The Universe's Mixer

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!

Logan approached Veronica's apartment building with caution, halfway expecting it to jump out of the way on him. He still hadn't quite wrapped his head around how the City worked or the fact that he seemed to keep forgetting where things were. He would think a restaurant, say, was on one street and then be completely unable to find it until he would run into it halfway across town.

None of it fit, and adding to that confusion were the now-healing puncture wounds on his neck and the strange woman in the park. He'd thought about things more, and it didn't quite make sense that Veronica would set up a 'temptation scenario' when they'd just gotten back together. Then again, he knew that Veronica's trust issues ran deep and perhaps... Logan sighed as he felt his mind pulled into the circular reasoning yet again. Something about 'Red' was off, and more than just someone playing a part.

The best way to find out what had happened with Red and most likely even get some ideas about what might have caused puncture marks on his neck without his remembering anything was to just suck it up and ask Veronica.

So, he stood outside the door to her apartment, pondering over the buzzer system. His eyes found the button for 'V. Mars' almost instantaneously, but he couldn't quite bring himself to push it. Visiting her unannounced was intimidating in itself, but doing so when he was weighed down with questions that he wasn't sure he wanted the answers for was even worse.

Dean had finally given in and found some place to sleep. It was out by the Park, some rundown house with a couch that didn't look to be infested with lice and vermin. It was a roof over his head and a floor under his feet. Or that had been the plan.

Unfortunately, as he was finally getting some personal time watching his favorite pair of exotic dancers bat playfully at each other with pillows, he was woken up by the world collapsing. Or in his case, the far wall being knocked in by what looked like a very large chicken leg. Even if he felt like he was still in a dream, he got to his feet, pulled his Colt, and thought of firing. Then he got a better idea, as the damn thing was trying to claw its way into the house; he got out of there.

( What he saw when he got outside didn't help clear anything up. )

"Well, well, well. It looks like someone's getting out a little earlier than expected. Looks like you've been exonerated." The words were familiar. Charlie had heard them before, but he wasn't sure what he'd done wrong to be locked away for this time. When his mind was clear enough to think it through, he always came back to the feeling he'd done nothing.

"Com'on, or I really will beat you like a redheaded step child." The orderly gave a firm kick to the detective's stomach, and thankfully even drugs couldn't muddle his brain so much that he couldn't protect himself. He wasn't so fast that he could get out of the way, but he knew to go with the kick. He'd feel it for a few days, but he'd live.

Charlie got up, put on the clothes (a tailored suit and shirt with matching tie and a very swanky pair of shoes, even a pair of designer sunglasses) they gave him, and walked slowly wherever they directed him. He signed the release forms and collected the rest of his things; other than the clothes, this was all very familiar, even the walk to the cab waiting for him.

Last time he was released, he'd been hungry. The kick to the breadbasket had decreased his appetite, but he told the cabdriver to take him to a small place that always had fresh fruit. While he might not be hungry, he knew he would be eventually. Fruit seemed like just the thing to get and possibly a fish. A living one, not to be eaten. Possibly a dog, a large one for Ted. Or a horse.

It wasn't until he got out of the cab, paying the driver with the money he knew would be in his pocket, that Charlie realized who Ted was. He turned to get back in the cab, but it was gone. Charlie knew that if he got out, Ted would get out or already was. Charlie, for once, wasn't sure what to do. The drugs made it hard to concentrate but easy to go with the flow and not try to work against the flow. Charlie had to believe that he would see Ted soon; he'd get his housemate fruit to prove as much.

"Hey, so how was your weekend?"

River kept her eyes shut, even though she knew they'd made some kind of mistake. That, or--also a possibility--she'd developed an immunity to one of the drugs they were giving her. Two orderlies were in here, moving her around so she could get washed up. They would undo her restraints, stand her up, give her a quick shower, and put her back the way she was, complete with the needles in her arm.

The orderly who was being asked about his weekend wasn't going to tell the one doing the asking that he'd spent the weekend getting stoned, and was still baked when he'd come to work this morning. River knew, then, that he'd screwed up her dosage. What would happen would be his fault.

"Oh, it was cool," the guy said. "Y'know. Hung out. What did you do?"

The second orderly undid the restraint that held her legs, then lifted her off of the gurney. River let her head loll to one side.

"Me and the wife went down to the museum with the kids," the other answered. "There's some dinosaur exhibit going on they've been begging me to see. Wasn't too bad."

She didn't open her eyes, she just listened. The shower started and she could feel the water, and the stoner orderly holding her up by the arms. They kept chattering, and River progressively took more of her weight on herself, until she was standing on her own.

She sighed loudly, and opened her eyes. The two men looked a little stunned.

"I'm sorry," she said, meaning it. Then she knocked their heads together and watched them fall into an unconscious ball on the floor. She knew she had only minutes before someone realized what was going on, so she grabbed a hospital gown from the chair, wrapped it around herself, tied it, and ran.

An alarm went off when she hit the stairwell to leave the floor.

A bulky orderly was waiting at the door of the floor two below, and River kicked him hard, then hit him with the heel of her hand. She kept running, mumbling under her breath about the number of steps from her point of origin, and how far it might be to the door...

When she saw someone coming, she hid, climbing up into the ceiling and holding onto the sprinkler.

She waited.

It was dark, and then it was bright.

River was scared, when she was capable of fright. She was enraged all of the time.

Her room was not big. It didn't need to be, because she was too dangerous not to be kept in restraints. They'd known that when they came to take her. River could remember parts of that, the taking. She'd been leaving rehearsal, her ballet bag on her shoulder. A van had pulled up, men had gotten out. One of them shot her with a dart, and the dart hit her neck. After that, everything was fuzzy. River didn't blame herself, however. The man was blank. There was something wrong with the man.

And that part didn't matter so much now, anyway.

The light on the ceiling was very bright when it was on, and River knew the drugs she was on made it seem brighter.

She knew, from a doctor, a doctor that came in and measured her heartbeats, measured her brainwaves, stuck needles into her arm and into her temples, made her scream, that she'd come into this room limp and doll-like. Orderlies had removed her clothes and left her thermal strips of fabric were strategically placed across her chest and abdomen, covering the relevant areas. She'd been placed on a slab, something like a gurney, and restraints slapped on her wrists and ankles, then her hips and shoulders, and one on her head. The one on her head was bolted to the floor and made of metal. It felt to River like a cold helmet.

It had sensors in it. They were mapping her brain activity. Simon had tried this a few times, with better equipment.

She'd woken up after her arrival already strapped down, already mostly naked, laying there in the dark. She could hear a pen scratching. When the light went on, River glared at the note scribbler. Two needles went into her arm at different points and River yelled. Her veins felt like ice, then fire, and then finally River couldn't think much anymore. Her brain felt like.. like it had before she met John Coffey. River knew this wasn't permanent, and that the doctors here did this to be sure she couldn't hurt them.

Because they used words like lethal when they described her. Weapon. Brilliant. Amazing. Dangerous.

They never let her off of the gurney fully conscious. The cocktail of drugs would be allowed to wain until she could stand on her own, weakly. Then two orderlies would undo the restraints, beginning with her head, stand her up, wash her, reclothe her, and put her back. There was a drain in the floor for the water and a shower nozzle on the far wall. She never left the room.

River didn't eat anything that didn't go through an IV into her arm. She knew the contents were high in sugar and that they meant to keep her weak.

Because when the lights went off...

... they tried everything they could to trigger her.

There were two doctors behind a glass panel. River could see the panel at her feet, like a window to a better world. She could see them conferring, nodding. Flashes of things would come to her, from them.... the posters hung around the City were things they knew to trigger her. River considered the word 'trigger' and struggled to keep coherent.

They would never stop picking.

One of the two doctors vanished from behind the glass, and River heard the door swing inward. She heard talk of her charts, of her cerebral cortex, of stimulating different parts of the brain until they got the right combination...

The doctor wore blue latex gloves.

River moved her mouth to say "hands of blue." No words came out.

She closed her eyes as a needle went into her neck and the lights went out. Behind her closed eyes, River could see Serenity. She could see Hannibal smiling at her. See Simon.

"Write that response down," the doctor said.

There were a few things that Jeannie took a great deal of pride in. At the top of her list was that when she had a master that treated her well, she returned the favor a thousand fold. She did her very best to make their lives comfortable, fulfilling, and most importantly, fun. But each master had their own idea of what that meant, and she needed to mold them slowly until they had a good time ( in spite of themselves. )

Ratso didn't open his eyes until the bus came to a stop. He felt like shit. Felt like shit and smelled like piss. But that was mostly because he'd made an unscheduled rest stop about three hours ago before he hit the Florida state line. Joe had been a pal, a real pal, and gotten him a change of clothes so he wouldn't look like the homeless cripple that just pissed all over his bus seat. Even though that was the goddamn truth. The bus stopped with a lurching motion that jerked Ratso out of his sleep. Boy, what a sleep. A deep sleep if ever there was one. He was sleeping so hard he thought he might have been fuckin' dead. But he wasn't dead. He wasn't dead and he didn't feel as bad as he had back at the "rest stop." He still felt like shit, like his bowels might erupt at any minute, like his teeth might fall out, like his brains might start leaking through his eyeballs -- but he thought he might be able to walk. Fuck yeah, he might be able to walk!

He made a snorting snicker which was immediately followed by a violent hacking cough.

"Ha, ha! Hey, Joe! We in Florida now, Joe? Musta fuckin' missed. Musta. Slept like I was fuckin' dead, Joe. Betcha thought I was dead, huh? Ain't that right, Joe? ... Joe?"

Ratso glanced beside him at the empty seat.

"Hey, where'd ya go, Joe?"
( It was then that he realized the entire bus was empty. )

Jeannie had been having a very good day. So far today she had helped a man get out of a burning building, stopped a thief from getting away, and given a child her greatest wish. It was a little disappointing that the man from the burning building had been the one to set it on fire, but she had still saved him because he had been trapped inside. And at least the little girl had been polite enough to say thank you.

All in all, despite the small matter of the arsonist, Jeannie was pleased with her efforts thus far today. How kind was her new master to let her continue aiding people! Sir Guy was everything a gentleman should be. He was sweet and generous and very contentious of her feelings. And so handsome! Jeannie decided then and there to do something special for her new master to thank him for letting her follow her helpful urges.

( What that might be required some thought. )

River's feet made their way down the path lined with flowers faster than her heart was beating. They knew where they were going, exactly where to lead her.

She spent a fair amount of time in the park; besides her apartment and the theater, she was here often. And on this particular day, it was significant to be here.

She was meeting Hannibal here.

The City had made sure to keep them apart for a while. River didn't remember much about being infected, but she knew she had been, and she knew Hannibal had been. After that, it had taken her some time to adjust and get back to dancing. She was in rehearsals now, as were all dancers with the ballet, for a production of 'Romeo and Juliet.'

River was going to be Juliet.

She rounded a corner, boots kicking up a little bit of dry dirt at the edge of a daisy bed, and smiled when she saw Hannibal.

There was a large blanket laid out in the midst of the field, nicely nestled between two flower beds, and on it was a basket. This looked to River like a full-fledged picnic... or, what she'd read picnics were supposed to be. You didn't get many of those in the black.

"I've never attended a picnic before," she said.

River didn't like thinking, lately. Because thinking made her remember about the zombies, and it made her remember everyone running around like they were drunk because of Cupid.

She wanted reality back.

River sat with her legs curled under her and her head tilted, watching a little girl jump rope an counting the sounds the jumps made on the pavement. She in the park, sitting in the sun even though it was a little bit cold, and she had a notebook next to her.

It was getting more full by the minute.

Indiana Jones had survived.

River Tam had not.

When the dozen zombies fell on their hiding place, River took out 7 without blinking. Seven because she didn't have any rounds beyond that. Seven because that was all she could do, without getting in close. After knocking one in the head with the butt end of the shotgun in her hand, River had kicked one in the gut, across the room and into Indy's range. So fell eight.

But nine, ten, eleven and twelve all fell on Dr. Jones at about the same time, and River starting kicking. Two fell down. Indy shot another, and the last one whirled on her and bit into her arm, just above the elbow, ripping a chunk of her with its teeth before Indy could shoot it.

He'd looked at her, eyebrows furrowed, and River had shaken her head, stood slowly, and laughed just once.

"Hide," she said. "Don't let me find you."

She'd left the hotel and hidden, herself. Until, that is, it was over. Until it was over and she was gone. One of them. Worse than them-- an undead weapon with a dormant trigger capable of more damage than a 'normal' zombie. Incredibly strong, incredibly fast...

... and capable of reading minds.

River was hungry, and even now, the similarity to the Reavers did not occur to her. Why would it? All she was now was motor skills. Arms, legs, walking, moving...

... going right to the person, the thing, that could make her even more dangerous. Not even realizing, because her consciousness was gone.

When she found him, she stopped in front of him, head tilted, hair hanging forward.

Waiting.

If Indiana Jones ever had a kid, he sort of wanted that kid to be like River Tam. Only... maybe she could be a few shades less absolutely insane.

( But the girl was holding her own. )

She didn't remember hearing the words.

She remembered the knife. In her flesh.

And she remembered with perfect clarity the other kills, too. Both sides of them... all the deaths were her deaths, including Simon's death and Hannibal's death. And all the kills were her kills, relished and enjoyed.

River knew she'd died. And now she had a small amount of sympathy for Aeon Flux.

She sat on her apartment floor, not blinking, mouth moving in words it had never said, eyes glinting darkly, legs curled under her skirt. The anger and resentment River had for the killer was huge. He'd both made her feel every death--inadvertantly, but still-- and made her enjoy every death. Even her brother's. Even Hannibal's.

"Why are we back?" she whispered to no one. "Why are we all back?"


*limited to firefly crew members/simon & hannibal. anyone else is committing suicide

Oh pretty little girl, so smart, so misunderstood. Would you try to get into my head? Would you dare go there even after all you've seen?

So aware, so alert. So seemingly untouchable.

Almost it seemed.

"Pretty little River, who left you out here all alone?"

We just passed under the streetlight and again in the dark. The street was empty, or at least very quiet. Just footsteps on the pavement as I kept following. Would she run, oh I hope she would. There was nothing so grand as the chase.

"Come little River, come let's play."

I reached out grasping her hair, pulling her back against me. An arm snaked around her, knife in that hand Struggle or no, it would not be too long.

River did not knock.

She did not wait for her brother to look up from what he was doing, in this office. She did not smile, and she did not say hello. She simply grabbed the file folder out of her brother's hands and flung it across the room, papers flying everywhere.

Her eyes were cold and held nothing but contempt for her brother. Her slight frame didn't move... but it was that same tension that a snake had before striking. And now she glared.

She couldn't speak. She just stood there, almost shaking with anger, before arching an eyebrow and calling her brother an unrepentant blighter, in Mandarin.

George was missing. Deb had been here, and now she wasn't anymore. The strange girl at the shop where he'd gotten the knife was even gone. He couldn't find Selina, but at least her apartment was still around, so that told Dex that she was still somewhere.

Everybody he'd met since being here seemed to have vanished.

Oddly, it didn't sit well with Dexter. He wanted very much to have that nest. That surrounding of people who thought that he was normal. That thought that he was just a blood spatter analyst. He felt the need to blend in.

After everything that had happened with the knife, he'd learned just how important it was to him to appear like everybody else. He'd had his chance at being what his Dark Passenger wanted him to be, and while it had been fun, it wasn't ultimately what he wanted from life.

Sulking a little, he sat in the park.

The newspaper had said that the man, John Coffey had been found dead. That somebody had shot him. There was, of course, an idea in his head brewing. That this 'somebody' needed to be found. John Coffey should never have been killed. He was an innocent.

Dexter set the paper aside and looked at the children playing.

After doing his best to help the girl with a severe case of amnesia, it had been Hannibal's intention to go back to the hospital and play with the monkey some. It was sitting in his office, in a cage, waiting for him. It had no idea what he was going to do to it, which was likely a good thing.

Of course, when he was done, he changed his mind about what he wanted to do. And seeing River trumped torturing an undead monkey. He hadn't seen her in what felt like a long time, with everything that had gone on.

He was a little disappointed he'd have to wait for the monkey. Until he turned it into a game of patience. Then it became a challenge. Hannibal wondered just how long he could hold out. He knew the monkey could hold out forever. It didn't need anything. Not even food.

He made his way up to River's apartment, hoping that she was distracted so that his arrival would be a surprise. Hannibal didn't even knock. Just opened the door and walked right in.

River's life was, comparatively, calm. She preferred it that way, actually. She had her chances to dance, she had time to see Hannibal, and Wash and Zoe were back. And Mal. She knew Mal was here, too. She could feel it.

Life was good.

She'd left the hospital, and her newly-returned friend who was in love with jell-o, with a smile on her face. And almost immediately, that smile cracked and fell.

Simon.

She felt a knot in her stomach. A big, hard coil of tension that was going to burn and burn until there was nothing left of her to feed the fire.

There was a really, really large truck. Huge. And it had come so close, so very close, to where her brother was sitting...

River stopped in her tracks and shuddered. She closed her eyes, but she still felt the burning, the uneasiness, and she still knew what had happened. A woman had died. A woman who sat near Simon. The nurse. The nurse! And... and...

Without realizing it, River's feet starting leading her right to her brother. Fast and faster, her boots hit the sidewalk.

Until she was running. And River didn't stop until she saw her brother coming toward her.