#I'm certainly the expert of breaking my own heart by making these

[minettas-ploy]

[aestherin]

privacy

19: idea of luxury

NOTES contains: kissing, mentions of 'housewife' (lol this so random ToT), very very lightly suggestive??? (tbh idek what counts as suggestive anymore :"D)

It was cold inside, but your hands were sweating.

Was it from the tension? You don't know. Likely, but not certain. Nervousness? Another possibility.

But was the cause of it related to the lean blue-haired man currently making his way towards you?

Certainly.

"Are you gonna publish an interior magazine?" Ayato smirked. "You keep taking photos of my penthouse, [Name]."

You rolled your eyes. "No, but I'm capturing all I want because I may never get to see this again. This would make good inspo for my future home."

Standing right in front of where you were sitting on the couch, you hear him feign a sigh. 'Close,' you thought.

"Love, you can go to my penthouse anytime. I can even have a duplicate key made for you. You want that?"

"No."

Ayato raised a brow. "And here I thought you liked my home."

"Not enough to treat it as my own, apparently."

"Shame. I was about to ask you to be my housewife."

You immediately sat up, causing you to be closer to him. The light fabric of the shirt Ayato's wearing was mere centimeters away from you. "Oh? Does that interest you?"

Baffled from what he said prior, you opted to ignore the almost nonexistent distance between you and the body of the man you're currently looking up to. "Excuse me? Housewife?"

"Yes?"

"Why the fuck do you think I'd want to be your housewife?"

Truthfully, for a moment, you considered the possibility. You've never wanted to slap yourself so bad once certain images flashed in your mind: the two of you smiling sweetly at each other, you cooking meals for Ayato (because he can't cook to save a life) in this very same penthouse, and more scenarios of affectionate domestic activities. Not to mention that the scenes even had filters when you imagined them.

You despise your own mind sometimes.

Maybe you should write scripts, too.

"Oh? You don't?"

Why in the world are you having this kind of conversation with him as he's looking down at you and you're staring up at him?

This is... a little...

'Ayato's a fucking tease.'

"No. I don't."

Your boyfriend laughed heartily. "Are you sure, love? You know, tens — if not hundreds — of thousands of people would get on their knees to be my housewife." He started leaning down towards you. "Some people even use that as their social media handles."

You forced out the actress in you, only so that he cannot see the expression that you truly were about to show. Why was he this close?

Actually, why were you guys even taking this long conversing about this one topic?

A sassy facade. "Well, sorry to burst your bubble, mister, but I'm not them."

You noticed how his brows lightly shot up in realization, how his playful gaze turned into one of delight. It's astonishing, really. How he could easily switch.

He let out a deep breath. "You're right, love. You are not them."

Ayato leaned in even closer, settling his hands on the backrest behind you to support himself.

Earlier, it was his shirt that your face almost had contact with. But now...

It was his face.

His unfairly perfect face.

A genuine smile from the guy was all it took to break your pretense.

"You're my girlfriend, right, [Name]?"

It took a lot of willpower to go back to acting composed and unaffected after that certain display of his.

Seriously.

"Yeah. A fake one."

You could swear something changed in his eyes.

Ayato, however, made sure that you can't point it out — how his heart dropped, how the previously present glint in his irises disappeared, how his lips almost displayed a frown with a single statement of yours.

'Did you really have to say that?' he mused.

Fortunately, he was an expert at turning things around. He had a knack for harvesting pleasant outcomes from unfavorable situations.

Ayato was not about to let that one thing ruin his day.

"Ah," he stared back again. "Thank you for mentioning that, [Name]. I almost forgot."

You frowned. "That what? We're fake dating?"

His lips curve to a smirk.

And everytime he does that, you die.

"No. What we were supposed to be doing."

"Huh?"

The man sighed. "Dearest love, you can't have possibly forgotten that we're here to kiss."

"Fuck."

"Hehe."

"Do you want to get on with it now?"

"Yeah, sure, whatever. It's not like it's a big deal anyway."

Liar.

"I've done this plenty of times with my co-leads."

"Oh? I see." You fail to see how his gaze darkened, with how his face was positioned near your ears. "I'm expecting you to be a good kisser then," he whispered.

You braced yourself.

The two of you stared at each other for seconds, with neither of you making a single move.

"When are you going for it?"

"Huh?"

"You're too slow, love. Is it taking you so long to muster up the courage to come and kiss me?"

"What do you mean?! I was waiting for you, you dumb fu—"

A peck on your forehead. Then your left cheek, then the right. Another on your nose. The next one on your chin.

The last one being on the corners of your lips.

'Is he playing with me?!'

He pulled away, grinning like a complete fool. "Ayato!"

"What?" He played innocent.

"Please. Let's just get this over with," you plead.

His gaze remained still on you. In Ayato's eyes, you looked absolutely divine. You with your furrowed brows, pleading eyes, and pouty lips... How could he ever refuse you?

How could he ever resist?

"As the lady wishes."

This time, he was heading for your lips.

But he stopped halfway.

"Motherfu—"

There it was.

His lips tasted like cherries — they felt like them, too.

One...

Two...

Three...

He pulled away by then, with you not being able to get your fill.

It was utterly embarrassing, how your head somewhat chased after his when he distanced himself. Luckily, you were able to control yourself and stopped before he even opened his eyes.

And when they found their way back to yours, his lavender eyes were hazy. Dark and lidded, certainly different from the bright and mischievous ones from just minutes ago.

You were sure you weren't in a better condition either.

The breaths you make are heavy, and so are your eyelids. And your mind?

Blank.

You opened your mouth first. "Ayato, I..."

"Sshh." He placed a finger against your lips. "We're not quite done yet, love. Don't you think so?"

'I can't fucking think.'

You mumbled incoherently at him, confused.

"I believe that first kiss we made... it's not that convincing yet, no?" He breathed.

Ayato made your foreheads touch. "Unless, you don't share the same opinion as mine? If that's the case, then we can stop here, and..." A sigh. "call it a day."

You took a deep breath.

The usual curve of his lips returned as your hands reached around his nape.

"No. I find it unconvincing as well."

privacy — ayato x reader smau

prev. masterlist. next.

NOTES -> not a cliffhanger this time (i think) so that u guys can sleep in peace😌 -> i cannot believe i wrote this (wrote late at night before i slept and i swear my face is heating up) -> my brain is not functioning anymore after writing this -> was listening to 'collide' while writing 👀

TAGLIST I (closed) @catsrkool @sukunasrealgf @redactedhimbo @layla240 @mxlkytea13 @itsactuallylina @milza12 @aixaingela @tatiratty @kimiesstuff @laventiseriou @kunihaver @bibisbestgirl @lunaavity @coquettemaiden @opchara @slvdsjjk @cotton-eee @lady-elodie @dearxiiao @wheneverthesunrise @heartswonder @chuduchok @headphonesrlif3 @lleoll @vnderthesunn @lizzardlady1234 @nekogakuro @rifran @atlatcaheart @ani-st @creammpuff @lunastarjay @kittycasie @poisoned-candy-apples @zannivrs @b0bafl0wer @moonlightaangel @elsoleil

[moonspirit]

any tips on writting fanfiction?

Hi anon!

I'm not sure if you're new to writing fic or not, but either ways, it doesn't matter because writing advice helps everyone, I feel. There's no hard and fast rules to writing, and definitely no one guidebook that has it all; I'm definitely not an expert on this, but I'll try to help you as much as I can.

Firstly, I'll focus on something specific I feel affects all creators regularly.

Please remember that fandom taken as a whole is meant to be fun. Fandom isn't competition, shouldn't be pressuring, and certainly shouldn't make you depressed. We can tend to fall prey to thinking of the stuff we and others create as "content". Fandom isn't content, and fandom is also not numbers. That said, this is all easier said than done. I was writing for quite some time before taking a break, and when I returned to it last year, I was depressed even before I posted my first fic haha and you can guess why xD

And honestly, we live in a world controlled by numbers, so it isn't surprising.

But fandom exists, because we make connections from a shared love for the same blorbos, the tropes, the delicious things, the serious things, meta, rabbit-hole research and so on. It's supposed to be fun, uplifting, engaging, like an after-school club that you enjoy.

So I've had a couple anons in the past ask me for writing tips too, and while I offered some stuff more on the technical side of it, this time I want to tell *you* - Please. Have fun.

The story you're writing is yours. You're writing it because you love it. Live in that world, breathe in that world, watch it play out like a movie in your head. Daydream, find inspiration, make posters, promote it, share playlists, drop spoilers, drop teasers, make headcanons - You're showing up to the clubroom with your very own science project model and the rest of us in the room are excited to see and talk about it!

You could be a native english speaker or not. It doesn't matter which. Write your fic the way you know how to. I've been wanting to make a different post about this specifically, but while English can be beautiful, but it doesn't have to be. It's a tool that you use to communicate an idea, a story, a thought, an emotion - and however you do it, in whatever form or shape or manner - the reader will understand.

It will be loved.

Be excited to share your fic. It's something born from your heart, and honestly, few things in the world are better than what you create from thoughts and emotions that cannot even be touched.

But you're making that happen. You're writing them, giving them shapes and alphabets and structure and sentences - and you're making it happen.

So anon, good luck, and lots of it! Thank you for asking me T^T Don't know if I helped in any way but please feel free to ask me anything specific if you think I can help you! I'll do my very best!

[lasenbyphoenix]

10 Characters I Fell In Love With in 2023

I liked doing this retrospective so I'm bringing it back. I feel like I didn't watch many shows in 2023 but of the shows I did watch there were SO MANY good characters that making this list proved to be difficult to narrow down.

1. Tang Lian, The Blood of Youth.

The Blood of Youth gave us a main trio of an exiled prince, a chaotic monk and a himbo firestarter, but it was Tang Lian the ace shixiong who was the first in the series to make me go oooh he's mine. Was it the purple clothes? The grey streaks in his hair? The romantic awkwardness? The hyper competence with small deadly weaponry? The crisis over following orders vs following his heart? All of the above probably. And I'm very glad the creators of the bonus episode decided to agree with me that HE IS NOT ALLOWED TO DIE otherwise I would have been throwing hands.

2. Sikong Changfeng, The Blood of Youth.

While the main trio are very fun to follow along with, they are also very young and at my age now I find myself gravitating towards appreciating some of the older generation just as much. Sikong Changfeng is one such character, and chosen because he's someone I think I'd like spending time with. He's a practical man among outlandish people, a doting father, and the fact that he'll throw a tantrum in public when one of his fellow city lord's decides to slice their training tower into pieces is a refreshing change from the great and aloof martial experts of his generation. And just look at that cloak!

3. Di Feisheng, Mysterious Lotus Casebook.

I came to MLC for Cheng Yi, and watched with amusement as other tumblr users fell head over heels for the moody antagonist until I got halfway through the show and had to mentally apologise to everyone because y'all had the right idea, omg how do I explain how Di Feisheng endears himself right into your heart and stays there? He's very show-no-weakness especially for someone who gets constantly nerfed - and boy do I like watching a strong man being whumped - he has the aesthetic of a total Boss and a sword named Sword.

He's unapologetic about his ambitions to be The Best Ever, which comes across as a bit shallow until you learn that his entire goal to be strongest ever is to be able to overcome the mind control bug forced onto him by the slave driver who raised/trained/tortured him as a kid and kick the guys ass. Which is the best and most heart breaking reason for a character to do anything and if that doesnt make you love him then the cuteness of the A'Fei amnesia arc certainly will.

4. He Xiaohui, Mysterious Lotus Casebook.

Again the older generation appealing to me, Fang Duobing's mother is absolutely a character you want on your side in a crazy place like this show. Taking in her sister's son as her own, she doesn't hide what she thinks of the jianghu when Fang Doubing runs away from court life, but also happily creates an accupressure torture machine when he needs a prisoner interrogatated. A little haunting can't scare her off from a bargain for her new dayspa empire, and she's barely rattled after being kidnapped. She's just so fun.

5. Yang Wuxie, Heroes.

Clever, loyal and funny are 3 easy ways to win me over. But they also went ahead and wrote a man who said "you're my only friend" and proved it with his every action -

- The way he pauses at the door to plaster a smile on his face before entering the room when Su Mengzhen is sick,

-  "can you take the archers on that side?" "Yes, but I'll die."

- clinging to SMZ's robe and weeping that he can't find him

- being trusted with the final blow, and crying all the while....

I really don't have the words. End me now.😭😩

6. Di Feijing, Heroes.

Again the loyalty of the subordinate is what moves me in this show and I chose Di Feijing for this list because I didn't expect to be moved by him. At first everyone in Six Half Hall seems to be there for their own greed, which is good for them but can be a very flat motivation to watch. It's after the death of Lei Sun that his story unveils itself and his protection of Lei Chun comes to the foreground and you learn that he's a moral person stuck in the middle of corruption and obligation.

I kinda feel like he got shafted by being ordered to stay out of things, because I reckon if given the chance he could have actually sorted a bunch of shit out?? I liked the handful of interactions between Di Feijing and Wang Xiaoshi and wish there could have been more.

7. Lee Rang, Tale of the Nine Tailed & Tale of the Nine Tailed 1938.

Protagonist's little brother with severe abandonment issues and a grudge to match, deadly but secretly a softie? Sign me up. The spurned sibling is by far the most relatable and likeable of the antagonists in season 1, and you get the joy of seeing him turn from the dark side due to the Power of Family, but still cuss and sulk the whole time. They created such a fun sibling dynamic that they had to go back in time for season 2 so that we could have a whole nother season with the two of them bickering and fighting for each other. Also, the looks he had going in season 2 were stellar.

8. Li Wu, Pledge of Allegiance.

I'm predisposed to liking Zhang Yunlong, and Li Wu was both very fun and very angsty to watch as he lied his way into and out of all sorts of trouble.

As Li Wu would tell you, he's just a theif! Selfish, no moral compass to see here..(Rescues kid from being arrested, finds kid a job)(shares his money with his friends in the alley)(helps them flee when he thinks they're in danger because of him)(keeps the knife as a reminder of the death he feels responsible for)(helps the son of the man he killed when he finds him again)(how many times does he save Lu Zheng from himself and all the people gunning for him??)(unravels political conspiracies)(and so much more). Just a theif! Sure thing Jan.

9 & 10. Fox Mulder & Dana Scully, The X Files.

Having only started watching The X Files for the first time in 2023 (and only as a filler show when I was too tired for subtitles,) I now find myself in season 7 of the show, entirely because of these two leads. What can I say about Mulder's non-threatening, hyperfixating, dorky ass and Scully's brainiac does-everything-he-does-only-backwards-and-in-high-heels competency that hasn't already been said? They're just *chefs kiss*

If anyone else wants to do a similar review I'd love to be tagged and see your 2023 blorbos!

[221bshrlocked]

I couldn't find a telephone gif of him because.. Well, it's pretty obvious 😅

But we can pretend he got a letter? A Raven? Something? I'm soft for this man and wanna play "telephone" with you 😅🙈

You did not just hit me with the man that makes my heart skip a beat with the mere mention of his name oh my god ok ok ok

I'm picturing him needing to get away from the servants and William so he could read a little parchment you slid into his hands as you walked by before you seated yourself next to your dad, the Lord of the manor Pero is hired to guard. He expects you to tell him how you can't stop thinking about him or how you wish you could spend some more time with him...but then he opens the paper and he reads something he never thought a lady of your standing would write, let alone think of.

He reads your words and he can't help but smile because you're not the innocent young thing he thought you were. He can't help himself as his eyes read across the lines again and again and again, can't pretend that he doesn't love how fucking dirty you are. You see, you've written things that would make a virgin blush. You've written about how much you can't stop thinking about him when you touch yourself at night, how you wish it's his expert fingers that are pleasuring you as you lay naked across your bed, you've written to tell him that if he wanted to, he could claim you this very night, in his bed or your own. You don't care. You just want to feel him everywhere.

Pero smiles until his face hurts, and when he's sure he can return to normal again, he slips back into the dining hall.

But even then, he can't stop himself from looking you over and smirking as you walk through the crowds and stand beside him.

"If my Lord doesn't mind it, I would like it if he accompanied me to the garden." Pero almost breaks when he sees the shy expression on your pretty features. And to think you managed to write such crude words to him.

That smile doesn't leave him the entire night, not when he pushes you against a large tree and steals your breath away, and certainly not when he hurries you through the manor until you're in his chamber. It remains until the morning, when he's had his fill of you, when he's made you cum more times than you thought it possible, when he's taken you over and over again until he was sure he filled you with his seed.

I'M A WHORE FOR THIS MAN AND I'M NOT SORRY ABOUT IT. You are an angel for sending in this gif ����🥵🥵

IT'S PEDRO GAME NIGHT, COME PLAY WITH US!!!!

[nevertherose]

One Hundred Seconds to Midnight: Chapters 1-8

"All Roman wanted to do was take Logan on a Doctor Who LARP within the Imagination.

But with Thomas's Sides at their figurative breaking point after the disastrous wedding, the Imagination may just have a few ideas of her own..."

Hello, Tumblr fanders, it has been a while since I've poked around in here...mostly because, I've been writing another story!

Do you like Sanders Sides? Do you like Doctor Who? Do you like the idea of the Sides playing Doctor Who characters? If so, this story was written especially for you.

I found that the process of cross-posting Mahogany and Teakwood across three platforms, one chapter at a time, involved a lot of me spending too many hours squinting at html code. Not especially fun. This time around, I've only been posting on AO3 and Wattpad.

But I wanted it to exist here as well.

So! Today I'm going to post the first half (in two posts, because apparently Tumblr has a post size limit, who knew?), all the chapters that are up so far. Then, when the whole story is up on the other platforms, I'll post the other half.

Of course, you could head to either AO3 or Wattpad, if you want to read as the chapters go up.

But if you're like me, and like to read stories in nice, big, juicy chunks...here you go:

One Hundred Seconds to Midnight

Chapter 1- The Eleventh Hour

“Who are you?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m still cooking.”

Midnight.

The witching hour.

Or was that 3AM? Roman wondered. No, that’s the devil’s hour…damn it, Virgil! You had to get them all mixed up!

It was nearly midnight on the Imagination’s border.

Moonlight, pearlescent and brighter than it could ever shine in the real world, streamed feather-light through the tall windows on Roman’s side of the Dream Palace. It made patterns of light and shadow over the black marble floors, made nighttime caricatures of the white ivory statues that lined the corridor.

Roman’s heeled boots echoed in the silence; Logan’s dress shoes, in comparison, were whisper-quiet.

Logan himself had been uncharacteristically quiet since they entered this place, Roman noted, glancing back. Normally by now the logical Side would have asked a million questions, made a million plans, or be several bullet points into a lecture about palace construction or the history of measurement units or some other nerdy, obscure subject.

And Roman would either pretend to be annoyed, or would interject witty counterpoints to make Logan stop and bluster and…

But not tonight.

Maybe he’s nervous about being here, Roman told himself, smoothing a hand over his red sash. He’s only pointed out a million times that Logic and the Imagination are anathema to one another. Maybe I should have planned something else…

Or maybe he’s just annoyed at you for dragging him out of bed in the literal middle of the night, a more insidious inner voice whispered. When you know he likes to keep a consistent sleep schedule.

Roman pressed his lips together, lifted his chin…he might be a mere facet of a single personality, but he was also a Prince, and Princes do not listen to inner demons. However, he also looked back for the dozenth time to make sure Logan was actually still following.

That was the only reason Roman kept looking back.

It had nothing to do with the way the translucent moonlight caught the other Side’s dark, immaculately kept hair, or glinted off his glasses.

In the real world, of course, and whenever they manifested near their Source, the Sides all had precisely the same face and body as Thomas. But deep inside the mind, where physical appearance was an illusion anyway, the Sides exercised much more control.

Thomas remained their base template, but each Side also tended to portray himself with features that Thomas associated with their core function. Like Patton’s fluffy curls and childlike freckles, or Virgil’s anxious, ever-changing eyeshadow, or Remus’s abominable comic-book villain mustache.

Like Deceit’s…no, Janus’s very real scales.

Damn that snake. Why did I have think of him now?

Hopefully the lying bananaconda had better things to do than pop up and spoil things tonight. Because tonight, Roman was finally fulfilling a longtime promise to Logan, and taking him on a grand adventure.

The thought made his heart flutter in anticipation, and he looked back again.

Logan within the mindscape was leaner than Thomas, an inch or two taller, and his neatly trimmed hair and intelligent eyes were almost black in the low light. His face was narrow and intense, the nose more aquiline, and he had a habit of standing straighter than any of the rest of them.

(A habit which constantly showed off his trim waist and chest muscles…not that Roman paid any attention to that…)

Roman, by contrast, was a bit shorter, but his shoulders were broad and he was more muscular, due to all the questing and sword fighting he did here in the Imagination. He wore his hair in longish disarray that paired devastatingly with his clean, square jawline; hair that could be turned loose and wild on quests, or pulled neatly back as befitted royalty. His hands were strong; with long, artistic fingers, as skilled at wielding pens and paintbrushes as they were at wielding swords.

He liked to think he was handsome.

He was also painfully aware of how little it mattered when a certain someone…ehem…never seemed to notice.

“Roman, I confess to still being a bit lost as to the purpose of this journey,” Logan said at last, breaking the high-ceilinged silence. “You said you were taking us on a…’lark’? If so, why are we wandering around the Dream Palace?”

“LARP,” Roman corrected, flashing him a smile. “L-A-R-P. It stands for live action role play, Specs.”

Logan’s nose wrinkled at the words “role play”, and Roman’s stomach lurched. He hates it, he hates the very idea of it, you haven’t even started yet and you’ve already failed…

“Oh, don’t make the scrunchy face!” he added, a bit louder than necessary, and waved a hand. “At least wait until you’ve seen it.”

Roman had only been planning this for weeks.

“You know, when you promised to take me on one of your ‘adventures’,” Logan said, making finger quotes. “I was not expecting to be roused from bed in the middle of the night.”

“That’s because this isn’t your average adventure.” Roman gestured around them. “I constructed a special dreamscape to get all the details right, and we can only use the Dream Palace when Thomas is asleep.” He turned and dared a wink. “Only the best for you, my detail-oriented friend.”

Logan adjusted his glasses.

“Let it be known that I am indulging your antics right now because you have, on occasion, had some good ideas. You will, in turn, have to indulge my skepticism.”

“I have no idea what you just said, but I’m gonna pretend it was a compliment,” Roman said with a wink, which Logan rolled his eyes at.

“Ah ha, here we are!”

Roman stopped at a set of iconic blue doors, nearly vibrating in excitement as he waited for Logan to recognize them.

The nerd did not disappoint.

“Roman…” Logan murmured, stepping forward to touch the white PULL TO OPEN sign. “They look just like the doors to the TARDIS. The attention to detail is exquisite. But why?”

“Because I’m taking you on a Doctor Who LARP!” Roman exclaimed, flapping his hands. “All we have to do is step through, and the Imagination will make us Doctor and companion, and whisk us away through all of time and space!”

Logan’s face was a mixture of confusion and curiosity. “Again…why?”

“Because it will be fun?” Roman bit his lip, looking at his toes. “I…I know you aren’t into swords and sorcery and dragon-witches and whatnot. I wanted this to be something you might actually enjoy.”

Logan’s brow furrowed, as it often did when he tried to process something that didn’t fit neatly into his graphed, notated, logical worldview.

Usually, it was an emotion.

“But won’t us enacting such an intense scenario at this time of night negatively affect Thomas’s sleep?” Logan asked.

“That’s the genius of adventuring in the Dream Palace,” Roman explained. “You can do hyperreal, immersive stuff, and if Thomas does happen to remember anything, he’ll just think he had a weird dream. The worst that could happen is he might post about it on Twitter.”

“Hmm. I can see you’ve thought this through. I am…flattered that you went to all the trouble,” Logan said in a quiet voice.

Roman had to bite back an ecstatic giggle.

Not…not because of the way his nerves skittered below his skin when his gaze caught Logan’s black eyes and soft expression. No, Roman was merely…excited! That someone like Logan appreciated his hard work!

It wasn’t like he was trying to impress anyone, like some middle school boy with, you know, a crush or whatever. For the last, well…two years.

…and then some.

Ugh. There was little point in denying his feelings; he’d only accidentally summon Janus and his oily smirk, and if that happened, Roman would most certainly die of embarrassment and that was not a lie, thank you very much.

The truth was, ever since Thomas had placed that jar of Crofters into Logan’s hands and inspired him to sing…not just rap, or begrudgingly harmonize, but actually sing…Roman had fallen, and fallen hard.

How could he not?

Logan’s words and ideas had always challenged him, pushed him to be smarter, sharper, better, just to keep up. Logan was the grounding anchor to his sails, the clarity to his excess. It used to infuriate Roman, the way he and Logan always came at problems from opposite sides and fought, sometimes bitterly, over the best way to meet in the middle.

But now?

Now Roman relished the way they traded words in a good fight, like blades in the hands of expert swordsmen. Logan, despite his dislike for anything fanciful, was a natural wordsmith…and Roman was a great lover of poetry. Even better, it seemed like Logan was also starting to enjoy their verbal sparring matches…

And then these last few months had happened.

The Decision, and Deceit, and the way that snake had let Remus out of the shadows to wreck havoc, and then the disastrous wedding itself…and Roman knew that Logan, through all of it, had been feeling pushed aside.

Goodness knew the logical Side hadn’t deserved to be shoved to the back of a courtroom, or relegated to a pixel-y shadow of himself before being removed from the discussion entirely. Worse, in both of those scenarios, Roman had either done nothing…or actively made things worse.

Roman knew he was guilty of letting his mouth run wild in his zeal to solve Thomas’s dilemmas…or in desperately hiding his true feelings. He knew his nicknames often came with barbs, his insults sometimes hit too close to home, that he often ignored or dismissed Logan’s cool, much-needed perspective.

He knew he needed to be better.

I’ll make it up to him tonight, Roman told himself as he laid a hand on the rough wooden blue doors and glanced back at Logan. The logical Side nodded, giving Roman a tiny burst of confidence.

He’ll get to play his favorite character and be his best nerdy self. This is going to be great!

Roman took a breath, and shoved open the TARDIS doors.

Chapter 2- Human Nature

“It’s all becoming clear now. The Doctor is doing the things you’d like to be doing.”

The blaring of a dozen sirens burst in Logan’s ears.

He was yanked across the threshold, Roman’s hand practically a vice around his wrist. Logan inhaled the sharp scent of metal and warm electronics, and a million figurative lights went off in his brain.

Being the physical incarnation of Logic, this wasn’t an entirely unfamiliar sensation.

The TARDIS shuddered…wait, TARDIS? We’re actually on the TARDIS?…under impact. Lights flashed; reds and greens over an ambiance of steely blue-gray, and Logan knew exactly what to do.

He shook free of Roman’s grip and strode to the center console…console, how do I know this is a console?…flipping several switches and turning the green dial to precisely 3.56 degrees to offset the radiation sheer from the M-class star they’d just spun past.

Because naturally they happened to be careening through an asteroid field.

The time rotor rose and dipped, Gallifreyan symbols whirling overhead; Logan adjusted shields and dodged rocks, striding confidently from station to station. He guided his TARDIS around the last large asteroid, one that easily could have smashed his beloved ship to bits, and then they were clear.

The TARDIS chimed reassuringly under his hands, relieved to be in empty space again.

Roman screamed.

The sound echoed off the metallic walls, causing Logan to whip around and nearly lose his balance.

“What happened?” he said sharply, leaving the console. The creative Side stood near the railing, staring down at himself in obvious dismay. “What’s wrong?”

“Look at me, Logan!” Roman said shrilly and gesturing at his body. “Just look!”

Logan examined his fellow Side. There were no obvious injuries he could see, no blood, no bruising, nothing that would merit a scream. There was just Roman, unfairly handsome as always.

(He still wasn’t sure how Roman managed that feat when they all literally, at least some of the time, had the same face.)

“I…don’t see a problem?” Logan asked slowly.

“I meant, look at what I’m wearing, Calculator Watch,” Roman snarled, and turned to yell nonsensically at the ceiling. “Am I a joke to you? When I said I wanted to be a companion, this is not what I meant!”

Logan focused on Roman’s clothing, which had shifted rather drastically since passing through those doors. His normal princely attire was replaced by a denim cutoff skirt, overalls, pink leggings, and a tight pink blouse that clung to his muscular chest and arms...

“I look ridiculous, don’t I?” Roman murmured, scuffing a combat boot against the metal grated floor. The motion drew Logan’s gaze again to the way the cutoffs hugged his hips and wow, that skirt was really short, wasn’t it?

And those tights, the way they accentuated Roman’s legs...

Logan frowned, his face feeling unusually warm. Why did he keep noticing these things? Of course Roman was more fit than the rest of them.

Perhaps it was simply that Logan didn’t usually see the evidence of it so…plainly.

Stop, Logan told himself sharply. You might be gay and allosexual, but that is no excuse to be disrespectful.

He cleared his throat.

“If I may, Roman?” he said, approaching, and made a closer examination of Roman’s outfit.

“I gather from your earlier ranting that you instructed the Imagination to cast you as one of the Doctor’s companions for the duration of this scenario?”

“Well, yeah,” Roman admitted, “but I was thinking someone like Jamie McCrimmon, or Rory Williams, or maybe even Jack Harkness!”

“You know there is some debate over whether Jack Harkness would be considered a proper ‘companion’, as he was never full time on the TARDIS,” Logan argued absently, still eying Roman’s ensemble.

It was attractive but also familiar; he just couldn’t quite place it…

“Neither was Clara Oswald at first, but nobody had a problem handing her that label from the start!” Roman folded his arms and Logan had to look away because wow, short sleeves and arms…

“Just because she was a girl and the writers obviously intended for her to be a love interest—”

“A girl, of course!” Logan snapped his fingers. “Roman, you are a companion. Specifically, you are Rose Tyler.”

“What?” Roman frowned, smoothing the overalls across his middle. “I…Hmm. You might actually be right.”

“Of course I am right.”

The creative Side scoffed at that, but continued to frown.

“I think it’s a good choice,” Logan added. “Rose is arguably one of the most beloved companions in new Who; bold, kind, and intelligent in her own way. She was pivotal to the Ninth, Tenth, and arguably the War Doctor’s character arcs.”

He laid a hand on Roman’s shoulder. (To convey reassurance, of course. Not because he suddenly wanted to touch…)

“Hers are not the worst shoes you could be given to fill,” Logan said, “idiomatically speaking.”

“Only you would drop a word like ‘idiomatically’ in everyday conversation,” Roman grumbled, but some of the spark returned to his caramel eyes.

“But look at you!” Roman said in a brighter voice, gesturing. “All proper and Doctor-ish. At least the Imagination let you keep your tie, or, whatever that thing is around your neck.”

Logan glanced down at himself for the first time.

His sensible polo and jeans had become a clean-cut black suit, with a warm grey waistcoat, a crisp white undershirt, and a silver pocket watch. A navy cravat was knotted around his throat.

His knee-length suit jacket was also black, with a striking cerulean lining.

He retrieved a slender, metallic something from the jacket’s inner pocket: of course, the Doctor’s signature sonic screwdriver. Specifically, the Tenth Doctor’s screwdriver.

Logan chuckled, remembering all the times he’d ranted to Roman about how impractical and flashy Eleven’s screwdriver became, and don’t even get him started on Twelve’s, it was practically a lightsaber…

“Interesting,” he murmured, stretching his arms to turn in a slow circle, letting the jacket flare. “Fashionably, I appear to be a cross between the Eighth and Twelfth Doctors, which I appreciate, as they are the two most sensible dressers of the bunch. And by the way, Roman, this is a called a cravat, not a tie…”

He’d lifted hands to his neck but the words died on his tongue.

Roman had summoned a mirror and was, quite literally, checking himself out. He swayed his hips, tilted one toward and then away from the mirror, pouted, did a tongue smile, and…and Logan realized he had been watching for more than a socially acceptable length of time.

He swallowed hard and cleared his throat again. But he was saved from having to speak by a loud crackling at the center console.

Both Sides rushed over, Logan seizing the TV screen and pulling it down. Gray static skittered over the polished surface. He flipped two switches and turned a dial, trying to zero in on the signal.

“I meant to ask earlier…how do you know what to do?” Roman asked, tilting his head. “You were piloting before I think you even realized we were on a TARDIS in the first place.”

Logan froze in the middle of winding one of the cranks.

“I…I really do not know.” In fact, the more he thought about it, the less sense any of the controls made. “Now that you’ve drawn my attention to it, you are correct: rationally, I should not know the function of any of these…gizmos.” He gestured at the crank he’d been winding.

“Yet somehow my hands just…know.”

Roman leaned casually onto the console.

“When I built this LARP, I gave the Imagination quite a bit of leeway in how it wanted to construct our characters,” he said. “I’m thinking it took things a step further than costume changes, like making me the companion it thinks I most resemble instead of the companion I wanted to be.”

Roman bit his lip as though troubled, then clearly shook himself out of it.

“And it must have imparted some of the Doctor’s knowledge upon me.” Logan added, not sure how he felt about the Imagination having such a direct influence over his mind. He supposed if it didn’t get too invasive, and was confined to this one night, he could deal with it.

It had proven useful so far, after all.

Roman shot Logan a fierce grin.

“Indeed! So engage that big Doctor brain and let’s see who’s trying to call us. Allons-y, adventure awaits!”

“You know ‘allons-y’ is my line, right?” Logan said dryly.

He had to use his screwdriver on the screen before the picture came clear. The stream of static acquired the cadence of a voice…and then a disturbingly familiar face stared back at his own, looking equally shocked.

Roman, for the second time since entering the TARDIS, let out a bloodcurdling scream.

Chapter 3- The Witch’s Familiar

“If you’re going to take my stick, do me the courtesy of actually killing me. Teamwork is all about respect.”

Janus had just settled into his favorite chair with a mug of chamomile tea and a political science book when he was yanked…rather rudely, he might add…onto the deck of a spaceship.

He sighed, and dismissed his drink.

When one lived in the same mindspace as the literal embodiment of chaos, one unfortunately learned to expect such interruptions.

“REMUS!” he roared, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Did I not specifically ask to be LEFT ALONE tonight?”

Silence.

Deeply annoyed now, Janus took a moment to look around himself. This was not a normal spaceship; no windows, for one, and it was laid out in levels around a translucent column at the very center. His mismatched eyes followed the center rotor up and down, his mind almost placing it…

Something clumsily rose up from the deck with a clatter, causing Janus to summon his crook with a yell.

Only…the object that dropped into his hand wasn’t smooth wood, but a slender metal instrument just barely longer than his hand. A…sonic screwdriver? What the actual heck?

Well. It was what he had.

“Get back!” He pointed the instrument at the…figure…who still slowly climbed to its feet. It was an android or robot of some sort; humanoid, and the same kind of weirdly familiar as the ship.

“Janus?” the robot said, tilting its head.

Janus froze, all the scales standing up on his body. That was…that was Patton’s voice. Flat, mechanical, but unmistakable.

After all, Patton was the only Side who consistently called Janus by name.

“Patton?” Janus whispered.

“Oh, that was so weird-feeling! Thank goodness I’m not all by myself,” Robot-Patton said, putting a hand over his…well, where his heart should have been…in obvious relief. “But why are we both suddenly on the TARDIS?”

Janus drew in a sharp breath.

Of course, he should have recognized the stupid time rotor immediately. He’d never admit it to any of them, but he was as much of a Doctor Who nerd as Logan or Roman, sometimes going so far as to spy on them when they argued over episodes together.

To learn their arguing styles, of course.

Not because he had any desire to join those discussions.

And now, looking at Patton with a sinking feeling in his stomach, Janus deduced exactly what he was: a Mondasian Cyberman. They were older and cruder in design than the reboot versions…no wonder he hadn’t put a finger on it right away.

That wasn’t really the issue.

“REMUS!” Janus shouted again, more angrily this time. Bad enough his pleasant evening of solitude had been interrupted by…whatever this was. But putting the sweetest, most emotional Side into a canonically unemotional shell, a robot?

That was cruel. That was insulting.

It was too far, even for Remus.

“Janus, is everything okay?” Patton asked, coming closer. Janus shivered at the sound of that warm voice coming from a blank metallic face with empty eyes.

“Do you…feel all right?” Janus said in a hesitant voice.

“I’m a little chilly, but otherwise I’m in ship shape!” the other quipped, giggling. “Get it? Cause we’re on a ship?”

Is it…is it possible that he doesn’t know?

“Hilarious,” Janus deadpanned, but inside his thoughts spun.

He sensed they were in a dream construct within the Imagination, which meant this had to be Remus’s doing. Remus, who reveled in gore, despair, disturbing imagery, angst, and who was in charge of Thomas’s nightmares.

Remus could…and would, given the chance…recreate the experience of being a Cyberman down to the Last. Grim. Detail.

Maybe he hadn’t meant to ensnare Patton specifically to fill this role…Remus didn’t generally pull other Sides in for nightmares, come to think of it…but meanwhile, Janus didn’t want to find out what this might do to Patton’s head.

Worse, it was becoming clear that Patton was somehow oblivious to the state of his own body; he’d used his metallic hands to clutch at his metallic chest and found nothing wrong with either. He couldn’t hear the electronic rasp in his own voice, or the heavy clanging of his steps on the grated floor.

Should Janus say something?

Would Patton believe him if he did?

Ever since Thomas’s near mental breakdown after the disastrous wedding, Patton and Janus had orbited around each other in a state of tenuous truce. They talked now, sometimes, and those talks didn’t always end in arguments. Patton began to leave space for him by Thomas’s blinds when he was called up, and he…and by extension Thomas��occasionally actually sought his input.

But Janus, well.

Janus was still a liar.

The others still called him Deceit, either by accident (Logan) or out of spite (Virgil). Then there was Roman, who invented a colorful, wounding ego-jab for him every day, and Remus, whose fond nicknames tended to double as sex jokes.

Having no other real allies in the mindscape, Janus really, really didn’t want to screw up his tenuous alliance with Patton. Why sabotage his figurative “seat at the table” over one of Remus’s stupid nightmares?

Patton would assume Janus was slipping back into his old ways, lying just because he could, and Janus would never be able to prove otherwise. And later Patton would make that sour, pinched face he always made when he was disappointed, the one that made Janus want to crawl into a hole…

So.

Best to keep his observations close to the chest, for now.

“Do you have any idea what we’re doing here?” Janus asked, striding to the center console. True to dream logic, the controls made no sense and simultaneously made perfect sense.

Patton shrugged; a strange, clanky motion of his shoulders.

Janus sighed. “Although Remus has dragged me into dreams before, even he generally understands the concept of consent.” He casually flapped a hand. “And he always leaves you ‘light sides’ alone.”

“Honestly, this doesn’t feel like a nightmare to me,” Patton said, nearly making Janus choke. The Cyberman clanked over to stand by the console.

“It’s too clean,” Patton added. “Roman let me glimpse Remus’s side of the Imagination once, not long after he showed himself to Thomas, and it was…”

Patton trailed off.

“Fragmented? Chaotic? Disturbing?” Janus supplied.

“Sure, we’ll go with that,” Patton said quietly. “This,” he waved a hand around, “feels more like Roman’s work.”

“I suppose you would know.” Janus ran a thoughtful thumb over his face, tracing the ridge that ran from the corner of his mouth to his ear.

“And I would almost have to agree,” he added slowly. “If this was a nightmare, surely something ghastly would have happened by now. But my being pulled into one of Roman’s creations makes even less sense. He literally cannot stand me.”

“Maybe this is one of those dreams Thomas has sometimes after binge watching a show?” Patton suggested. “When there’s enough material in short term memory that the twins don’t get much input? Did Thomas binge a season of Doctor Who yesterday or something?”

And to think the others still view you as stupid, or slow-witted.

Janus bit back a smile.

“It’s a good theory, Patton, but no,” he said. “Thomas hasn’t really binged on much of anything lately.”

Patton ducked his head.

“You don’t…you don’t have to rub it in, you know,” he said lowly, the metallic rasp grating on Janus’s ears. “You and Logan have both made it pretty clear that I’ve been too strict with Thomas’s time.”

Janus fought to keep his expression neutral, but his stomach twisted.

Damn it.

Leave it to Patton to find guilt where none was meant. Even if Janus claimed he hadn’t meant it like that, Patton would probably not believe him.

Patton tilted his metal head as he examined Janus’s face.

“Did you know you have a mustache now? And a little goatee?”

“I have a what?” Janus felt at his face and groaned, his gloved fingers tugging at hair that most certainly did not belong on his face; with the scales, it probably looked hideous.

His entire outfit had altered in subtle ways, he realized. His usual plum tunic and trousers were now a brown suit and waistcoat ensemble, crossed with yellow pinstripes, with a black collared undershirt. A brown, knee-length suit jacket replaced his caplet, with subtle gold trimming. His yellow gloves were unchanged, thank goodness, and his hat…?

His hands flew up to his head and found something perched over his hair, sitting at an angle. Janus yanked down a screen at the console and stared. His beloved bowler had shrunk into a tiny, flat, rakish thing with a wide brim, festooned with a cluster of yellow rosebuds and black beads.

“What on earth, Remus?” he grumbled, turning his head from side to side. Well, if he had to be honest, pinstripes and a hatinator weren’t a terrible look.

“Well, if we’re on a TARDIS, I guess you’re supposed to be the Doctor,” Patton pointed out. “Which would make me your companion.”

Janus stroked his goatee and examined their surroundings in more detail. But am I a Doctor? he wondered. And if so, which one?

And whose TARDIS is this?

Because while it was clear they were on a TARDIS…what other class of spaceship had a time rotor?…he wasn’t almost certain this was not the TARDIS.

Every corner of the Doctor’s ship, no matter which face it belonged to, tended to overflow with bright, shiny, eclectic whimsy. By contrast, this one was plain, stark, with exposed metal beams and sharp angles.

Too dark, too full of shadows.

An awful suspicion rose up in his mind.

He crossed to one of the bookshelves, ignoring Patton’s soft inquiry, and his jaw clenched. There was the Necronomicon, shelved between the Liber Inducens in Evangelium Aeternum and The Black Scrolls of Rassilon, Book of Vile and its Black Appendix, The Ambuehl Lores and the Insidium of Astrolabus.

Janus finally looked at the sonic device he’d been holding all this time; seeing now that it wasn’t a screwdriver at all, and thanked every god he knew that he hadn’t tried to use it on Patton earlier.

It was a sonic laser.

Once again, even in a stupid, nonsensical dream, Janus had been cast as the villain.

His fist had collided with the bookshelf before he even realized he was moving, books falling to the floor. He punched it again, and again, until a cool rigid hand closed around his wrist and yanked him back.

“Janus, Janus, stop!” Patton yelled in his ear.

Janus wrenched his arm away and stalked back to the console, running gloved fingers over his scales, pushing them up and smoothing them down. The familiar sensation grounded him.

“You were right, Patton,” he threw over his shoulder. “This is definitely one of Roman’s dreams, and he definitely fucking hates me.”

Patton’s heavy footsteps clattered behind him.

“Language. And how do you know that,” he asked. “…Doctor?”

Janus whirled, lips curled in a snarl.

“I am not the Doctor, Patton, and we are not on the TARDIS.” He spread his arms to encompass them both, gesturing to the dimly lit spaceship. “Look around. Look at me!”

He turned, slowly, and eyed his mustached visage in the dark view screen.

“Clearly, I am the Master.”

Chapter 4- Nightmare in Silver

“You think he knows what he’s doing?”

“I’m not sure I’d go that far.”

Patton rested his arms against the console and sighed.

Once again, someone I care about is upset, and I don’t know what to do. I guess I should be used to it by now.

It didn’t help that it was so cold in this TARDIS. He folded his arms around his middle, which felt strange and heavy, to combat the chill that seemed to have settled deep in his bones.

Janus stalked past again, grumbling to himself.

“Of course the Prince would pull me into one of his little ‘adventures’ without my consent. He probably needed an antagonist. And naturally the slippery snake would have been the first person to come to mind!”

Patton opened his mouth…though he had no idea what he was going to say…but Janus drowned him out.

“Come on, Roman!” he shouted, throwing his yellow-clad hands up. “You’ve had your fun. Yes, I’m evil, I’m the villain, I’m the bad guy, blah blah. Let’s have our epic confrontation or whatever nonsense you have planned, as I would very much like to get back to my reading sometime tonight.”

Silence.

Patton didn’t know what Janus was expecting.

“Look, maybe we should just play along for now?” Patton said aloud, wincing when Janus turned his murderous expression on him. The deceptive Side had such deep, cutting golden eyes, the human one so much darker than the other…cynical eyes that were, ironically, almost impossible to lie to.

They’d see straight through it.

“It takes a liar to know a liar.”

The glare quickly softened, though, which in Patton’s opinion said a lot about how far Janus had come.

“And how do you propossse we ‘play along’?” Janus said, hissing his s’s in frustration.

“Well, we’ve kinda decided this is Roman’s dream, right? And since we’re in his part of the Imagination, we know he won’t let anything bad happen to us…”

Patton trailed off at Janus’s pained expression, reminded of just how badly Janus and Roman’s last encounter had gone.

“What are you, a middle school librarian?”

“Thank god you don’t have a mustache.”

And I just stood there and did nothing…no, I can’t dwell on that right now. Patton shook himself out of the memory.

It was surprisingly easy; even his emotions felt a little heavy and muted. He supposed he wasn’t used to being in a dreamscape; unlike Roman, who played in them all the time.

I know Roman, Patton reasoned. He might hold a grudge for a while, but he wouldn’t actually be out to hurt Janus.

Right?

“So, if we’re on a time ship, on some kind of adventure leading up to a confrontation like you said, the first thing we’d have to do is figure out where we need to go,” Patton finished, shrugging.

Janus pursed his lips…which looked downright weird with a mustache and goatee, almost making Patton giggle…and began pushing buttons on the console.

“You are definitely incorrect, Patton,” he said, pulling up another screen and flipping a few switches. “If I have been cast as the villain in this ridiculous charade, that means Roman is likely prancing around as the Doctor right now, on the proper TARDIS. Which, as the Doctor’s nemesis, I should be able to contact…ha!”

The screen burst into static.

“Doctor, oh Doctor, do you read me?” Janus crooned, and if Patton hadn’t known just how angry he was in that moment…well, he would have never known.

Janus had tucked it away entirely, in half a second's time.

That’s the scary thing about him, Patton realized uneasily. He’s smart, nearly as smart as Logan. Smart enough to run circles around me, that’s for sure. And he’s easily as good an actor as Roman.

Those attributes, combined with his naturally manipulative nature, made it difficult to trust him.

Patton was trying.

He’d been trying since the wedding, and well, since everything else that had happened. (Patton still cringed when Thomas encountered even a picture of a frog.) He’d done a lot of thinking and growing that day (in more ways than one!), and he’d come to a disturbing, but inevitable conclusion.

Janus wasn’t evil.

He never had been.

Just like Virgil had never been evil. Mean, sure; and sarcastic, and spiteful…but at his core, Virgil had wanted what was best for Thomas.

They all did.

And then there was the uncomfortable corollary to that: Patton, despite his best efforts, despite his core Purpose…Patton wasn’t entirely and automatically good.

Two weeks ago, Janus had proven beyond a doubt that Thomas needed him…ruthlessly, cuttingly, but no one could say he hadn’t made his point. It had been Patton who’d inadvertently pushed Thomas to the brink of a breakdown, and Janus who had to pull them all back.

Despite Patton’s unease, and the little voice in his head telling him that Deceit couldn’t be trusted, could never truly be trusted because it was in his nature to deceive…Patton remembered how they’d pushed Virgil so hard he decided to duck out, and how much of a tragedy that could have been if they hadn’t all intervened to bring him back.

With a pang of guilt, he pictured Thomas lying on the floor, crushed under the metaphorical weight of everything Patton needed him to do to keep from being a bad person…

He would not make those mistakes again.

If Virgil could learn to work with them instead of against them, so could Janus. If Patton could learn to recognize when his own Purpose did more harm than good, so could Janus.

Patton had to believe that.

He’d made too many mistakes lately to believe otherwise.

The screen in Janus’s hands cleared to reveal…

“What? Logan??” Janus exclaimed, as a scream echoed somewhere in the background.

“D—Janus?” Logan countered, then looked over his shoulder. “Roman, for the love of Archimedes, will you stop shrieking? I cannot hear.”

The screaming cut off and Roman’s fuming face squished into the frame with Logan.

“Deceit! I should have known you would show up to ruin this!” he managed to shout before Logan shoved him away.

“Ruin…I’m sorry, what?” Janus glanced at Patton, looking honestly confused. “Is he roleplaying right now? We assumed this scenario was Roman’s creation.”

Onscreen, Logan placed his whole hand against Roman’s mouth to prevent him from interrupting.

“It is. But to my understanding, it was only supposed to involve myself and Roman, and…wait. You said ’we’.” Logan peered around. “Who else is with you?”

Patton started to wave, but his view was blocked by Janus bending close to the screen to whisper something. Suspicion flared in Patton’s stomach; old, familiar, but after the talk he’d just given himself, he purposefully pushed it down.

I won’t assume he’s being shifty unless he actually gives me a reason to.

Lifting his chin, he crept forward until he was next to Janus’s shoulder.

“Hey, Logan,” he said brightly, waving.

“Ah…hello, Patton,” Logan squeaked after a moment, his eyes still wide.

“Wait, Patton’s there? With the snake?” Roman’s voice yelled from the background, and then there was Roman’s face again.

“Patton?” Roman said, narrowing his eyes. “But why are you—?”

Both faces disappeared for a moment as Logan yanked Roman out of frame. Patton thought he heard a rapid, hushed conversation. He glanced at Janus, who only shrugged, looking at puzzled as Patton felt.

Roman’s face reappeared, solemn and deeply annoyed.

“Patton,” he said, and hesitated. “D—Janus. You two…well, you’re not supposed to be here.”

“Very reassuring,” Janus quipped.

“This was only supposed to be a two-person adventure: Doctor plus companion. I have no idea why the Imagination brought you both in as well; I certainly didn’t tell it to.”

“Aw, that’s okay, kiddo,” Patton started gently. “It’s not your fault—”

“Oh, sweetie.” Janus folded his arms. “I’m sorry, but that’s bull. Putting me in the Master’s shoes? Are we seriously going to pretend the Side who unashamedly hates me had nothing to do with that?”

“I didn’t!” Roman argued, his voice going high. “You really think I wanted you here, in any capacity?”

“Deceit…er, Janus, you are being unnecessarily antagonistic, and as such, unhelpful,” Logan cut in with his low, reassuring voice. “But Roman, it might behoove us to consider the role of subconscious influence. You may not have intended to pull the others in, and yet here they are.”

Roman looked at Logan, aghast, and Patton almost flinched at the raw hurt in his caramel eyes. The creative Side backed out of frame.

“So you’re on his side, too,” his voice said quietly. “Is that how it is?”

“I am not on anyone’s side,” Logan argued, raising his hands. “We are all currently in this situation together, and as such—”

Whatever he’d been about to say was cut off by another garbled transmission, taking over the screen and blocking out Logan’s face with crackly, purple static. A gray, snarling face flashed out of the haze, making Patton shriek in surprise and even Janus took a step back.

Then it was gone, dissolving back to static…and the sound of someone laughing filled the connection.

“Hellooooo, nurse,” a familiar sing-song voice crooned. “Did you miss me?”

Chapter 5- The Long Game

“You can’t just read the guide book, you’ve got to throw yourself in. Eat the food, use the wrong verbs, get charged double and end up kissing complete strangers. Or is that just me?”

Logan sighed.

He knew that voice; they all did. Even Thomas, unfortunately.

“Remus,” Roman hissed.

The mustached Side filled the screen, grinning madly. “Boo!”

“Get out of my scenario,” Roman said, his eyes flashing. “If you know what’s good for you.”

“Your scenario?” Remus echoed, faux-outrage in his expression. “Yours? The Dream Palace is my domain, too, brother, whether you like it or not.” He leaned closer, letting his nostrils and a single radioactive green eye fill the screen. “Did you really think you could keep me out?”

Roman made a sound of disgust deep in his throat.

“Am I to assume, then, that you are responsible for bringing in the other Sides?” Logan asked, careful to keep his voice even. Remus thrived on getting a rise out of people.

“Of course he is!” Roman snapped, throwing up his hands. “He loves to ruin things, especially my things.”

“Now why would having the others here ruin anything, brother?” Remus asked in a sickly sweet voice, propping his head on his hand. “Unless you intended for this nighttime romp between you and Logan to be private?”

Roman sputtered and glanced at Logan, red-faced, as Remus giggled.

“It was meant to be so, yes,” Logan supplied, unsure why Remus would find that funny…or why Roman would find it embarrassing.

“As amusing as this all is—” Janus’s crooning voice cut through the speaker.

“Great. You’re still here, snake?” Roman snarked, his arms folded around himself.

“We’re all listening, kiddo,” Patton’s metallic voice said.

Roman’s lips always curl into a pout when he is angry, Logan thought, eyeing him without turning his head, and he gets a little wrinkle between his eyebrows. Why…why am I noticing such things all of a sudden?

Maybe it was the stress, or the unfamiliar environment.

Or maybe it was the Rose Tyler outfit.

That skirt ought to be illegal.

Logan deliberately focused on the screen, his cheeks warm.

“So this is kinda new,” Patton went on, “all of us actually talking—”

“If Remus is responsible,” Janus cut in again, “then perhaps he would be so kind as to explain the objective of this late night group therapy session?”

Despite the biting sarcasm, Logan did appreciate Janus’s insistence that they get to the point, even if it did mean talking over Patton…

Speaking of, why would Remus have paired Patton with Janus?

Surely he should have grouped Patton with Logan and Roman, and put Virgil with Janus? Or…maybe not, given how Virgil hisses if Janus so much as enters the same room.

Ugh. Interpersonal drama. Logan was thoroughly sick of trying to keep track of who carried a grudge against whom, especially when it seemed to change from day to day.

And on top of that, why would Remus make Patton a Cyberman? None of these decisions make any sense…

“Right?” Roman agreed softly next to him, and Logan realized he’d said that last bit out loud.

“If anything, I should have been the unfeeling killer robot,” Logan murmured.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit, Specs.” Roman shot him a strange look, both warm and troubled. “And frankly I don’t give a stinky rat’s ass about my stinky rat brother’s sick thought process. What I want to know is why Deceit doesn’t want us to mention it around Patton?”

Logan, who was still mentally stuck on rodents and donkeys…Roman’s metaphors were always something else…shook his head slightly.

“There’s no logical way Patton is unaware of his condition,” Logan pointed out. “So I can only guess he wishes to protect Patton’s feelings on the matter, by not allowing us to talk about it in front of him.” He shrugged when Roman’s frown deepened. “Those two have been getting along much better these last few weeks.”

“I think you’re giving the snake too much credit,” Roman muttered. “Even after he impersonated you, Logan? C’mon. It has to be something else.”

Logan bit back a sigh.

He doesn’t understand, he thought guiltily. Because he doesn’t know what really happened…

#

“This is unacceptable, Deceit,” Logan snapped, flinging the crook away from his body. “I was in the middle of a discussion—”

“He won’t listen to you,” Deceit had said, and there was no sarcasm or snark in his voice.

“Patton asked for my opinion!”

“And he dismissed you from the conversation the moment that opinion went against his preconceived notions!” Deceit snapped back.

Silence.

Logan could hear the others still talking, out in the real world…without him…as the misty dregs of subconscious curled around their feet.

“You tricked him.” Logan folded his arms. “He was scared and off balance and you gave him an out.”

“I didn’t make him take it!”

Deceit sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Logan. You know he is wrong on this. You know what this is doing to Thomas. His unquestioning, black-and-white, juvenile morality; it’s not working anymore. Thomas needs to grow up, and Patton is not letting him.”

Logan bit his lip.

“Logan.” Deceit moved closer, dismissing his crook into mist and setting both gloved hands on Logan’s shoulders. Logan stiffened.

“Logic. Please. I am…no good at this.” Deceit dropped his head, his hat obscuring his eyes. “I operate through deceit because that is the only way I can make them acknowledge me.”

“They don’t acknowledge you because you operate through deceit,” Logan pointed out.

“A perfect catch 22.” Deceit let out a bitter laugh. “But a snake cannot change its scales and I don’t…I have tried everything I know. I cannot fix this from the shadows. I am out of ideas.”

A strange thought entered Logan’s mind.

“You care. You care what happens to Thomas.”

Deceit looked up, his mismatched eyes glittering with stinging intensity. “I am the literal representation of selfishness. Why the hell else would I go to all this trouble if I didn’t care?”

“Well…” Logan trailed off, troubled.

He’d let the others get to him, he realized in that moment. He’d let Roman get to him, with his talk of evil and Dark Sides and how they were always trying to tempt Thomas off the right path.

But…they were all part of Thomas, even the so-called “dark sides”.

Of course they wanted what was best for him…well, what Remus wanted at any given moment was debatable…even if they didn’t always go about it in the healthiest of ways.

Deceit had laughed then, high pitched and bitter.

“Really? Really? Even you think so low of me?”

“You are manipulating me right now.” Logan frowned. “You are using my concern for Thomas to make me trust you.”

“Yes! I am!” Deceit got in his face, fangs flashing. “I am a manipulative bastard because that is the lens through which my Source perceives me. But that doesn’t matter because you, Logic; you see through me, always have. And you know perfectly well that logically, any objection you have to my personality or my methods does not change the fact that I. Am. Right.”

He punctuated each word with a poke to Logan’s chest.

“Deceit—” Logan started.

“Janus.”

“What?”

Deceit sighed. “My name. My…real name. It’s Janus.”

Logan blinked. He knew the mythology, of course: Janus, keeper of doorways and thresholds, looking simultaneously to the past and future. Two faces. Seeing things from every angle.

Self-preservation.

“It suits you,” Logan said quietly.

Tension bled out of Janus’s shoulders, a stiffness Logan hadn’t even realized was there until it was gone.

“Thank you.”

“Why am I here…Janus?” Logan asked, glancing away. “What do you need from me?”

Janus looked at him intently.

“Let me speak to them as you.”

Logan raised an eyebrow, and Janus sighed, waving a hand.

“I know, I know, more deceit, more lies, but—”

“No, it’s…” Logan pressed his lips together. “You already pointed it out. They don’t listen to me, either.”

The bitter twist that accompanied those words was becoming an all too familiar sensation in Logan’s chest.

Janus snorted.

“Oh, they do. Eventually. They heeded your advice on how to deal with Remus.”

Logan shrugged uncomfortably.

“Look,” Janus added, “honest people know how to tell the truth, but liars…” he smirked, not especially nicely. “We know how to wield the truth to accomplish an end. I can pull Thomas and the others out of this rut, but they have to be receptive to my tugging on the reins.”

Logan pursed his lips.

“You won’t fool them. If you recall, you tried to impersonate me once already and barely lasted two minutes.”

“I didn’t have your blessing.”

Janus fixed Logan with his intense mismatched eyes again, and held out a hand.

Logan stared at it, torn.

This was Deceit, the master liar: Thomas’s entire capacity for deception condensed into a single, snake-faced Side. How could Logan possibly trust him to not make things worse, after all the falsehoods, the impersonations, how he’d manipulated them all in one way or another to get his way?

But…as much as Logan, personally, didn’t understand why that callback had been so important to Thomas…he could not dismiss the fallout Thomas had suffered as a result of missing it. The decision to attend the wedding had turned out to be a bad one.

Patton had been wrong to insist upon it over Janus’s objections, and over Roman’s.

Those were just the facts.

Janus sighed.

“I’ll unmask myself when an opportunity arises, if that would help,” he offered, and to Logan’s shock, slowly tugged off a glove. “I won’t…I won’t let it go on as long as it did with Patton.”

He offered his now bare hand to Logan again.

Out in the real world, Logan could hear Patton’s increasingly desperate and ridiculous responses to Thomas’s and Roman’s questions, and winced. Janus did the same.

“Please,” was all he said.

Logan sighed…it really couldn’t get any worse, could it?…and shook Janus’s hand.

#

In his TARDIS, Logan let out the sigh he was holding back.

He might have personal, concrete evidence that Janus wasn’t evil, but he also knew Janus had wounded Roman, badly, that day. The creative Side was simply not currently capable of viewing any situation involving Janus with any sort of objectivity.

Passionate, sensitive people like Roman tended to have an unfortunate habit of hanging onto grudges.

As Logic, Logan needed to remember that.

“Oh, all right,” Remus said, his voice crackling over the connection. “Since you’re all here—”

“Actually, Remus, we’re not all here,” Patton’s voice pointed out. “You all know perfectly well who we’re missing; we’ve done this before.”

Logan’s eyes widened. “‘Where is Anxiety?’” he quoted.

“You mean Tickle Me Emo isn’t with one of you?” Remus asked, looking delighted. “Oh dear, oh dear. Is he lost?”

“I mean, TARDISes are huge,” Roman pointed out. “He could be somewhere on one of our ships.” His voice dropped again. “I’ll bet Deceit stashed him away, because we all know how he hates Virgil.”

“Excuse you,” Janus’s voice interrupted, annoyed. “It is Virgil who hates me, not the other way around.”

“Let’s both scan our ships,” Logan suggested, hoping to head off an argument. Honestly, if Roman and Janus didn’t stop picking fights with one another, he was going to lose his marbles.

The scans pulled up nothing.

“Oh well,” Remus said with a shrug. “Guess the emo gets to miss out.”

Janus grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “lucky”.

“All right, here’s what’s going to happen.” Remus leaned close to the screen. “I’ve crash landed on a lovely snowbound planet that’s crawling with psychotic tin cans who like to roll around yelling ‘exterminate’.”

“Daleks? A snowbound planet, so not Skarro, but where else…” Logan narrowed his eyes.

“He’s on the Dalek asylum,” Roman said lowly. “That was one of the episodes I had in mind when I plotted this adventure.”

“Very good, brother.” Remus clapped his hands. “And up there in orbit is a ship full of people who’d really like to blow up the whole planet. Oh, woe is me, whatever shall I—”

“Save it,” Roman snapped. “You’d probably enjoy getting blown up.”

“Hmm, true.” Remus’s green eyes sharpened. “Think of the mess! Little bits of intestines floating through space, long pink ropey—”

“Or?” Logan interjected, before Remus gave Patton nightmares.

“Or you have to come rescue me!” Remus’s teeth flashed as he grinned. “Because otherwise it’s nighty-night for me and all the other aliens in the asylum.”

There was a beat of silence.

“As terrible as that sounds,” Janus drawled, sounding anything but worried, “given that none of this is real, and at least one of us would very much rather not be here at all…why exactly should your plight concern us?”

Logan secretly agreed, but felt his stomach clench when he glanced at Roman’s troubled face. None of this was real…right? Would something concretely bad happen to Remus if the planet he inhabited was blown up?

Surely not.

This was only a dream. Perhaps, then, Roman was merely upset that his twin had usurped his adventure for the night?

“Also.” Remus buffed his fingernails. “You should know that the Imagination will only release us if we complete the objective. In other words,” and he sneered, purple-shadowed eyes glittering, “we’re all stuck in this scenario until we’re all reunited.”

Remus giggled as Logan exchanged a shocked look with Roman.

“I don’t believe you. This was my dream,” Roman said darkly. “And I’ve just about had enough of all this!”

He stepped back and snapped his fingers with a flourish. Frowning, he did it again, and again, his face growing paler with each try.

“Roman, what—” Logan started.

“I can’t end it,” Roman whispered, still snapping. “He’s right. He’s…he’s sealed off the dream’s boundaries somehow. Remus!”

This he roared at the screen.

“Keeping Thomas trapped in a dream state is going too far, Remus!” he yelled. “I don’t care what kind of demented game you want to play with us, but we don’t bring Thomas into it.”

“Oh, you think I created an unbreakable dreamscape?” Remus snapped. “You let the Imagination have too much reign, my dear brother, and now neither of us have the power to end the dream ourselves. I estimate we have about ten hours before Thomas wakes up.”

For a moment, all Logan could hear was the soft whoosh of the time rotor, and Roman’s shallow, angry breathing at his shoulder.

“So I suggest you all pilot your ships to these coordinates,” Remus added, and a series of numbers and strange symbols flashed up on one of the smaller console screens. “And get started.”

The main screen blipped, and Remus’s face was replaced by an expressionless Cyberman and a snake-faced Side who looked extremely pale under his scales.

“Well,” Logan stated. “This is a problem.”

Chapter 6- Asylum of the Daleks

“You’re going to fire me at a planet? That’s your plan? I get fired at a planet and expected to fix it?”

“In fairness, that is slightly your M.O.”

“Don’t be fair to the Daleks when they’re firing me at a planet.”

The familiar wheeze of the TARDIS materializing filled Roman’s ears as he waited by the doors. Logan joined him a moment later.

“Ready?” he asked, smoothing a hand over his cravat.

He looks good as the Doctor, Roman thought, eying the slimming black and navy, the graceful arc that hand made as it adjusted a pair of glasses…

He shook himself out of his distraction. “Let’s do this, nerd.”

Logan opened the doors and the two stepped out…not onto the asylum, but onto a spaceship. Shiny copper terraces lined the vast walls in curving rows, leading the eye up to a domed ceiling with a clear view of black, star-studded space. Like a huge amphitheater, or stadium. Even Roman had to admit, the Imagination had really outdone itself on the realism.

Of course, given that the ship was filled with hundreds upon hundreds of Daleks calling for violence…realism wasn’t exactly comforting at the moment.

“Surprise, surprise, I don’t see my stupid brother,” Roman commented over the dull roar of the crowd.

“No. But I recognize where we are.” Logan waved a hand. “You were right about Remus’s location; this ship is from the episode ‘Asylum of the Daleks’, in Season 7. If we are following the basic plotline, Remus is likely somewhere down on the planet below, and we will be sent to him in due course. However…I am curious as to why all the other aliens are here.”

Roman looked around again, seeing that Logan was right. Daleks formed the majority of the crowd, but he also spotted Zygons, Sontarans, Silurians, other Cybermen, Ice Warriors…and quite a few aliens from older seasons he couldn’t remember the names of.

(Logan probably could.)

A second TARDIS materialized near their familiar blue box: plain, gray; a squat column of a ship. Janus emerged first, a silver instrument gripped in one gloved hand, followed by an old-school Cyberman…Patton. Roman frowned. Seeing that metal…being…and having to remember it was actually his friend was going to be difficult now that there wasn’t a screen separating them.

“Nice work, Roman,” Janus said, sidling up next to him and faux-clapping his hands. “A ship full of aliens who want us dead; always an excellent starting point for an adventure.”

“This is how the episode starts, Mr. Oh-I’m-Such-an-Expert-in-Doctor-Who,” Roman retorted. “Accuracy is important.”

“But this isn’t accurate,” Logan pointed out. “There should only be Daleks here.”

Roman folded his arms, stung.

Damn Logan and his damned need to be right all the time.

“I…well, I didn’t model this adventure after just one particular episode,” Roman admitted. “I wanted it to be a challenge, and it wouldn’t be if Logan and I already knew the ending. So no, I can’t exactly explain why all the other aliens are here, okay?”

Logan sighed.

“I was not criticizing you, Roman,” he said in a gentler voice. “As this has apparently become as much Remus’s and the Imagination’s handiwork as it is yours, it would be unreasonable to expect you to know what comes next.”

“THE DOCTOR AND THE MASTER WILL APPROACH THE SUPREME DALEK,” a grating robotic voice boomed across the ship, making them all whip around. A large white Dalek with an antenna on its shell loomed on a raised stage near the center of the amphitheater.

“They were expecting me, too?” Janus raised an eyebrow. “Interesting.”

The lights on the Dalek’s head flashed as it spoke again.

“THE DOCTOR AND THE MASTER WILL APPROACH WITH THEIR COMPANIONS.”

The four Sides exchanged a glance, and weaved through the assembled Daleks to the raised stage. The White Supreme Dalek was not the only occupant; it was flanked by an Ice Warrior, an Emojibot (which made Patton giggle), and…

“Look, a Janus,” Roman chortled, nudging the snake-faced Side in the ribs and pointing out the two-faced alien.

“You are all nerds and my logo is a two-headed snake,” Janus complained, rolling his eyes. “I literally do not know how all of you missed that obvious clue to my name.”

“DOCTOR,” the White Dalek said as they climbed the dais. “MASTER. WHAT DO YOU KNOW OF THE DALEK ASYLUM?”

“I’m just impressed my rat-faced brother wasn’t lying about his location,” Roman grumbled, and sputtered when Logan placed a hand over his mouth.

“According to legend,” Logan said, “you have a dumping ground, a planet where you lock up all the Daleks that go wrong.”

“The battle-scarred, the insane. The ones even you can’t control,” Janus clarified. His voice dropped to a hiss. “No wonder they ssstuck Remus there.”

Roman covered his mouth to keep from snorting.

The snake would not make him laugh.

“CORRECT.” The Dalek pushed a button and a hole opened in the middle of the floor. A snow-covered planet lay below them, pristine from this high up.

“Ooh, that’s,” Patton started, and let out a metallic gulp. “That’s quite a drop. Do we, ah, have to go down the same way? Cause I remember that part, and—”

“How many Daleks are down there?” Logan asked.

“A COUNT HAS NOT BEEN MADE,” the white Dalek said.

“Millions, certainly,” a new voice chimed in. The tall, robed, dark-skinned Janus stepped forward, their front face addressing them. “But they will not be your only concern. The population of the planet consists of more than just Daleks.”

Roman exchanged a suspicious glance with Logan. This wasn’t in the episode. This is new.

“What do you mean?” Janus, their Janus, asked.

The alien Janus turned to a nearby monitor, pulling up some information. The backward-facing face continued to address them.

“Some time ago, the Daleks began noticing a curious phenomenon,” they said. “Random people, from all different races and species, started turning up on various planets in this quadrant of space, including the asylum. No ships, no technology, and no knowledge of how they’d gotten there. At first the imprisoned Daleks on the asylum simply killed them off as they appeared—”

Patton visibly winced, even with his metal body, and Logan’s eyes grew flinty.

“—but the new arrivals eventually became too many to exterminate,” the alien Janus went on, unconcerned. “By now we suspect the planet has a population of over a billion, far too many for its automated systems to handle.”

They turned their forward face to the four again.

“THE ASYLUM IS COMPROMISED,” the Dalek Supreme proclaimed. “IT MUST BE CLEANSED.”

“Hang on, you’re still going to blow the whole planet up?” Roman protested. “A billion people?”

“To be fair, that is what they did in the original episode,” Logan pointed out quietly.

“But that was just Daleks!”

Janus rolled his eyes. “Ah, so genocide is fine when it’s only the evil aliens getting blown up?”

“You know, somehow I’m not surprised to hear you defending the bad guys!” Roman snapped.

“That is enough!” Patton snapped in his robotic voice, stepping between them and raising both his hands. Laser pistols popped out of both of them, making both Roman and Janus step back in alarm.

After a tense moment, Patton lowered his arms again; the guns clicked and vanished into their casings.

“Uh, sorry kiddos, I don’t know what came over me,” he said in a sheepish, more Patton-y voice. “Can we please not fight? It…it kinda makes me feel weird and jittery when you do.”

Roman stared at Patton’s blank Cyberman face and armored Cyberman body and swallowed, hard.

Their Patton would never deliberately aim a gun at anyone, let alone his family. But Cybermen were created to eliminate…or rather, delete…anyone who got in their way.

Did Patton even realize what he’d almost done?

What would happen, if and when he was forced to confront the reality of his body in this realm? What if he didn’t figure it out until he accidentally did something terrible? It wouldn’t be real, of course, but to Patton…that wouldn’t matter.

If his Cyberman programming forced or tricked him into hurting someone, the guilt of it would devastate him.

All I wanted to do was take Logan on an adventure, Roman thought bitterly. A fun little dream adventure where he could play one of his heroes. Was that too much to ask, Imagination?

He folded his arms and glared around the Dalek ship, anywhere but at his fellow Sides.

Whatever the hell this has turned into, I want no part of it anymore.

“In order for us to destroy the planet, we will need you to disable the planet’s forcefield—” The alien Janus started, but Logan held up a finger.

“Excuse you,” he said sharply. “We have not agreed to do anything, least of all help you murder a billion people whose only crime is to have accidentally turned up in your prison. Have you even attempted to solve that mystery?"

"And why do you care what happens down there?" Roman added, sneering. "If the insane Daleks are armed—”

“DALEKS ARE ALWAYS ARMED,” the white Dalek proclaimed.

“—then why can’t they defend themselves?” Logan finished, shooting Roman a questioning glance.

Roman huffed, and looked away.

“At first they did,” the Janus explained. “But as I said, the automated systems cannot keep up with the influx. Wars are being fought over food and other resources as we speak. A starliner crashed on the surface mere days ago, and—”

“Ah,” Logan said slowly. “You’re afraid, with all the shifting alliances and new activity, that the mad Daleks will escape in the confusion.”

“We do not know who or what is behind the influx,” the Janus said. “But eventually, they will start coming with ships, or they will build them on the surface, or reach out to those who could attempt a rescue.”

“‘If sssomeone can get in, everything can get out’,” their Janus quoted darkly.

The other Janus nodded. “Even the Daleks agree, their mad brethren cannot be allowed to escape. We, of this assembly—”

They waved to the assembled crowd of aliens, who observed in eerie silence.

“—have decided that one planet must be sacrificed for the greater good of the universe.”

Roman slowly and deliberately drew his sword (which the Imagination had kindly left as part of his outfit). It rasped as it emerged, the sound hair-raising in the sudden lull.

Instantly every Dalek gunstick and alien weapon on the ship was primed and pointed at the four Sides.

“And if we refuse?” Roman said evenly.

“THE DOCTOR AND THE MASTER WILL COOPERATE,” the Supreme Dalek warned, its lights flashing balefully.

“COOPERATE! COOPERATE!” the cry was echoed by the other Daleks, filling the ship with a cacophony of robot voices.

The alien Janus shrugged, spreading their hands.

“You don’t really have a choice. If you want to live, that is.”

“Is that so.”

Roman tensed and sprang at the white Dalek, not giving himself time to think. He dodged a blast from its gunstick and leaped, bringing his sword down hard. This being the Imagination, the katana cut through the Dalek’s metal armor like butter, and it clattered to the deck in two pieces.

There was a shocked silence…but no retaliation.

“Well?” Roman shouted, spreading his arms and turning in a slow circle. “This is me, not cooperating. What are you waiting for? Are you really going to shoot us?”

If they all died on this spaceship…the worst that would happen is they’d be kicked from the Imagination, and that was what they wanted, anyway.

“Roman,” Logan warned quietly, pointing.

Roman looked.

The white Dalek’s shell was…laughing?

“Oh, Roman,” Remus’s crackly voice emerged from the fallen Dalek’s casing. “Roman, Roman, Roman. My poor brave brother who thinks he can solve all his problems with steel and bravado. Did you really think it would be that easy?”

Each word bit like sandpaper against Roman’s ears.

He growled, and stalked to the Dalek’s top half, snatching it up and quickly locating a tiny speaker.

“C’mon, Remus. End this stupid charade,” he said quietly, holding the casing to his face so he could speak quietly. “You’ve had your fun at my expense. Go back to your pile of severed limbs and gloat if you must, but end this. For Patton’s sake, if nothing else.”

“I’ve already told you, it’s out of my hands,” Remus responded; typically, annoyingly casual. “If you want to end the game, you have to come down here and find me.”

Roman exhaled, resting his head against the cold, bumpy metal for a moment. His eyes burned, but he was Prince; he wouldn’t cry, not here.

“Why must you make everything difficult?”

“Roman, in all seriousness,” Remus’s voice dropped. “I didn’t know you were taking Logan on a date tonight—”

“It’s not a date,” Roman hissed, glancing at the other Sides…one in particular.

“The Imagination brought me into this without asking, just like it pulled the others in,” Remus went on. “I am aware of what has to happen, but I did not cause this.”

“You’re lying,” Roman said tonelessly.

Remus’s whiny voice grew hard.

“I don’t lie, and you despise that about me. You hide so much shit from yourself that it baffles you when I refuse to do the same.”

“Look,” Remus added when Roman didn’t respond. “The Imagination is clearly trying to get our attention. Sure, it usually goes through one of us first, but it doesn’t have to. When it comes down to it, Thomas’s mind answers only to Thomas. ”

“How are you so sure?” Roman frowned.

Was Remus seriously suggesting the Imagination they both oversaw had gone rogue somehow?

“Because I don’t curate my side as meticulously as you do, brother.” Remus chuckled. “I listen. I let the Imagination do as she pleases, free from all those pesky ethics and morals and other boring boxes you always force her into, so that our sweet Thomas doesn’t fear the contents of his own head.”

“You expect me to believe that you know what’s going on because,” Roman let every ounce of disdain seep into his voice, “the Imagination talks to you, and not me…because you don’t make her behave?”

“You should try letting her loose sometimes,” Remus drawled, “or you’ll end up with a cane up your butt like Nerdy Wolverine over there.”

“Don’t call him that,” Roman spat.

“What you so-called ‘light sides’ always get wrong,” Remus went on, “is that the juicy stuff, the gruesome and grim, the ‘bad’ thoughts that filter up from the subconscious; they can’t all be locked away and ignored.” His voice dropped ominously. “Repression can be very bad indeed, you know.”

Roman’s reasonable nature knew that his brother, despite his infuriating attitude, was actually making some good points. Thomas had been dealing with a lot lately; the tension in the mindspace felt like a ticking clock, counting down to the next disaster.

But at that moment, Roman had no desire to humor his twin.

All he wanted to do was lock himself into his own room in the Dream Palace and spend the rest of the night writing sad poetry about love, or listing his mistakes to himself until he fell asleep.

“I just wanted to show Logan a good time,” he said aloud.

“And oh dear, apparently you couldn’t even manage that correctly,” Remus said, implacably. “So maybe you should use this opportunity to get your head out of your poopy ass, and reevaluate yourself.”

Roman slammed the Dalek shell against the floor.

It cracked upon impact, the wiring inside sparking and finally flickering down to darkness. He ran his hands through his hair, reminded, once again, why he hated talking to his brother.

Like looking in a funhouse mirror…

“Roman…” Patton sidled up behind him, laying a cold hand on his back. Roman shoved the metal arm away and stalked back to the others.

“Let’s just get this done,” he said in a low voice.

“You will need these,” the alien Janus said, pushing a button on a nearby console. A translucent vertical tube rose from a gap in the floor, holding three bulky black bracelets.

“Ah yes, I remember this,” Logan said, striding forward and taking a bracelet.

“They will prevent—” the Janus started.

“The nano cloud from converting us into Dalek puppets, yes?” Logan interrupted, snapping the bracelet onto his wrist and handing another to Roman.

The nerd is getting into this, Roman thought as he put it on. I guess that’s something.

“The cloud is only active in certain areas of the asylum,” the Janus warned them again. “And those change as different factions seize control of different areas and weaponize them.”

Patton hesitantly raised a hand.

“Um, Mx. Alien, I can’t help but notice that there are only three bracelets, and four of us?”

Logan frowned. “But Patton, why would you—?”

“I’m sure it’s because I’m part snake, Patton,” Janus interrupted smoothly, swooping in to grab the last bracelet and snapping it onto Patton’s arm.

Roman exchanged an alarmed look with Logan; that was the last bit of confirmation he needed. Patton really was unaware that he was a Cyberman.

But why on earth would Janus go to such lengths to keep him in the dark about it? Even leaving aside the fact that Patton was a walking weapon; being a machine, he didn’t need protection from the nano cloud at all.

Whereas Janus…probably did.

But when Roman opened his mouth, Janus shot him a look full of daggers and promises of pain, and shook his head. Roman rolled his eyes and mentally washed his hands of the situation.

Typical Deceit. Protecting his lies.

At least Patton would be twice-protected. If the snake wanted to risk his life for a lie, let him.

“The gravity beam will convey you close to the crashed starliner,” the alien Janus said, and then there were Dalek blasters being shoved into their backs, propelling them toward the hole in the floor.

“Oi,” Roman protested, “get your freaky little eggbeater appendages away from me, you AAAAHHHH!”

There was a push, and they were falling.

Chapter 7- Oxygen

“Look at this. Classic design. Pressure seals. Hinges. None of that ‘shuk shuk’ nonsense.”

“Space doors are supposed to go shuk shuk.”

“Are you gonna be like this all day?”

Janus was done.

He sat up with a groan, brushing snow from his jacket and vest, making sure his hat and gloves were still in place. Everything ached. Bad enough he never wanted to be part this stupid dream game in the first place; now he was probably going to literally turn into a Dalek.

All because the Imagination is being a dick and Patton doesn’t know he’s a killer robot.

Wind gusted around him, making Janus glad that the Master, like the Doctor, usually preferred long sleeves and a coat. He stood, turning in a slow circle as he took in the lay of the land. Nothing but snow and rocks; true to the episode, still.

The gravity beam had split into four as it hurled them at the planet, but Janus was reasonably sure at least one of the others had landed nearby.

He hoped it was Patton.

Not because he was concerned or anything. It was just that either of the others would be absolutely insufferable company, that’s all.

“Janus!” a metallic voice called, and Janus breathed a sigh of relief.

Patton’s Cyberman body clattered awkwardly down a nearby snowbank, sliding the last few feet to land in a heap.

“It is all kinds of chilly down here.” Patton stood, and waved rather nonsensically. “Hullo there, Janus, so ice to see you.”

Janus rolled his eyes. (He would deny to his dying day that the corner of his mouth twitched at the ridiculous pun.)

“If this scenario is consistent with its source material,” he said, gesturing to the closest ridge, “there should be an escape pod from that crashed ship nearby. Come on.”

He set off across the snow, Patton following in his wake.

“Say, what do snowmen call their offspring?”

Janus exhaled carefully. Hoo, boy, maybe Logan wouldn’t have been so bad…

“I haven’t the faintest.”

“Chill-dren!” Patton chortled at Janus’s grimace. “What did one snowman say to another?”

“St. Genesius spare me,” Janus grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What, pray tell, did one snowman say to another?”

“‘Do you smell carrots?’”

Janus quickly covered his mouth.

“You smiled,” Patton crooned.

“I most certainly did not.”

“Okay, okay, one more.” Patton scurried ahead and turned around, so that he was walking backwards. “Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?” Janus said flatly.

“Snow.” Patton hooked his thumbs into the metal rim at waist, like one might on a pair of pants. Janus swallowed and looked away.

“Snow who?”

“Snow laughing matter, Janus, I don’t know why you’re smiling.”

Janus snorted before he could hide it, and cleared his throat.

“I am not smiling, how dare you.”

“That’s twice now!” Patton cackled, the sound coming out all distorted. “Admit it.”

“I refuse,” Janus said, drawing himself up. “You won’t make a liar out of….”

Liar.

He felt the joke fall flat and cringed. Even though Patton’s metal face couldn’t react, those metal shoulders visibly stiffened.

Too soon.

Liar.

Too much history between them.

Besides, you are a liar, his mind whispered. Lies of omission are still lies, Deceit, and you’re doing that right now.

Janus gritted his teeth. They topped a ridge; the expected escaped pod lay half-buried near another ridge, across a flat stretch of snow. The two Sides glanced at each other and continued their journey in silence.

Patton seemed disinclined to continue his little pun war.

Janus badly wanted to say he hadn’t minded the punning, but truthfully, keeping silent was easier. Patton’s baffling ignorance over the state of his own “flesh” was starting to wear on Janus’s conscience. He knew the longer he kept it secret, the worse the fallout would be when Patton finally learned the truth.

The urge to come clean was an unfamiliar one for him, and extremely uncomfortable.

Ironic, the master liar, conflicted about maintaining a lie.

The old him would have laughed, but…the old him hadn’t heard the sincerity in Patton’s voice, when he’d spoken Janus’s true name aloud for the first time. The old him had assumed Thomas would reject him forever…because of Patton.

And then, with Janus still smarting from the sting of Roman’s mockery, Patton had said his name.

Patton had trusted him to take care of Thomas in his stead, when the moral Side knew he had failed at it. The memory still made all Janus’s scales tingle and his heart beat a little sideways.

The new him…this him…couldn’t find it in his small, shriveled, but very much present heart to risk pushing Patton away.

They reached the pod.

Muffled shouts and something that sounded like blaster fire filtered up from inside, making them exchange another glance.

Janus set a hand on the ice-crusted latch.

“Remember, we’ll have to fight our way through a bunch of dead Dalek puppets,” he reminded Patton.

“That’s a lot of noise for just a few puppets,” Patton said softly. “That canonically shouldn’t even be awake yet.”

“I know, and that is strange,” Janus agreed. “Maybe someone got here before us. But we won’t know exactly what to expect until we get down there.”

Patton sighed, a cloud of frost puffing out of his small, rectangular mouth.

Janus pushed the latch, popped his head in, and was met with a scene of utter chaos.

About six or seven human-Dalek puppets, with stalks sticking out of their heads and blasters sticking out of their hands, were locked in a fire fight with a horde of robotic humanoids that looked like they came from the Fourth Doctor’s era, if Janus remembered correctly. Round, bulky shoulders and faces that looked like metal sunbursts.

Both puppets and robots were using the seats as cover, blaster fire zinging back and forth and exploding against the walls in little showers of sparks. Janus and Patton would be directly in the blast zone when they jumped down, a little closer to the robot side.

“Well, someone definitely got here before us,” Janus muttered.

He withdrew his head and studied Patton. Honestly, with his metal body he’d be in far less danger, and those guns in his arms would actually be useful in this situation…but telling Patton he was a walking weapon, now, would definitely not go over well.

“The hatch down into the asylum should be in the cockpit of this thing,” he informed Patton. “There’s a lot of blaster fire, though, so—”

“—don’t get cold feet and hesitate?” Patton finished.

Something in Janus’s heart twisted…something he didn’t dare examine too closely.

“Say, Patton,” he said softly, looking away.

“Yes?”

“What did the hat say to the scarf?”

Patton turned his black Cyberman eyes on Janus.

“What?”

“‘You hang around, and I’ll go a-head’.” Janus let a smirk curl his lips.

Patton was silent for a moment, but then he began to giggle, covering his mouth.

Janus pulled out his sonic laser.

He dropped into the pod with a swing of his legs, catching one of the robots in its metal chest. It fell with a screech, careening into another of its kind, but by then Janus had gained his feet and ducked behind a seat. Patton clattered down behind, with less grace and far more noise…and a random Tivolian tumbled in directly after him.

Patton caught the rodent-faced alien with a startled shout, immediately dropping them again when they screamed and struggled. Janus blinked; where the hell did they come from?

The Tivolian tumbled across the pod’s floor, only making it a few feet before getting cut down with blaster bolts. Janus saw Patton cry out, and caught the Side before he could leap out and draw more hostile fire.

“It’s too late!” he shouted over the noise.

“I should have hung on!” Patton, if he’d had a proper face, would probably be in tears. He hated death. “I don’t know why they were so scared of me!”

Janus could answer that…

“I’m more curious about where they came from,” he said instead, frowning. “They surely weren’t up on the surface with us. It’s like they just teleported in, but Tivolians don’t teleport. They don’t have the technology—”

A blaster bolt exploded across the top of the seat they were hiding behind, showering them in sparks and forcing them both to duck.

“Janus!” Patton snapped. “We need to get out of here!”

“Right.” Janus brandished his sonic. “We’ll just have to run for it.”

He leaped out, activating his weapon, and discovered that a sonic laser had a very satisfying range and kickback. Forget the Doctor’s screwdriver, he thought, blasting a Dalek puppet aside and ducking another gun blast. I wonder if the Imagination will let me keep this…

A cold, dead hand seized the collar of his jacket, yanking him back.

Then there was a yell, a clatter, and Janus turned in time to see Patton blast a puppet with a fire extinguisher. The moral Side chuckled at Janus’s shocked expression.

“I’ve seen this episode too, you know,” he pointed out.

Janus huffed.

The two dodged and fought their way to the cockpit; Janus used his laser to seal the door behind them. For a moment they simply stood there, catching their breath.

(Well, Janus caught his. Did Patton even breathe, in that form?)

“Unauthorized personnel may not enter the cockpit.” Remus’s high-pitched voice came over the speaker system. “Unless it’s an actual pit full of cocks, in which case, where’s my invitation?”

Janus was going to need something a lot stronger than tea, once they finally got out of this mess.

“Remus, for god’s sake,” he grumbled.

“God has nothing to do with my cock, but if that’s how you want to roll…” One of the cockpit screens flickered to life, and there was Remus in all his ruffly, sparkly, mustached glory. Clara’s warm, messy cove spread out behind him, reds and yellows clashing horribly with the green of his sash.

Janus moved so that his chest and shoulders blocked the screen, to prevent Remus from catching sight of Patton. If Remus saw Patton as a Cyberman, Janus would never be able to convince him to keep his mouth shut.

“All right then, where do we find you?” Janus said. “And where did the others land? Not to mention our dear missing ball of anxiety.” He leaned forward, putting on his trademark smirk. “Come on, Re. You must know. One Other to another, you can tell me.”

“Aww, Jan Jan,” Remus crooned, also leaning forward. “You care.”

“I most certainly do not!” Janus sputtered, and cleared his throat. “Patton was worried about Virgil, that’s all.”

“I was?” Patton asked from the other side of the space. “I mean, of course I am, but—”

“But surely you can at least tell us why this scenario isn’t playing out quite like the episode it comes from,” Janus interjected smoothly. He didn’t want Remus to notice the metallic quality of Patton’s voice.

“Sorry to disappoint, but I’ve already told you everything that I know.” Remus shrugged. “Roman really did give the Imagination too much freedom.”

Janus frowned.

“Then how do you know the scenario will end when we find you?”

“I actually don’t! Isn’t it great?” Remus crowed, clapping his hands. “I love stories where anything could happen. We could all get vaporized, or have our flesh eaten by—”

“Remus, focus.” Janus pitched the bridge of his nose. “So, given what we know of this particular episode, you’re assuming that our main tasks are to come get you, and to drop the forcefield on the planet so the Daleks can blow it up.”

“That’s the idea, Double Dee!”

Behind him, Janus heard Patton make a weird, choked noise, and grimaced.

“By the way, Roman and Logan are already inside the asylum.” Remus grinned, the whites of his eyes flashing. “So if you want to catch up, you’d better scute those scaly asscheeks along. Check the floor for a breach; that will be your way out. A breach, ha! Like a butth—”

Janus pointed his laser and fired on the screen, cutting the transmission and sending sparks flying all over the cockpit. An awkward silence fell in which he turned to face Patton, who of course wore no visible expression.

This, and all the reasons for it, annoyed him further.

“I swear if you ask one question about scutes or scales,” he warned, holding up a finger.

“I wasn’t…going to.” Patton held up his hands. “Logan kind of taught us how to tune out the more, er, naughty things Remus says. But I am wondering,” he added hesitantly. “Are you…feeling okay?”

“Fabulous. Peachy,” Janus said flatly, kneeling to feel around on the floor. “Fantastic, allons-y, geronimo, what have you.”

“It’s just, you seem a little angry,” Patton went on. “And you remember, that’s, that’s the first step in being converted. Maybe you should wear the bracelet for a while? We can trade on and off…”

Patton’s fingers went to his wrist, but Janus stopped him with a gloved hand on top.

Tell him, an inner voice whispered. Tell him now, before this gets any more awkward.

“That’s sweet of you, but no, I’m merely frustrated,” Janus admitted. “I would very much like to get out of here, so I can return to the pleasant evening I was having before all thisss.”

He gestured irritatedly around them.

Patton joined him on the floor and together they found a person-sized hole, with a rope ladder hanging down.

“Hey, Janus,” Patton murmured, as they were about to start the long climb down. “Can I ask you something?”

“Why do I have a feeling you’re going to ask no matter what I say?” Janus said wryly.

“Do you remember when that puppet attacked you in the main part of the ship, and I fought it off with the fire extinguisher?” Patton ducked his head.

Janus raised an eyebrow.

“They hesitated, when they saw me.” Patton’s unnaturally black eyes met Janus’s. “That’s why I had time to grab the extinguisher.”

Janus swallowed, his heart starting to pound.

“Well, I’m sure they aren’t used to anyone fighting back—”

“No, they hesitated like…like I scared them or something,” Patton pressed. “It was weird, Janus. Please. If there’s something you need to tell me…you know you can.”

Janus’s mouth compressed into a flat line and he looked away, bitterness welling up inside him.

“Can I, Patton?” he asked softly, holding up a gloved hand. A yellow indictment of everything he was. “Can I really?”

Patton sighed, long and deep.

“Touché.”

Chapter 8- Extremis

“Something’s coming. And I’m blind. How can I see them when I’m lost in the dark?”

Logan awoke to someone shaking him.

He opened his eyes to an expanse of blurry blobs and color splotches, and Roman’s sharp, frantic face very close to his. His eyes have amber flecks, his brain noted inanely. But why is he clear when nothing else is…?

Roman threw his head back and exhaled in obvious relief when Logan groaned, blinking rapidly to clear his vision.

“Singing chimeras, Specs, I was starting to worry.”

Logan sat up and touched his bare face. Ah, there’s the problem.

“Where are my glasses?”

Roman was quiet.

Logan leaned closer to the other Side, squinting. Bad eyesight was such an annoyance. If only Thomas’s developing brain hadn’t decided early on that “smart and logical” also meant “stereotypically nerdy”, and pigeonholed his own sense of Logic into actually requiring corrective eyewear.

“Roman?” Logan tried again.

“Um. About that.”

Roman bit his lip, and handed over a smashed set of frames. Logan’s stomach sank as he examined them; the lenses were shattered beyond repair.

“I found them next to you like that, when I woke up,” Roman explained. “I’ve been trying to summon another pair, but for some reason the Imagination won’t let me!”

Logan pushed down a growing sense of dread, that he’d have to navigate the rest of this adventure half-blind.

“My glasses getting broken is obviously not your fault. We did fall down a rather deep hole,” he pointed out. “But what do you mean, the Imagination isn’t letting you?”

“I mean it’s not letting me!” Roman threw up his hands. “I could summon things on the TARDIS just fine, but now…” He sighed. “I am Creativity, right?”

Logan tilted his head and frowned.

“Is that…Roman, that is a nonsensical question. Of course you are.”

“So summoning a tiny object in my own dream scenario should be easy.” Roman hung his head.

“How long have you been trying?”

“Twenty minutes, maybe?” Roman shrugged, still not looking at him. “All that time, and yet still I fail.”

Logan resisted the urge to point out that twenty minutes should be long enough to realize a thing might be outside of one’s control, and to start brainstorming other options.

Stubborn fool.

“Maybe it’s just as well we picked the wedding over the callback,” Roman added darkly, an uncharacteristic glower twisting his face. “When Thomas’s Creativity apparently can’t even control his own dreams.”

Oh…this isn’t about glasses at all, is it? Logan swallowed around an achy sensation in his chest; the one he always got when something was wrong and Roman made that face and he just…needed to fix it.

Native English speakers have a passive vocabulary of around forty thousand words, he thought, frustrated. So why, in situations like this, am I constantly struggling to find the right thing to say?

The resigned set to Roman’s jaw prompted Logan to try.

“Your inability to summon things may not be your doing,” Logan said, laying a hand on Roman’s knee. “Perhaps the Imagination is attempting to impose a sense of realism on this adventure.”

“Realism,” Roman echoed flatly. “In Doctor Who.”

Logan huffed. “You must admit, summoning objects out of thin air does defy even time-traveling alien logic.”

Roman’s face twitched in the tiniest of smiles. “So why did it work before, Teach?”

“Maybe it only worked on the TARDIS because the ship already defies every known rule of physics.” Logan shrugged. “I admit I cannot possibly intuit the inner workings of the Imagination; I can only theorize from what I have observed thus far.”

Roman chuckled softly to himself, and bumped Logan’s shoulder.

“Aww, Nerd, I’m touched. You’re trying to logic me into feeling better.”

“Is it…working?” Logan asked.

“Kind of?” An unreadable expression flitted over Roman’s face. “At least one of us is still grounded in reality.”

“Where else could one possibly be grounded?”

Roman laughed outright at this.

“Oh, Logan. Never change, okay?”

He stood up, and pulled Logan to his feet as well.

“Where are we?” Logan asked, squinting.

He could tell they were in some large, open space; all blacks and browns and dull grays. Blurry domes of copper were scattered amongst what could be bits of fallen scaffolding or machinery.

Logan was also hyperaware of Roman’s warm arm pressed against his, and his own hand clasped tightly within the Prince’s larger grip. With everything else blurry, physical sensations were all the more distracting.

“Don’t panic, okay?” Roman started.

Logan scoffed.

“You are fortunate that I am not Virgil,” he commented wryly. “Because starting a sentence like that would almost certainly have caused him to panic.”

“Well, it’s just, do you remember that scene in the Dalek asylum episode where Rory wakes up in the hanger full of dead Daleks who turn out to be not actually dead?” Roman said in a rush. “Because…yeah.”

Oh. Logan swallowed.

“So, I am guessing that those copper domes are actually Daleks?” he said softly.

Roman snorted.

“Copper domes? Jeesh, your eyesight sucks.”

“I am aware,” Logan said flatly. “Which means you will have to guide us out. If I remember correctly, as long as we are quiet and don’t kick any pipes on the ground, we won’t wake them up.”

Roman let go of Logan’s hand… and replaced it with an arm wrapped around his waist. Logan only held back a squeak because it would have been extremely undignified.

“Hey, relax, I got you, Specs.” Roman’s breath ghosted over Logan’s ear. The Prince’s shorter stature allowed him to fit snugly against Logan’s side; if Roman turned his head, he could comfortably tuck his face into the crook of Logan’s neck.

Not…not that Logan imagined him doing any such thing.

Roman drew his sword with a metallic rasp, prompting Logan to pull out his screwdriver, and they set off across the floor.

It was a strange, vulnerable sensation, Logan thought, being this close to another, being forced to rely on him for direction…or maybe it was just that Roman’s Rose Tyler outfit left so much more skin on display than his usual royal attire…

To be fair, Roman’s bare arms and short skirt and leggings were the only non-blurry things in Logan’s line of sight at the moment.

“You know, I am not sure how much good a sword will do against a Dalek now,” Logan said dryly (to distract himself). “Since it would seem that the Imagination is now attempting to be realistic.”

“It’ll be a lot more useful than a screwdriver,” Roman retorted. “Honestly, the War Doctor had a point. The later seasons really do start to treat the sonic like a weapon, and it looks ridiculous. There’s an oily-looking puddle to your left.”

They dodged around it.

“The sonic screwdriver is an ingenious, multipurpose tool,” Logan argued. “Fitting for a character who is, at heart, a pacifist. In the right hands, it most certainly could serve as a weapon. For example one could scramble a Cyberman’s circuits, short out fuses, or calculate the precise amount of blunt force needed to take down an enemy.” Logan waved the hand with the screwdriver around them. “All things that a sword could not accomplish.”

“Sure,” Roman drawled, leading them around one of the still, silent Daleks, “but you don’t point a sonic at an oncoming Dalek and expect to survive. Even the Doctor had more sense than to try that. At least a sword could cut off its blaster arm.”

“We don’t know how strong Dalek amor is down here,” Logan pointed out. “You could end up breaking your sword and then where would we be?”

“Better off than we’d be while you assembled a cabinet at them!”

Logan’s foot collided with a metallic something that made an awful CLANG and went skittering across the floor. Roman pulled them up short, his face going pale.

All around them, round blue lights began to flicker on, one by one.

“I kicked the pipe, didn’t I?” Logan said, his heart starting to pound.

“You kicked the pipe,” Roman confirmed in a sick voice.

“EGGS…!” a crackly Dalek voice next to them stuttered, making them jump. “EG-EG-EG-EGGS…!” Its twin lights flashed erratically as it spoke.

“Roman,” Logan started.

“‘Eggs, you may laugh and that’s great…’” Roman sang in a wavering voice. “‘Your smiles are what make my day’…”

The Dalek rolled toward them creakily. “EEEEEGGS!”

Logan’s breathing sped up. Another Dalek rolled in from the other side, causing him to stumble. All around them, mechanical creaks and groans and a chorus of digitized voices rose up…

“EG…EG-EGGS…TERM…”

“Roman, I believe we need to run.” Logan could see the Dalek almost clearly now, its eyestalk glowing, its gunstick rising up.

“…IN…ATE…”

Blurry, flashing lights closed in.

“‘My self-worth’s fragile like an egg,’” Roman sang. The hand gripping Logan’s middle tightened painfully. “‘When it breaks it’s tough to put together again…’”

“EX…TERM…IN…ATE!”

“Roman!” Logan shouted. “Get us out of here!”

“EXTERMINATE!”

A blaster bolt warbled past and exploded over their heads.

Roman shuddered and seemed to snap out of it, seizing Logan’s arm and pulling him so hard he nearly fell. Logan staggered, hanging onto Roman’s hand for dear life as they ran, and ran, and blaster bolts burst at their feet and shattered around them.

“This way, boys and boys,” Remus’s voice sing-singed across the room. Roman yanked them hard in that direction.

“REMUS!” Roman shouted as they ran, and Logan was impressed he had the breath for it. “Remus, you better open that door like you’re supposed to or we are DEAD!”

“Oh, keep your pants on, brother,” Remus snarked, sounding a little closer. “Although maybe Logan would prefer that you didn’t—”

Whatever else he said wasn’t audible over a hanger full of jabbering Daleks and firing blasters.

They reached a wall and Roman shoved Logan down.

“Straight ahead, crawl. Go, go, go!” he said, turning and brandishing his sword.

Bless that Prince and his stupid, stupid bravery.

Logan went, nearly tripping over his coat as he crawled under the barely lifted hatch door. Once he was past the threshold Roman flung himself under and through, knocking into Logan and sending them both sliding across the floor.

There was a hiss and a heavy thud that Logan hoped was the door shutting behind them, and finally, blessed silence. They both leaned against the wall for a moment, catching their breath.

Roman thunked his head back.

“Jesus Christ Superstar,” he muttered.

“Your welcome.”

Remus’s voice crackled through the hallway. Roman growled and sat up straighter, looking around as if his brother would magically appear.

“I did just save your lives,” Remus added. From the direction of the sound, Logan guessed he was talking through a speaker somewhere on the far wall.

“Yeah, and I’m still gonna whip your butt when this is all over,” Roman groused.

“Oooh, do I get to choose the instrument?”

Roman sputtered, but Logan grabbed his arm before he could yell back.

“You know he just likes to get under your skin,” he murmured, and raised his voice. “Thank you for opening the door, Remus. We are grateful for your help.”

There was a silence on the other end, with a quality that Logan would have described as shocked.

“Well. You two lovebirds better move along,” Remus drawled finally, shrill as ever. “Before the Silurian army shows up.”

“Excuse me, the WHAT?” Logan exclaimed.

No answer.

“Remus!” Roman clambered to his feet and helped Logan up.

Nothing.

Except now that Logan was listening for it, he definitely heard approaching footsteps and murmuring, heavily-accented voices. And they were getting closer.

“That dick,” Roman grumbled through gritted teeth.

“To be fair, I think he is trying to help,” Logan pointed out. “In his own way.”

“Don’t be fair to my brother when he’s just led us out of the frying pan and into the fire.”

“We are neither in a pan nor on fire, Roman; I have never understood that saying—”

The lights dimmed and flashed an eerie purple; Roman silenced him with a hand over his mouth. There was a voice…not Remus’s, not alien, not like anything Logan had ever heard. It chanted something, over and over again, before fading out.

The lights flared back to normal.

Logan waited, counting Roman’s shallow breaths against his neck.

Nothing.

“What was that?” he asked softly.

“Beats the hell out of me,” Roman responded. “But I guess that’s our cue to go. Stay close, Mr. Magoo.”

Logan grumbled, but allowed Roman to recapture his hand and lead them in the opposite direction of the approaching footsteps…which had resumed the moment the purple light vanished.

Next time Roman asked him to come on an adventure, he was bringing a spare set of glasses.

[jacscorner]

Fox McCloud of Kongo Bongo Part 1

Hello, beautiful friends. I'm simul-posting this silly fanfic idea I had for a while now. Cause Fox McCloud X Tiny Kong content doesn't exist except for the content I made myself, so I'm making a fic dedicated to my silly Sword & Planet doodle I did some months back.

With all that said, I hope you all enjoy, and sorry for any spelling and grammar faults. I'll fix them after the post if someone points 'em out to me, but this fic is being written by the seat of my pants and pretty casually.

The Lylat System was quiet. It had been a short year since the return of Andross when Fox McCloud and the Star Fox team had stopped Andross from destroying Corneria and taking over the system. Fox McCloud, leader of Team Star Fox, was piloting his Arwing past Sector X. The strange nebula was once the secret base for Andross and his operations during the First Lylat War, but now the odd cosmic cloud in the shape of a cross was just a quiet landmark through the system. At least, so it should.

[This is Pepper. Come in, Fox.]

Fox gave a tired grunt, losing his concentration and focus as he reached for the communicator strapped to his head and flipped it on. "You're clear, Peppy."

[Are ya seein' anything there, Fox?]

"That's a negative." Fox said as he checked his instruments again. "I'm still getting those weird readings that Slippy picked up, but I'm not seeing anything."

[Ya shoulda waited at the Great Fox like I told ya, Fox.]

Fox gave a roll of his eyes as he said, "Peppy, stop worrying so much." After the return of Andross every low life of the system seemed to go into hiding. True peace was still out of reach, and there was always work for the members of Team Star Fox, but finding any big named criminals who tried to fill the same niche Andross were hard to come by. In a way, Fox didn't like this; as a mercenary, he lived to fight. Was it wrong to think that way? Most certainly; peace in the Lylat System, where no little kid lost their father like he did, was the ultimate goal. But he needed food on the table like anyone else did.

[Wolf O'Donnell is still at large, Fox. He could be setting up a trap for ya.]

Cap'n Wolf O'Donnel, the name rang in Fox's ear. He could still see the burning, red scar on that wolf's face, the yellow of his eyes burning into his own. Out of all the mercenaries Andross hired to take him and Miyu out, Wolf was probably the best. His equal in almost every way and nearly sent him to his doom. It was the most intense fight Fox had ever been in; for the first time in his life, Fox truly feared that he was gonna die.

And yet, ever since then, there's been a hole in his chest that he couldn't quiet fill.

"If Wolf's out there, then I'll be ready for him."

[Fox, you're-]

"End transmission." Fox didn't wait for a reply, turning off his head piece. He wasn't in the mood to keep listening to Peppy badger him over this; besides, if Wolf was out here, then he would've shown his face by now, right? There wasn't anywhere to hide in Sector X, it wasn't anything by burning gas and bright light.

"One more pass around." Fox told himself, initiating another scan. If nothing was here, then he should turn back and head back for the Great Fox. At least, that's what he should do, but he was in no real rush to make it back to Peppy and listen to him nag his ear off. He cruised around Sector X thinking about how he'd rather go to Titania. There's a nice little saloon there, perfect place to refuel his Arwing and drink his problems away. Just the thought of Titania ale was tempting Fox to ditch his mission. It was weird; he wasn't much of a drinker before, by after the first Lylat War, he grew a taste for alcohol.

Suddenly, Fox jerked the controls on his Arwing, suddenly him into a dive just in time to avoid a photon shot. His instincts kicked in just in time, but where the hell did that come from?! He looked on his radar, seeing nothing, but then looked to see an incoming transmission message. He didn't even patch it through or have the chance to reject the message when a scarred face appeared on screen.

"Hello, pup."

"Wolf!" Fox growled as he glanced up, seeing the lone, quad-wing ship cut through the unforgiving void as he rocketed right for the vulpine pilot. Fox bared his fangs, starting to charge right for Wolf like a demented game of chicken. "I knew you were skulking about these parts!"

"And I knew you'd come with the right bait." Wolf chuckled, his shields deflecting Fox's photon shots as he fired back with his own. "And now it's time I pay back the debt I racked up back on Macbeth."

With some expert barrel rolls, Fox was able to deflect Wolf's own shots, the two ships crossing the other's paths.

"Not to mention I'm paying you back for killing the rest of my team." Wolf snarled, spinning his ship around and beginning to chase Fox through space. His ship let out rapid volleys of hot orange shots on Fox's tail, but Fox managed to evade each shot. Fox could feel Wolf gritting his teeth as he managed to evade each shot. It was like Fox had eyes on the back of his head and Wolf couldn't get a clean shot!

[Fox, come in! Fox! Fox, answer me!]

Meanwhile, Fox couldn't shake Wolf from his tail; it was like Wolf was glued on! He tried to perform a somersault, but Wolf was right behind him, gunning for his engines. He felt his air form a lump in his throat; Wolf was giving him no chance to breath or get any space to counter attack.

"Get back here, brat!" Wolf called out, but Fox was too focused to be distracted or baited by the bounty hunter.

[H-hey! F-Fox, can you hear-ribbit?!]

"Want me?! Come and get me!" Fox called back at Wolf. With a well-timed barrel role, he deflected Wolf's volley of shots and slammed the breaks. Wolf flew right past him and was reading right for the burning mass that was Sector X before Fox chased Wolf down. Now that the tables had turned, Fox was going for the kill, charging up a photon shot that he aimed right for Wolf's engine, prepared to finish off his rival once and for-

[HEY GENIUS! WHAT ARE YA DOIN'?! GET OUTTA THERE!]

Falco's shrieking in Fox's ear piece made him release his shot just before the charge was done, nailing Wolf right in the back of his ship, just missing his engine. Wolf started to climb up and get away, but Fox was more focused on the ringing in his ear. It felt like a siren was blaring with how loud it was.

"...Wait, that's not my ear." Fox flinched as he looked at his were going crazy! Before he could decipher what was happening, a sudden, brighter light came from Sector X. In the center of the nebula's glowing cross appeared,a void of purple light that began to swell and open up.

"A Worm Hole!" Fox realized it too late! He tried to pull away, but this Worm Hole was sucking him in! His controls were starting to lock up; try as Fox might, but he couldn't escape the gravity field the Worm Hole was projecting! It was like a hand had grabbed his ship and started to pull him in by force!

"What is this?! I can't get away!" Wolf shouted, doing no better as his ship was being lured right into the vortex as well.

Fox couldn't think; Wolf's screaming and the Arwing blaring were growing more and more distant as they fell closer to the Worm Hole. His life was starting to flash before his eyes; Fox thought that fear would grip his heart, yet he was oddly calm. Life, death; they didn't seem to matter anymore. Or, rather, Fox felt ready to embrace his fate. Day to day life felt more and more like a chore for the mercenary. And while he didn't rush towards death, he wasn't against letting it come to him. As the light began to fade and sound turn to nothingness, Fox felt ready to embrace death like a bride.

And then, nothingness.

This wasn't the first time Fox had entered a Warp Zone, but this was different from the last time.

The last time, back in the first Lylat War, was a constant bombardment of light and sound. Blues and pinks, odd sounds that made Fox think of some odd, old-school music. It was dizzying back then, yet it felt oddly natural. As if nothing was weird at all; or maybe the odd Warp Zone was manipulating him though the protective hull of his Arwing, making him feel relaxed when any sign man would be panicking and screaming, crashing their ship to any and every piece of debris in the void in a misguided attempt to confirm if what they were being subjected to was real or just a dream they couldn't wake up from.

It wasn't like that this time at all; in fact, it was the exact opposite. Fox couldn't see anything, it was all dark. It wasn't black as night or even dark like space. There was no source of any light, not even from his Arwing. He couldn't see his own hand even if it was trembling in front of his own face. He couldn't hear anything either; not Wolf's screaming, not that he could tell if he was or not, not the alarms his Arwing should've been giving off, not even the sound of his own heart.

He couldn't feel anything either. Not the taste of his own spit, not the seat he was sure he was still sitting in, nor the controls his hands wouldn't let go of with his vice-like grip. Fox felt as though he was cramped inside of his cockpit, yet weightless, and his sad attempt to anchor himself in place was useless. Was this what death was like or was this just the odd void he was trapped in.

How long would he be here? Would he die here? Could he die here? And just how long has he been here? At first, he thought it was just five minutes, but at the same time, he felt that he had been floating here for five hours. It was getting so bad that Fox couldn't tell if he was even still in the cockpit. Was he awake? Thinking in his sleep? Were his eyes even open?

CRASH!

Suddenly, all of his senses hit him like a hammer upside the head. A low groan escaped Fox's muzzle; he wanted to feel something, but now it was pain. His body felt sore and stiff; it felt like he had slept all day and hadn't moved a muscle, but somehow worse. Like he was stuck in his cockpit for weeks. His eyes slowly peeled open with a groan as a setting sun's light pierced his retinas like a hot laser.

With a grimace, the fox blindly reached across the console to open the hatch to his cockpit. His ears twitched anxiously with the lack of any cockpit opening sounds. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he tried to press the button again, but noticed how it felt through his leather glove.

Cold.

His console felt ice cold. The Arwing wasn't running. Fox tried to fire it up, but he didn't even catch the sputter of the engine.

"Great. My Arwing's dead..." Fox grunted as he adjusted his seat. With a hard kick of his metallic leg, Fox kicked the glass shielding off of his Arwing before he dragged himself out. Popping his neck and shoulders, Fox looked around. He was on some kind of beach, but this didn't look like any beach he knew. The sand was black as night and gave a beautiful, if not ominous, shine under the setting, red sun. He looked ahead of him, seeing crimson waves push and as high tide began to set in. Behind him, a massive jungle, but there were smoke stacks poking from the tree line. Black clouds of smog began were pouring into the air, obscuring Fox's view from looking beyond the trees.

"Where in Lylat am I...?" Fox mumbled, but he questioned if he was really still in the Lylat System at this point. He reached for his head piece and began to speak. "Fox to the Great Fox, do you hear me guys?" He was met with a chorus of static in his ears. "Great, my Arwing's dead and now I can't even call for help." Just as Fox thought things couldn't get worse, he heard something.

Marching?

Fox pulled out his blaster, turning behind him and preparing to fire a warning shot, but was promptly met with a pair of larger guns pointing at his face. They looked crude and rudimentary as opposed to his own blaster, but they were not only much bigger, but there were five crocodiles pointing what looked like brass-and-steel blunderbusses at Fox's head, florescent tubes sticking out of the sides of their guns.

"Don't even think about it, furball." The croc snarled, his body bulging with muscles covered by mostly green scales. "Drop your blaster and come quietly or your hide will make a nice rug."

"Oh damn..."

[the-hetchia-universe]

So i found i miciti disney of phantom blot!

And i wanted to share the translated version of the interview ! ( and i like he has some kinda story behind the interview. The extras will be on a reblog post.)

"If I didn't have a heart of gold..."

Meeting within the walls of the prison with the one who likes to call himself a villain unique in style, intelligence and personality. A true emperor of crime, if it were not for the too much sensitivity that makes him hate violence and has prevented him on various occasions to get rid of the enemy Mickey, for now.

When it was decided to dedicate a volume - and a coin - to The Phantom blot, it was prudently placed towards the end of the series, in the belief that sooner or later the person concerned would be available for the ritual interview.

The reasoning did not make a wrinkle: more than six months would have been enough for him to try to pull off one of his famous shots, which would have been followed by the probable (not to say inevitable) arrest, and so it would have been easy to meet him in the cooler.

And instead, time has passed and no news of the lantitante Phantom blot has been heard.

That he had decided to take a long vacation or, even worse, to retire permanently from...business?

The only hope of not being forced to write with blank pages was placed in the major expert of the black character and his nemesis for sixty years, and that is Mickey. Who immediately reassured us. "No, Phantom Blot doesn't know what the holidays are," he said convinced.

"And as for the idea of retiring, I don't think it ever even crossed his twisted mind. He's not the type to sit on his hands, and even if he was, he'd never retire before he took me off the streets. He swore it to me... and he's not the type to break his word."

But then how did you explain him not talking about himself for so long? 

"He's on a break," sentenced Mickey. "he's preparing a big score... and I know which one too!"

At the Mousetown Research Center, very advanced studies were underway on a device to make people invisible. Very secret studies, of course, but not for Phantom Blot, as revealed by an ingenious electronic bug system discovered by chance at the Center.

There was no doubt that he was the one who planted them.

"Invisibility has always been his dream," Mickey said.

"And with that device, he'd have one that's perfectly good, not the handcrafted one that gives him his black cloak in the night."

the bug hadn't been removed, so as not to put the Phantom blot on the forewarning so that we could catch him red-handed at the appropriate time. Which, unfortunately, wouldn't be for a few months at the earliest. And to hasten the time was not even talked about it: even if it had been possible, an interview would hardly have been a sufficient reason to speed up the work.

I was already resigned to having to give up the interview when I had a dazzling idea. What if he just pretended to finish the job? A nice, exclusive benefit performance by Blot and his bugs and...

"And he'll bite for sure, because he doesn't know that we know that he knows!" exclaimed Mickey.

"Besides, if he has to act sooner than expected, he won't have the time to get his plans right, and it'll be easier to neutralize him. And there is another advantage: even if he gets away with it, he will have nothing to steal. But he won't get away with it..."

Mickey was a good man (not that it took long: all the precedents were in his favor) and so here I am, in Mousetown prison, visiting the blackest black character in the Disney world.

Who receives me in his usual cell. I'd like to describe him, but how do you tell something you can't see? The room, in fact, is in total darkness...

Interviewing an invisible subject is not the best, but taking notes in the dark is impossible...can't you turn on a light?

PB: Yes, but then you'll miss the right dark atmosphere.

Patience, I'll work on my imagination.

PB: I hope you've had enough. Anyway, I'm keeping the cloak and hood. Without them, I wouldn't be me anymore. Even the warden lets me wear them when I'm in jail. He has respect for my personality...

Me too, I assure you. You've always been my favorite negative character. The best villain. And don't get me wrong, when I say "bad"...

PB: There's no need to add anything else. I get it. On the other hand, how could you define me differently? Well, maybe instead of "bad," you could use the term "evil." I think it suits me better and is more exclusive. I'm the only one who's evil, and the comic book pages are full of villains.

And no one remotely has my class. Not to mention style, intelligence and personality.

Modesty, on the other hand, is quite common among you criminals...

PB: If you think you're funny, you're very wrong. I'm not immodest, I'm just telling it like it is. I'm not the kind of guy who's special, I'm not the kind of guy you're looking for.

That's what Floyd Gottfredson thought, too... 

PB: He's designed me. You ever wonder why I made myself look so much like Walt Disney?

As a joke, if I'm not mistaken.

PB: Pff! That's the official version. The truth is, he wanted to pay tribute to a great man by making him play a great character. And who could you find better than me? Walt and I have a lot in common.

Certainly not a criminal record.

PB: Obviously not. But we're both geniuses.

With very different results, though. His career has been a little bit better than yours. Speaking of which, can you explain the long hole between your first compo, in 1939, and your return to action, in 1955? Sixteen years is a long time: what have you been doing in all that time?

PB: If you had that imagination you boasted about earlier, you wouldn't ask me such a question. It's obvious I've been in prison. Serving my long sentence and figuring out how to get revenge on the man who put me away. You should have known better. And if you're really a fan of mine, you should know that I almost succeeded. I had a diabolical plan, a revenge so subtle that only I could have imagined it. Nothing crude, no direct violence. Mickey sabotaged himself with his own hands! I hope you publish the story of my return to the scene, so that readers will also appreciate my genius.

It's the first of this volume, a real classic. You really missed nothing because you're getting rid of your enemy. In this regard, can you explain me why, even though you had several times - and since your first encounter - the possibility to eliminate Mickey directly, you never did it?

PB: Because I'm too sensitive. I hate violence and I could never get my hands dirty. I wish I could. It would be so easy to just get the rat out of the way! But instead I'm forced to make deadly contraptions or studying very complicated subjects. Imagine that once, in order to get rid of my hated enemy, I managed to erase it from the mind of every inhabitant of Mousetown. Of course, as you can gather from my presence here, it didn't help. Do you know what that crude Pete once said to me, who I often share a cell with? That without my good heart, I'd be the emperor of crime! I hate to do this, but I have to agree with him.

Yeah, if it hadn't been Mickey in his way... He's blacked you out plenty of times!

PB: Yeah ! That's some low-rent humor. Why don't you also say that it's...stained my career? I don't mind anyway, because I'm tenacious, me. I'll never give up. I know what I'm worth, and I know the day will come when I can get rid of Mickey once and for all. That is, if luck doesn't keep on helping him, of course. That nosy little chap's always got a dose to envy even Gladstone.

You're not saying that to console yourself? The way you're putting it, it sounds like Mickey doesn't deserve any credit for putting you in jail. I'll grant you that sometimes he got away with it because your sensitivity prevented you from giving him the coup de grâce, but to say that he beats you regularly just because he's lucky, seems too much.

PB: Is that what you think? Then let us examine this latest supposed success of the brilliant detective, the genius of investigators, the terror of criminals. Tsk! I was preparing a perfect score, according to a schedule studied in detail... and what happens? That those scientists realize much earlier than expected the invention that I was so interested in, thus forcing me into a hasty action that led to my arrest. Mickey was there waiting for me, but if I'd had time to make a proper plan, I'd have done it under his nose, always snooping around. Grrr! And you're telling me he's not lucky?

Well, yeah, maybe a little. I'll grant you that it's not his fault, but the case, if the microplashes you had installed at the Research Center were discovered. But he was the one who figured out you planted them and had the idea to leave them where they were so you wouldn't get suspicious. And the fact that the invention was ready before its time is not a stroke of luck, but simply... false news.

PB: What?! You made that up. I don't believe it!

And it hurts, because I know what I'm talking about. I'm the one who gave him the idea. I went to consult him to find a way to interview you... Hey! Why did you get up? You don't want to...

PB: ...hurt you? No! I hate violence, you know that. I just want to hug you to show my appreciation! You are living proof that Mickey beats me just because he is lucky. But do you realize? I ended up in jail because of an interview!

That we can continue...

PB: Ah no! Even if I'm not angry with you, I don't talk to my worst enemy's allies. It's a matter of principle... that brings us to the end. So I'd be grateful if you'd leave. And on your way out, turn off the light!

[hang-on-a-mo]

Might of the Manticore

(Or how a dead Witcher meets a very weird bard)

- - -

No Witcher has died in his bed.

A common saying amongst Witchers of all Schools and all walks of life. They grow up hearing it, they walk the Path spouting it, and they die knowing it as an indisputable fact. No Witcher has died in his bed.

Well. Except for the rare unlucky bastard who didn't hear danger coming while he slept, or made the mistake of trusting the wrong warm body in his bed, but that was beside the point.

A Witcher typically died fighting, be it monster or man, they died with sword in hand.

Except for the depressingly common ones who did what they were hired to do, and were paid in betrayal.

He'd ventured into Novigrad for a day or two of rest after several hard months straight on the Path, coin purse heavy with the spoils of his latest contract. He'd yearned for a hot bath in safety instead of a quick wash in a cold stream. He'd craved fresh baked bread and succulent roasted meats instead of dry trail mix and whatever skinny woodland critter he'd managed to burn over a campfire. He'd wanted to quench his parched throat with a good, sweet mead instead of the swill he managed to barter off backwater merchants at exorbitant prices.

All he'd wanted was a gods be damned break. But no. No, he'd had to go and fall for a few tears from a pretty face and a sob story about a creature making off with a spouse in the dead of night. What was this one last small job before he kicked back and recouped for a few days?

One very dead feral Bruxa and an unfortunately expired husband later he'd returned to break the news to the teary eyed client, only to be met with a small army of gods be damned City Guard and a noose. Disturbing the peace they said. Violent and disorderly conduct within city walls they said. What a load of Chort shit. A Witcher kills a dangerous monster when hired to and suddenly he's a menace to society. He wished he was surprised.

At least they didn't put him on a fucking pyre.

They hung him in the Square, and as he choked, his wild eyes had picked out a smug, pretty face in the jeering crowd. His last thought was that he should have just taken that fucking bath.

His next, upon coming too below his own swinging boots, was that no one had ever said anything about sticking around.

After that, he spent some time trying to figure out what had happened. Had he been cursed? Was he unconsciously pissed enough at this injustice to come back as a Penitent? A Wraith?

No to all of the above, as it turned out. He seemed to simply be. A wandering soul? An echo? Bah, who even cared anymore, it's not like he was obligated to do anything about it.

Honestly though. Who'd ever heard of a dead Witcher haunting a city? Certainly not him, and if his brothers ever had they'd not shared it with him in the times they'd Wintered together at the Den.

And he was. Haunting it, that is. He'd quickly discovered that he could affect the world around him to a small degree. Disappointingly small, actually. His 'ghostly powers' were embarrassingly impotent most days, and so he was limited to decidedly petty acts of revenge. Not that he let that stop him.

He'd started with the pretty face that had led to his unfortunate demise. Her confusion and eventual anxiety at the seemingly random displacement of various items in her abode will forever warm the cockles of his black little ghost heart.

The toad in the lavatory was rather inspired, he'd admit.

It didn't take long at all for her to run shrieking from the house, claiming it haunted by demons to whoever would listen. Smug, he'd eventually moved on from his petty revenge before her panicked ramblings attracted something to worry about. Like a Mage. Or a Witcher.

He rather thought that last one would be the height of irony. He'd almost hung around just for that.

Once he'd left to wander the city, he learned very quickly that he wasn't the only one to wander after death. Humans, elves, dwarves, halflings, and one memorable Higher Vampire of all things. They roamed as he did, some seemingly unaffected or simply used to their plight, and others maudlin or mad. The mad ones he steered clear of, especially after he'd born witness to one of them violently changing into a fucking Wraith.

He'd tried talking to some of the stable ones, but he'd been dismayed to find that no matter what he said, or how loudly he said it, they never seemed to hear him. Most of them, he thought, couldn't even see him, their glazed eyes simply passing right over him like he wasn't even there. The ones that did see him usually turned and beat a hasty retreat, which was just rude, he may be a Witcher but he wasn't exactly working anymore, he was very clearly very much dead.

It grew very boring, very quickly after that. Time apparently moved differently in this strange state of limbo; he'd glanced at a notice board out of habit one day and noticed the date on one of the newer listings. He'd been dead for three years, and he hadn't even noticed. He hadn't known how to feel about that.

He'd missed three winters. He wondered if his remaining brothers had noted his absence and come to the correct conclusion. He wondered if they'd mourned him.

He passed his days wandering Novigrad, curiosity and boredom driving him to nose around homes, eavesdrop on conversations and exercise his right to haunt the place.

It was one such day spent shamelessly bouncing small stones off passing city guards helmets that something unusual happened.

A commotion in the tavern he was leaning on drew his attention, and just as he was about to write it off as the usual rowdiness of drunks, the doors were flung open and out was tossed a young man, swiftly followed by a lute, which all but brained the poor bastard on decent. A bard then, and likely a terrible one judging by that rather unceremonious exit.

The bard tossing barkeep spat a few derogatory remarks at the moaning heap of long limbs sprawled on the ground, declared his presence no longer welcome in his fine establishment, swore that if the bard ever touched his niece again certain parts of his anatomy would be severed, and slammed the door shut.

"Tough break, kid." He snorted, paused, took aim, and let loose another stone. The copper sized pebble bounced off a passing guards helmet with a satisfying ping, much to its owners indignity as he whirled around to squint after the perpetrator, only to frown in bewilderment upon finding none. Shrugging, the guard continued on his way. He snorted again- he'd probably have to move on from this street soon; some of them were starting to wise up.

"I'm certainly no expert on the matter, but I do believe that's a very good way to get yourself a cozy corner in the local dungeon."

Maybe he'd pay that vampire a visit today. The man was one of the depressingly few souls who didn't immediately flee at the sight of him. They couldn't hear each other, unfortunately, but they could certainly play a rousing game of charades.

"Well that's just rude. I'm not unfamiliar with poor reviews for the quality of my voice, but I'll say I've never had someone quite so blatantly ignore an attempt at simple conversation before."

Actually, hadn't the vampire hinted at departing the city last time they'd entertained each other with increasingly amusing and sometimes lewd gestures? Shit. He was going to miss that leech.

"Sweet Melitele, you're a Witcher!"

What, where?!

Abruptly abandoning his thoughts, he looked over to see who had made the surprised and unusually gleeful declaration to better track the target of it, only to be met with the unfortunate bard.

Who was staring at him with big, soulful blue eyes. At him. Right at him.

"What." The hell. Surprise apparently rendered him monosyllabic. The bard popped his hands on his hips, quirked a finely sculpted brow and said-

"You truly didn't hear a word I just said, did you? Unbelievable."

Overwhelmed and entirely too confused, he opened his mouth and squeaked-

"I'm… sorry?" Might of the Manticore, hear me roar. Death had ruined him.

[ingek73]

We Need to Talk About the Sussexes’ “Global Brand”

Sunday, 23 June 2019

Amidst a flurry of Saturday morning tasks, I caught up with my sister on the phone yesterday. We mulled over several topics before she inquired about the blogs and reports concerning the Royal Foundation: "Why do they blame Meghan for everything? What exactly is she supposed to have done that's not in line with the way the royals operate professionally?"

I've thought about these questions quite a bit since. It led me to carefully consider the reaction to news the Sussexes will leave the Royal Foundation and start their own charitable arm later this year. Surely, this is positive news? Well, apparently not. For this announcement has been met with....you guessed it....more criticism levelled at Meghan. Never mind it's been widely acknowledged the Sussexes did not push for the split, although all four are said to be pleased with the outcome. Headlines and furious social media posts appeared recently with such titles as "This is all Meghan's fault", "The Sussexes don't know their place", "They are not happy with their place within the family", "All they care about is creating a 'global brand'". You get the gist of it...

The term "Global Brand" has been bandied about along with outlandish speculation. Harry and Meghan have been accused of attempting to profit personally, running amok from Buckingham Palace with their own agenda and using this platform to break the royal mould. In the eyes of some the Sussexes are the downfall of the monarchy. What with their solid work ethic, proven successful projects, worldwide popularity and desire to use their roles for good, the Queen and her top aides must be positively shaking in their boots (or in Her Majesty's case her black patent Anello & Davide shoes). This is all sounding rather ridiculous isn't it?

Why has this been allowed to continue, escalate and take over the narrative you might ask? It's stemmed from an era of click-bait media where the lay of the land allows online journalists to write first, ask questions later, or better still don't ask them at all. A seething online fan war where misinformation becomes factual and, particularly, a complete lack of understanding, education and knowledge about the monarchy is worn as a badge of honour. I'm going to underline that because this is the crux of the issue and one which badly needs to be addressed before we are to endure months and years of vicious attacks against the Sussexes' foundation and future work. As long as this level of false information circulates on the internet and readers accept this as reality, it's not going anywhere, and I for one find it outrageous.

So, back to my sister's questions... "Why do they blame Meghan for everything? What exactly is she supposed to have done that's not in line with the way the royals operate professionally?" Step by step, I intend to answer that question using facts and senior members of the Royal family.

A 'Global' Royal Family?

As noted above, talk of a global 'Sussex Brand' has been used in the most derogatory sense. Members of the Royal family never focus on global issues, right? Incorrect. The royals' work in the UK is of course their primary job, but it isn't representative of their roles' sum total. Not at all. Representing Her Majesty in the Commonwealth and globally, in addition to supporting their own causes around the world plays a part in the working lives of most of the Royal family. I'm pleased to have learned of, and I'm delighted to share, the extent of those efforts by members of the British Royal family.

Certainly, when one is searching for an exemplary example of charitable work on any scale, we need look no further than the Prince of Wales. I could easily dedicate ten posts to his life's work and only barely scratch the surface. What I will focus on are his efforts and successes outside the UK to demonstrate the reach the Royal family has had for decades. Since Charles founded the Prince's Trust in 1976 (using his navy severance pay) to help vulnerable people get their lives back on track, his interests have grown to the point where he has over 400 patronages. His boundless desire to help others and to maximise the impact of his role has seen him launch, lead and support a number of charities further afield.

Have you heard of the Prince of Wales's Foundation Romania? Established in 2015, to take forward Charles' work in the country, the foundation develops a number of projects to support architectural heritage preservation, farming and sustainable development in Romania. As with much of Charles' work, it's about taking a practical, results-driven, sustainable approach. Relevant skills and practical courses are delivered to small farmers, producers of artisan food as well as Romania's wounded soldiers. Charles fell in love with the country, culture and people following a visit to Transylvania in 2007. During a speech at the Babes-Bolyai University he said: "I have often been asked about what brings me so often to Romania, what makes this place so special. The answer is, to me, very simple: you, my Romanian friends; your cultural and nature patrimony, your traditions, but also your capacity for innovation and change. All that you represent after centuries of history – your identity and your entire potential. All the energy you can expand to change something. These are the things that make you truly special in the entire world."

As with all members of the Royal family, the Commonwealth is an important part of Charles' life. Throughout his visits to member nations, he knew he wanted to make a lasting impact wherever he could. The Prince's Trust Australia delivers social impact by "transforming lives and building sustainable communities in Australia". Promoting enterprise skills, sustainable communities and supporting young people and defence members and their families are the core areas of the trust.

The Prince's Trust Canada is a registered Canadian charity established by Charles in 2011. It provides entrepreneurship training for veterans and transitioning Canadian Armed Forces members, helps young people reach their potential through employability programs, and supports Indigenous communities as they revitalise and protect their languages.

Next, we look at the Prince's Trust International, the definition of an organisation with global reach. Since its launch, the focus has been on delivering pilot programmes in countries around the world. They now have pilot programmes underway and established partners delivering programmes in Australia, Barbados, Canada, Greece, Jordan, Malta, Pakistan and New Zealand. If that's not enough, the plan is to move to a number of others countries in the coming years. Much like the Prince's Trust UK, the goal is to support and enable young people to avail of opportunities and improve their futures.

The Duchess of Cornwall is President of the Brooke, a worldwide organisation providing veterinary treatment for horses and donkeys. They reach over two million working horses, donkeys and mules across Africa, Asia, Latin America and the Middle East. Organisation staff include vets, animal welfare experts, and advocacy and development specialists. Camilla, a lifelong animal lover, is also a joint president of Elephant Family, a charity founded by her late brother Mark Shand in 2002 to save the Asian elephants. Again, supporting causes close to her heart is in addition to her duties on behalf of Her Majesty - it's not a case of running roughshod over the monarchy.

Shortly before the Earl and Countess of Wessex married, the Wessex Youth Trust was established to help, support and advance registered charities which provide opportunities specifically for children and young people. The Trust is proud to support worthy organisations both at home and internationally. "Internationally, funds have been directed to a wide variety of organisations - a Down Syndrome speech therapy centre in Moscow, and an orphanage in Chernobyl; a paediatric ophthalmology unit, training scheme and Flying Eye Hospital in Nepal and the Philippines as well as an HIV/Aids support programme in Uganda. In addition, donations have also been made to disaster relief operations - such as 9/11 and a children's home in Sri Lanka which helped victims of the 2004 tsunami."

Sophie has been a global ambassador for the International Agency for the Prevention of Blindness since 2013. More from the Palace: "In 2013, this role took Her Royal Highness to the Orbis flying hospital programme in India and Qatar where she saw first-hand the many global issues around preventable blindness. Following the Countess' visit to India and Qatar, Her Royal Highness wrote an article for the Telegraph to coincide with World Sight Day. In India, Bangladesh and Nepal the sight-saving organisations are focusing on childhood blindness. In Sudan, Pakistan and Egypt the organisations are focusing on the Trachoma Elimination Programme. Her Royal Highness has drawn much attention to these on-going projects through her visits to the regions and has helped drive the plans forward through working closely with the organisations, and many youth and community events."

More from Buckingham Palace:

'On International Women’s Day 2019, the Countess publicly announced her commitment to champion the Women, Peace and Security (WPS) agenda and the UK’s Preventing Sexual Violence in Conflict Initiative (PSVI), at a reception for Women Peacebuilders at Buckingham Palace. WPS both recognises the disproportionate impact of conflict on women and girls and the positive role women play in building peace and stability.

The PSVI aims to prevent conflict-related sexual violence as well as responding to the needs of survivors, tackling stigma and strengthening justice and accountability. As a central pillar of the Countess’s work, HRH has spoken at the Commission on the Status of Women at the UN in New York, and attended a Foreign Office conference on PSVI with survivors, government and NGO representatives. The Countess also continues to highlight international efforts towards women’s role in peacebuilding - in India, for example, HRH learnt about the country’s contribution to UN Peacekeeping and heard from women peacekeepers on active deployment.'

A life of service has seen Princess Anne travel all over the world. After serving as President of Save the Children since 1970, Anne officially became Patron in 2016. Most recently, she has travelled to Bangladesh, Sierra Leone, South Africa, Mozambique, Ethiopia, and Bosnia and Herzegovina. (with many thanks to Helen G for her research on this). In her role Anne has also visited China, Cambodia, Botswana, Madagascar and the Philippines. Save the Children strives tirelessly to protect children and give them the best possible opportunities in life.

The Princess has been involved in the creation of several charities including TransAid, transforming lives through safe and sustainable transport in 23 countries. More from the charity: "In Sub-Saharan Africa, road deaths are the third biggest killer following HIV/AIDS and Malaria (Source: the World Bank) and the problem will only rise with the growing population. Drivers are at risk every time they sit behind the wheel due to a lack of legal enforcement and training, and badly maintained and overloaded vehicles. People living in rural areas of Africa often struggle to access vital services. Around 75% of maternal deaths can be avoided through timely access to vital childbirth-related care. Our work includes an Emergency Transport Scheme to transport pregnant mothers with complications. We also help community health workers reach the families who need them." Anne also works closely with Riders For Health, an international non profit that provides health care to rural African villages.

The Duke of York launched Key to Freedom following his 2012 Diamond Jubilee Visit to Women’s Interlink Foundation (WIF) in India. The aim of the initiative is to empower women who have been victims of abuse by helping them acquire skills to become economically independent. Today, scarves made by women participating in Key to Freedom are sold at the Royal Collection Trust Shop.

The Foundation in the US

The next segment involves the US element. I think it's only natural to assume the Sussex Foundation will have supporters from the US. After all, Meghan is American. She has very well-connected friends in the US and she's going to bring an element of support to the table from across the pond. This has been largely feted as hugely controversial and another example of Meghan not following a traditional royal path. Using facts, this can be disproved as nonsense once again. When the Royal Foundation become operational in 2011, an American wing was established. American Friends of the Royal Foundation donated over $3.6 million since its inception. Prince Harry joined the US arm of the Foundation in 2013 for a major event supporting projects including the Royal Foundation's partnership with Harlem RBI to support Project Coach.

During a visit to New York in 2014, the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge attended a private dinner for American friends of the Royal Foundation hosted by long-term supporter, Sir Martin Sorrell, the chief executive of the WPP advertising group.

In fact, Prince Charles set up a charitable foundation in the US: "The Prince of Wales Foundation USA is the affiliate organisation of the Prince’s Trust, enabling tax-efficient giving for US supporters of His Royal Highness’s philanthropic interests. We are fortunate to have a growing base of American supporters who see real value in investing in the lives of disadvantaged and marginalised young people in the UK. The Prince of Wales Foundation was founded by HRH, the Prince of Wales in 1997."

Prince Harry's collaboration with Oprah on a mental health series has been cited as the ultimate example of the Sussexes going rogue. Not so. Prince Charles has collaborated with US entities on several documentaries including the 2012 documentary Harmony: a New Way of Looking at Our World. The piece focused on three decades of Charles' work to combat climate change. The film was based on the book of the same name, which Charles co-authored, about how man has become "dangerously disconnected from nature".

NBC released the following statement at the time of the collaboration:

'NBC is teaming up with Prince Charles for a new TV special about the environment. Harmony, which is slated to air in November, stems from Prince Charles' three decades of work fighting climate change and searching for new solutions to the worldwide environmental crisis.

"The Prince of Wales has such a passion and vision in providing leadership on this crucial climate issue that confronts the world," Paul Telegdy, NBC's executive vice president of alternative programming, said in a statement. "We are honored to partner with him to showcase these issues that are important to American audiences."

The film, which will air during NBC's annual "Green Is Universal" week, features rare footage of Prince Charles' interview with Nobel Peace Prize winner, former Vice President and longtime environmental activist Al Gore, as well as interviews with other government leaders, farmers, environmentalists and entrepreneurs.'

Charles' environmental work has not been without its setbacks. He was actually ridiculed for being one of the first to talk about climate change: "I found myself in conflict with the conventional outlook which, as I discovered, is not exactly the most pleasant situation to find yourself." Determined to following in his father's footsteps, Harry declared last year he hopes to continue his work in Australia: "Ladies and gentleman, those words were shared in speeches dating back to 1970 and up until 2002, by my father, the Prince of Wales. And yet now, nearly 50 years later, those sentiments resonate just as much today, if not more, than ever before. My father and others have been speaking about the environment for decades - not basing it on fallacy or new-age hypothesis, but rooted in science and facts, and the sobering awareness of our environmental vulnerability. And while those speeches would sometimes fall on deaf ears, he and others were unrelenting in their commitment to preserve the most valuable resource we have – our planet."

What About Commercial Partnerships?

Although the Sussexes' foundation does not yet have a name, it has been suggested (with not so thinly-veiled attacks) commercial partnerships may be in its future. Whilst we have absolutely no idea what the plan is at this time, yes it's possible and no it's not unusual. Commercial partnerships have been essential to ensuring the success of Charles' projects. Take Duchy Originals for example. Established almost 30 years ago, the leading organic brand is now stocked on the shelves of Waitrose supermarkets. It's aim is to support local producers and all profits go to charity.

Fundraising

The success or failure of any royal trust or foundation lies with its principles and the team behind it. Harry and Meghan are taking this on with a record of success. Simply look at the Invictus Games, look at Sentebale, the Endeavour Fund, Coach Core and many other projects and initiatives Harry has worked with. Meghan's first project with the Hubb exceed all goals, and smashed it's target of £250,000, raising over half a million. The ripple effect is heartwarming and inspiring. Today, the women of the Hubb were working with British Red Cross to welcome and feed refugees in Hackney London.

The pair have tangible results behind them and there's every reason to believe this will be a success. Fundraising will be an important element; again they've proven more than adept at this, raising millions for Sentebale with 'Sentebale Nights' and the Sentebale Polo Cup.

Again, fundraising has been key to Charles' success. In 2017 he raised £170 million for charity. He raised more money than anyone else in the UK. In 2013-2014 he raised £143 million for 15 of his charities. It's the year-after-year dedication that has led to these results. It's a case of beating the drum constantly, and loudly.

Overshadowing Senior Royals

The next accusation hurled at Harry, and particularly Meghan, is the suggestion they are somehow trying to overshadow more senior royals, namely the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge. Was Prince Charles trying to overshadow his parents with the Prince's Trust? Was Anne playing a game of one-upmanship against Charles with her tireless efforts and global work? Of course not. Harry and Meghan are not in competition with William and Kate. They are not setting out to outdo them and derail the course of the monarchy.

The Queen is the monarch. Then it will be Charles, and then William. The monarch is the head of the family, there's no issue there. The monarchy is comprised of working members and their collective efforts up and down the country, across the UK, across the Commonwealth, and across the globe. It's a team effort. That's not going to change. Harry and Meghan want to use their roles to the full, they want to work hard on behalf of Her Majesty and, like the other royals referenced, use their platforms to support causes close to their heart. This is all being done with the full approval of the Queen and Charles. The new Foundation has the full support of the family. The Queen appointed Harry and Meghan to Commonwealth roles; she passed her patronage of the Association of Commonwealth Universities to Meghan almost immediately after the marriage. That sounds to me like a monarch who has faith in her granddaughter-in-law. Not a Queen who fears the newest member is rebelling against the system. The rapturous reception the Sussexes have received in Dublin, Morocco, Australia, New Zealand, Fiji and Tonga is further evidence these roles are ideal for the pair. Their popularity and soft power needs to be harnessed to the full. This is all good for Team Windsor as a whole.

Prince Harry has been a global star all his life; his wife was always going to be under the spotlight. It is not the Sussexes' fault the media are obsessed with their every move. They are an asset to the monarchy and have carried out their roles with aplomb. From the day of their engagement, Meghan has thrown herself into her role, and she hasn't put a foot wrong. To chastise and tear her down because she's an intelligent woman who wants to succeed in this role is appalling and frankly sexist. Ambition is not a dirty word, especially when it's being channeled into a life of philanthropic dedication. The royals have a fantastic platform; they are uniquely placed to be in the position to help others and effect change. The fact they are being belittled for doing their jobs is truly baffling to me. We should unreservedly expect the very best from working members of the family.

The reality is the monarchy must modernise to survive and the Sussexes will play an important role in that modernisation. More from Vernon Bogdanor who famously wrote: "Monarchy has to adapt and evolve to survive. It can't be ahead of public opinion, but it can't be too far behind."

'In November 2005, Chris Mullin, the former editor of Tribune and then Labour MP, was invited to Clarence House where he heard the prince [Charles] speak "without notes, with passion and self-deprecating humour, holding our attention for a full 20 minutes. Always he comes back to the same point. How to widen the horizons of the young, especially the disaffected, the unlucky and even the malign … What influence he has he uses, sometimes to great effect, even at the risk of treading on official toes. It isn't just talk. His mentality is can-do – and he has a track record of achievement clearly visible for anyone who cares to look. Let he who has done more cast the first stone.'

So, when my sister asked me: "Why do they blame Meghan for everything? What exactly is she supposed to have done that's not in line with the way the royals operate professionally?" My answer is quite simple. Meghan has done nothing wrong; she's simply following in the footsteps of those who came before her.

*A sincere word of thanks to those who helped with the research, facts, figures and links on this.

[duanecbrooks]

"Girl(s)"-Watching     In an earlier article I held forth concerning Baggage Claim, a cinematic black-oriented rom-com that I saw on DVD that I was initially attracted to because of its lively, funny trailer as can be seen on YouTube--and that, as I also disclosed, has made the list of My All-Time Favorite Theatrical Offerings. I have since purchased, and seen, the DVD of another picture that initially caught and held my attention due to the quality of its trailer--which, as is the case with Claim's trailer, is available on YouTube. Namely this flick, which, by the way, started out as a play, is Some Girl(s). It is, let it be said flat-out, a dazzler, laden with searing dialogue, meticulous direction, and--and this is the clincher--genuinely touching and humanistic performances. To catch and stay with Girl(s) from beginning to end is to be on a journey accompanied by a collection of really dimensional, truly flesh-and-blood-and-feeling characters, folks who, although entirely fictional, will certainly, definitely strike chords deep within you. It sincerely is that recognizable, in the human sense, a work.           Before getting into said work, a couple of explanations are in order. First, the story itself has to do with a soon-to-be-wed writer (Adam Brody) traveling around the country re-connecting with different exes and attempting to make amends with them. Secondly, since the structure of Girl(s) is, thanks be to God, honestly individualistic--the picture consists not of some convoluted, showy Plot but of a succession of scenes wherein Brody's character (he is entirely unnamed in the flick, henceforth he'll be referred to The Fellow) re-encounters the aforementioned prior girlfriends and, in various ways, clashes with each of them--what will happen is that the tangiest of the relentlessly tangy dialogue will be spotlighted.               So we commence...             Upon getting back together with Sam (Jennifer Morrison):             .Sam, upon entering The Fellow's hotel room: "I've never been here before. (Pause) Unless you're seeing someone illicitly."             .Sam, after The Fellow tells her of his romantic misadventures after breaking up with her and what he's learned from them: "It's funny how much you know about women--now."           .Sam, after The Fellow does an enormous amount of hemming-and-hawing concerning what this rendezvous with her is about: "[You need to c]ut to the chase because my kid's getting home at 3."         .The Fellow, at last finally cutting to the chase: "I'm here because I want to...right a wrong, make things OK."               .Sam, incredulously: "You want to air this [past romantic] stuff [that was between us] now?"         .Sam, after The Fellow does his buck-and-wing as to how "we [supposedly he and Sam] broke up": "There was no 'we.' It was you! You ended it."                 .The Fellow, regarding Sam: "You were a girl I could take a glance at and see her whole future."       .The Fellow, at last finally fessing up: "I suppose I got nervous and backed out of the situation [with you] the best way I knew how."                   .Sam, becoming frustrated about this whole deal: "I don't want to be thinking about this [past] shit [with you] now! I'm a wife and a mother!"                 .Sam, her frustration growing: "We talked about getting engaged but not this [situation they're now in]!"     .Sam, in her final comment to The Fellow before taking off: "Married, huh? Good for you." And off she goes. For good.             Upon getting back together with the ever-flirtatious Tyler (Mia Maestro):               .Tyler, upon The Fellow's telling her of his personal and professional triumphs: "Married? Holy shit! And New Yorker magazine [published you] in the same year."           .Tyler, upon seductively suggesting that she and The Fellow have a one-night stand and The Fellow demurring, citing his upcoming marriage: "Even if it just happens here, with nobody the wiser?"             .Tyler, upon The Fellow's breaking down and coming on to her: "Don't forget your [wedding] vow thingy."               .Tyler, in response to The Fellow telling her of "this whole [marriage] thing I'm about to embark upon": "It's not a cruise."                 Upon getting back together with the mega-bitter, mega-resentful Lindsay (Emily Watson):           .Lindsay, sarcastically initiating conversation: "So the prodigal son returns."             .Lindsay, continuing to throw her darts: "This is the part where you say something charming in return. That's why they call it 'banter.'"             .Lindsay, hurling yet another dart: "You left at the end of the second semester, so you have...no idea how it was for me."             .Lindsay, keeping up her dart-throwing: "How do you help me get back some of the dignity I lost?"               .More Lindsay dart-hurling: "You are quite capable of fucking me. You used to do it all the time."     .The final last thrown Lindsay dart, this one concerning The Fellow's profession of love and devotion to her: "You were good at [claiming that you cared about me]. Making an honest...woman like me fall for it, gobble it up."               Upon getting back together with the ever-giggly, ever-girlish Reggie (Zoe Kazan):             .Reggie, after using a somewhat foreign (to her) word: "Is that a word--'happenstance'?"           .Sam, acknowledging a key character flaw of his to Reggie: "I have never been good at keeping up with everyone from school. You want to know a secret? I'm not even on Facebook."             .Reggie, upon catching The Fellow in a lie: "You're not really good at making stuff up, are you?...Not for a man who makes his living doing it."               .Reggie, disclosing her genuine past attitude toward The Fellow: "I used to watch you. You were the favorite of [my childhood girlfriend] Kelly's friends."             .The Fellow, upon discovering a previously-unknown (to him) layer of Reggie: "I didn't even know you kept a journal! At 11?"             .Reggie, telling The Fellow of how she, too, once wrote a tale of fiction: "Like you did in your story. Only without all the--what do you call 'em?--motifs."           .Reggie, getting into she and The Fellow's past together: "Your hand was there [upon my body]. Slipping into my panties."               .Reggie, flatly refusing to let The Fellow off the hook for taking sexual advantage of her: "I was the kid. I was the little girl...You were a man...Maybe you couldn't vote or go to war, but you had a car and everything...You had no right to [exploit me sexually]. Ever!"             .Reggie, upon, before leaving, very soulfully kissing The Fellow: "That's what a woman kisses like. You feel the difference?"               Upon getting back together with the sensitive-yet-far-from-malleable Bobbi (Kristen Bell):           .Bobbi, upon The Fellow's relating to her his plan to revisit his exes and see whether or not there's any bad blood: "So I was one of [those exes], huh? The lucky ones."                 .There's this dialogue between The Fellow and Bobbi regarding the former's emotional/psychological self, the former is the first speaker, Bobbi the second:                                           "Part of your life begins to come up for you."                                     "Like vomit?"             .Bobbi, again commenting on The Fellow's visit-exes-and-see-whether-or-not-there's-any-hard-feelings strategy: "Well, I'm glad I made the cut."             .Bobbi, becoming sincerely pissed at what is in effect The Fellow's plying his snow job: "Just don't do some pathetic thing like pretending to smooth things over."                 .Bobbi, upon giving The Fellow a gift certificate and him at first refusing: "Just please don't be an asshole about this. Just take it!"                   .Bobbi, spiritedly rejecting The Fellow's attempts to gloss things over: "I don't need any friends! Let me be more specific: I don't need you!"                 .Bobbi, when The Fellow tries to smooth things over by serving up the I-didn't-mean-any-harm gambit: "Fuck you!...It's not about the meaning, it's about the doing!"               .Bobbi, still staunchly refusing to give The Fellow a free ride: "When you do what you do [sexually exploit females], people get hurt!...It makes you more than just an ex-boyfriend. It makes you a killer, an assassin, an emotional terrorist."                 .The Fellow, at last finally honestly attempting to make amends: "I've done a host of things that, if you nit-pick, look pretty awful stacked up...I'm not doing this [going around to his exes and trying to set things right] haphazardly, it's for Esquire...I may have done a lot of stupid things, but I was young!"                   .Bobbi's final last words before she leaves, in a quiet, weary tone: "It's very late...It's late." Referencing said gift certificate, in the same modest, tired voice: "It's for 100 dollars." Then Bobbi leaves.                 Next we see The Fellow upon a plane, presumably heading back home, making loving small talk with his intended via cell phone. Afterward his eyes meet with those of this hot young blonde flight attendant (Kathleen Christy) and they smile fondly at each other. The clear inference is that, despite The Fellow's upcoming wedding, they'll eventually get together sexually.             And thus we have Some Girl(s), an often gripping, frequently affecting, always, always deeply human multiple portrait of relationships, of sexual politics, indeed, of love itself. Adam Brody, coming off (for me) his mega-successful turn as Paula Patton's dyed-in-the-wool-homosexual co-conspirator/best buddy in Baggage Claim is, if anything, even better here, deftly constructing an often heart-rending portrayal of a guy who is either unable or unwilling to freely acknowledge, even to himself, that his efforts to make up for his past sexual crimes, however sincere and however well-meant, amount to too little too late. Kathleen Christy offers just the right helpings of flirtatiousness and expectation as the flight attendant who, at the end, lights The Fellow's fire. Neil LaBute, adapting his own stage work, shows that a first-class theatrical script can also be a first-class cinematic script. And director Daisy vonScherler Mayer quite adeptly orchestrates both the interaction of the players and The Fellow's various travels.               That leaves the women with whom The Fellow re-connects. All of them are expert, with two standouts. The first is Emily Watson, flinging her vengeful venom at The Fellow with the kind of stiff-upper-lip dignity and oh-how-you-hurt-me bravado that, far from turning us against her, have us feeling her pain and admiring her for fully refusing to be any sort of wounded bird. And then there's Kristen Bell. Currently riding high thanks to her leading-lady role on the rather fluffy television sitcom The Good Place, she sincerely reaches her pinnacle here, skillfully blending open-faced girlishness, lingering hurt, and steely resilience with the ease and the grace of a champion poker player handling cards. When she closes the door behind her after walking out, we feel the same devastation as does The Fellow--although, unlike his, it's mixed with firm respect and, indeed, admiration for so forcefully holding her own against him.                 It was the powerhouse actor Viola Davis, accepting her (richly well-earned) Best Supporting Actress Golden Globe Award for her performance in Fences, who said, in part, that adapting a play, even a highly-esteemed play, for the big screen "doesn't scream 'moneymaker.' But it does scream 'art.' It does scream 'heart.'" Patty West and Chris Schwartz and Andrew Carlberg--Girl(s)'s producers--have, in bringing the aforementioned play to the large screen, brought us a work that indeed freely scream both "art" and "heart." And it is we cinemagoers who are the beneficiaries.