HH_mirror

Death had gotten it right.

This was the last thought, and in fact the first thought, in the mind of Jonathan Teatime. This was a dangerous thought. Some might say, a bad thought. It was a thought that, while being spun along the uneven lines of Teatime's mind, brought with it a feeling of justification. A feeling that wrapped itself around him like a warm blanket on a cold night near Hogswatch, a feeling much like...

Like being bathed head to toe in butter. This gave Teatime pause. He was aware logically that justification was usually not a tangible feeling, or at least, it shouldn't be. It was that slightly prickly feeling one got on the inside - not quite warm or cold or any such temperature - after doing a job that you were told not to do but did anyway, and did well. And he was quite sure that justification did not come accompanied by the smell of snacks.

He looked about himself.

In this room, he stood. He was surrounded by kernels of popcorn, far too large to be eaten by any person he knew, except for perhaps Banjo, who Teatime was quite sure would eat anything if told to. They were also not in any way appetizing, in the way a person was unappetizing, even after you got the taste of blood in your mouth on several messy occasions. He'd never liked it, that taste. It was too much like money, and money was something he'd rather invest than eat.

Anyway, there was popcorn, and not much else. There was a vague sense of familiarity or, as some foreigners liked to call it, Deja-vu,  but nothing solid. He recalled a man not dissimilar to himself with a great many knives, moving staircases, and a talking hat, but that was about it.

He decided that butter was not a fashion statement lending well to the life - or, perhaps, afterlife - of an Assassin, and that the discovery of a bath would be to his immense benefit. He turned and left the room, out into a hallway that was also very vaguely familiar, and pondered a direction.

The direction, he decided after a moment's deliberation, was not important. In a place like this, there was bound to be some kind of bath or water closet on every floor of large, rangy magical castles. And it was magical, he knew. More magical than the Unseen University at any rate, much closer to the Tooth Fairy's castle in its... innate magicalness. The moving paintings, the staircases that bent all the laws of science, and other things. If this was the afterlife, it was a very strange one indeed, but Teatime couldn't complain. He was here, wherever here was, and once removed of butter, his life - afterlife - would get on quite nicely. All the cogs would be in place, so to speak.

As he walked in a way that suggested the casualness of a person who did not exactly know how to be casual, he decided now would be a good time to whistle a jaunty tune. Teatime liked whistling. He liked the clear sound it made when done right, and that it would summon up attention in ways that a shout or a lump to the head wouldn't. He liked the sound of his own whistling, because it was logical and done well.  Anyone who was near enough to hear it would probably be quite unnerved by it, because logical whistling had an unfortunate tendency to sound altogether inhuman, like the sounds coming from a wind-up toy that made a noise somewhat resembling words but was not quite.

When Jonathan Teatime whistled, the sound did not have any feeling, like it was missing the subtle, indescribable notes that made it music and not just sound. Like it had been trained very well to look and sound and act like whistling, but failed in that it... wasn't.

So he walked, whistled, and waited.