The Universe's Mixer

Dr. Simon was making the rounds. He hadn't seen Dr. Strange since their last meeting, but he suspected the man was working hard to help the patients. Unless he had slipped back into talking about his strange obsession with doormen. Or just the one named Mu. Dr. Simon was still trying to figure out why anyone would want to be part of an immortal fishing hole, not that he'd ever been to a fishing hole. He supposed it could be pleasant and calming.

At the moment, Dr. Simon was out in the courtyard. There had been an incident recently with an armed patient, but it had been settled. Dr. Simon had warned the staff that sporks were evil; while they may be efficient and decrease clutter, sporks were certainly acts against nature in their hybridized form. Chop sticks were much cleaner. The staff had told Dr. Simon in no uncertain terms that chop sticks were more dangerous than sporks. That had been that.

The good doctor walked slowly along the outer part of the courtyard, watching the patients, making sure they were interacting well when they did interact. It seemed to be a nice calm place, and Dr. Simon was rather happy to be out of the building proper. He was beginning to get restless; something didn't feel right, as if he'd forgotten something. He knew it couldn't have been leaving the oven or the iron on as he had neither. No, he felt as if he weren't complete. It was a disturbing feeling no matter the source, so he hoped that helping one of the patients would ease that unsettling/disturbed feeling.

There were few things to know about Death. She had very few rules. Those she did have she was known to break. For example, everyone dies. Eventually. As a rule, once it was your time Death ushered you gently into the afterlife. But sometimes-- very so often-- Death sometimes bent that rule. She'd bent that rule for an entire race of beings, in fact.

And as another general rule Death did not interfere. Except when she did. There wasn't any rhyme or reason to when Death decided to pop up, only that sometimes she did. Sometimes she even gave gifts. Like Jesse's scarf. The Texan god was easy enough to spot. Even when he was supposed to merely human-- thanks to the scarf Death had knit him-- he still lit up the room, in his way.

Death sat down next to him in a chair, still wearing the black cotton version of all the other patient's clothes. She put her grey, unliving hand over his. Her smile was apologetic. "How're you doing, Jesse?"