It's all AU.

Theta rubbed the back of his neck. "Oh, ridiculous," he tilted his head, staring at the remains of a broken, dilapidated TARDIS, lying on it's side, guts spilling out of it's lamp post side.

Eric was sitting on a bench, on a square in the Old Town, arms spread along its back, head tilted back, staring unseeingly up at the starry sky. "I am tired of this fake world. And of alien lifeforms."

Methos sprawled on a chair in an outdoor cafe, watching the locals, though he was rather hoping someone else would come along. It was nice to have mortals around, but he wanted a real conversation. Or at least, someone who was real, rather than the simulacrums that populated the city. It would seem, however, the population of real people had been thinned out.

She wasn't sure how long she'd been here, though she thought it was the local equivalent of a day, as it had gotten light and dark again. Whatever this place was, she still hadn't slept, and she hadn't found a way to get back to her TARDIS - or even where her TARDIS was, if it was here. Romana slid her hand into her pocket, fingering her sonic screwdriver a moment before she drew a deep breath, looking for another tea shop. She wasn't ready to sleep, even though she knew she should. Sleep, eat, and not drink another cup of black tea like she intended to.

He wandered out of the woods with a perplexed expression. It didn't take him long to orient himself, and once he had he headed almost immediately for Eric's club. He was a little older than he had been when he left, freshly pissed off at Jean-Claude, and hungry. The club was the most logical place in the world to go to wait on Eric.

And hungry or not he was not drinking bottled blood substitute.

It was a bloody awful day for the Master. Sometime he could tell what was going to the drums and everything that went with it worse...and sometimes he couldn't. It had always been that way. He's woken up barely able to think and in a viscous mood, the rush of noise in his mind telling to lash out.

So, rather than go stalk something, as he would have once upon a time, he kept himself shut away and drugged into a stupor. He sat in a chair the main room of the cottage, gloved hands lax, and staring off into space.

Hating feeling like this, as much as he could muster, underneath the haze he was in.

Having erotic dreams was nothing new. Having them about Eric, on the other hand, was something he didn't think he'd ever get used to. One of those dreams was why he was wandering around after dark. He wanted to get away from the hotel, catch his breath and try to clear his head.

Given the number of nocturnal predators residing in the town at the moment, that he went wandering around alone, after dark, was likely a good indicator of his need to clear his head. Or to redevelop a survival instinct.

Either way, after a lap around the town he was physically tired, still confused, and still didn't want to go to the hotel. So, instead, he went to the house next door and sat on the porch with his head in his hands.

He was yawning as he walked out onto the street. He was a little pale, but only a very little. Mostly he was confused looking, and more than a little distracted by his thoughts. He didn't even notice River until he was all but on top of her. Then he stopped himself, took a second look, and: "Hey."

"This place is starting to make me nervous" he told someone in the lobby. "Again. We've got vampires, werewolves, aliens, FBI agents, the odd human and a whole lot of crazy locked in a proverbial box together. Someone's gonna get killed -- or worse."

He poured himself a cup of coffee while he talked. Nervous but not *that* worked up about it.

Lucian knew Jason well enough to notice when something was bothering him. Even when he only just caught a glimpse of the werewolf as he ran in the woods. It was enough to notice the tension in his gait, and enough to decide Lucian to shift, and join him for a long run.

Until Jason was able, and ready, to shift back.

Godric found his way back to Eric's bar.

He'd wandered, to the ends of the city, every nook and cranny until he knew it, until he could find any bolt hole, leave no hiding spot unchecked.

At least, he'd hoped. The city kept changing on him and, eventually, he'd come to accept that.


He sat on a stool in the bar, comfortable inside his own skin and strangely at peace here. He smiled at the person next to him, inquiring politely, "May I buy you a drink?"

Bella was casting stones into the river on the edge of the woods. Not skimming them to see them bounce along the water, but throwing them with her full strength, one after the other, oddly satisfied to see them sink so heavily into the water.

Eric was walking aimlessly through the old town, uncharacteristically paying not a bit of attention to his surroundings, staring down at his feet beating the pavement, hands in his pockets.

Of course, someone had to bump into him at some point, and his fangs dropped, eyes flashing. "Watch where you're going," he snapped.

A clear enough sign he was not his usual self. He usually had more self control.

It was probably a bad idea. In fact, it was almost certainly a bad idea, considering the way Asher had reacted. And it probably wasn't fair at all that Jason would likely meet Julianna before Jean-Claude saw her. After all, Julianna wasn't important to Jason. Not the way she was to Jean-Claude.

Still, he went forward, glancing behind to where he could still hear the two vampires speaking before he raised his hand to knock on the door.

Only then did he realize he had absolutely no idea what to actually SAY to her.

On reaching the hotel, Jean-Claude shifted his hold on Jason's hand subtly, moving from holding Jason's hand to resting his fingers against Jason's wrist, just above his pulse. A brief survey of the lobby revealed no sign of Asher, and he nodded towards the stairs. "He will be below, I believe?" he said softly, and led the way down in search of yet another version of the vampire who had, in one way or another, shared most of his existence since he had been brought to Belle's court.

As Mitchell walked along the street he became aware of a scent in the air, something, more precisely someone that was getting closer, following him on the path. So. He just stopped and turned slightly, lighting up a roll up cigarette as he waited for them to get closer. "Hi there," he offered casually.

Estraven sat at a table outdoors, and flipped through his journal notebook, looking frustrated. He looked up. "I must be still ignorant of how time is kept here," he said humbly. "Can you explain it to me? It's important I keep track of the days."

The Master was gardening out in front of the cottage he'd taken up residence, planting roses. Ripping up the earth, and weeding and pruning was calming and harmless. Jazz was pouring out of open windows, loud enough to drown out the noise in his head a bit.

What passed for 'morning' in this fucked-up place found Brant sitting on a roof-top, with a gun in his lap and a half-empty bottle of whiskey beside him. His legs were dangling over the edge of the tallest building with roof access he could find, his hand was resting lightly on top of the gun, and his eyes were bloodshot. He was pale, but he wasn't crying.

When he heard footsteps behind him, he didn't turn. He just said, "I'm not giving it back."

He meant the gun. He'd given up completely on his Jack. Actually, no. Who he'd given up on was himself, or everyone, depending on your point of view. He just didn't think he was going to see his Jack again.

( Potential spoilers for End of Time, Part 1 and 2 )