Disclaimer – Not mine, and I'm too tired to come up with a clever way of saying that right now.

A/N – No infringement is meant to anyone, though dedications are in order – to LeDiz and Jkateel, mostly. I've put your universes, and all the others borrowed to make this ficlet, back with minimal damage.

Continuity – A follow-up to A Ship Sailing Over the Edge of the World, though you really don't have to have read that to understand the general gist of this. It is not a real fic, just something I shook out of my ear onto the keyboard, and should be taken as such.

Time to Die

© Scribbler, April 2005.

I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time. Like tears in the rain. Time to die. – Roy Batty (Rutger Hauer): Blade Runner.

The scale of the multiverse is an interesting thing. Humans tend to think that something like the universe – their universe, at least – is something huge. Which it is. But they also think that huge means it takes up a lot of space, which is wrong. Each universe is not a big place; it is a place to be big in. Size really doesn't matter – something that pleases a great many people when they finally die and find that out for themselves.

In a corner of the multiverse is a place that especially doesn't rely on size to be big. It is as enormous as the depth of a shadow, as timeless as a stopped watch, and as disparate as one choice from another. It is the nexus of life and death, the only occasion where the fronds of time and space actually cross, creating a perfect balance that sets it apart from pretty much anywhere and anywhen in the most fertile of imaginations. Quite a good spot for keeping one's office of work, if you aren't looking to pay much rent and don't mind the odd temporal anomaly caused by stupid mortals messing about with the timestream.

The room we're in now is lined on all sides with gigantic hourglasses, one for every living person, pouring their fine white sand from the future to the past. They should really be making a lot of noise, but they're all curiously silent. This might have something to do with the figure to our left, who happens to be the owner of this particular room.

His name is Death, though not the all-encompassing concept dreamed up by religion and cult leaders. This Death's specific sphere of influence is a variation of a small, somewhat backwards planet called Earth. Now, let's get something straight: There are dozens of Earths in the multiverse, just as there are scores of other planets, and each comes with its own Death.

This Death considers himself quite fortunate in his posting. Once every millennia or so he gathers up the other three Horsemen of this realm, and they all tootle off to the Concept Convention to check out their brethren. Some of the other Concepts look after real stinkers – universes beset by regular genocides, geography that's a bugger to negotiate when picking up lost souls, places that think themselves above the courtesy of natural physics. He's talked to one Death whose world was created as some cosmic practical joke – a world that rides on the back of four elephants, which in turn ride on the back of a great turtle that careers endlessly through space. That Death was originally in charge of a much more stable realm, until he got drunk and lost a bet. He's never really recovered from the ordeal.

They also use these conventions to measure up the new additions created to look after new universes. Contrary to popular thought, not every choice made by mortals engenders a new universe, though a few billion do. Nobody's entirely sure what the qualifications are that a choice has to fulfil in order to create one, and nobody much cares, either. They all have their own jobs to worry about.

Right now, Death is staring at the last few grains of sand in one particular hourglass. When the very last one plips, he turns and waits. On cue, a small puff of purple smoke erupts beside him. When it clears, there is a considerably smaller person where before there was none.

Death towers over this person, who blinks rapidly up at him and then looks around. "Oh, hell."

NOT QUITE, says Death.

Death is at least nine feet tall, with hands like soup plates and fingers that grip his scythe with all the tenacity of a pitbull's locked jaw. The scythe used to be a used tool, when the world was less populated, but since the onset of globalisation and the free market it's become more of an ornament. It, too, is about nine feet tall.

The small person is at least four feet shorter than that. She wears a pair of washed-out grey pyjamas and has a toothbrush in her hand. "I'm dead?" she says, taking the idea rather well, given her previously mortal status. Mortals have a terrible habit of overreacting when they come to the end of their lives, like they've gone through the world not contemplating what they'll do when one day they aren't in it anymore.

Death might have rolled his eyes, except that he doesn't have any. QUICK, AREN'T YOU?

"But I thought I was all better. I was only cleaning my teeth and - " She looks at the toothbrush. "I brought this with me?"

CERTAIN MORTALS ARE ENTITLED TO BRING CERTAIN ITEMS WITH THEM.

"And I brought a toothbrush. Fabulous. Like I'm really going to worry about halitosis now that I'm dead." She runs a hand over her forehead. "Oh shit. I'm dead. I thought I had decades left in me. This wasn't supposed to happen yet. I – hang on. I have hair?"

WOULD YOU PREFER YOU DIDN'T?

"No, no, hair is good. I missed my hair."

CAN WE PLEASE MOVE ON WITH PROCEEDINGS NOW? Death taps one bony foot on the stone floor. I DON'T HAVE ALL MILLENIA.

"Can I ask a question first?"

IF YOU REALLY MUST.

"What did I die of?"

PULMONARY EMBOLISM.

"Really?"

FOLLOW ME.

"Whoa, wait up! Hey, is this the part where you figure out where I'm going?" she asks, scuttling along behind him. "I mean, like, Up or Down?" She makes it sound like some cosmic decision that will rock the course time.

HARDLY.

"Excuse me?"

I COLLECT DECEASED SOULS. I DON'T PROCESS THEM. WE ESTABLISHED A SYSTEM YEARS AGO THAT'S MUCH MORE EFFICIENT.

"I can't believe I'm hearing this. So you're not the Grim Reaper?"

I AM DEATH.

"Okay, seriously wanting to go home now." She stops. "Home. Shit – my mother. My friends. I'm dead now. I'm dead. Are they… is she – hey, who's going to find my body?"

Death doesn't even slow down. He leads her through a small doorway, out of the room of hourglasses. WHOEVER HAPPENS UPON IT FIRST.

"Great. Fabulous. Not only am I suddenly dead, but I'm walking alongside Death, who has a sense of humour nobody mentioned." She catches up, not even slightly breathless and obviously a little surprised at the fact. "So what happens now? Who do I see about my final destination?"

WAIT A SECOND.

Death pushes aside a thick velvet curtain to reveal a long corridor lined with desks. On each desk is a computer made out of carved bones, with wires of nerve endings and sinew leading to the tails of actual mice that squeak and move the cursor around screens made of clear eyeball jelly. Smaller skeletons man each one, while others run back and forth with armloads of paper. Every now and then one chitters something to the rest, before running from the room through yet another doorway at the opposite end.

THOUGH OUR SYSTEM IS EFFICIENT, IT IS NOT … INFALLIBLE, Death says grudgingly, remembering how he lorded it over War, Pestilence and Hunger that his system works more smoothly than theirs. Fatality has a much more even distribution than any of their merchandise, though at last check Pestilence was instigating some new schemes and drug-resistant diseases to catch up.

"What's that supposed to mean?" asks the small figure, clearly concerned.

MISTAKES CAN BE MADE. Death glares at a passing organization skeleton. ERRORS THAT MUST THEN BE RECTIFIED.

The former-mortal looks at him for a second. "I'm not supposed to be dead, am I?" she says bluntly.

YOU ARE DEAD; THEREFORE YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BE. THE SANDS IN YOUR HOURGLASS RAN OUT. EVEN I HAVE NO CONTROL OVER THAT.

"So the problem is…?"

YOUR PLACE IS NOT … PREDETERMINED.

"Excuse me?"

YOU WERE NOT ENTERED INTO THE SYSTEM. YOUR FILE WAS MISLAID.

"Mislaid?"

THIS MEANS YOU HAVE A CHOICE OF YOUR FINAL DESTIN –

"Whoa, back up. I'm still hung up on the 'mislaid' part. How do you mislay someone's info like that? This is the afterlife, right? Things aren't meant to go wrong here. There aren't meant to be any glitches."

HOW DO YOU KNOW? HAVE YOU EVER BEEN DEAD BEFORE?

"Buddy, you really don't want me to go into that kind of thing. Not with the life I've led. Of course, you'd know the kind of crazy shit I've had to put up with if you hadn't lost my file. Just so you know, this really doesn't fill me with confidence in you and your team."

Death raises a hand to his forehead and sighs. CERBERUS USED IT AS A CHEW TOY. HIS THIRD HEAD IS TEETHING.

"That can't be true. Cerberus is way old. He was around in ancient Greek time, wasn't he? Or was that the Romans?"

HE IS NOT IMMORTAL. EVERY HUNDRED YEARS OR SO HIS SANDS RUN OUT AND HE IS REBORN INTO PUPPYHOOD. WE SPEND DECADES COLLECTING ENOUGH NEWSPAPER TO PAPER-TRAIN HIM, BUT HE CAN STILL CAUSE MISCHIEF WHILE IN THIS STAGE OF HIS DEVELOPMENT.

"Oh, now that's just brilliant. Does this happen to everyone, or am I just lucky?" Her voice hits a note to shatter glass.

LOOK, I REALLY DON'T WANT TO GET INTO THIS IF I CAN HELP IT. BASICALLY, SOMEBODY SOMEWHERE BUGGERED THINGS UP, AND BECAUSE I'M IN CHARGE I HAVE TO FIX IT. NOW, THE ONLY SOLUTION THAT DOESN'T INVOLVE CENTURIES OF BUREAUCRACY IS IF YOU BECOME YOUR OWN DESIGNATOR. WHICH MEANS YOU GET TO CHOOSE WHERE YOU GO INSTEAD OF THE SYSTEM SPITTING OUT AN END BASED ON STATISTICS ABOUT YOUR LIFE AND HOW YOU LIVED IT. THE SAND IN YOUR HOURGLASS WAS WHITE, WHICH MEANS YOUR SOUL IS CLEAN ENOUGH THAT I CAN JUST ABOUT SWING THIS. SO WOULD YOU LIKE TO INDULGE YOURSELF IN SOME MORE MORTAL INCREDULITY AND SELF-PITY, OR WOULD YOU LIKE TO GET ON WITH THINGS?

The little former-mortal opens and shuts her mouth for a moment. Then she sighs deeply and asks, "What're my options?"

Death gestures with his scythe that she should follow him. He leads her down the corridor, through another, similar two, and stops in a room dominated by a giant crystal sphere easily the size of the metal globe at the World's Fair. It burbles softly, like the undercurrent of whispers in a cinema showing of a movie you've been waiting months to see. Three tiny skeletons run from behind it, holding sealed envelopes.

YOU MAY CHOOSE BETWEEN PARADISE, TORMENT ETERNAL, EXISTENCE RESURGENCE, OR LIFE SWAP.

"And that means…?" She seems vaguely disgusted by the skeletons, but intrigued by the giant crystal sphere, which floats unaided in perfect balance between floor, ceiling and walls.

PARADISE AND TORMENT ETERNAL SEEM PRETTY SELF-EXPLANATORY TO ME. EXSTENCE RESURGENCE WOULD INVOLVE GOING BACK TO YOUR EARTH AND BEING REBORN TO A DIFFERENT LIFE, SHOULD OU WISH TO HAVE ANOTHER CRACK AT GETTING INTO PARADISE. IT'S MOSTLY PEOPLE WHO AREN'T EVIL ENOUGH FOR ETERNAL TORMENT, BUT AREN'T GOOD ENOUGH FOR THE OTHER WHO GET THAT OPTION.

"And the last one?"

A RELATIVELY NEW INITIATIVE. WE PLACE YOU AT AN INDETERMINATE POINT IN AN ANALOGOUS FORM IN A DIFFERENT, THOUGH PARALLEL UNIVERSE TO THE ONE YOU'VE JUST LEFT. THIS WOULD PUT YOU OUT OF MY JURISDICTION, BUT YOU'D PRETTY MUCH GET TO KEEP YOUR CURRENT MEMORIES. IT'S RISKY, AND NOT MY IDEA, BUT IT'S AN OPTION. SOME CRETIN CAME UP WITH IT BECAUSE HE KEPT LOSING SOULS FROM HIS UNIVERSE.

"Losing souls? Did Cerberus eat them?"

Death glares at her. DON'T PUSH IT. THEY INVENTED A MACHINE THAT ALLOWED THEM TO HOP BETWEEN DIMENSIONS.

"And let me guess, they liked the ones they found better than the one they'd left?"

BINGO. PLUS THERE WAS A CRAPLOAD OF MAGICKAL ENERGY FLOATING AROUND THAT PERIODICALLY SEPERATED SOULS FROM THEIR BODIES AND THREW THEM INTO PLACES UNKNOWN. HE WAS LEFT WITH LOTS OF UNMANNED BODIES, SOME WITH DECADES LEFT IN THEIR HOURGLASSES AND NOTHING TO REAP AT THE END. IT PLAYED HAVOC WITH HIS TIMETABLES, SO HE SOMEHOW CONVINCED A POOL OF OTHER UNIVERSES TO TRY OUT LIFE SWAPPING. MOSTLY IT'S BASED AROUND UNIVERSES THAT HAVE DISCOVERED INTER-DIMENSIONAL TRAVEL - OR COME PRETTY DAMN CLOSE – OR HAVE UNPRECEDENTED MAGICK OUTPUTS. BUT IT FILLS THE GAPS IN THE SOUL QUOTA, AND I HEAR IT MAKES GOOD TELEVISION FOR THE GODS.

The former-mortal holds her forehead with both hands, the toothbrush sticking out from behind her thumb. "This is so much more than I expected to have to take in today. First I die, then I find out the afterlife is worse than city hall, then I find out I'm expected to make some … some life-changing decision! Irony intended."

MORTALS, Death mutters. The skeletons with the envelopes chitter in agreement.

She draws a deep breath and drops her arms to her sides. "So, Mr. Death, tell me what's involved in this life swap thing. Would I just be expected to drop into the life of some other me where she left off?"

ESSENTIALLY, YES. ALTHOUGH YOU'D BE GIVEN PROVISIONS TO HELP YOU ADAPT. AND YOU'D STILL ONLY LIVE AS FAR AS SHE IS SUPPOSED TO, SO IF HER SANDS RUN OUT THREE DAYS AFTER YOU GET THERE THEN THERE'S NO RETURN POLICY.

"Could I pick which universe I go to?"

YES.

"Last question. Am I good enough to get into Paradise here?"

YOU'D HAVE TO PICK IT TO FIND OUT.

"Right. So there's no point in asking whether my friends and family are good enough to get in either, is there?"

BACK IN THE KNIFE DRAWER, MISS SHARP. WE HAVE A SOUL CONFIDENTIALITY CLAUSE.

"Wonderful." She sighs and throws up her arms. "I suppose there's no harm in looking at the other universes, is there?"

ONLY TO MY SCHEDULE. Death clicks over to the giant sphere and pokes it with one finger. STUPID, UNRELIABLE MORTALS. WE NEED ANOTHER APOCALYPSE TO THIN THEIR RANKS A LITTLE.

"What was that?"

SORRY. IT'S DIFFICULT TO MUTTER UNDER YOUR BREATH WHEN YOU TALK LIKE THIS. HERE, TAKE A LOOK. He gestures she should join him at the sphere. TOUCH IT AND IT'LL THROW OUT A FEW THOUSAND POSSIBILITIES FROM THE SELECTION.

"A few thousand? Isn't that a bit overkill? How am I supposed to remember each one?"

CEREBRAL INTERCHANGE. TRUST ME, I'M DEATH. IF I SAY IT'LL WORK, IT'LL WORK.

"Sure, just like your filing system worked. Hey, hey, I'm sorry. Look, here I am touching the … thingy. See?"

Hesitantly, she touches it. Immediately she does, a patch of colour appears, and then another, and then another. Tiny snippets of different worlds float across the curved glassy surface, as darts of what look like blue electricity crackle down her arm and into her brain.

"Oh my…" she whispers, eyes wide. "Is that … no, it can't be."

On the glass is a small portion of what she is seeing – a boy with impossibly spiky hair diving into a swimming pool in front of a roaring crowd while judges hold up scorecards. The image changes to the same boy, a little older, with a pack of cards in his hand. His clothes change from second to second – blue jacket to Goth ensemble to knitted-diamond sweater to a kilt. Throughout the changes he raises a card and shouts melodramatically.

"That looks more familiar. Can I see more like that?"

A switch, a dash, a swirl of iridescence. The image becomes a mirror of itself, two impossibly spiky-heads pressed close enough to tangle.

"Yep, that looks more like the world I know."

The figures become smaller, fading into the distance. A pair of black wings shooting skywards amidst a pulpy mess of blood and snapped sinew. A pair of mouths crush together in a plush office, a young woman crouched open-mouthed outside the door. A pair of brown eyes closed in pain, guns are erased from hands that previously held them, souls are locked in metaphysical rooms and then released again. A blue pyramid necklace tries to merge with a yellow one, green hair turns brown, faces sharpen and soften with each choice they're faced with. Fragments of different lives, different paths, different possibilities weave patterns across her eyeballs until she takes on the mannerisms of a beached fish.

ARE YOU DONE YET? I HAVE WORK TO GET BACK TO. SOULS DON'T COLLECT THEMSELVES, YOU KNOW.

She pulls her arm away and stumbles backwards. "Oh my… word."

SO HAVE YOU DECIDED? Death demands irritably.

"I … oh. They need me." She stares at the crystal. "They're all breaking apart. So sad – they don't understand. They can't see it. The … their own friendship. They're all blind . Except me. But it's not me. Not me, the other me. Torn away … Malik … his spell…"

I TAKE IT THAT'S A YES?

She nods. "That's a yes. If I can't be sure whether we'll end up together here, I'll do my damndest to make sure we all get the good final destination there. I'll make them see they need each other."

FINE, FINE, YES. HOLD STILL PLEASE. Death swings his scythe as if to cut her in two. However, it turns out to be only a minor jostle so he can press a button on a previously unseen podium. BYE NOW. THROUGH VERBAL CONTRACT, YOU ARE OFFICIALLY NO LONGER MY PROBLEM.

The former-mortal jerks in surprise as a door appears in the empty space before her. It slides open automatically, revealing a nothingness so absolute it sweeps away the argument of whether black or white is the absence of colour.

Téa Gardner, aged sixteen? Says a voiceless voice.

"Um, no. Anzu Mazaki, aged twenty-five."

That's what you think.

She is tugged through. It shuts behind her with a click redolent of the lid of a sarcophagus.

Death prepares to leave. Then he pauses. OH BUGGER. I KNEW I'D LEFT SOMETHING OUT. REVOLTING NEW SYSTEM, ALWAYS FORGETTING SOMETHING ABOUT IT. He turns to where the door used to be, tapping his chin. OH WELL, SHE'LL FIND OUT SOON ENOUGH ABOUT THE ALTERNATIVE ADDITIONAL MEMORY CLAUSE. HOPEFULLY, EVEN IF HER MIND GETS OVERRIDEN, HER REASON FOR CHOOSING THE UNIVERSE WILL LINGER ANYWAY. Then he shrugs. BUT EVEN IF IT DOESN'T, SHE ISN'T MY PROBLEM ANYMORE.

He makes as if to go again, but one of the skeletons with the envelopes tugs his robe. He looks down at it, and it hands him something before scurrying away.

Death stares. It's what he's good at. WHAT EXACTLY AM I MEANT TO DO WITH THIS?

Receiving no reply, he sighs and goes back to work, absently brushing his skull-grin teeth as he walks.

END

(or is it?)