#( if someone ever asks whats the strangest crossover pairing i have... its this )

[sixbillicnsoulsarchive]

connor loves and appreciates olivia queen. thank you for coming to my tedtalk.

[glorious-blackout]

Soooo @rock-n-roll-fantasy wanted me to write an essay on my self-indulgent theory that Muse’s ‘Simulation Theory’ and Arctic Monkeys’ ‘Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino’ are set in the same universe, and my brain rather predictably used this as an opportunity to develop a novel-length crossover fic instead. I’m starting to doubt that the full idea will ever get written purely because life has a habit of getting in the way, but here’s a bit of an overlong teaser in place of your essay! 😉🥰

*************************************

The trek from Room 521 to the ballroom is a long, monotonous one. Not that that particularly matters; even if Mark didn’t know every corridor like the back of his hand, he no doubt would have been guided to his destination regardless, simply by following the growing ruckus of banal chatter overlying soft musical notes. His own band won’t be the ones playing tonight – thank Christ seeing as he barely has the energy to hold a mic for two hours let alone sing into it – but the prospect of spending the evening alone in his room had hardly been tempting. He could have arranged to meet one of the lads for a drink, he supposes, but he hadn’t wanted to impose. They all have lives beyond the hotel after all, whereas he remains tied to its walls like an obedient dog on a leash.

High-ceilinged corridors eventually lure him towards a set of heavy oak doors, the only veil remaining between him and a horde of guests who by now are likely enjoying their third glass of champagne. Muffled conversations become crystal clear for a moment as one guest stumbles onto the corridor looking considerably worse for wear, but the noise is quickly silenced by an exaggerated slam. The guest sways on his feet for a moment, narrowed eyes struggling to maintain focus on Mark’s face, before he huffs and takes the first step of what promises to be an arduous journey back to his room. No doubt he’ll have collapsed in a pool of his own vomit before he’s even halfway there, adding one more job to the cleaners’ already overflowing pile in the process. Mark sighs, already regretting his decision to be sociable, and forces himself over the threshold before he can change his mind.

The ballroom does ignite a certain pride within his chest, he must admit. The spacious hall - resting beneath a curved ceiling kept afloat by granite columns - is a stark contrast to the narrow claustrophobic corridors leading up to it, and the size is adequate enough that the space never feels too crowded. Waiters flit back and forth between packed circular tables on the fringes, offering blessed champagne or scotch from a well-stocked bar, and an elevated platform at the far-end of the hall proudly showcases the evening’s entertainment.  

It would appear the choice of dance tonight is a simple waltz. Guests dressed to the nines in elegant frocks and sharp tuxedos glide effortlessly along the polished dancefloor; guided by lilting piano notes as they sway beneath the soft light of a glittering chandelier. As usual, Mark feels no particular inclination to join them. On occasion, he himself will be the one sat by the piano, enticing his guests to dance for him whenever the evening feels a little too stagnant, but it would appear that his influence is not needed tonight. Besides, the only thing enticing him for the moment is the bar.

Despite having to make his way through the masses in order to reach his destination, luck must be on his side for no-one takes the opportunity to disturb him. He must have timed his trip well enough that the drinks are already taking hold, to the point where the hotel owner himself has become an unnoteworthy presence. His short walk to the bar goes entirely without a hitch, so much so that it probably shouldn’t surprise him when he arrives to find that his luck has run dry.

There’s someone sitting in his usual spot. Logically he knows this isn’t an issue; there are plenty of free stools lined up against the horseshoe-shaped counter, but the sight gives him pause nonetheless. For as long as he can remember, that centerfold seat has been his and his alone, and the sight of someone new sitting there has unease coiling in his gut for reasons he cannot explain. If that were the strangest thing about this situation then he could have moved on and settled himself elsewhere without another thought, but what truly makes him gape is the appearance of the man who has seen fit to take his place.

In stark contrast to the stylish formalwear adorning the vast majority of guests, this man seems to have made it his mission to break every rule of fashion there is. The loud red jeans and shiny trainers would no doubt have been bad enough on their own, but in comparison to the gaudy nylon jacket and the lit neon sunglasses which remain fused to his face despite being indoors, the lower half of his body looks positively tame. Intricate circuitry is affixed to the front of the jacket, with wires snaking their way into a large pocket which no doubt houses a switch designed to make the jacket as loud as the sunglasses. Mark can’t help but wonder how this man hasn’t attracted any unwanted attention and has instead been left to cradle his glass of bourbon in relative peace. Perhaps this is the current fashion trend on Earth and someone has simply forgotten to give Mark that particular memo.

Shaking his head once and remembering his mother sternly telling him that staring is rude, Mark clears his throat and gestures to the free stool by his side when a pair of concealed eyes turn in his direction.  

“Mind if I take this seat?” he asks, well aware that he of all people shouldn’t need to ask permission.

A knowing smile graces the man’s thin face and he nods graciously, removing his glasses to reveal surprisingly gentle blue eyes. He appears more normal up close than Mark anticipated, barring a pair of impressively sharp cheekbones and a hairstyle so haphazard he doubts an intense combing session would tame it.

“Be my guest,” the man offers in an accent which turns out to be English, to Mark’s not unpleasant surprise. Besides the lads, he can’t remember the last time he encountered someone from home. “Though I imagine that’s usually your line.”

A surprised laugh escapes Mark at the lame joke, causing the stranger to grin proudly before taking another generous sip of bourbon. Mark considers calling the waiter over – the impressive display of booze resting before him is enough to make his mouth water – but the man in question appears to be preoccupied with an uptight elderly couple nearby, and besides, his curiosity is already threatening to consume him. The booze can wait.

“Love what you’ve done with the place,” the man interjects before Mark can ask the question weighing on his mind. The words escape like a bullet, so rapidly that the compliment could easily be dismissed as flippant, but the stranger’s smile seems sincere enough. “You’ve got one hell of a mind, Turner.”

There’s a gravity to his tone that Mark can’t quite comprehend, but he doesn’t dwell on it.  

“How did you get here?” Mark asks, aiming for a conversational tone only to flinch when the words emerge as confrontational instead. In an attempt to save face, he adds, “I don’t remember greeting you at the station, is all.”

‘I would have remembered if I had’ goes unsaid, though the implication doesn’t appear to be lost on his new companion.

“Interdimensional portal,” he replies without missing a beat, bringing his glass to his lips once more as he gazes at Mark with mischief in his eyes and a challenge in his smirk.

The ensuing silence is broken almost immediately as Mark bursts out laughing again; an action which appears to serve as an invitation for the other man to join him. The high-pitched giggle is unexpected, but the sound of it is enough to melt some of Mark’s lingering unease.

“I doubt technology’s reached that stage yet,” Mark teases once he’s recovered his composure. “Not unless they’re keeping secrets from me back home.”  

“I wouldn’t sound so sure if I were you,” the man retaliates, that same challenge resting on his lips and a single brow quirked upwards with mocking intent. “How long has it been since you visited Earth?”

The lightness in Mark’s chest vanishes for a moment and his brows knit together as he ponders the question. Strange. Now that he thinks about it, he honestly can’t recall how long it’s been.

When it becomes clear that no answer is forthcoming, his companion simply shrugs before facing ahead once more, demolishing the rest of his drink with a single gulp. It’s impossible to tell how much he’s had already. His current glass barely seems to have touched him, unless his strange approach to conversation is merely the product of drunken ramblings. He makes no move to relinquish his seat however, nor does he signal to the now-free waiter for a refill, and Mark finds himself facing straight ahead as he contemplates the choice lying before him.

On the one hand, this man is clearly strange. The unease which continues to coil in his gut is proof enough of that, and Mark imagines that walking away now would spare him a world a confusion. His eyelids feel heavy enough as it is without his mind being weighed down as well.  

On the other hand, he honestly can’t remember the last time he had a conversation that was so... spontaneous. He’s grown accustomed to forced chats about hotel business and band rehearsals, to the point where he can’t remember the last time anyone made him laugh in pleasant surprise. Until tonight that is.  

And honestly, what is his alternative? Mingling with the guests and sweeping up compliments about the taqueria, or the pool, or the perfect view of Earth offered by the casino’s transparent ceiling? Having to listen to rich businessmen divulge their recent purchases of eye-wateringly expensive yachts or starships, while wives half their age hang onto their arm and pretend to look interested?

It isn’t really a contest in the end.

Decision made, Mark gestures to the waiter, who approaches with what he suspects is a put-on smile. To the man’s credit, said smile doesn’t falter even when he casts a sideways glance towards his boss’s unconventional choice of companion.

“Sixteen-year-old Lagavulin please, Andrew,” Mark orders with an easy smile of his own. “And one for my friend here as well.”

Andrew hesitates for only a moment before preparing the drinks with practiced ease, applying a crystallised ball of ice to Mark’s glass once both whiskies are poured. At his side, the mysterious stranger eyes Mark with what appears to be surprise at this unprompted display of generosity, but the smile returns soon enough as he takes his drink in hand and thanks Andrew with all the grace of a perfect gent.

“You trying to get me drunk, Turner?” he teases, though if he’s opposed to the idea he doesn’t show it.

“Just hoping for some interesting conversation,” Mark responds with a wry smirk of his own. “Scotch usually helps with that, I’ve found.”

Without further ado, he takes a sip and closes his eyes in satisfaction as the golden liquid instantly works its magic. A pleasant burn trails down his throat until warmth settles in his belly, and any lingering stress drifts away like smoke on a breeze.

“You can call me Mark by the way,” he says, raising his glass as an invitation. “It’s about time we introduced ourselves, don’t you think?”

A flicker of unidentifiable emotion crosses over his companion’s face, just for a second, before he returns Mark’s easy smile and brings their glasses together with a soft clink.

“Matthew,” he says, which strikes Mark as such an ordinary name for one committed to looking so extraordinary. “But you can call me Matt. Everyone else does.”

Mark nods in acknowledgement before returning to his drink, and they wile away the following minutes in companiable silence. The band appear to have moved on from classical waltzes and are now playing a smooth jazz number, the seductive groove of the double-bass soothing Mark into closing his eyes and forgetting the hundreds of guests gathered nearby. The chatter has died down slightly since his arrival, but the odd clink of a glass or drunken laugh is enough to assure him that he’s not entirely alone. Not as alone as he would have been had he remained in his room with only the hotel blueprints and a virtual reality mask for company.

In a few more moments he may even have found himself forgetting Matt’s presence, but it isn’t long before his reverie is broken by a now-familiar voice.

“What do you know of ‘Simulation Theory’?” Matt asks flippantly, as though it’s the most ordinary question in the world. The fact that Mark can only stare dumbly for several seconds is likely a sign that his scotch is already beginning to take hold, but he eventually forces himself to give a resigned shrug.

“Not much,” he admits. The name doesn’t sound familiar in the slightest, though he’ll admit that he isn’t known for scouring scientific journals. “I suspect that’s about to change though.”  

That statement seems to be invitation enough for Matt, who downs the rest of his drink without so much as a flinch before launching into what appears to be a well-practiced spiel.

Mark can only try to keep up between finishing one drink and ordering another, as Matt starts explaining the concept of computers advancing to the point where they can simulate the laws of physics, so much so that the future of interplanetary travel may end up being achieved via the means of simulated reality - unlimited by the demands of the fragile human body - rather than old-fashioned means such as starships or satellites as ancient sci-fi shows had predicted. The whole lecture is delivered in what must be Matt’s typical rapid-fire delivery; Mark would likely have been left with little breathing room even if he had been entirely sober, which he is becoming less and less so as the evening wears on. With his keen enthusiasm and eccentric hand movements, Mark reckons Matt would have made an excellent physics professor in another life if the concepts escaping his mind weren’t so utterly ridiculous.

“Which of course poses the question,” Matt concludes eventually, pausing to stop for breath. A pleasant buzz is coursing through Mark’s veins by this point, and he rests his head on one hand as he studies Matt with an amused smile. “If we conclude that it is feasibly possible for technology to exist which is capable of simulating reality so convincingly, who is to say that it hasn’t already happened? What if we’re all just cogs in a machine, believing our decisions are our own and that everything around us is real, when in actuality we’re being watched and studied and controlled? Like ants under a microscope?”

“Hmm,” Mark ponders the question as best he can, taking another sip despite knowing it won’t help. It strikes him that the whisky has already rendered him soft and sleepy, whereas Matt doesn’t appear to have been affected at all despite the fact that he’s clearly had more. As quick as his delivery is, Mark can’t even recall hearing a slur. “Like characters in a videogame or summat?”

“Something like that I suppose,” Matt concurs, though there’s a tension in his skinny frame that implies Mark has barely scratched the surface. “What do you reckon would happen if a videogame character realised they were trapped in a videogame? That their entire lives were a fiction and that someone else was in control?”

“I imagine they’d spiral into existential dread,” Mark concludes with a dismissive shrug, polishing off what must be his third glass and placing it face-down on the countertop. It would probably be best if he stops now, seeing as Matt appears to be in a philosophical mood. “Good thing they can’t think or feel anything then, isn’t it? They just do as they’re told.”

An amused smirk graces Matt’s face and there’s a glint in those blue eyes that implies he wants to add something, but he keeps his mouth firmly shut. For now at least. Mark uses this window of silence to wipe the exhaustion from his eyes before casting a glance around the ballroom. It’s still relatively busy. The band have given no indication that they’re approaching the end of their set, and so long as the drinks keep flowing, there will always be ample opportunity for dancing and conversation. He loses himself for a moment as he observes the movements of the guests gracing the dancefloor; everyone from beautiful newlyweds to elderly couples celebrating their golden anniversaries locked in intimate embraces, with eyes only for each other. Matt’s musings weave their way through his mind and he finds himself searching for flaws in the system; a hint that what he’s seeing isn’t all it appears to be. He scans the faces of the guests to see if he can find any duplication; eavesdrops on nearby conversations in search of generic, repetitive sentences. He feels the warm cotton of his suit and the cool condensation on his glass and the sticky sweat on the palm of his hand, only to conclude that it all must surely be real. He knows all-too-well what it’s like to wander lucidly through a dream, and this isn’t one.

Still, the possibility is fascinating. Ludicrous, but fascinating.  

“Let’s say you’re right,” he starts, taking a moment to select his next words carefully. He doesn’t usually feel the need to be so cautious in conversation, but Matt’s ability to spout ridiculous theories with the utmost confidence has left him feeling like he’s playing catch-up. “And let’s say that we’re the ones trapped in this game, or simulation, or whatever you want to call it.”

Matt turns to him as though shocked that Mark’s actually giving his ramblings any consideration, and he can’t help but wonder how many times he’s been shot down in the past. He pauses, half-expecting an interruption, but Matt’s only response is a smile followed by an encouraging nod.

“What if there’s a reason behind the fiction?” he proposes, more confidently now. “What if we’ve been trapped in a game because reality is terrible.”

“And therein lies our conundrum!” Matt says, eyes lighting up with childlike glee as he leans back and slams his hand on the counter. Tending to a guest a few seats away, Andrew side-eyes him warily, perhaps wondering if he’ll be forced to escort another drunk from the premises soon, but Mark’s total lack of concern seems to reassure him. “Is it better to exist within a terrible reality or a beautiful lie?”

The hypothetical weight of the question stumps Mark for a moment. Any thoughts which had previously been running through his mind fragment like shattered glass, leaving only a warm fuzz in their place. He lets himself imagine what it would be like to have an all-powerful, all-seeing creature manipulate his thoughts - moulding them like clay - and despite the room’s pleasant warmth, he finds himself shivering. It’s not that he believes Matt’s theories – far from it – but pondering the question elicits the same uncertainty planted by movies like his beloved Blade Runner; makes him contemplate deep, existential ‘What-ifs’ until sleep eludes him and a shiver creeps up his spine.

When the power of speech finally returns to him, he finds the words spilling forth without having crossed his mind beforehand.

“I think we’re both a little too drunk for philosophical discussions, don’t you agree?” he says blankly, though upon hearing the words even he is left utterly unconvinced. He may already be able to anticipate the crushing headache that morning will bring, but he’s managed to remain somewhat lucid so far. Matt, damn him, doesn’t appear to have been affected by the alcohol at all. Nor does he seem willing to let Mark back down; instead he pointedly says nothing as his lips curl upwards in an unspoken challenge.  

Mark sighs, before forcing himself to answer the question with one of his own.

“If the fiction is so convincing that you could go from birth to death without realising it is a fiction, does it really make a difference?”

“A fair point,” Matt concedes with a shrug, though Mark doesn’t miss the way his expression darkens. A twitch in his jaw implies that his words have struck a nerve, only he can’t possibly see why that would be the case. He expects Matt to elaborate further – to quash his argument with a clever retaliation – but he simply turns back towards the wall of booze and signals to Andrew to bring him another glass of scotch. The temptation to tell him that he’ll need to be carried back to his room on a stretcher if he carries on like this is momentarily overwhelming, but the words remain glued to Mark’s tongue like resin. His mouth feels as dry as sandpaper and the flurry of unease which had been temporarily dispelled returns with a burning vengeance. All he can do is watch as Matt gratefully accepts what must be his fifth glass and gulps half of it down his throat without the slightest hint of hesitation.

Something stirs in the back of Mark’s mind. A distant memory perhaps; a vague flicker of recognition which had lain buried until this moment. He can honestly swear he has never laid eyes on Matt before today, but it strikes him that their camaraderie has been a little too easy tonight. Almost as though he should know Matt from his previous life on Earth.

But he doesn’t. He knows that for a fact, and any treacherous doubts suggesting otherwise are swiftly cast aside with an urgency he can’t explain.

It doesn’t take long for Matt to polish off his glass, setting it down on the counter with a finality which suggests it’ll be his last of the night. Just as well, Mark thinks. He can feel the evening beginning to wind down already, and he can feel fatigue settling into his bones.

Before he can offer to foot the bill, his companion finally decides to pipe up again. Any trace of his earlier bravado appears to have abandoned him, leaving him crouched and visibly exhausted, his voice impossibly small.

“If nothing is real – if everything around us truly is a fiction - then it stands to reason that there’s no underlying purpose to our existence. Our lives are there to serve as meaningless entertainment for something lurking in the shadows and nothing more. So everything we do or say, everyone we love...none of it matters in the end. Not really.”

He looks directly at Mark then, his once gentle blue eyes burning with an intensity that makes him want to shrink back like a frightened child. A silly notion really. Of all the words to describe Matt, ‘threatening’ doesn’t immediately come to mind, but the discomfort lingers regardless. Matt must notice, for he averts his eyes to the floor almost immediately and offers a small, apologetic smile as recompense.

“I just don’t think I could live with that,” he concludes with a certainty that has Mark’s chest tightening. “No matter how beautiful the lie is.”

A beat passes. Then another. Mark becomes all-too aware of his heart pounding in his chest, trying to assure him that he’s okay; that he’s solid and real. It occurs to him that he has forgotten how to breathe, and the discomfort in his chest outweighs the soothing burn the scotch had planted there earlier.  

Matt doesn’t say anything else. Instead he runs a hand through his wayward hair, before ultimately deciding that fidgeting with his discarded sunglasses would be a better use of his time. Against his better judgement, Mark allows the weight of his words to sink in and momentarily imagines an existence in which all of his actions are pre-determined, his thoughts carefully filtered. Where everyone he loves are simply figments of expertly-written code. Where any responsibilities he may have are ultimately unimportant.

A simpler existence perhaps, but a wholly purposeless one.  

“I don’t think I’d want to live like that either,” he admits quietly, so much so that he’s amazed Matt hears him. He must do however, for the words force him to look at Mark again, his expression unreadable besides a hint of sadness in deep blue eyes.  

There doesn’t appear to be anything more to say. Words escape him - even the simple courtesies which usually come so naturally - and yet he cannot bring himself to look away. Matt seems to be in the same predicament. For a moment it’s as though they’re both gazing into a supernova, unwilling to look away despite knowing full well that the sight will blind them.

For the first time all evening he finds himself missing his friends. His Matt would have told him to snap out of it by now and Jamie or Nick would have called him a twat for getting so worked up about meaningless theories, and while Mark may have retaliated with a pointed ‘fuck off’, he no doubt would have felt lighter in their presence.

In the end it’s Matt who breaks the spell first. His eyes are drawn from Mark’s face to something lurking in the background, and a palpable shift overcomes him as thin lips are pulled into a grim line. Beneath soft overhead lights, Matt visibly pales and his pupils dilate with what Mark can only presume is fear, and white fists clench so tightly around his glasses that it’s amazing they don’t shatter. Dread claws into Mark’s chest with no explanation, and before curiosity can swallow him whole, he turns his head to follow Matt’s eyeline.

It only takes a moment to locate what has grabbed his friend’s attention. The new arrivals have barely made an effort to blend in after all. Standing out among the throng of increasingly drunk guests, two men linger at the far end of the hall, eyes obscured by dark sunglasses and twin postures stiff and unyielding. Both are clad in leather jackets which are only slightly less conspicuous than Matt’s own, and once again a treacherous flicker of recognition ignites in Mark’s brain before sputtering into a puff of smoke. The taller man must be pushing six feet, his brown hair cropped short and a 5 o’clock shadow darkening his features as effectively as the scowl on his lips. The smaller man must be around Mark’s height and appears slightly less threatening for it, though from a distance he almost resembles Matt himself with the exception of his dirty-blond hair.  

For a moment Mark wonders if the two men are members of his own security team, seeking out Matt on grounds of a misdemeanor which Mark has been blissfully unaware of all night. Matt doesn’t necessarily look surprised to see them after all, though their presence certainly disturbs him. That thought is cast aside quickly, however. Mark has made an effort to familiarise himself with every member of his workforce, and even if these two are last-minute recruits, their outfits don’t resemble any worn by the rest of his staff.

The not-so-concealed carry lurking on their belts is hardly a feature of his security team either.

Blood freezing as two hidden pairs of eyes settle on the bar and its occupants, Mark turns to Matt in a panic; mouth open with the intention of voicing a warning, or demanding an explanation, or both, but Matt is already one step ahead of him. Those awful neon sunglasses are back on his face, albeit he has the good sense not to activate them this time, and he throws some crumpled notes onto the counter before turning to Mark with what is no doubt supposed to be a reassuring smile. It doesn’t work of course, though he imagines Matt is well-aware of that.  

As a gesture of goodwill, Matt places a firm hand on Mark’s shoulder and offers what sounds like a very final farewell.

“It was good to see you again, Alex.”

And then he’s off, wandering past the quickly emptying dining tables and mixing with the assorted bodies on the dancefloor. Fat lot of good it does; he has about as much chance of blending in here as a giraffe does hiding among a gang of meerkats. Casting a glance towards the mysterious arrivals, Mark spots them making their way towards the dancefloor, the only indication of urgency being the grim determination on their faces. They don’t seem to have any interest in him for the moment, but that prospect brings him little in the way of relief. Instead he simply feels nausea crawling up his throat, and as Matt threatens to escape his eyeline, a new madness takes hold and compels him to follow.  

Keeping Matt in his sights is more difficult than he’d hoped it would be. As much as he stands out among the crowd of dancers, once Mark finds himself trapped within that very crowd, his ability to focus on what’s directly ahead of him falters. The band has gone and a DJ has taken their place, enticing drunk youths to stumble to and fro under the guise of dancing, and Mark finds himself being roughly grabbed more than once by revelers inviting him to join in. One man pointedly tells him to “fuck off” when he manages to free his arm from his tight grip, before swanning off to harass some other poor sod, but Mark forces himself to recover quickly and carries on with his misguided pursuit. Later it will occur to him that he is not usually in the habit of hiring DJs, nor is the ballroom usually so crowded at this late hour as the casino tends to attract the night-owls, but for now all he can focus on is Matt’s retreating back sneaking onto one of the many corridors adjoining the hall.  

Mark follows him seconds later, having escaped the horde with his limbs intact; not daring to look back to check if their assailants have located them. It occurs to him that as hotel owner, he could abuse his status and stand in their way in order to buy time, but he’s not sure he trusts them to resist putting a bullet in his head for insubordination. He may not have the faintest idea of what’s going on, but it feels so much bigger than him somehow. Like he’s been handed solid proof that everything he’s achieved – the hotel, his band, his reputation – is meaningless in the grand scale of the universe.

He stumbles onto the corridor just in time to spot Matt turning right at the far end, and he follows as quickly as he dares. The next turn is a left, then another left, then a right... an endless maze of blinding white walls and hotel room doors, flanked by sprouting monstrosities emerging from intricately painted plant-pots. After a while it seems like Matt has deliberately chosen this route to tease him, and he begins to wonder if this entire evening has been a devilish ploy, but the thought has barely had a chance to take hold when he finally reaches the end of the line.  

There is no turning point at the end of this corridor. Only an unassuming wooden door leading into what appears to be a store cupboard. There aren’t even any hotel rooms remaining in this section; instead the route ahead is lined with marble columns sporting busts with expressionless faces.

Mark only manages one step forward before freezing, as icy fingers of dread crawl up his spine and clutch his heart in a fierce grip.  

No being in the universe knows this hotel better than he does. He knows every room, every corridor, every little nook and cranny as surely as he knows his own name. As well he should; he designed every inch of the place.

And yet, he can say with absolute certainty that he has never laid eyes on this corridor before. Not even in a passing dream.  

Before he can blame the obvious hallucination on the scotch, or even glance back in search of Matt’s pursuers, the silence is shattered by a blinding red light emanating from the cupboard door, illuminating the corridor in time with a sharp, mechanical whine. Mark raises a hand to his eyes as the light pulses in time with his heartbeat - giving untouched walls the appearance of being drenched in blood - and the accompanying noise slams against his eardrums with unrelenting ferocity. Against his better judgement, he presses onward, cowering as the assault on his senses intensifies with every step. No doubt he will be left with nothing but regret as a result of this choice, but he fears the lack of answers will drive him mad if he doesn’t see what lies beyond that door.  

Besides, Matt must be in there. There’s nowhere else he could have gone, and Mark has little desire to leave him for dead.  

The pulsating doesn’t stop until he reaches the door. Body trembling in the quiet aftermath, he takes a moment to recover as the light’s echo persists with every blink of his eyes and a sharp ringing assaults his ears. His breathing sounds painfully uneven in spite of his efforts to remain calm, and he can feel his heart hammering away in an attempt to break free from his chest. He finds himself wishing he could explain away these last ten minutes, but his mind feels numb with uncertainty and the alcohol certainly isn’t helping. Has it even been ten minutes since he’d been sitting at the bar? It simultaneously feels like it’s been mere seconds and several hours since he was enjoying his evening without a care in the world.

The cupboard door remains unopened, the handle a seductive enchantress promising answers he isn’t sure he wants. This new silence doesn’t bode well, and his lack of familiarity with this section of the hotel only increases his chances of running into danger on the way back. There is no doubt in his mind that he’s damned regardless of what he does however; he may as well sate his curiosity in the meantime.  

A cool trickle of sweat slides down his cheek as a trembling hand curls around the door handle, and he pulls sharply before sanity can take hold, expecting resistance but receiving none.  

It seems he will have to settle for not receiving answers either.

The cupboard is empty.

******************************

The details of how he stumbled back to Room 521 and wound up sprawled on his bed are a murky blur. Even as his drunken haze makes way for a pounding headache, he can only recall glimpses of dragging his feet back the way he came; wandering through an almost deserted ballroom followed by similarly empty corridors, before eventually collapsing into bed with a crushing exhaustion. Despite his fears, he never did end up encountering those two assailants on his way back, nor did he glean any further clues as to Matt’s whereabouts. All three men had vanished into the night as mysteriously as they’d appeared, and a numb regret settling over his mind is enough to assure him that he will never see Matt again.

That is, if he even existed in the first place. As the night wears on, he begins to feel more inclined to put the evening’s events down to the drunken hallucinations of a lonely mind. Perhaps if he calls Jamie in the morning, he can put his mind at ease and call him a silly twat, erasing the whole sorry ordeal in the space of one conversation. The urge to pick up the phone now is almost too tempting to resist, but he stays put for now. There’s no need to bother his friend with the drunken ramblings of a madman. Not at this hour anyway.  

Reassurance can wait. For now, he desperately needs sleep which is stubbornly unforthcoming.  

He misses the presence of moonlight. That notion is so strange that a weak rebellious smile tugs at his lips, before the bitter sting of tears replaces it. Homesickness is unlike him – he has never been inclined to hop on a rocket and return home no matter how easy it would be – but right now his yearning for Earth feels suffocating. He misses the moon’s comforting presence in the sky and the wonder it had elicited from him as a child. He misses it hanging overhead as he wandered along silent streets with friends and lovers, singing and kissing and stumbling drunkenly as joyous laughter broke through the relative peace. He misses waking up with his heart in his throat and a new lyric in his head, only to be soothed instantly by luminous streaks of light.  

All he has here is thick, empty darkness which seems intent on crushing him down to dust.

Those memories of home seem so distant now. Unreachable; locked away in a chest sporting a rusted padlock and buried deep beneath the realm of consciousness. Perhaps it would be best if they remained buried. Even if Mark were capable of digging them up and freeing them from their prison, the sheer weight of the memories within would surely drown him in an instant.    

Mark shakes his head and closes his eyes before bitter tears can trail down his cheeks. It would be best not to dwell on such things. His nights are sleepless enough as it is.  

It only occurs to him later, as unblinking eyes linger on the ceiling above, that Matt had casually referred to him as ‘Alex’ and that the thought of questioning it hadn’t even crossed his mind.

[themurphyzone]

Double Date

A PnF/MML crossover. Oneshot. Read this on a full stomach. I’m kind of craving seafood now....

Perry was starting to wish he’d gone with a simple Chinese buffet per Heinz’s original suggestion. But nope. 

He’d wanted a special dinner at an expensive seafood restaurant as a “congratulations, you aren’t evil anymore and we can finally have a night out without OWCA calling it a fraternization”. And he’d heard this place had excellent calamari. He couldn’t help it. 

Some platypi just required a more sophisticated palette. 

He’d saved up his salary for months (completely denying that he’d planned almost as extensively as Heinz once did for his schemes), scoured the Flynn-Fletcher and Doofenshmirtz couches for pocket change, and put in a reservation three weeks ago.  

In short, they’d both been looking forward to this night. 

Then they found out that the restaurant lost their reservation. 

“What do you mean you can’t find it? Perry the Platypus booked it way ahead of time!” Heinz complained. “And believe me, I’ve seen him eat more than his weight in crab cakes before. Is it because he’s a platypus? Because I can tell you that he acts more like a tiny human. If humans had cute little webbed feet or tails, that is.”

Perry tugged on Heinz’s pant leg as he argued with the staff, silently pleading with him to not cause a scene. It was fine. They’d both live. Besides, it’s not like this was the only restaurant in the city. But his stomach was craving calamari, and he couldn’t help but chatter sadly. 

Heinz glanced down, ruffling Perry’s fedora. “Come on, don’t give me that pouty beak look. That one. You know I can’t stand it.” Perry stifled a smile with his hand. 

“Party of four, Murphy!” a waitress called. “Your table is ready!” 

A family of four stood up from the waiting area, a chair collapsing as soon as the youngest pulled on his backpack. Perry wondered why anyone would need a heavy looking backpack inside a restaurant. Maybe he had a late day at school. “Whoops, sorry about that,” the father said. “There’s not gonna be an extra charge, right?” 

“No, these chairs are easily replaceable. Don’t worry about it,” a staff member said. He turned his attention to Heinz and Perry. “Excuse me, sirs. It seems there was a glitch in the system for some reason. Now that it’s gone, a reservation for Perry popped up.” 

“Yes, that’s us!” Heinz exclaimed, grinning at Perry. “And you were so worried there!” 

Perry smiled up at him. So was he. 

“I deeply apologize for the inconvenience. Nadia will show you to your seats,” he turned them over to a rather short woman. As she led them to their seats, Perry saw movement out the corner of his eye. There was a white tablecloth moving from underneath the long table. The restaurant patrons continued to talk, completely oblivious to it. 

It continued to edge towards the back of the restaurant, where the Murphy family was seated. Perry spotted four stubby legs and a tail poking out from underneath. Well, a quadruped making its way across a restaurant would never top Perry’s list of strangest things he’d ever seen. 

Their table was set up between two chairs and a long couch that extended against the wall. Perry and Heinz made themselves comfy on the couch, though Perry’s bill hovered slightly over the table. Nadia promised their server would be out soon and left to take care of other customers, leaving behind two menus. 

“When the server comes out, I’ll ask for a booster seat,” Heinz said, twirling a coaster in his hand. “I don’t think anyone could possibly eat comfortably if they were in your position right now. But man am I glad that situation cleared up so quickly. I swear I was about to have an evil relapse back there. Can you get evil relapses? I mean, not you obviously. Unless someone hit you with something that made you evil. But otherwise, you don’t have the capabilities to be evil. Mean, maybe. Reserved, definitely. But not evil.”

Perry pointed to the calamari under the appetizer section. “Any chance you picked this restaurant because you wanted calamari?” Heinz smirked. Perry rolled his eyes and made a so-so gesture. “I knew it. And you won’t steal the entire dish? This is just the appetizer after all.” He raised an eyebrow. “That’s a maybe, isn’t it? You’re a good guy, Perry the Platypus. I thought you practically lived under sharing is caring!”

In Perry’s opinion, sharing is caring did not apply to food. 

“Hello, my name is Henry and I’ll be your server this evening,” a young man said. “How may I get you gentlemen started?” 

“Never pegged you for a gentlepus,” Heinz leaned down to whisper. Perry shoved his face away playfully. Heinz actually being a gentleman. That’d be the day. “Can we get two iced teas, both with lemon, a booster seat, and the calamari appetizer please?” 

Henry jotted the order down on a notepad. “Two iced teas with lemons, a booster seat, and calamari. All right, I’ll have those ready for you. Please take all the time you need to find an entree.”

He brought out the booster seat in less than three minutes. Perry took out a cushion stored in his fedora and laid it on the seat, smoothing it out before plopping down. “My fedora didn’t come with secret compartments,” Heinz pouted. “I’m half-expecting you to pull medieval weaponry at some point. Wait. Medieval. Evil. Medieval. Course now that I’ve actually given up evil that I actually find a rhyme for it. Do you think OWCA would mind if I finished composing the rest of the jingle?”

Perry shrugged, his attention being on a pair of strange looking men. The one with a mustache to rival Major Monogram’s grumbled the entire way. He was dressed in an incredibly formal green outfit about two centuries too early. He stopped and stared toward the back of the restaurant, his fists clenching.The shorter one seemed to notice and pulled him into the couch a space away from Heinz and Perry. 

“If that guy and Monobrow entered a mustache competition, who do you think would win?” Heinz asked. Perry raised a finger above his eyes. “Yeah, the unibrow would probably add a few bonus points.” 

There was a loud crash from the back, and all chatter ceased as everyone watched a girl about Candace’s age standing protectively in front of her brother, blocking him from the remains of a light fixture. She turned and murmured a few quick words, the boy laughing and shrugging it off. The parents made sure they were all right before taking their seats and continuing on as if nothing had ever happened.

Perry was just glad the kid was all right. 

“You get the impression that’s normal for them?” Heinz wondered. Before they could speculate more on the matter, Henry brought the calamari. 

“Are you ready to order?” Henry asked with a smile. 

Perry tapped the shrimp and crab combo on the menu with a chatter. “Sorry, he doesn’t talk. He’s a platypus,” Heinz said. Perry made a few more gestures, which Heinz interpreted for Henry. “He wants a side of green beans and mashed potatoes. And I’d like the rainbow trout with corn and rice.” 

Henry nodded and gathered their menus. “Not an issue. We’re used to animals with fedoras eating here anyway, but most of the time it can be a challenge to actually interpret what they want. No matter. In the meantime, enjoy your calamari!”

Perry immediately claimed the marinara sauce, which earned him a scowl from Heinz. “I won’t double dip this time, I promise!” 

“Hey, does that calamari taste as good as it looks?” the man next to them called. “Oh, sorry. Name’s Vinnie Dakota, by the way. There I go shooting my mouth off again.” 

“Nah, I feel you,” Heinz grinned. “And yes, the calamari is pretty good. It would taste better if a certain somebody would quit hogging the sauce.” 

He glared at Perry, who shrugged innocently and scooted the small bowl of marinara away from his companion. Vinnie laughed. “So you’re a platypus.  This is really cool actually. All the other ones I’ve seen around here don’t do much.”

Heinz bit into a piece of calamari. Perry winced at his decision to do introductions with a full mouth. “This is Perry the Platypus by the way. He’s my best friend. And I’m Heinz Doofenshmirtz.” 

The other man scoffed and looked away, leaning on the table with an elbow. 

Vinnie shot his companion a reproachful look. “Don’t be rude. We just met them. I’m really sorry about him. That sourpuss there is Balthy-”

“Balthazar Cavendish,” he grumbled. “Pleasure.”

“You’ll have to excuse him. Stressful job,” Vinnie said. “We’re in the same field.”

“So where do you work then?” Heinz asked. 

“Pistachio plant.” 

“Food truck company.” 

Balthazar and Vinnie glanced at each frantically, before correcting themselves. “We drive food trucks from pistachio plants. You know, high demand and all. You’d be surprised how many people like pistachios,” Vinnie said. 

Perry could tell they were lying, but he wasn’t sure why. But he could understand it, since he and Heinz couldn’t exactly tell random people they were secret agents who fought evil scientists on a daily basis. 

“We’re agents who-” Perry threw a piece of calamari at Heinz’s face to shut him up, quickly motioning for him to make up a lie. “Um, I mean, we’re agents for a modeling business.” To Perry, he whispered, “See? I didn’t give anything away! And I’m getting payback for that piece you threw at me, just you wait.”

Perry buried his head in his arms. A modeling business was really the best he could come up with. A modeling business. 

“Hey, you wanna sit over here?” Heinz asked. “There’s plenty of room. It would be easier to hold a conversation if we didn’t have to speak over a platypus in a booster seat. You don’t mind, Perry the Platypus?” 

Perry shook his head. It would be good for Heinz to hold a conversation with another adult without the glowers, sarcasm, or promises of revenge.

Vinnie sat across from Heinz, and Perry tipped his hat to him. “If I had a hat, I’d tip it right back to you. Fedoras really aren’t my style. I’m thinking a top hat so I could match Balthy, but that would likely be a terrible combo with a track suit,” he said, wrapping an arm around Balthazar’s shoulders when he finally joined them. 

He tuned out of the conversation as Vinnie and Heinz rapidly switched from discussing hats, food, and music. As they compared the Lumberzacks to the Phineas and the Ferbtones, Perry watched Balthazar sneak glances to the family in the back, clearly waiting for something to happen. 

Perry wondered why he was interested in them. Apart from the occasional accidents that occurred around the boy, they seemed like a normal family. When Balthazar excused himself to the restroom, telling Vinnie to order for him, Perry noticed a small cell phone-like device sticking out of his back pocket. 

But cell phones usually didn’t have a miniature satellite on an antenna. 

He shook it off. Maybe Balthazar was an inventor. Perry couldn’t help but be a little suspicious. 

“Perry the Platypus, hey, Perry the Platypus,” Heinz singsonged, poking him in the side with an index finger. Perry let out a throaty growl at being jabbed, snapping at the offending finger, only for his bill to close on empty air. Heinz clutched his finger protectively. “I only wanted to know your favorite Love Handel song.” 

Vinnie laughed. “Balthy acts the same way sometimes, only a little more uptight. And he says biting people is uncouth, but he probably only means that literally. At least yours doesn’t threaten to strangle random things with teabag strings.” 

Henry came around again, bringing out Heinz and Perry’s orders on a large serving dish. As Vinnie ordered two salmon dishes, Perry pushed an entire shrimp into his mouth, spitting out the now-meatless tail back onto his plate. 

Heinz wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Table manners always go out the window when there’s shrimp involved. Ugh.” Perry smirked at him. “If you make me lose my appetite while we’re here, that’s an extra dish you’re paying for.”

“You haven’t seen me around Mexican food,” Vinnie chuckled. “There’s a reason Balthy always vetoes burritos when I bring it up.”

Heinz voiced the question Perry had also been thinking. “So why do you work with him if he’s so disagreeable? Reminds me of this guy we work with. If he was British. And wore outdated clothes.”

Before Vinnie could reply, Balthazar came back from the restroom. “Did you order already?” he asked. 

“I played it safe and ordered salmon for both of us,” Vinnie replied.  

“Good,” Balthazar said, not noticing the others sneak glances as they tried to find another topic. Finally, Perry offered them the rest of the calamari. There were only a few pieces left, but it would be enough to hold them over until their food arrived. Vinnie accepted, thanking Perry with a full mouth. Balthazar grimaced at Vinnie spraying crumbs all over the table, using a cloth to wipe it off. “I suppose he isn’t letting go of that marinara sauce.” 

In response, Perry moved his mashed potatoes over and dumped the rest of the marinara sauce on his plate, sliding the tiny bowl over with a flick of his wrist. “Okay, even I’ll admit that was kind of rude,” Heinz said. 

“It’s okay, there’s still a little left in here,” Vinnie said, dipping a half-eaten piece in the bowl. Then he offered it to Balthazar, who gingerly set it on the table. 

“You double-dipped,” Balthazar said. “Forget it.” 

“I didn’t double-dip,” Vinnie held up his hands defensively. “I only dipped it once. Double dipping is when you dip twice. Therefore, I did not double-dip.” 

Perry and Heinz ignored their argument, eating peacefully until there the couch vibrated slightly as something repeatedly bumped it.. “Perry the Platypus, stop it,” Heinz warned.

Perry set his fork down and shrugged, holding out his arms in confusion. There were several more soft thuds. 

“Well something’s bumping my leg, and don’t think I haven’t seen you practicing that weird telekinetic thing with your fingers,” Heinz retorted. 

Perry rubbed his bill with one hand in exasperation, then pointed down. It wasn’t his fault he accidentally discovered that pretending to use the Force actually tricked Norm. Heinz reached underneath the table and brought out a lumpy tablecloth. Perry grabbed the edge and yanked, revealing a tan dog with brown spots. 

“Do you know this dog, Perry the Platypus?” Heinz asked. Perry shook his head. “He doesn’t look like one of our little friends. No, don’t eat our food! This stuff isn’t cheap, you know!” He moved the plates to the center of the table to prevent the canine from scarfing down the food, then set him on the seat. Perry sternly gave him a stay command. The dog huffed but flopped down obediently. 

Balthazar glanced at the dog, rubbing his chin in thought. “That mutt looks familiar somehow.”

“Diogee!” a voice cried. “You’re not supposed to be at a seafood restaurant. Go home!” The boy from earlier ran up to their table with his arms wide open, and Diogee took a flying leap into them, knocking them both over. His body was slightly suspended in the air due to his backpack, and he laughed at all the licks he was receiving. 

Finally, he stood up and dusted a few crumbs off his sweater vest. “Sorry about Diogee. He gets out a lot.” 

Heinz waved off the apology. “Don’t worry about it, kid. Your dog is pretty adorable when he’s not trying to eat our food.”

“Thanks!” Milo grinned. Perry smiled back, reaching across the table for his plate so he could start eating again. “Oh, I recognize you two! I haven’t seen you since the day with that runaway fire truck! How are you?”

“Milo Murphy, right?” Vinnie said, shaking his hand and completely ignoring Balthazar’s indignant gasp. “Small world, I guess.” 

Milo laughed. “Tell me about it. And is that an actual platypus? I have pajamas that look almost like you! Minus the fedora, which by the way looks really awesome!” 

Perry tipped his fedora to Milo, slightly blushing from the compliment. They made platypus pajamas? He’d have to look into that. It would certainly be a nice gift idea. 

Balthazar coughed to get their attention. “So we meet again, Milo Murphy. If that is your real name-”

Milo scratched the back of his neck. “Well, I was almost named Mikey at some point, but my mom didn’t want my name to sound like candy.” 

“That’s not my point,” Balthazar scoffed. “Tell me the purpose of your mission, counteragent.” 

“Counteragent?” Heinz cracked up. “How can this kid be an agent? He doesn’t have a hat!” Perry made a zipping motion with his fingers so Heinz didn’t reveal vital information. Were they at a different OWCA branch? He’d never seen files on them before. 

Balthazar glared at him. “You don’t need a hat to be an agent!” 

“But you’re wearing a hat,” Vinnie pointed out. “Even if it does attract a lot of weird stares.” 

“Agent?” Milo asked. “Um, Sara and I often pretended we were time travel agents but....” 

“There, you see?” Balthazar barked to Vinnie. “So he’s involved with time travel in some way! I knew it!”

Heinz reclined against the back of the couch, listening as Vinnie tried to clarify that there was a difference between pretending to be an agent and actually being an agent. “I know I could be kind of unreasonable-” Perry gave him a sideways glance. “-very unreasonable during schemes-but geez, what does this guy have against one kid? He’s crazy.”

Perry had to admit, it was pretty tempting to give Balthazar a good kick to the shin. If it was Phineas or Ferb that Balthazar had been attempting to interrogate, he would definitely not be showing so much restraint. 

All talk ceased as everyone turned to stare at the odd scene at their table. Even Heinz fell silent. He really didn’t want to get involved. The parents of the boy were too busy figuring out their check that they hadn’t noticed their daughter had joined in the argument. 

Milo hugged Diogee, looking slightly apprehensive at the attention. “Sara, you don’t need to get involved. It’s fine.” 

Sara placed her hands on her hips, scowling. “It’s not fine! Back off my brother, you oversized leprechaun. He hasn’t done anything!” 

“Balthy, I think we’d better go,” Vinnie warned. 

“Not yet. All I want to know is who you’re working for,” Balthazar growled.

Milo’s eyes flickered between Sara and Balthazar. “I’m not working for anyone.”

“So a lone wolf then,” Balthazar murmured. “Very well. Dakota, we’re leaving.” 

Without another word, he turned and exited the restaurant. Perry released the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. For all of Balthazar’s blunder and rashness, even he wasn’t stupid enough to push the matter further in such a crowded public area. 

“Right behind you. Hey, so change of plans. Can I get that to go?” Vinnie asked a dumbfounded waiter, who had been staring awkwardly at the salmon he brought out during the exchange. As the waiter boxed the food, Vinnie shook hands with Milo. “Sorry about my partner. I’ll have to talk to him later about this.” 

“I still don’t know what that was about,” Sara sighed. “We’re packing up now. See you later.” 

“It was nice to meet you!” Milo said. “Bye!” 

As the family passed by the front podium, the lobster tank by the entrance burst open and left a woman screaming about the water ruining her expensive shoes. 

Vinnie shook hands with Heinz and Perry. “I never did give you an answer to your question, did I? I just don’t think anyone should be alone. We don’t exactly have the best living conditions, but sometimes a good thing can wander by our pistachio stand. Well, see you later!”

He politely thanked the waiter for boxing the food, then hurriedly took off after Balthazar. 

Heinz signaled the waiter for a check. “He’s way too nice for his own good.” 

Perry chattered in agreement. If only all partners could be as good a communicator as Heinz.