The Universe's Mixer

The instructions were so simple.

The paper should be folded thus, and thus... and it would create a shape. Once that shape took form, he was to make a wish. His heart, the directions said, would make it for him.

That was no longer a wish to be human. He'd been there and done that. Raglan James had ruined it for him, and it had cost David Talbot his life. Lestat was aware, very aware, of the thorns this process had. And that he would likely bleed. His heart's greatest desire? Depending on the moment or the day, that could be anything. An antique chair could appear. He could end up standing in the foyer of his apartment facing Gabrielle. Lestat did not, himself, know what he wanted.

Ever.

It was a main reason why he was such a pain.

He sat at the small table in his hallway, listening to the clock tick. He folded the paper into what became the flower of a rose. And then he shut his eyes.

He felt wind behind him, movement, footsteps. But they were the kind of footsteps that did not belong to anything as clumsy as a human. He felt a hand on his shoulder, cold, dead. He heard the mouth begin to open, to speak or draw blood.

And he smashed the rose. Picked it up and tore it.

It all stopped.

With a sweep of his arm, Lestat knocked the contents off of the table and onto the floor, then stood up and flipped over the stool he had been sitting on.

He would not allow the City that insight and entertainment. He could not abide it.

And now he knew the answer, anyway. He would not allow it to go wrong, for his house to burn down again, to be maimed again and thrown into a swamp again, to be left in favor of the whole world, to be abandoned again.

He knew what it was he was looking for.

Lestat did not want to be alone. He never had. He never would.

He'd have to do something about this.

Please continue your ball threads here

With everything in full swing, the waiters and waitresses were moving about people like ants. Able to sneak between groupings without bothering anybody, constantly in motion, trays balanced perfectly on one hand. As if they were in a choreographed number.

The sounds of chatter could be heard in the room, above the clinking of crystal glasses and silverware, adding a strangely calming ambiance to the whole scene. The music played on, as if the band would never tire.

Here and there, party favors were being activated, used, sometimes confusing their recipients, other times bringing great joy.

The invitations started raining on The City's citizens at half past 11 on the morning of March 31st. In standard City style, the things were addressed to each person specifically -- and nigh unavoidable. Dressed in black curlicues and elegant script, the parchment invitations heralded the black-tie Magical Springtime Masquerade, where wishes would be granted -- for that very night, 7:00 sharp. No R.S.V.P. necessary, it promised, and fine script at the bottom also advised that the City had taken the liberty of stocking the wardrobes of its citizens with masquerade-appropriate fineries, gratis. From all appearances, it looked like the City was ready to host a grand affair.

And grand indeed it was. Just a block north of the Clock Tower, the City Opera House threw open its doors at exactly 7 p.m. Red carpet rolled down the grand marble steps. Warm candlelight beckoned with gentle, clinging fingers to those in the chilly spring night air, and the merry tinkling of crystal glasses and laughter from the Grand Foyer welcomed with warmth in even greater degrees.

As guests arrived, tuxedoed gentlemen stationed at the doors accepted invitations with one hand and passed host gifts with the other. Each host gift, elegantly tucked away in a bag emblazoned with the guest's name, included two items: the first was either a masque, a ring, or a hat matching the attire of the guest, and the second was a small box without seams, hinges, locks or opening of any sort. Everyone seemed to have received this second gift, and everyone also received the same note attached to it: "For your enjoyment between 12:01 a.m. and 11:59 p.m. April 1st"

The night was full and bright, and there was plenty of time yet to ponder the mysteries of that small gift box. For now, the party began in full force, with plenty of wine, music, and merriment. And as the guests began to don their party favors, each discovered something else...

Yes, it was going to be an excellent party indeed!

Lestat sat outside at the sidewalk cafe, eyes hidden behind purple glasses, leg crossed over leg, a cup of coffee on the wrought iron table in front of him. He smiled pleasantly at the waitress who put cream and sugar down next to it, fangs hidden.

The red flower on his leather jacket stood out brightly against all of his other clothing.

He was waiting.

Lestat loved to people-watch, that was for certain. He also liked to pick at idle minds who did not know he was there. Tonight he was interested in the young woman who he'd seen by accident two evenings ago, whose mind he found he could not penetrate, not even a little. It wasn't something learned, either. He knew she was different.

She... and he did not even know her name... was someone unlike anyone he'd met in his years.

Of course, Lestat was fascinated. And he must, must speak to her.

The cafe was near where he presumed she was living; he would wait here until he saw her.
Then he would finally get to speak to her.

Yes. This was the plan.

In his escape from Arkham, with thanks to Frank Castle, Lestat drank seven orderlies and nurses nearly to death. He hadn't drained anyone *to* death. Just to the brink. He'd needed to replenish what the staff had taken out of him when they shackled him to the wall.

Despite himself, in his anger, Lestat had also snapped the neck of the unfortunate boy who'd tried on several occasions to make him drink dead blood. He viewed it as self-defense, nothing more, forgetting for the moment how broken he'd felt standing in the hall of his dead in Hell, his catatonia, his eye and the reason for the first set of shackles made of hair.

He'd been flying, literally and figuratively, often the last few nights, riding a kind of high of more human blood than he'd had in quite some time. In the absence of other vampires, though--specifically the absence of other vampires that'd allow him to drink their blood-- it was a necessity. And it made him feel... amazing.

He'd caught a familiar and enticing scent, near the City botanical gardens. He'd know it anywhere, since he so fixated on the person to whom it belonged. Lestat stopped in midair and levitated slightly above the ground, watching the young man walk through the greenery and the flowers.

Smiling.

When it became clear that he wasn't making enough noise, even for this person with heightened senses, Lestat let himself touch down on the ground.

16 days. Max must have made quite a mess by now. That damn dog probably had chewed up half of the supplies, and someone was going to pay for it. It took two weeks, but Frank had figured a way out.

The insane girl that talked to invisible friends was nice enough to give The Punisher a doctor's pass card. It was not in itself a means to escape, but it did provide access. Access to supply rooms, to stairwells, and most importantly to privacy. While not his typical loadout, Frank now had a scalpel made into a spear, several bottles of heavy sedatives, syringes and most importantly a map of the place in his mind.

The Punisher walked calmly through the common room trying not to raise any alarm. He pressed his back against a door marked Staff Only. The electronic lock opened with a faint click and he fled into the service corridor. A muffled oompfh could barely be heard in the next room as an orderly was treated to nap time by a spinning heel kick.

It was now or never.

On the top possible floor of Arkham Asylum, Lestat de Lioncourt sat in a ball on the bare floor, several doors between him and the hallway.

The vampire resented this. He resented being put here. He felt punished.

Very punished. And he had the nagging thought, again... of what might happen if irresponsible people got a piece of his hair, a shred of his skin. He remembered giving Spike a hard time for being caught by that Initiative operation, and locked up. How irresponsible that had been. And now here he was.

Lestat didn't remember arriving here. He credited the City with amazing innovation, to sneak up on him. There was a gap in his memory that didn't make sense to him, and then he was here. There were chains attached to the wall, chains he recognized, but it didn't seem possible... these were the chains made from Maharet's hair, long and red and thick, braids of amazing strength. He might be able to break metal, but he couldn't break Maharet. And his wrists were in the chains, and he didn't know how in the name of anything THAT had come to pass.

They bled him.

They cut his wrists. The wounds closed almost instantly and he'd laughed. They did it until he'd lost a fair amount of blood. Weak, now, an orderly came in, keeping great distance, a cup on the end of a long pole presented with a straw in it. Blood.

Lestat's eyebrow had risen. He wasn't so weak and stupid he wouldn't read the orderly's mind, and the City couldn't find enough people capable of locking their minds down from him to hide everything it should've been hiding.

Dead blood. Taken from a corpse being embalmed for burial outside of the asylum.

Lestat laughed, then. Loudly, hysterically. "Get out," he'd commanded, as commanding as he could be in his current state. "I don't drink from the dead."

He'd stopped laughing and glared, and smiled at the kid. The orderly left.

Lestat listened carefully to the amount of door clicks as the footsteps faded.

He was very far from anything but these chains.

Lestat was bored.

Boredom was dangerous, with Lestat around.

He'd taken to filling Aeon Flux's apartment with straws more often, making her more harried and unnerved. He'd taken to following Dr. Henry Jones Jr., whistling his theme song. He'd taken to lounging in bars with a glass of red wine, writing in a leatherbound journal.

He couldn't find Mona. She must be gone. Dr. Wilson was too busy most of the time to be much of a help in alleviating his boredom. He kept, as always, a close eye on Hannibal and River. And he knew this place was down to only one crazed hormonal female that might try to ram a piece of wood through his heart.

That was just fine.

The pen scratched across the fine paper, and the vampire smiled darkly behind his purple glasses, even though the bar was dark enough already. A stray though assaulted him from across the room, and he fought back a laugh.

This would be fun.

Harley draped herself over the throne casually. As though it was every day she sat on an actual throne. In a throne room. ( In her very own castle! )

Lestat sat in the hallway, head down, focused on the newspaper in his hand, acting like he was reading it. He listened intently to Dr. James Wilson's voice, eyes never leaving the paper.

Dr. Wilson was talking to a patient with terminal cancer about how her treatment was going. He was telling her she would die, and she was thankful.

It really had only been a matter of time before Lestat came calling here; Hannibal was here, and despite his promise to River Tam not to turn the boy, he was for damn sure not going to leave him alone. Walking the hallways here was interesting, too-- not a single person here knew what they were looking at when they saw him. It was like a game of catch-me-if-you-can, but he was the only one who knew it was going on.

When the woman left Wilson's office, Lestat rose slowly and silkily, and sidled through the door, sitting in the chair.

He'd met House. He remembered House. And Lestat figured that he and Wilson might get along quite well, all things considered.

Lestat missed David. Wilson missed House. He didn't see a problem here.

The vampire cleared his throat and waited for Wilson to look up, picking up a small stuffed bear from the edge of the desk and smacking the paper down on top of it.

The City was cold and quiet at 2 AM. Laura Kinney was wandering alone through town, an uncharacteristic habit she had picked up as of late. Now that she had the ability to go where ever she chose whenever she wanted to, Laura found it increasingly difficult to stay in one place for long. Especially if Billy was busy plotting or attending ELE meetings.

The cold didn't bother Laura much, and neither did the complete lack of streetlight (there was something to be said about her mutant DNA). Night time was her favorite time to go out, as most of the strange inhabitants of this strange City were off the streets, giving her the opportunity to roam without unnecessary interaction.

Laura could not define what happened as she turned the corner. The dark figure in the corner meant she was no longer alone, but the tell-tale signs of a human presence were entirely missing. She had never encountered anyone or thing like whatever was in that street with her in her sixteen years, a fact which made her only slightly nervous.

She had been created as a weapon; built to adapt herself to any situation. Stepping carefully forward, Laura called out to the dark shape. "What are you?" It was straight to the chase with this one.

For late afternoon, the City was remarkably bright.

Must have to do with the snow. The goddamn snow made Lestat think of France. And wolves. And things he did not want to be thinking about. It made his mood more volatile than normal. And instead of walking around happily in the fading daylight, this made the vampire cling more to the shadows, like characters in the penny dreadful horror novels he'd come to despise so much.

Behind purple glasses, violet eyes narrowed. The zombie fiasco had been fun to watch, but really, the City was wearing on Lestat. He wasn't sure he didn't like his sojourn in Hell better. He'd lost an eye, sure, but he'd come out swinging. And hadn't losing the eye meant all sorts of visits and attention from his kind? The ones he really cared about, at least.

Sigh.

Strings of thoughts filtered in and out of the vampire's mind as he walked down the street and into a music shop. It was darker in there; he could stop this hiding nonsense.

When thoughts of mountain lion's blood wafted toward him from the classical music section, Lestat smiled slowly, a large smile. A predatory smile.

The owner of those thoughts had bronze colored hair and seemed very intent on the music he was searching through. Lestat found him, arched a brow, and tilted his head, looking at the CDs in front of him with his hands behind his back.

"Do you play?" he asked, nodding with his chin toward the disc the lion-eater's hand rested on.

Piano music.

Lestat sat perched atop a fire escape, sitting like a gargoyle in a frock coat, blond hair shining in the moonlight and purple eyes glittering.

This. Was. Fun.

He was watching the carnage. Precious little he could do about it... he was scanning minds for Karen, but more and more there were no actual minds to scan and he was getting nowhere. Here and there, he'd knock zombies out of the way or twist their heads off, but mostly he was watching the progress of one particular pirate... because he simply could not believe it was possible.

Captain Jack Sparrow, when all the talk of zombies began, could think of nothing better to do about the problem then get lit. So he had. He half wished he had that piece of gold again, or his stupid undead monkey... Jack feared death. He really, really did. But he could handle zombies. If he could handle immortal pirates that were partly skeletal, he could handle zombies.

And so, with unbelieveable luck, he was now winding his way through the streets, bottle in one hand, sword in the other. Anything that bothered him got its head lopped off. And as he went, Jack muttered to himself...

"'s'not even original, y'know," he said, slicing through tthe neck of a growling, shambling foe. "'s'been DONE. AND! AND! There's not even any proper treasure involved, ay!"

God, was he disappointed.

Lestat loved him. Instantly. And wanted to applaud him.

Because the captain was not, for a second, losing ground.

"Today is the day," Lestat whispered, "that you will always remember, dear undead festering piles of flesh, as the day you almost bit Captain Jack Sparrow."

The vampire started to laugh.

There was no one there to remind her that she should blend in with the humans, make herself seem mortal so that they wouldn't all freak out. Her father's voice seemed to be a distant memory in her head, which wasn't entirely surprising. It felt like she'd been forever stuck in that place, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to do anything but be the balance between worlds, the go between. And no, Imara didn't like it. So when she was finally in this place, able to move and to speak, it was no wonder that all things that she'd learned about blending in went right out the window.

It didn't look like the girl had legs, like they just kind of stopped half way down her thighs, a vague swirl of energy or smoke curled down the rest of the way as she tried to figure out exactly what was going on. The first thing that she realized was that she didn't feel right. There was no connection to the other djinn. Her mother and father weren't there, and neither were any of her people.

No wait, that wasn't right, there was this faint something. Maybe one other but they were different. Well she couldn't bother about that now, she had to figure out what was going on. Because the other major difference was the fact that she couldn't feel Mother Earth. That was undoubtedly bad. With no ties to Mother Earth in this place, it all could go horribly out of control. She had only been born a week ago, and now she was some place new, and different and cold.

However it seemed to be alive, maybe not the whole planet, and maybe it wasn't Mother, but this City. It seemed to be awake. Hm. No matter for that now either. Several times she tried to close her eyes and wish herself back home, back to the place where she'd come from but it was no use. All she did was vanish out of thin air and reappear a couple of feet down from where she'd last been several times before stopping.

Just above her and in only one spot did the clouds turn dark and stormy and almost violent but there was no rain. Not just yet. With no one there, she had no idea what to do, standing alone on a sidewalk, staring around her, this woman who was definitely not human waited. But waited for what?

They had flown.

Karen hadn't quite known what to expect when Lestat had said he hoped she wasn't afraid of heights, she couldn't even begin to think of anything that he could come up with doing that would include them. Not that she was worried about it anyway. Heights didn't bother her any more than anything else did. Whether that was because of the drugs and booze in her system, or because she'd long ago sold her soul to the devil, or just because she was naturally fearless, Karen couldn't have said.

They ended up on one of the highest buildings in the city. On the roof, looking down at all the small people who looked even smaller from up here. Karen liked it. She liked that there was no way for them to see her up here. She only wished she could see them better. So she could make fun of their clothing.

"Oh honey." She sighed. "You do know how to show a girl a good time. But I had no idea that vampires could do that."

Of course, she didn't really know anything about vampires at all. Not really. Just what movies said, and she had a feeling that they didn't know anything about real vampires.

Karen Walker was goddamn adorable. Anyone who didn't think so was insane.

Lestat stood behind a clothes rack, and he was very painfully aware of what he looked like under the flourescent lights. They made even live people look dead. His eyes hid behind violet-lensed glasses, and he was dressed relatively tamely, all things considered.

The City Galleria was full of shops, and those shops (all indoors, bless whatever god you would) included a Brooks Brothers.

It was marginally like being in New York City, for a few seconds.

And Karen was here. He knew it immediately. And leaving that store, he proceeded directly to where she was and followed her progress, hiding behind racks and other shoppers until he decided to make his presence known. With the raise of an eyebrow, Lestat smiled at her now and waved.

Dean felt like he was still the only person in this huge ass lame place to not get a place to stay. He had met plenty of people, mostly women, who got places. But him, all he had was his car. So a few night in shady bars. Poker, pool, game of darts was enough for him to scrounge money together and find a cheap place to stay.

Dean found a motel room, like any other the Winchesters usually stayed in. It was a roach trap but at least nicer than some. He couldn't keep sponging off of Aeon, even if she didn't mind. Besides, he needed a place to lay out all he had on the City. He couldn't very well do it in Aeon's place and he needed to lay out his weapons. Cleaning time.

An empty bag of burgers littered the room. Beer bottles as well. On one bed, which was where Sam usually slept, he had the guns laid out, knives as well. He sat there, feeling ... lonely. Dean had always feared this moment. What he would do. Not able to find Sam. He was holding it together but it was slim now that he was alone.

Dean sat there, staring. He gave up his soul for his brother once. Partially so he couldn't be alone. Mostly for other reasons. To not let his family down. To not let his father down. That voice in his head still spoke loudly in his head. His father's voice. Protect Sam. Take care of him. And Dean did. The best he could.

Now, the realization of being here was slamming down upon him as he looked up at the walls. A map of the city he drew, markings upon it of buildings shifting, locations changing. Of hauntings, creatures, vampires, no rhyme or reason to it all. No pattern he could see. Damn, where was Sam?

He clicked the gun together that he had been cleaning then got up. He looked at the walls, turning around. "So why did you bring us all here? Why these people? What do you want from us?" He spoke in staring at the notes he had scribbled all over. "Just give me some kind of clue."

Bill had been cooped up in his apartment writing comics. The work was steady and he was surprised to discover how well The City paid, desperate for new strips. Bill produced two for The City, which was more work than he initially realized. The first was a super heroine comic who very closely resembled Promethea who usually fought robots or nazis, and flirted with a handsome FBI agent between action sequences. The second was a continuation of Rex Morgan, MD. Bill was careful to keep with the style of ever sentence ending in either an exclamation mark, ellipses or question. He also introduced new characters based on the friendly City Hospital medical staff.

The City was otherwise quiet. Bill kept a police scanner handy on his desk in case he heard of anything needing his intervention. Promethea had not made an appearance since her change but that didn't stop both mild mannered comic artist and science heroine from feeling cooped up. So it wasn't a mistake at nearly midnight when working on the latest Sofia: Science Heroine! strip that Bill imagined himself in a happier place and transformed.

Flying from her apartment, Promethea spied on The City below. Landing softly in The City Commons, she decided to take a walk. From each step, beautiful flowers blossomed from the trees and ground, figments from the realm of imagination which slowly faded, creating a trail of botanical wonder in her wake.

Her mind was like no other. There was a chorus of voices, both avatars of the past, present and future wound together into a song that made up Promethea's existence as a living story. Her thoughts had the intangibility of a goddess with the tangibility of a song, making it pretty to hear but nearly impossible to discern.

It was good to be out. Promethea stretched out her arms, reaching for the sky. Pleased.

The hospital was a good place for John Coffey to be. Not only could he help people all the time, but he couldn't get into trouble. Not that he did a whole lot of the latter, but sometimes he encountered people who weren't so good, and he didn't know what to do about it. It wasn't what anybody else would consider to be trouble, but it was troublesome to him.

Of course, it wasn't long before the hospital had less and less for him to do.

They had managed to keep him under wraps for the most part. The people he helped were too grateful to go blabbing to the media, and the hospital staff loved him. He was kind and quiet. And he was capable of helping them out with the patients they thought they were going to lose. Who was going to say anything? And risk losing this man who did so much for them?

But as the sick people became less and less, they encouraged him to have some time to himself more and more. Which meant leaving the hospital grounds and fending for himself. So far everybody had been lucky, because when he was needed, the hospital was put in front of him. He'd feel the need inside, and back to work he'd go.

Today was a little bit different though. The more he walked, the more the streets were taking him to an empty lot. Like the City didn't want to have him at the hospital anymore. And John Coffey didn't know where he was supposed to be going, nor did he realize that it was the same lot he was seeing. He just kept walking.

He only stopped when his feet were tired. Which made it extremely late in the day. The sun was setting and he could already see some of the night's stars. He smiled up at the sky as he sat on a bench that hadn't been there before.

What Hannibal Lecter (yes, Lestat had kept tabs despite his promise not to. Of course he had) had done to Aeon Flux was a thing that fell into several categories, as far as the vampire could tell.

One: It was torture. Lestat never really went in for torture. At least, not the outright kind. Two: It was methodical, and planned thoroughly--two things the vampire was incapable of. Three: It was cruel. Cruel in a way that made Lestat think of himself as a younger fiend... and this was not necessarily a good thing. Four: It was absolutely and entirely unconscionable.

( Lestat approved entirely. )