And a brief moment of horrible pain later he's standing, whole, in the middle of a garden.

aaaAAAAahaaaaAAAAA??????!!?!!?

The garden appears to be growing pineapples.

...Pineapples are very weird-looking actually.

aaaAAAAaaaaaaaaaaAAAaaaaAa

okay. okay, that's, enough, of that. 

Mordred, without really processing that he's doing it, pushes up his sleeve, bites down on his arm, and stays that way until his brain has stopped screaming.

Then he looks around properly.

"Hello!" a person in brown robes who is weeding the garden says cheerfully. "Do you need to go to the quiet room?"

"I don't know what that is. I just died, I think. Is there something standard I'm supposed to do about that." 

It occurs to him that this garden, which has pineapples and calm people and no fire or screams of the damned or anything, is not really very much like Hell. 

"Oh," the person says calmly. "That sounds very scary. I would be terrified if I'd died. The quiet room is a safe place to scream or cry or throw yourself against the wall or bite yourself, although we do try to discourage biting yourself. It's soundproofed and there are stuffed animals and things to color with and cookies and tea and you can listen to music or watch calming videos if you like." 

What.

"Yes, please. That sounds great. Thank you." 

The person in brown robes stands up. "All right. I'll take you there. My name is Kindness, by the way. What's yours?"

...is he going to?

Yeah he's going to. He's dead and not in Hell and talking to someone named Kindness. Might as well.

"Mordred Melchior. Nice to meet you." 

"Mordred! Nice to meet you."

They walk with him through the pineapples to a squat brown building, past two or three other people in brown robes weeding. 

Inside; the building itself looks a little bit like a cross between a school and an apartment building; more people with robes are walking along, carrying books and pushing carts full of food. No one is speaking. 

The not speaking is a little weird but something something when in Rome. Or wherever.

He doesn't have phantom pain from the truck at all which is nice even if it's weird. Also he zero percent understands what is happening or why or how he isn't in Hell or, again, why, but that sounds like a problem he can work on when he is in the room where one is allowed to scream and bite oneself and there's music.

The quiet room has a soft padded floor and soft padded walls, kind of like an insane asylum, but there is no obvious way to lock anyone up in it. There is, as promised, stuffed animals and various sorts of things to draw with; a tea kettle and an assortment of teabags; a refrigerator; cookies, crackers, doughnuts, and fresh sliced bread; a bookshelf; and a computer on the wall with buttons labeled "Music," "Videos," "Incense," "Phone," and "Intercom." 

Someone has written "FUCK" on the walls.

Kindness frowns. "Ugh, it was Hope's day to clean the quiet room, is he slacking again? I'm going to reprimand him. Well, I hope that's not going to bother you too much."

Mordred might also notice that, while he knows perfectly well the word says "FUCK", it is not in fact in the conventional English alphabet or any alphabet he recognizes. When he thinks about it, the language he's speaking also isn't English.

Mordred feels a distinct sort of kinship with the sort of person who, when given a room in which to calm down, writes FUCK on the walls. He has had the impulse many times in his life to go at things with a sharpie until they all say NON SERVIAM and this seems like a similar sort of sentiment. "It won't bother me at all." 

That being said now that he's actually here, where he's allowed to scream and cry and bite himself and write on things for the first time in possibly his entire life or possibly just since he stopped being a toddler, he doesn't really have much of an impulse to do anything except flop on the floor. This is a fucking ripoff.

Kindness closes the door and leaves him to his flopping or screaming, as the case may be. 

From his perspective he just left the cookies and coffee part of church but fuck it he wants a donut so he's going to have one.

Or two. And some cookies. And then he presses the button labeled "music" and checks out the bookshelf, because the language thing is extremely weird and he isn't thinking of specific tests to do about it but he's sort of constitutionally incapable of not poking anything.

The button labeled "Music" gives him the options of "Hymns," "Folk," and "Classical."

No hymns. Mordred is anti-hymn. Folk sounds fine. 

"Folk" has the options "Choose For Me," "Pick a Playlist," and "Search for Song."

Until such time as he knows any (any) music around here the computer can just choose for him.

A song starts playing which seems to consist exclusively of elaborate puns about sex, all of which Mordred can follow even though he does not technically speak this language.

He thinks he likes this place. Whatever it is and whyever he's here.

He flops on the floor -- the padding makes this much more comfortable than it would otherwise be, and slightly bouncy -- and eats the provided cookies and tries to think, except he gets about as far as 

1. This is clearly not Hell

2. Where is it then???

before he no longer has anything else to go off of except for just plain making stuff up. It would be cool if there were lots of other universes that worked in wildly different ways like in His Dark Materials and when you die you get dropped in one of them but things aren't true just because it would be cool for them to be and the music, elaborate-pun-filled though it is, is not helping much there.

So he gets up again. What about the bookshelf? 

Prayer book! Hymn book! Several books of religious essays! Several books of religious fiction! Romance novels! Fantasy novels! Puzzle books! Poetry! Photograph books!