The Universe's Mixer

Xanadu fell asleep on Ted's bed and lay there for nearly a day. It felt safe and warm and she was loathe to leave it. She'd tried to feel her way toward a washroom but exhausted, tired and still hurt the blind seer refrained. The wounded slyph chose her steps carefully out of the bedroom and using the bannister as a guide, slowly took the steps down into the main entry way.

"Hello, Ted?"

Not unlike a hangover, Xanadu's head pounded from dehydration. She felt ill wanted to attempt drinking and perhaps eating something. The seer did not feel hungry, but she had stopped feeling the desire for food a week into her torture. She must have looked like a wreck. Her hair was matted in some places and she was still covered in green and purple bruises, slow to heal, dried blood and other cuts and marks decorating her body like a voodoo doll.

She couldn't wait to step into a shower, wear fresh clothes and feel normal again. The fate of the shop was far from the soothsayer's mind. For now she was safe. The doppelganger would be dealt with later and by someone else.

She lacked tarot cards, stars, runes, tea leaves and yet, even half-dead, blind with her limbs bound Xanadu could still found signs of the future to interpret. She could feel her spilt blood splattered over bruised and swollen flesh. She heard the caw of large black birds outside her window. That was enough. The sylph was careful to hide this knowledge after weeks of torture. Her strategy was to tell her captor anything else, nearly everything else, and hide one or two critical facts to obfuscate what she didn't want Baba Yaga to know.

The signs were undeniable. Though the mechanism of her release was still up to interpretation, her suffering was to end. And she was relieved. So much so, that when she heard the sales floor above her creek Xanadu smiled with tears in her eyes calling out, "Death, is that you?" Dehydrated, her throat burned when speaking audibly above a whisper.

Vandal Savage was happy - almost giddy - though he did his best to put on a serious face. He was enjoying putting the final pieces in place for a formal ball at the castle. As a way of inviting Xanadu to the event he was now bringing her a length of burgundy-colored silk. This was a preview of a garment currently being tailored for her on the other side of town.

"Madame Xanadu," he called politely as he stepped through the front doorway of her shop, "may I have a word with you?"

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

( Drabble, drabble... )

Wes had heard there were magic stores, tiny used book stores and psychic shops scattered throughout the City. He had managed to stumble his way into one or two of the book stores during his tenure in the City, picking up some wonderful copies of alchemy texts from he 15th century as well as current books on physics and astronomy. Who knew when inspiration would strike, a connection would be made, facts would fall into place until something finally made sense? Plus, he had picked up a book or two for Fred he thought she would like.

The snow was still falling, at least as hard as it had been when he and Fred had been at Angel Investigations. Still, he had needed to get out a bit. He was still not sure how this Sam person worked into the equation of their relationship. An American Wesley? Perish the thought. There was only one Wesley, and he was distinctly British. If he wasn't, then he would never have been a Watcher, never have had the intensive training that he had undergone his entire life. He would....never have been quite so awkward or hesitant about expressing his feelings for Fred. Damn this Sam, who obviously had no such compunctions. Well, they would see what would happen. Maybe this Fred wasn't ready for a relationship with Wes, maybe the time in the City led her in a different path, maybe, maybe. Too many maybes.

Daydreaming about Fred and memories he had that she did not share, he didn't notice when the streets changed and led him to a new area of town. He couldn't miss the shop that looked like Giles's old base in Sunnydale, yet wasn't. The sign and name had changed, so presumptively so had the inhabitants. But still, there was something supernaturally linked about this shop and he was duty-bound to explore its contents. Or curiosity-bound. Whatever.

He pushed open the door and barely heard the light tinkle of the bell hanging from the ceiling. He was busy scanning the interior for any objects that might prove useful to him, whether in his work at Angel Investigations or for......personal usage.

( Who said torturing was easy? It certainly can change a girl, make her brand new and then some. But it takes so much work these days... )

Who: Baba Yaga & Madame Xanadu
What: Baba Yaga senses a delicious and nutritious presence
Where: Tea Leaves, formerly known as The Magic Box
When: Hours after this


( Sometimes the problem is rather simple. I have been sent after lost keys, a missing cat, and have had many requests for the usual prosperity spells. Occasionally the difficulty is more occult in nature and there is a problem spirit, a nasty Witch, or even a demonic possession... )

Xanadu missed Inara. The seer started to suspect that either the companion died in the plague or that The City cast her back into the unknown. When asking the runes the only reply Xanadu received was lost. Sometimes even the renown le Madame de Xanadu, adviser to the rich and unfortunate, lacked definitive answers.

Regardless, inventory was painstakingly difficult. Everything had to be done slowly and by touch. Perhaps if she hadn't been so eager to send the grumpy one away, she might have had him work off the damage he'd done to the door. Already she was surprised to find a bill of an unknown denomination in place of a jar once containing troll teeth. She sighed.

A mundane looking Help Wanted sign made of bright orange block print on a black background remained taped to the front window by the door.

Xanadu had come to the shop early only to discover at some point in time, the door had been busted open. A quick check of the inventory and nothing appeared to be missing, though quite a bit of it had been moved around. Cleaning up the inside of the shop had been easy enough. The door, however? She had difficulty determining the full extend of the damage and how badly the paint had chipped on the molding. One call to a lock smith later and Xanadu decided to keep the door propped open until it could be repaired. She debated on calling The City PD to file a report. While seeing a certain detective again would have been nice, the seer decided to look into the matter in her own way.

Until then? Xanadu sat behind the register and worked on crafting a set of ruins. She took special care in carving each piece evenly, but occasionally pricked her fingers with the blade in her hands. On purpose or accident, she didn't appear bothered by it and continued working regardless.

In the aftermath of the Undead Plague, Xanadu no longer wore the extravagant silks or intricate hair ornaments in theme with the rest of the shop. She wore plain sunglasses to cover her eyes, stuck to jeans, an oversized sweatshirt with the neck cut out so her shoulder peeked from the opening and a pair of smart looking athletic shoes so she would be ready to run in case of the next disaster. Coupled with her apparent youth Xanadu hardly resembled the store's image or the name on her own business card.

All verbal communication has to be in the form of questions. If a statement or exclamation is made, everybody in the room forgets everything after the point they were placed in the room. There is a sign in the room that says "Do you know the question?" and the door will open if the right question is asked.

Crews stood for a moment outside the station, his brow furrowing as he looked around. The street didn't look the same; perhaps he had missed something, but he didn't think so. He turned to look at the building, and it had changed. The world changed, and he would change with it. He would flow. He was a part of it all, and that thought alone brought a small smile to his lips. With a shrug, he pulled the phone from his pocket and dialed Reese, only to get a message stating that the number was not in service.

"Hmm."

The detective put the phone away and started walking; there wasn't much else to do at the moment. Plus, there was a fruit vendor on the corner. While apples weren't anything new, he found it a reliable choice. Of course, there was the star fruit beside it, but an apple was easier to handle. So, with the purchase of three apples - two in pockets and one in hand - he started off, letting himself be taken along with the crowd. He even gave one passing woman, heavy with child as they say, a smile and a genial nod.

"Ma'am."

Eventually Crews came to a stop; he looked up, to one side then the other, then down. Thinking, yes, he was thinking. Finally the sign caught his eye, or more he gave into the curiosity and read the sign.

"Hmm. To know the future. Is it fair to know the future? Wouldn't that take the surprise out of living? What if you saw the future and you didn't like it? Could you change it before it happens, or is it one of those things that no matter what you do, the future happens?" He glanced at the homeless man beside him. The homeless man stared back. Crews needed Reese; at least, she would react in some way. With a shrug, he pulled one the apples out of his pocket and handed it over to the homeless man.

"I'm going in." ( And he did. )

During the infestation Vandal spent most of his days on the parapets of his castle looking to the front gate for any more refugees, or for the return of the impetuous Dean. The boy was likely dead, but he had borrowed a crossbow that Vandal rather wanted back, and he wanted to be there should the boy come back to return it.

Today, however, he was in the Great Hall having a feast. With the power out, his generator would only support a few of his refrigeration units, so they had to get rid of some stores of food. He sat at the banquet table sampling a variety of ice creams that would make Baskin jealous, not to mention Robbins.

The man in the crosshairs looked safe. He had a healthy enough color, no visible injuries, his movement looked natural, and from what little Vandal Savage heard, the man appeared to be using complete sentences. Still, one couldn't be too careful. He had pulled in the drawbridge at the first sign of this plague, and though he intended to take in some unfortunates and shelter them in his castle (the people of this City held a charitable man in the highest of esteem), he refused to endanger his own life. Earlier, he watched and even fired a few helpful shots as a small group of refugees fought off infected citizens in front of his castle, sustaining minor injuries. However, just as he was about to give the order to lower the drawbridge to allow the survivors in, he saw the infection take hold in the injured members mere minutes after the attack. He would wait a few minutes to see if this new refugee turned.

Vandal removed the sniper rifle from the parapet atop the castle where he sat and watched with his own eyes as the man paced nervously in front of the castle. He picked up a glass of brandy from a table he'd brought up with him, and he sipped patiently. Usually Vandal abstained from such unhealthy activity, but special situations demanded special drinks.

Sure enough, a minute later, the man dropped slowly to the ground, and shortly thereafter, slowly rose up again. The poor wretch began to look around in search of food. Vandal put his fingers to his lips and blew a loud whistle so that the wretch would take notice. He did, and began shambling toward the castle, not seeing the sheer drop of the ravine until he was hurtling down into it. He crunched into the rocks and brush that served as a moat - probably not dead, but out of the way, at least. No point in wasting bullets at this point.

"Damned unwashed masses," cursed Vandal, and he took another swig of brandy.

Jo's number was in Dean's phone. He told her he would get the supplies needed, to keep in close contact, call him every hour and if he didn't hear from her, he was gonna hunt her down to make sure she was okay. He needed all the trusted hunters he could find with him.

This was, this was just so .... Dean was getting flashbacks of the place down below. Screaming, blood, fires, terror. Dean reached next to him, taking another drink from his bottle of whiskey. Keeping a buzz seemed to keep him going. He needed flame throwers or lots of bottles like the one he was drinking from.

And then there was Sam. Dean grabbed his phone and instantly, in speed dial, he punched the number for his brother. "Sammy, you better answer," Dean grumbled as again, his car hit another zombie that tried to rush out at him. He winced, not for the body but for his car. Lucky, his car was made of metal, not the cheap plastic stuff they were made of now.

"Sam, please ... pick up," Dean half pleaded as he heard the phone ring.

Sam found out about the zombie plague the worst way possible; that is, meeting one in person. Everything was fine (the guy pointed him in the direction he wanted to go) until he tried to take a bite of his neck. Sam liked his neck intact, and he threw the guy off with a yell, only just avoiding an infecting bite. Being dead, a little thing like a judo throw didn't keep the zombie down long, and he got up and came for Sam in a slow, implacable stumble. Sam had fought zombies before, and he figured now would be a really good time to... run. Fast.

Sam needed a gun. He hadn't brought a gun, so naturally, he needed one. The first zombie caught up to him and picked him up like he weighed nothing at all. Sam went through a glass storefront and crashed into a counter. 'Ouch' didn't quite cover it, but when he got to his feet, he realized he was behind a convenience store counter; and there was a sawed-off sitting with a few boxes of cartridges just within reach. "...Coincidence," Sam said out loud, blinking.

The first direction he chose was the wrong one. More stumbling bodies blocked his way, and an alarming number of the stumbling bodies had blood on their lips. (Some had lips. Some had gaping bloody maws. Neither appealed to Sam.) "...I'm lost," Sam told them, skidding to a halt and backing up slowly with the shotgun lowered. "I'm just going to... go back that way."

"Braaaains," one of the zombies agreed.

"No, I really don't have any of those."

"Braaaains," another zombie insisted.

"Really, no," Sam said, backing up another few steps.

"Braaains," came a voice from behind. Sam whirled and fired. One zombie flew back into his neighbors, but more of them were coming from behind him. Surrounded, Sam backed up against a shop door. "Gee, more guns would be nice right now." Except all the guns were in the trunk of the Impala. With Dean. Sam hoped the guns were with Dean, anyway. At least he'd have more of a chance than Sam did.

Sure it was just down the street, but why not take the ECTO-1? She'd been collecting dust for the last few weeks. Time to open her up and tear around the City with the lights and sirens. Wake up the neighbors.

"Watch this," Peter said smugly to his new employee in the passenger seat. Already going at about forty miles per hour down city streets, he made a hard right turn at an intersection. When the heavy equipment atop the car might have ordinarily caused it to roll, the hydraulics automatically kicked in. Lifting the left side of the car on the outside of the turn, it countered the shifting mass, then set it down gently again as the car resumed a straight drive. Peter laughed in triumph. "Ha ha! Man, I love being a Ghostbuster!"

A block later they had arrived at their destination: some kind of head shop. Peter was used to these places - Ray and Egon owned one during their brief unemployment phase - but that didn't stop him from looking around with bemused fascination as he entered.

Lex wasn't used to being kept waiting.

There was always someone at his beck and call, ready with a drink, something he needed to sign, or an important phone call. Or the car. Yes, the car.

He sighed and switched his briefcase to his other hand, glancing around the corner. The valet was clearly incompetent. How many other porsche's were parked in the garage with the license plate LEX 01? Not many he was certain.

Finally, after waiting, which he absolutely hated doing, he heard the purr of the engine and knew it was his car. He reached into his pockets to tug on his driving gloves, itching to slip into the driver's seat and behind the wheel.

A disorientating moment passed and he almost felt dizzy. Glancing up he found himself not in front of the Daily Planet in downtown Metropolis, but in there was some shoddy store front across from him, and a row of small apartment buildings along side.

"Oh, hell." He muttered to himself and dropped his briefcase to the pavement.

Peter Venkman strutted around on top of a folding table outside the huge doors of the old firehouse. He pulled a few silly dance moves and mock "rock-out" faces to the delight of the children, as Ray Parker Jr.'s (now official) anthem played on a vintage 1990 boombox.

"If there's somethin' strange," Venkman crooned into his micophone along with the music, "in your neighborhood ... who you gonna call?" He held out his microphone and the children answered him enthusiastically.

Beneath his feet, draped over the table, was a banner indicating an Open House. Stickers and temporary tattoos bearing the logo were stacked here and there, as were pamphlets about the services the company rendered (with no mention of price ranges).

He hopped off the table, strode over to one kid's attractive mom and put his hand on her shoulder. Microphone still in hand, he continued to follow the music. "Lemme tell you somethin' - bustin' makes me feel goo-ood!" Then, retreating to the table again, he spoke. "All right, you guys. That's all for Doctor Venkman right now. I'll be around signing autographs later. Remember, kids, you can pick up an official Ghostbusters T-shirt for twenty American dollars. Just ask your parents' permission. Sad puppy eyes - that's the key. Tug on those heartstrings, kids. All right, thanks! You've been a wonderful crowd! Good night, City!"

A bit breathlessly, Venkman trotted into the station. "Hey anybody see a ghost somewhere? Hi. How's it going. Enjoying yourself? Whoop! Watch it with that thing. I'm not wearin' my proton-proof vest." He proceeded to mingle, looking for anyone with a question.

continued from here

( Previously... )

"Lorne? I think something is wrong."

There was no response.

"Lorne?" she called.

She needed a look. Xanadu closed her eyes, removing her sun glasses she put them away in her bag next to her wallet. They hit something that jingled. Xanadu kept her eyelids closed, but sacrificing a bit of concentration, pulled out a set of keys that were not there previously. When her eyes opened they were complete and intact. Her vision was blurred only for moments before Xanadu found herself staring at the skyline of The City for the first time.

But it wasn't the first time, was it?

Xanadu determined that The City must have been from a dream. Her eyes looked red and wet like she'd been crying. Xanadu wiped her newly regrown eyes with the back of her hand. They stung but she knew the feeling would eventually pass. She looked at the keys in her hand. Behind her there was a shop called The Magic Box. Taking a chance she tried the keys. They worked.

Inside the shop it looked as it had before, but with a more Asian inspired decor. When she looked at the loft, it was covered in silks and pillows. There was a small table with a crystal ball, and along the wall of loft existed all her jars of captured spirits which had followed her from her previous life. All her things were there.

Xanadu looked lost in her own shop. She found two sets of cards on the bar table next to the cash register. One set were for the services of Madame Xanadu, the other were for someone by the name of Inara.

Xanadu had never heard that name before.

Lorne wasn't really having the best of weeks. It started first when Angel told the green guy what he needed to be done, and culminated in that loud, gutwrenching sound.

Bang!

"Should have kept with singing, Lindsey." Lorne lamented quietly. The lawyer was as evil as non-alcoholic drinks, but he had a voice. It was something that Lorne couldn't deny. The deed was done though and Lorne lowered his hat over giveaway green skin. He hailed a cab and slipped in, slouching into the back seat.

"Keep going, Cabby. Let's go to the airport." Then he could get out of here. Far away out of here. Falling asleep because of exhaustion, he tossed and turned a bit. It was a fitful sleep. But he didn't wake up until the cab stopped. Bright eyes opened and peered out of the cab, taking in the sights of the airport. No. Not an airport. Not even LA. Least not any part he had seen.

"Hey, where are--" Oh poop. The cabby left him. "Well. I guess you didn't want a tip." Mmph!He got out of the car and looked around for a minute, then looked back at the mysteriously empty cab. Hands in his pockets, Lorne started walking down the street. What a day not to be wearing your ruby slippers.