The Universe's Mixer

The cemetery wasn't open after dark. Most aren't, and there's a reason for it. Everybody knows the reason, and nobody talks about it. It isn't because there are dead people in there. It's because there are not-quite-dead people in there. Ghosts and shadows linger in graveyards more than anywhere else. That's why people build walls around graveyards, even if they're only about two feet high - not to keep people out, but to keep other things in. Walls can have a kind of power in the spirit world, and the walls around graveyards are almost always filled with the unspoken intent of keeping the living and the unliving seated at different sections of the community dinner table.

Cemeteries after dark had long since stopped having an effect on Harry. He knew how to defend himself against the things within. But being aware and unafraid could still lead to being stupid and dead, so Harry brought along protection ( in the form of Mouse. )

After leaving the garden, the effect Ivy had lingered with River.

She felt strange. Strange was the correct word, and she knew that, even with her clouded head. But she also liked Ivy. And she wanted to make her happy. And she agreed with her basic principles-- Earth that Was needed to be better taken care of. It could never be so well taken care of that River's reality, the future, never took place, but there was no reason to allow trash to collect on the ground, either.

She was halfway home when she encountered a middle-aged man in white coveralls and a hat. There was a notice, nailed to a tree. The tree was going to be cut down. The man had a truck that made a lot of noise. The notice said this was happening today.

River scowled. All reason left her, and Ivy's influence pushed her over the edge.

"Stop."

She said it as a command, not a request. The man in the coveralls said he couldn't, the tree had to be removed to make room for the building expansion behind it. Said he was sorry. River tilted her head, eyebrows furrowed, hearing the words and not at all liking them. Her bag of dance shoes and clothes was carefully set aside like a precious jewel. Dark eyes lighted on the nametag on the man in the coveralls.

His name was Rick.

River kicked Rick, first in the neck, knocking the wind from him, then in the stomach, until he doubled over. Rick did not fight back, just put his hands up and blinked a lot, hoping the psychotic little girl would leave him alone.

She did not.

When River finally left Rick alone, he was not breathing. Her knuckles were covered both in her blood and in his. And in the back of her mind, River wished she'd had a knife, or something that would have...

The hair on the back of her neck stood up. Someone was there.

It was before sunset, Eric was already awake. He attributed it to Baba Yaga's blood. The little he'd had was enough to give him a strange sort of energy. Not that he'd be walking outside anytime soon. But he didn't feel like he was going to get the bleeds, being up with the sun, either. He didn't feel tired, he didn't feel less about anything. He felt as if he could do everything as normal. Just the sun was up, which wasn't quite normal.

The problem with being up with the sun was that he was walking around the interior of the bar and not seeing the things he should have been. The day girl, George, wasn't here. The bar wasn't cleaned. Things weren't being set up for the coming night.

Eric didn't like it when he wasn't obeyed. Especially when he was paying somebody to do what he said. This was beyond just being late, too. There was hours worth of work that needed to be done. She hadn't even been here. He would have been able to tell if she'd come and then gone. And she hadn't.

He went to his office to see if a note had been left, and found nothing. He looked around the bar for any sign of anything and found nothing again. If she'd just forgotten to set her alarm, she'd better be ready to grovel for forgiveness, and if it was anything else, she'd better have a good fucking explanation.

As if dealing with the City's humans wasn't bad enough, now he had to deal with a flaky reaper.

Pond was gone. Ordinarily, this would not have been cause for concern, but she'd taken a communicator - not one of those City mobiles, but a proper earpiece that used the TARDIS as an antenna and shouldn't have gone out. He'd made it himself. ( And, if the City were interfering somehow, the Doctor was going to take it as a personal affront. )

It wasn’t just John’s disapproval Sherlock had to contend with. If it had merely been disapproval, Sherlock wouldn’t have sent John out on a lengthy number of complicated errands claiming they were essential to solving the mystery of The City; go to the police department, go to City Hall, check out the hospital and see if he had a job waiting for him.

They were all crap errands, really. Sherlock didn’t yet care about the result. He needed time to go the library again. None of the Aurthur Conan Doyle stories were available but it hadn’t taken him long to stumble over the library’s massive collection of DVDs. While John shied away from the recent BBC miniseries Sherlock went right to it. And paled.

He also collected-- alright, the technical term may have been lifted-- a number of other DVD collections; Buffy the Vampire Slayer, the new series of Doctor Who. He would have taken more but Sherlock hadn’t met many others yet.

So when Sherlock finally returned to the flat he was hunkered down on the arm chair, watching the television with a listless expression. A high school aged Buffy was on the screen talking in her characteristically quippy dialogue to her little friends. Sherlock wanted to claw his eyeballs out with his fingers and pressed the fast forward button on the remote. The stack of DVDs was right next to him. Sherlock was on top. He’d meant to watch his own first but hadn’t brought himself to do so; Sherlock and John’s doppelgangers stared at him from the cover.

Was this the big secret? ( The City watched too much telly? )

It had not been a good few weeks for the Doctor. It was exceptionally rare that something managed to get one over on him; it happened, but infrequently enough that the occurrence was a surprise every time. He was worried - about Pond and Rory trapped on a strange planet (just imagine the trouble Pond could get herself into), about Lyra and Fred and Sherlock Holmes, trapped as he was in this strange place, about the designs behind the abductions. Things like this didn’t just happen. They took effort and knowledge and planning.

So? He’d paced about like a madman. The Doctor didn’t sit still easily, and exploring the City made him feel productive. Perhaps he could find where his crafty Urban Overlord had hidden the TARDIS. Perhaps he’d meet someone with some answers - or at least someone interesting.

He’d give the City one bit of credit: it had provided him with a suitable wardrobe. Tweed, ties, proper comfortable shoes for running about, and even a whole shelf of headgear. Now he could choose among fedoras, bowlers, a Stetson, three different takes on the fez, and what could only have been a Phillip Treacy original. It was in zebra print and had little ears on the sides.

The Doctor chose a broad-brimmed tartan fedora. ( It felt jaunty. It felt dashing and heroic, like Indiana Jones mixed with the Scottish Highlands. )

The numbers were dwindling; in fact, Dr. Simon hadn't seen anyone he somewhat recognized in a little while. It was a little disturbing, yet comforting. Maybe he had helped them, and they were released. Maybe he hadn't helped them, but they were still released. He didn't dwell too long on it because he also started to feel a little anxiety. If other people were getting out, why wasn't he? He was helpful, mild mannered, and even clean. He didn't hurt anyone, and he worked hard to get better. So, why wasn't he getting out of this place?

Dr. Simon was wondering that very thing as he was led down the hallway to a door he hadn't seen before. He glanced down at his feet and smiled; the beagle slippers hadn't shown up since he gave them to Ted. Hopefully that meant he wouldn't have to see them again...unless that was why he wasn't being let out and was now being taken somewhere he had never been. He put his hands in his pockets to hide what he knew had to be sure signs of agitation, fingers rubbing against each other, hands clenching into fits and releasing only to clench again. He took a deep breath as he was showed into a room. The doctor looked up at him then back at the clipboard.

"You're being released. Sign here and here. Someone will be by in a few minutes with your clothes and other personal affects to let you go. Wait here patiently." Dr. Simon stared at the doctor. "Simon..." The doctor paused, waiting to see if Dr. Simon would do anything; he didn't, not even point out the handmade badge, in pastels this time - it was all they had. "Simon, you're going home. You're well. Now sign."

Dr. Simon leaned over to sign the two places the doctor had shown him, then took off the lab coat with the name tag and handed it to the man. He'd have his own on the outside, right? He didn't need those anymore. With that the doctor stepped out and Dr..no, just Simon sat down in the chair to wait for his things.

There were few things to know about Death. She had very few rules. Those she did have she was known to break. For example, everyone dies. Eventually. As a rule, once it was your time Death ushered you gently into the afterlife. But sometimes-- very so often-- Death sometimes bent that rule. She'd bent that rule for an entire race of beings, in fact.

And as another general rule Death did not interfere. Except when she did. There wasn't any rhyme or reason to when Death decided to pop up, only that sometimes she did. Sometimes she even gave gifts. Like Jesse's scarf. The Texan god was easy enough to spot. Even when he was supposed to merely human-- thanks to the scarf Death had knit him-- he still lit up the room, in his way.

Death sat down next to him in a chair, still wearing the black cotton version of all the other patient's clothes. She put her grey, unliving hand over his. Her smile was apologetic. "How're you doing, Jesse?"

At the end of his first day of exploration, the Doctor finally found his way into the dining hall. Inside the cafeteria, he quickly discovered that there were benefits to being 'mad' - he could ask for strange flavor combinations without any back-talk or mockery from his dining companions. After loading a tray with a slice of pizza (pepperoni with strange green peppers), a bowl of lime gelatin, and baked beans, he found himself a seat at a table. There, he proceeded to alternate bites of each dish.

It wasn't good. The beans were tolerable, but the peppers on the pizza tasted like fire dipped in brine and the jiggle of the green gelatin was downright terrifying. He turned the dessert dish upside down on his tray so that he wouldn't have to watch the mess swaying gently every time his knee bumped the table. Then he devoted his attention to picking the jalapenos from what remained of the slice of pie.

The Doctor felt uncomfortable and a little off - a mix of fatigue left over from all of the medical staff's tampering with his body chemistry, combined with the not-entirely-appetizing food. He knew that he needed to eat something, but honestly. If this was the main diet of the residents, no wonder they were ill.

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.

"Don't."

Errol held his partner's eyes over the book, ignored the gun pointed at him, and kept his hand on his own pistol, though he had absolutely no intention of using it. He was here for one reason only, and he was at peace with it. He would choose this, and he would make sure that Preston was looking him in the eyes as it happened. He thumbed the safety off and exhaled, ready.

Preston did not disappoint. There was the sound of a Cleric's pistol and the noise of the bullet going through the book a millisecond before Errol felt the sting of the bullet in his throat and his eyes closed, welcoming the darkness, and then...

( He inhaled again, and opened his eyes. )

Dr. Banner stepped outside, heading home for the day. He was greeted by a variety of interesting sounds. There was some laughter and quiet talk among the few students walking around on campus, some scattered screaming in the distance, and a very faint moaning coming from a few different directions. Another interesting detail was that everyone he saw was paired off. This was odd, but the Valentines' Day weekend could account for it. He sighed, thinking of Betty.

Walking further off campus he noticed he was a bit closer to the screaming. As he rounded the corner he saw a winged figure hovering in the air, raining little pink arrows on the crowd. The screaming was slowly diminishing, and people were pairing off.

Great.

If this cupid thing was another of the City's experiments, it would be even more disastrous than the zombie invasion should Hulk get involved. Certainly more upsetting, anyway. Best to keep him well away from those arrows.

Banner ducked back around the corner and made for the glow of a neon sign advertising beer. There was a little dive bar below street level, in the bottom of a brownstone building. He'd hole up in here until things blew over.

"Hi. You got any Heineken?"

Ted was in a mood. It was sort of a good mood. Sort of a just-kind-of-there mood. On the one hand, he'd just met Norman Bates. On the other hand, he'd just met Norman Bates. It was a conundrum of emotion that whirled around in his head. It left sort of a pleased mental space behind, but that pleased part was surrounded by a turmoil. He wasn't really sure how he should be feeling about anything. About this city, about being here. About the people he was meeting.

It was better than prison in ways. He could go outside and wander around all he wanted. He could do what he pleased. He could wear what he wanted. No orange prison uniforms for Ted. But this place was sort of a prison all by itself, wasn't it? Nobody could leave. People were brought in against their will.

Actually, if what he was hearing was true, then The City was sort of like a kidnapper, and all the people that he was meeting were captives. Captives with Stockholm Syndrome.

There was a nice botanical garden that he found on the map. It actually took him a lot longer to find it in life. Things kept moving. Something that he was pretty sure would never stop unnerving him. No matter how long he ended up staying. Buildings weren't supposed to move. Neither were streets. They only did that when you were crazy. Unless there was some sort of mass continuous hallucination going on where people who weren't even together experienced the same thing, then these things were actually happening. Ted thought that if he paid too much attention to the goings on that he might find himself feeling nauseous.

When he did find it, though, he decided that it was quite worth the effort. There were flowers here that Ted had never ever even dreamed of seeing. He bent down to smell a very large deep red blossom with huge, soft petals.

Who: Death and Madame Xanadu
What: Madame Xanadu receives a little moral support.

( Drabble, drabble... )

Sir Guy of Gisborne had gone out for a walk when the snow started. He wasn’t bothered by the cold weather; England often had cold, snowy days in the winter. He had wanted to get some fresh air while he tried to make sense of what had happened to him. This strange City was full of more things that were strange than things he knew. He was getting use to the strange way people dressed here, but the rest left him feeling … lost.

He had been so lost in thought; he didn’t notice how heavy the snowfall was getting. When he started having trouble walking, he decided he should look for shelter. Quickly. Guy had never seen snow fall this heavily before. He was starting to think he was going to be caught without shelter. Not something he wanted to happen.

But God was on Sir Guy’s side this day. He could see something through the snow. It looked like a building. As he slowly moved closer, he could see that it was indeed a small building. Possibly someone’s home. He went up to the cabin and knocked once before he pushed the door open.

“I am in need of shelter from the storm. Is anyone here?” He gripped the hilt of his sword, just in case anyone had some objection to offering him comfort. He glanced around quickly while he waited for a response. This had the look of the hunting lodge of a lesser nobleman. He pulled the door shut behind him and was ready to make himself at home.

Der Waffle House was home.

Death sat down in a plush, olive green seat, testing out the restaurant booth with a light bounce. Although she didn't eat Death vaguely remembered what it was like to eat from the few times she'd spent as one of the living. George and Betty would really have to share what the culinary delights of modern junk food were like with her. She read over the menu both pleasantly overwhelmed and fascinated.

A middle-aged and overweight waitress dressed in the sort of dress one might see at an Octoberfest celebration approached the booth. "You ready to order, sweetie?"

"I'm waiting on some friends," Death explained. The waitress nodded and left.

Barbara looked at the rack of pamphlets the cat had led her to. They were bright and kitschy, like something out of the 1950's archives at the Gotham Public Library. New to the City? one of them proclaimed, We've got all the information you need!

She glanced at the back cover of the pamphlet before flipping it open. From the amount of text spread through the pages, it looked like she was going to need a lot of information. It took her ten minutes to read the booklet from cover to cover, and another five to complete processing it. Okay. I've walked into another dimension of some sort. This could be amazing. She dropped the pamphlet into her purse. The sheer possibilities!

It didn't take Barbara long to check in at the front desk of the shelter; she would only be staying for one night after all. They didn't ask her for identification, possibly because many people who ended up in this City might not have one on them. The shelter looked lived-in without being unsanitary, but Barbara was mostly just thankful for the warmth. A quick glance at the clock in the lobby told her she had arrived in the middle of the night, so she padded across the room with the beds to an empty bottom bunk.

But Barbara was far too excited to sleep. She tip-toed out of the room into the common area, in the hopes that someone else would be awake and up for conversation out there.

Jack stepped outside Torchwood and looked up.  The television report had said they were getting winter weather and they were right.   Snow was falling slow but steadily and there was a great measure of accumulation on the ground already.  He and Gwen had been busy as of late, trying to get their new 'home' set up properly.  But Jack needed a bit of a break, just to stretch his legs.

Taking a few steps forward more onto the street, just enough so that he could turn his head upwards as the snowflakes fell onto his face.  It was tangible and real and made him feel alive.  Jack needed that more than most, and even more so with the things that had happened as of late.

He had mortality but unlike anyone he knew. 

Jack sighed.  He hated having philosophical discussions with this subconscious.

The mall was sort of a strange place for Death to venture when not on the job but she couldn't stop herself from the irrepressible urge to people watch. She purchased a fountain drink and held it in her hand like a prop. There were so many people buying last minute gifts for the holidays, the hottest gift of the season being something called Zombie Mace. Death wondered curiously if it actually worked and although she had no one to try it on, purchased one for herself simply because she could.

There was a light hop in her step and she turned into a sunglasses boutique. She enjoyed trying them on, although the significance of the name brands was a little lost on her. So were the price tags. Although money wasn't a concern, Death wasn't nearly so interested in purchasing sunglasses as she was trying them on and striking funny poses in the tiny mirror she could barely see herself in.

The sales clerk crossed his arms and glared.

The actual meaning of life is in one of 10,000 books you're locked in a room with. You have time enough to check every single one, but you can't. You can only open 10 books total.

Note: All the books have normal titles. None gives a clue as to if it holds the secret