It's all AU.

He was sprawled out on his bed, glasses perched on the end of his nose reading a technical manual for Jack's sonic blaster. It made no sense to him but that was okay, because it was *really* not boring. He got up when he heard the knock at the door and went to answer it.

The Doctor was trying to convince a shop keeper that the folded paper rose he'd found amongst the shop's goods really was his. Given that is was a gift shop with a stationary section, it did take a little talking. Then the shop keeper just wanted to see how it had been done. The Doctor insisted he needed the paper as it was, thank you, it might be important. But he was pretty sure he knew who had made it, and he'd send them along to the shop to explain, when he found them.

He turned and practically ran into Martha.

"Oh, hello, Dr. Jones!" he said, beaming.

The silver was rushing through his veins and he welcomed the sweet oblivion of death. He'd been parted from Sonja too long.

Oblivion came, followed by pain, pain akin to that of shifting back, a human form forced upon your spirit. He opened his eyes, growling still, lost and confused. Surely death did not lead to a hotel suite. Surely his heart should not be beating still. The place smelled wrong, felt wrong, his shirt was ripped and bloody, the smell of silver clung to him. He had died, and been taken here, to be brought back to life.

He erupted into the hallway, expecting an attack any second, but reached the stairs without encountering anyone. He jumped down them a flight of stairs at a time, only to find himself face to face with someone a few floors down.

"Where are we?" he asked, his tone entirely more polite than the wolf raging inside him demanded.

Koschei was on the room of a tall building, working on a sensor array to gather data and start on his 'trick time into moving' project. In a slightly foul mood that he couldn't find Theta to show off to and talk at, but not enough to stop working. Driven, was the word for it.

Working made the drums manageable, if not an any way quieter. Everything feel into rhythm. Funny how that worked.

Brant let himself into the room and smiled easily toward Jason. He stepped out of his shoes while he locked the door. "Hey. I hear you need a hot-water bottle with a pulse."

After his conversation with Romana, Asher was forced to admit that he did need Jean-Claude's help. He still had no shoes, he still knew very little of this place that he needed to know. Such as what was meant by not feeding freely and how to handle the day time. He was still uncomfortable, at the very best.

Forced to admit did not mean that he liked either the reality or the admission.

He stopped short of the room he'd seen Jean-Claude in, propped his good shoulder against the wall and folded his arms over his chest. He bowed his head, curtain of shining hair falling around his face and hiding it from view. And, simply and passively, he waited.

The problem with dramatic exits were that they were rarely well thought out. This one was no exception. He was dressed, yes, but he was still injured and he wasn't wearing any shoes. He also knew nearly nothing about where he was, or how many of the things here worked.

So, he made it to the elevator and then became rather stymied. With his head tilted to the side the fall of his blond hair covered the worst of his visible burns. He pushed a button experimentally, and narrowed his eyes to see what would happen. At the very least his feline curiosity had distracted him from his inner turmoil.

John was going to wear a groove in the foyer floor of the old Hotel if he carried on for much longer. He was pacing angrily, stalking, spinning around sharply when he heard footsteps approaching. "I swear, the next person to fling their psychic crap around the place without warning is going to get a taste of my fist," he growled, apropo of nothing, stabbing the air with a half-empty vodka bottle to punctuate his words.

Asher was, not to put too fine a point on it, starving. He was also lost, confused and in pain.

It was perhaps not surprising that when he opened his eyes and saw Jean-Claude his reaction was not one of relief. It was quite probably rather surprising, all things considered, that he started to laugh.

How he'd ended up, filthy and near mad with pain and hunger and grief, on Jean-Claude's bed, was anyone's guess. It might even have been the psychic city.

The sun had barely set, but the regular feedings at the club had given Jean-Claude some of his strength back, which meant that he rose earlier. He still could not go out until full dark, but it allowed him time to rise, dress, and sometimes feed before the sun was fully down. And that gave him more hours of awareness to fill.

"Perhaps you might tell me of these houses you have been looking at?" he suggested to Jason, attention bent on fastening his shirt cuffs. "You have a favorite among them?"

Jack had a bag on his shoulder, and for once, was free of his greatcoat. Back in the t-shirt and jeans that brought back memories of easier times, he was planning on making the most of the sunshine - or planetshine or whatever it was - and there was one person he really wanted to do that with.

"Got a few minutes?"

Koschei was in a corner of the hotel lobby, half reading a book, half eying everyone warily. Appearently anyone could be crazy and genocidal here, if his conversation with a future version of Thete was anything to go by.

After indirectly getting confirmation that Brant was appearently getting eaten by a vampire, he couldn't help it. He had to go check on him. So he went and knocked by Brant's door. Easiest thing.

There was a face he hadn't seen in a while.

"Mr. Ianto Jones," he announced walking over the where the man was sitting. "Care for some coffee?"

Either he'd get some snark about whether he'd learned to make it properly, or he'd get confusion. Either way, it would amuse the Master.

The Doctor was being pressed to sit on a stretcher by paramedics, who were giving the police officer who was questioning him dirty looks. Blood was dripping into his face, his hands very bloody, and he looked a bit dazed.

He was a little ways off from a smoldering wreck of two air cars, that other police officers and medics was swarming. And...that was a body bag being carted off.

"I don't know," the Doctor said slowly to the woman questioning him. "I was on the ground. It looked like maybe one of the drivers just lost control. The one what didn't make it."

"I think I was just asked out by a cat. Person," Donna announced, bemused. "He seemed nice? At least I think he was a he."

Continued from here.

His gaze slid sideways. He didn't have clue what to do with the gentleness. As opposed to disapproval.

When it got closer to the sun going down, Jason walked the Master back to the hotel. He still didn't understand cricket worth a damn, but it had been a nice day. Even with the seriousness of the conversation.

He asked the Master to stay near the stairs while he went to speak with Jean-Claude first. Pushing the door open, he made his way across the room to turn on a lamp. Softer light than the overhead one and easier on the eyes when waking up.

Then he settled in to wait.

Methos had found his way back to the old town, the more fluid surroundings allowing him to relax some, spending several days finding his former haunts when he'd been there, and enjoying the beer and the quiet. ( Cut for length )

It was an extraordinarily gorgeous day even for fake New New York. The Master and Doctor had taken over a corner of Central Park to try to gather together cricket teams, from visitors or natives, whoever knew or was willing to learn the basic rules and play. Captaining opposing teams, of course. The easy banter back and forth indicated high, good spirits.