The Universe's Mixer

Dead hooker.

Why was it always, more often than not, a dead hooker? Betty sighed as she walked onto the scene, new black heels that matched her black and teal dress perfectly clicking on the pavement. She'd beat the law enforcement, but not early enough to remove the soul prior to death. Shame, she liked to do that as a courtesy on the more tragic cases and from the looks of things, this was tragic.

It wasn't even going to be easy to identify the individual judging by the looks of the face and body. Betty had been late for her appointment, which was horrible. And unlike her. But this City made it difficult to keep appointments, what with the City always changing and one place never being in the same place as they were moments before.

It really made things difficult.

Now as Betty approached the dead prostitute, she reached her hand forward to release the soul from the body, taking care to not step in the blood that surrounded the body. She had to move quickly, before someone showed up and started asking questions.

Betty's hand traced along the stone of the castle wall. Castle. In the City. This was really the strangest place she'd ever been to, and she hadn't even gotten her voluntarily. Sure, the journey had been voluntary, but the end result, not so much.

( Even so, she wasn't unhappy. )

Her afternoon at the museum with Jeannie left Betty feeling a little out of place. Something was definitely not right about all those post-its she had received and since Jeannie hadn't died that afternoon, or anytime thereafter since there were no news reports, Betty was discounting the rest of them as some sort of prank. Some sick, twisted prank.

Which meant that she was left with nothing to do. A state of being that sat quite well with the Reaper. No reaping meant there was time for shopping and maybe even looking for a new apartment. Her current one wasn't appealing to her any longer. Betty wanted something newer, something chic, something upper scale.

She didn't do with squatting in substandard residences. Didn't suit.

Walking along the sidewalk with a bag in hand of her finds for the day, she smiled and enjoyed both the weather and the break from work. It wasn't like she was getting paid to reap souls or anything. No, shopping was a far better way to spend the time.

Betty scrunched her nose and narrowed her eyebrows, looking from the post-it in her hand to the woman she was following and back again. This was surreal. It had to be her.

She had been quite mentally displaced to come home to find post in notes everywhere in her borrowed apartment. In her shoes, in her purse, in her closet in her bed. The worst part of them was that they weren't particularly organized in any way shape or form. They just were there. No sequential stacking, nothing.

So she figured she'd start by grabbing one and just going from there. Start small, stay busy, work quickly. At this rate maybe she'd hit her quota soon.

Periwinkle heels that matched her favorite periwinkle dress perfectly clicked on the pavement as she followed the woman in pink. Looking back at the post it, Betty was annoyed that it didn't give her any more information other than a first name. Or at least what she assumed was a first name.

All it said was: Jeannie.

Maybe Jeannie was meant as a descriptor, because what this woman was wearing was unreal. Completely and utterly unreal. Beyond unreal. It was just bizarre. It was like something out of a Halloween catalog.

She tucked the post-it into her handbag, fingered her hair and picked up her pace a bit with the hopes of catching up to her.

There was so much to think about. So much going on at the moment that caused great bit rolling blackouts of thought in his head. He couldn't help it.

Dexter called out of work for the week because he couldn't keep his focus on anything.

Baba had talked to him about being himself. Really being himself. And yes, he'd thought about that before. That he didn't have the same worries here that he had back in Miami. He didn't have to follow the same rules, really. There was nobody here worried about him like that. Except Deb now. But if he were to be sure to keep her out of it, to make sure that SHE never knew, then it would be okay, wouldn't it?

That was the only thing holding him back, really. And she knew what he was, what he did. Even if she didn't want to talk about it. There was the fact that she was his sister, and loved him no matter what.

Oh. But there was something else, wasn't there? Somebody else.

Dexter thought about her while he sipped his coffee at the outdoor table of a cafe.

"What about George?" He said it in a low voice, without really realizing that he'd said it out loud.

"Happy Thoughts!" Betty had said, taking a picture with her new Polaroid before brushing her hand along the back of the man whose picture she's taken and watched him walk off to his doom. It never made her sad, never really concerned her much, the deaths of those whose souls she'd taken. It was meant to be horrific, so so she figured given that the man was haphazardly walking through traffic when she met him. Something painful that his carelessness would have gotten him into.

In fact, Betty had thought he was going to be hit by a car. Except as she watched him further, he moved into an alley and his soul appeared beside her. She never saw what happened and frankly, didn't care to. She just knew that she had done her deed and now she was going to have to wait until the man got his closure before she escorted him away.

But the bugger kept asking her questions. Such as did she hear what was going on in that alley and why shouldn't they try to call the cops to stop whatever it was? Then, when Betty stopped at a street vendor for a hot dog, the man tried to place an order and all she was left saying was, "they can't see you, Sweetie. You're dead." It was spoken very matter-of-factly, with little room for argument.

"But.. how?"

"In that alley, I'd assume. Probably not pretty."

It hadn't taken a lot of self convincing for Hannibal to walk into the movie theater that had the marquee that blazed his name in black letters against bright backlit white. He'd read all the books they had about him, it seemed only natural that he would go see the movie adaptations of them. Besides that, he wanted to discover who this Anthony Hopkins was that everybody kept bringing up. At least then he wouldn't be ignorant of the situation.

He was somewhat unhappy when he walked out of the theater. Anthony Hopkins had been a good choice to pick as an older him. A very believable actor. Very intelligent. Hannibal could see him being very similar to the portrayal when he grew older.

No. The thing that was nagging at him was the changed ending. That wasn't at all how it had gone in the book. Not by a long shot. He could have seen the way things happened in the book. Having Clarice Starling at his side at long last. Living with her in peace and quiet. Never being disturbed by anything again.

But this?

What they had done here, in this movie?

Hannibal shook his head. "That's absolutely absurd." He said to the sign as he looked up at it. "There is absolutely no way I would cut off my own hand to escape the police. Absolutely not."

He found him very disappointed by the portrayal. Though, he had to admit, feeding the child Krendler's brains at the end was very amusing.

There had to be a different version of this ending. There had to be. Because he refused this one.

Der Waffle House was home.

Death sat down in a plush, olive green seat, testing out the restaurant booth with a light bounce. Although she didn't eat Death vaguely remembered what it was like to eat from the few times she'd spent as one of the living. George and Betty would really have to share what the culinary delights of modern junk food were like with her. She read over the menu both pleasantly overwhelmed and fascinated.

A middle-aged and overweight waitress dressed in the sort of dress one might see at an Octoberfest celebration approached the booth. "You ready to order, sweetie?"

"I'm waiting on some friends," Death explained. The waitress nodded and left.

All verbal communication has to be in the form of questions. If a statement or exclamation is made, everybody in the room forgets everything after the point they were placed in the room. There is a sign in the room that says "Do you know the question?" and the door will open if the right question is asked.

Winter.

Betty had always liked winter. Well, not always but since as far back as mattered. Winter was a time of of the undead, after the death of autumn and a time when things rested until their lives began anew in spring. Winter was rather like where Betty spent most of her time. Between worlds. Between the living and the dead as the undead. She'd tried to get out of it once, by the piggyback ride into the great beyond only to be cast into this city where she really had no concept of her place.

Was she still a reaper or not? There were no slips of paper currently telling her who to shadow and whose souls to take, so she was left in a sort of limbo. Stuck not knowing her purpose.

Which she was sort of alright with as well. Not much phased Miss Betty Rohmer. New experiences led to ways to beat stagnation and if there was anything she hated it was becoming stagnant. But she did enjoy winter, and being undead. There was no point in missing being living and longing for a new life beyond what she had unless the opportunity came again to jump to it.

She walked along the street, no real purpose in mind other than seeing what might come about, heels clicking on the pavement. Bundled up in a bright red peacoat and a plaid hat, with her hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket, Betty stared straight ahead. Her head moving to and fro, looking for anything that might catch her eye. Or even anyone, for that matter.

Betty wasn't exactly lonely, but she did occasionally wonder after Rube and Georgia. Roxy and Mason not so much. Rube to an extent, he would be fine; but Georgia definitely. She was a good kid, though a bit misguided and attached to her former life.

So she walked along, hoping for something - anything, to catch her attention.