch of Grapes rubbed his hands in excitement. Down the street, toward the bar, wandered a stranger bearing a face only worn by those determined to replace their body mass with alcohol, and there was plenty to replace. The fact that he was barely able to go in a straight line didn't bother the barman; the look of grim determination on the alcoholics face reassured him. He was tall and burly, his exotic jacket a presumptuous green, his yellow trousers almost offensively wide, and his bearded face bore an expression, that would have earned him a slap from any respectable woman and several of the less respectable ones. The barman was the type to whom these categories mattered a lot; he couldn't be seen with a fine lady in his humble establishment. He had a reputation to uphold.
"What can I bring you?", he asked the exotic stranger.
"Ngahhh!", he answered, straining the language center of his brain.
"Certainly, my good man, immediately." The barman filled a dirty glass(he was especially proud of those, they were almost as dirty as those in the Drum) with a liquid that was certainly meant to be golden, but was a sad yellow instead.
"Nnnnnhhhh!", the stranger said thankfully, emptying the glass in one swift motion. "Grgh, mwahhh!", he demanded.
It occurred to the barman that this individual might actually drink himself to death right there at the counter. In a tone of utmost responsibility he asked "Could you pay in advance?"
"Mwh? Mm...", the man took something out of the pocket and slammed it on the table. The barman picked it up. It was a black piece of paper, with the picture of a women on it. The number "five" was inscribed on the side. I was a few years still until the concept of paper money would be invented, but with the sense all business owner possess he was able to gauge that this must be used as money, wherever this man was from.
"Don't you have any more... local currency?"
The man just shrugged his massive shoulders. The barman sighed. It was to good to be true. He should throw this figure out, he concluded rationally, but something kept him from doing just that. His eyes relayed the image of the stranger to his brain, but in response came words like regular, trustworthy, friend. He sighed again.
"I'll keep you on tab for now."
The stranger made a bubbling noise.
The sun was rising outside the great city of Ankh-Morpork; it hadn't mustered up the courage to enter yet. The lone guard at the gate yawned unimpressed, as he watched a tall figure approach from the road. He scanned the newcomer, he had a habit of doing so, some even call it his job. He lacked the confident bravado of adventurers, but also the timid excitement of young country hicks trying to make it in the big city. This one showed only a stern innocence that could get a person killed and a body that could get a lot of people killed. He also showed a letter.
"I think I've got to see Lupin Squiggle Sec'y pp," he said eventually.
"What's the pp for?", said the guard suspiciously.
"Could it be Pretty Promptly?", said Carrot who had wondered about this himself.
Both men analyzed the letter carefully for clues for a while. A second name had been written in the text where now was an illegible smudge of ink, as if a drop had hit the paper. Weird, thought Carrot. During his journey he took special care not to damage this letter, his key into the guard. It hadn't even rained.
"What was it you're here for?" asked the guard helpfully.
"I'm here to join the watch!", the young man said, straightening up as he said it.
"Really?", the guard said squinting his eyes. "What have you done?"
"I'm sorry?", Carrot responded with slight worry. Nobody had told him he needed to do anything except report... whoever it was he needed to report to.
"You must've done something.", the guard said.
"My father wrote a letter.", Carrot said helpfully. "I've been volunteered."
"Bloody hellfire!" the guard wasn't sure what that meant but it coudln't spell a good omen, he decided. "In any case, you want to report to the Watch Captain. Captain... uh..." The guard couldn't remember; the inquiry he made to his brain returned empty. Cor damn it, he thought, you know somebody your whole life...
"And where is he based?", Carrot asked politely.
Ah! the guard thought relieved. That was an easy oneö
"At this time of day I'd try The Bunch of Grapes in Easy Street. You can't miss him; he's the guy with... äh... just ask for the Captain.", the guard resigned.
As Carrot marched off, the guard grumbled to himself. Unbeknownst to him, it wasn't lethomania he was struggling with, but entroponetic dissonance, a condition that was more physical in nature than neurological. The pressure build against the vulnerable foundation of his mind, forcing a narrative against a brain adamant that its memories were true. Eventually it gave in. It's quite unreasonable to disagree with reality. The guard felt something snap behind his forehead; reality realigned.
"Hey kid!", he shouted after Carrot, next to whom hardened adventurers looked like unwashed children. "It's Captain Du Bois!"