Don’t knock on death’s door. Ring the bell and run. He hates that.
Bonus points if you have Death be somewhat Pratchettian. – RecklessPrudence
(#00297)
“What is this? Another bubble-reality? Why is everything shades of black?”
“Aw fook,” growled Shayde. “This isnae a bubble. It’s a pocket.”
“There are pocket realities?”
“Aye, where d'ye think I keep all me shit?”
Rael glared at her. “Seriously.” He sighed, picked himself up, and dusted himself off. “How did we even get here?”
“Remember the thing I was telling’ ye not to do?”
“Ye-es…?”
“Ye did it anyway, didn’t you?”
“Uhm…”
Shayde vented a noise of anguish. “Fookain listen tae me, sometime…”
“Ah. There’s a house. Maybe whoever lives here can help.” He started towards it at a brisk trot. The sooner he was out of here, the better.
Shayde overtook him at a desperate run, put herself in his path, and moved to stop him. “WAIT! I figured out where we are!”
“And?”
“And this is Death’s backyard!” Evidently, this was reason for distress. “Ye don’t just waltz up tae Death’s Door and ask fer directions. An’ ye definitely don’t knock.”
“So… what do we do?”
*
Death’s Doorbell did not go “ding dong”, and even if it did, it would be the sort of ding and dong that came from the chthonic depths of the most demonic tomb available.
But Death was a little classier than a mere “ding dong”. His doorbell played a riff from Mozart’s Requiem. But there were still heavy elements of ding and dong in there, because doorbells everywhere are cheesy.
Rael was quite shocked when Shayde grabbed him by his collar and dragged him into the shrubbery.
A wizened old man with a permanent drip on the end of his nose opened the door and looked around. He muttered a curse and vanished behind the dread portal.
“Albert,” whispered Shayde. “Always good tae know which Death I’m dealing with.”
“Which Death?” echoed Rael. “Will there be a point in which I understand your ramblings, or will I have to surrender to the madness, first?”
“Aw shut it. Just be glad ye’ve got a guide…” She dashed out of the bushes, pressed the button again, and fled back into hiding.
“You do know that this is the exact opposite of making sense, yes?”
“Ssh.”
They watched from hiding as ‘Albert’ reappeared and snarled at the empty air, and vanished once more with a, “Someone’s playing silly buggers, Master…”
For a third time, Shayde zipped out of hiding and activated the dismally cheerful little tune before hiding again.
Silence there, as Poe wrote, and nothing more.
“Should one of us go out again?” Rael whispered.
“I DIDN’T BUY THAT DOORBELL AS A TOY, YOU KNOW,” said a voice from behind them. It was exactly the kind of voice one could expect out of Death. The skeleton in black robes was cliche, but the blue stars in the eye sockets were new.
Shayde emerged first. “Had tae be sure I had yer undivided attention yer honour.”
Death looked her up and down and sighed like the wind on the steppes. “OH BUGGER,” he said, “IT’S YOU AGAIN.”
“On the plus side,” offered Shayde. “At least I’m asking permission before I nick yer horse.”
“That’s not at all diplomatic,” Rael muttered.
The blue stars turned his way. “THE NEXT TIME THIS ONE WARNS YOU ABOUT SOMETHING ELDRITCH,” he said, indicating Shayde. “PAY ATTENTION.”
“Rude much?” muttered Shayde.
“Yessir,” said Rael. “In my defense, I don’t really have a belief system.”
“NEVERTHELESS,” said Death. “KATIE KNOWS THINGS. ESPECIALLY ABOUT THE THINGS THAT MAKE NO SENSE.”
“Nobody really calls me that, any more,” said Shayde. “Will ye help us, please?”
Death nodded.
*
They woke up in the very cargo bay where he’d been experimenting in the first place. Surrounded by forensic and security teams.
“And just where,” demanded a very exasperated Lyr, “the flakk have you been? I thought you were dead! And I’m never that wrong.”
“Ah. Well. We were in Death’s realm fer a bitty while,” Shayde began.
Lyr held up her hand. “I don’t want to know. This is another weird inter-dimensional phenomenon I can’t comprehend and don’t want to. Get yourselves checked out, just in case. And then report to Sherlock.”
“What? What did we do?” demanded Rael.
“Three perfectly ordinary wooden crates somehow turned into gravity-challenged purple sheep.”
One of them trotted by, attempting to graze off the wall on which it was standing.
“This is somehow your fault and Sherlock would like to know why. And if it’s reversible.”
Shayde accurately summarized their situation in two words. “Well, fook.”
[Muse food remaining: 20 (fic war prompts: 0) Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]
