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Depending on who you ask, the universe is either a wondrous, beautiful place, a scary, uncaring void or, more likely, something in between. Yes, it can be said that the universe doesn’t care, but that’s only technically true, because the universe is very large and there is a lot in it and it’s very hard for every part to care about every other part, much in the same way that your left foot does not have very strong opinions about your hair.
But, and this is very important, some parts do care. Some parts care a very great deal, and they care a very great deal about staying a part of that universe. It is in those parts that we find people. One of those parts is currently gliding through the cosmos, sitting on the back of four rather content elephants who, themselves, stood on the back of an incredibly large turtle.
That part, a disc full of much smaller parts that care a lot about staying around, is about to change, for the first time in a while. It’s been quiet, and the thing about interesting times is that they do, eventually, relax a little bit.
Recently there was a whole thing with a steam engine and some people have expected what followed to be made of black smog and the kind of labour practices people later on would do a lot of tsk’ing and head shaking about, but that has, so far, not happened.
Before that, there were the clacks towers, once a strange addition to any landscape and now considered to be so ubiquitous that the official palace painter attempted to put a little tower in the background of every one of his paintings, though ceased when the Patrician had threatened to limit his autonomy, potentially from the feet up.
All that to say that things had changed, had continued to change, and had then ceased changing, and now the whole business was about to start back up again.
And it started, like so many things, with something approximating a bang.
Moist looked down. His body was on the ground in front of him, looking much the way he had always done an admirable job avoiding. He was, unavoidably, dead.
“Hm,” he said. He felt something tugging at his mind, imploring him to let go. It was not a particularly pleasant or unpleasant sensation, a little like trying to care about spilled water in a rainstorm. “Am I dead?” he asked the person next to him. It always pays to be certain of these things.
“LOOKS LIKE IT,” the figure said with a voice like a concrete brick being shaken gently in a metal laundry basket. Moist looked at him. It was hard to really get a good look at the figure standing next to him. His eyes kept sliding off of it.
“Why?”
“WHY?”
“Why kill me,” Moist said. “Seems like an overreaction, if I’m honest. I was just going to go see the races. I wasn’t even planning on making a particularly interesting bet.”
“INDEED.”
“And I haven’t really had any enemies for a while and it’s been ages since we had an unlicensed robbery around these parts, and besides, he didn’t even take my wallet.”
“HE DIDN’T.”
“Oh, bugger,” Moist said, “this is because of that whole business with the clowns isn’t it?”
“MIGHT BE.”
“I haven’t even said yes! I mean, if Adora asks, maybe, but I’m so busy these days and–” He paused, looking at the figure again. There was something off about him, in the sense that there wasn’t. “Say, you look a little…”
“YES?”
“Well, not to be rude, but…” He bit his lip. “See, I know a thing or two about Death,” Moist said. “Not to tell you your business, but you are, him, I’m assuming. Death. Comes for all living things. Skeleton in a dark cloak, big scythe. Happy grin. Jolly fellow, I’ve been told.”
The figure cleared its throat. “I,” it said, “AM NOT– hrm. Sorry. I’m not jolly.”
“Ah, my mistake.”
“Not Death, either.” As soon as the words had left the man’s mouth, his image slid into view, like putting on a pair of spectacles. He looked like a kindly old man. Big white beard. Cloak. Big hat.
The gears were spinning in Moist’s head, because they were there and spinning them was like breathing. Neither were things his body was technically still really required to do, but he kept on doing them out of sheer force of habit.
“If you’re not him,” Moist said, “then who, um, are you, exactly?”
“I’m filling in,” the man said, taking his hat off. “He’s busy.”
“Ah,” Moist said. “That’s all right then.”
“Are you ready to go?”
Moist von Lipwig was many things. He was not a particularly religious person and right now, he was really at peace for the first time in his life. And yet, all of that considered, he wasn’t quite ready to go. He licked his lips, achieving very little, put his hands on his hips and took a deep, useless breath.
“I think,” he said, “I’d rather wait for the other guy.”
“Oh, he’s going to be indisposed for a while. I promise, I’m getting the hang of it. You won’t feel a thing. Even got my own sword.”
“I’m just saying, if the other guy isn’t coming–”
“Made it myself,” the man continued, in the tone of voice people have when they’re quite eager to tell you something, but they can’t quite get themselves to ask if you want them to. He jiggled the sword on his belt in question. “Got the iron out of my own backyard and everything.”
“Look, Sir–”
“Oh, that’s a bit pompous. Call me Terry.”
Terry. Reaper of souls. Moist’s train of thought turned on a swivel or, as it were, a rotating platform. “Look, Terry,” he said, “you look like the kind of man who likes it when things get done right, and get done well, and you look like the kind of man who can get things done. But you see, I’m in something of a pickle because I’m a bit of a stickler for tradition, you see, so if it’s at all possible, I’d prefer to wait for the other guy. Scythe. Big grin.”
“Jolly,” Terry said, and tapped his nose with a twinkle in his eye that made Moist feel like he was being conned by someone who could see right through him. “I see. But we can’t just have you hanging around here until he’s done.”
“I was thinking the same thing!” Moist said, looking down at his body, gears now spinning so fast he seemed to be humming slightly. “How about I hang out in my old place for a little bit, and you get the other guy to me, and then we can get all this sorted.”
“And you’ll wait right here?” Terry asked, scratching his beard.
“I promise, I won’t leave,” Moist said. Technically speaking, if he was still Moist without his body, that meant his body was a place, didn’t it, and not him, which meant that, as long as he stayed inside of his body, he would be doing exactly what he said he would. He grinned and stuck out his hand. “It’s a deal then, yes?”
The man filling in for Death fiddled with his hat and frowned, his hand already reaching forward. Moist had learned a long time ago that making someone think they’d already agreed to something was the best way to get them to agree to something. On top of that, most people can’t resist an unshaken hand. “I suppose so, yes,” Terry said, and shook Moist’s hand. “On one condition.”
Moist was practically vibrating now. “Name it!”
“Well… I want to get the whole thing sorted. There’s some people who could really use your help, you know. Never really had a chance to get into it myself but, well, there’s a lot riding on this. Hah hah.”
“Hah hah,” Moist said manically. “Hng.”
“So if you could get back in the saddle as it were, one last time, maybe I can get you some more time, hmm? Give you a little bit of a démarrage so to speak.”
Thoughts whirled through Moist’s head, which was quite a feat considering it was currently face-down on the cobblestones and leaking slightly. Maybe there was something he could do, but it would require a great deal of effort and these days his knees really did creak as much as his office door did and Adora Belle was likely to want to get a say in things and that was going to make things very complicated. The pressure to succeed in any way would be enormous.
But then again, pressure was, after all, where he started. “Mhmmghmm,” Moist said, his incorporeal eyes now bulging out of his head, wheels spinning so fast smoke was coming out of his ears.
“Are you okay?”
“Hmmmwhat?” Moist said with increasing desperation to not be dead anymore. “M’fine. Yes.”
“And one more thing,” Terry said with the kind of patient smile that could drive someone fully insane. “Make it a good one, eh? I’ve put a lot of work into it.”
“Whatever you say!” Moist said, yanked his hand free, and woke up.
With the kind of gasp usually reserved for people at the climax of their stories, Moist shot upright. The hole in his chest was maybe not as deep as it could have been. The bolt just a little bit too far to the left. He stumbled upright, looked around, and ran, the conversation already slipping out of his head like sauce out of a bun, serving only to grease the wheels.
Behind him, shimmering in the air, Terry put his hat back on.
“That’ll do him,” he said. “Right little bugger you are, Von Lipwig.”
In Moist Von Lipwig’s head, the wheels spun faster and faster. They were made of rubber.