Do we have any theories about who the Night Nurses Superior at the end of episode 8 of Dead Boy Detectives could be?
The reason I'm curious is that this character was written by Neil Gaiman. Neil confirmed he wrote three scenes in DBD. The first was the scene with Death in episode 1, the second was the scene with Despair in episode 7, and the last was this final scene set in the London office. It is the only scene that this character appears in. She does not give a name, but Night Nurse refers to her as "Your Finality" and I reckon she is the same person whose office we see Night Nurse going to visit earlier with 002 on the door - indicating perhaps she's Death's "right hand woman". She's credited on imdb as "The Principal".
Since Neil wrote this scene, it seems to indicate that either she is an established Neil Gaiman character from the comic, or perhaps that she is more linked to Sandman in a way thats being kept under wraps?
Any Sandman comic fans feel like weighing in on who she could be? Do we know of any characters that may work closely with Death?
Even if she is a new character it may be an interesting one to keep an eye out for. I would love to get more info about Death's realm and any help she has in running the afterlife. If that is possibly being expanded on in Sandman i can't WAIT to see it.
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macushla
Playing cards with the Deathslinger
My first DBD fic!!
contains: killer!reader, just straight up peepaw Caleb
save a horse...
You could say you've settled into your role in this strange new world.
It's routine. You find yourself... somewhere. The Entity starves. It's your responsibility to feed it. When it is sated, you're sent back to the campfire. The Entity's food? You don't care to know. You've grown numb to it.
You've seen others who have a similar role to yours. Particularly two men and two women about your age. The thrill they get from their assignment by the Entity. Licking the blood from their knives and bats. As for you? Your eyes just linger on your hands coated in red. They would definitely be stained.
Your cohorts weren't much for conversation, save for the aforementioned killers your age. They were often met with a grunt or a cold shoulder.
Which is why you pondered endlessly about this bond you created with the Deathslinger.
Caleb thumbed through the deck of cards, dealing them between the two of you with almost impossible dexterity with rotting fingers. He never spoke much (perhaps that's what made it so easy for you to open up to him, you fear you'd annoy the old man.) When he did speak, it was an odd voice: a midwestern drawl somehow with a heavy Irish accent. It wasn't unpleasant.
His lips rise into a ghost of a smile and even his entire face seem to barely light up as you play your hand.
"'Might be the only person your age who knows how t' play twenty-five."
"I don't know," you shrug. "Back home we'd text each old games as a gimmick. I'd imagine there's a couple kids who know how to play because of that."
"Bah," Caleb waved his hand. "That don't count. Come on, now! Nobody appreciates the simplicity of the classics no more."
You shrug. "Guess not."
Caleb gives you a crooked smile. "Ain't many young folk like you no more, mo chuisle. I taught you well."
Caleb called you that a lot. Mo chuisle. A little more often than your actual name. And you were the only person whom he called by name. You never asked him what it meant.
Your conversations often went like this. Caleb would crack an uncharacteristic joke about your age, sometimes when he was in a good mood, you supposed within earshot of the group of friends called the Legion.
"What surprised me the most," you began, "was how sloppy they were." You eye the hand you intend to trump on Caleb. "It's like they're just sticking their hands into the live wires until something works."
"Suits you, don't it? Make it easier on you?"
"Eh, I think I prefer the challenge." You knew that was what exactly Caleb wanted to hear. His broken jaw made his proud smile comically lopsided. You fan out the cards you intend on trumping Caleb with, and he raises a brow, putting down his hand.
"You sure about that?" He asks lowly, eyeing your hand quizzically.
"What?"
"I think you should look at that hand again, mo chuisle."
You look at your cards again, and notice a fatal fumble in your hand that would have cost you the game. You fight a blush you feel coming onto your cheeks and sheepishly pull back your hand. "Huh..."
"Come on now, you know better than that."
Caleb wasn't sure what he saw in you. Or why he gave you such special treatment. There were a few "killers," he supposed that were around your age. A few too many, he supposed. What made you different? Was he unconsciously reminded of someone from his past? Did he think you were weak and needed protection?
He wasn't sure what it was about you that tugged at whatever was left of his heart that endeared him to you. It felt natural. He needed to protect you, and he didn't know why.
It was best he'd kept it that way.
"Look here," Caleb fanned out his set of cards for you, continuing on with the game you both briefly forgot you were playing. "I reckon we jink this, mo chuisle."
Mo chuisle.
Maybe one day, he'd tell you what your little nickname meant. One day, if you all somehow get out of here, or, when eventually, this dark God decides to turn on you all.
—
mo chuisle: "my darling" "my blood" literally means "my pulse."
macushla: the song where "mo chuisle" comes from.
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