The Black Pot

Ianto stands up when he hears Reg announce the topic. "That's a good point, you know. About the holidays. I mean, who gets holidays? Just political figures. Or religious ones. Saint David, Saint Patrick, the Queen, those sort of people. Which is all very well and good, I suppose. But that's really only acknowledging one aspect of things. I mean, overall, I think people like Shakespeare or Newton have had a much greater impact than the people who have national holidays now. So why not have a holiday on Newton's birthday? He certainly deserves it."

When the luggage hears Reg, he runs to the nearest wall and vanishes through it with the usual 'pop'. He's back in less than a minute




Holdaye holdaye
noe werk
jst playe
evrywon happe

He skips around the cafe, leaving a trail of orchid petals and ti leaves.

The upcoming bank holiday has got me thinking about public holidays, or rather, the dismal lack thereof. I'm sure we'd all agree that there should be more public holidays, so my question to you is this: who or what do you think is deserving of a public holiday, and why?

The tag for this month is holidays, and you can claim your characters here.

“You know it’s funny,” Q says thoughtfully. “There aren’t any songs about chocolate. There are songs about candy,” he goes on, after thinking for a moment. “Actually there are a lot of songs about candy, but none specifically about chocolate. And that’s a shame. I can’t think of another food that so richly deserves to be lauded in song. I like just plain dark chocolate, maybe with almonds. Caramel is good too. But don’t muck it up with lots of add-ins. It loses some of its uniqueness. It should be as simple as possible so as to be best appreciated.” He frowns at Ianto. “I don’t know about eating it off someone though. It would make an awful mess and you’d get all sticky. What fun is that?”

Since we're already more than halfway through the month, let's keep this topic of discussion short and sweet. Basically: Talk about chocolate. Do you prefer it bitter, or sweet? Ice cream, or hot chocolate? Should it be kept pure and simple, or do you like fillings such as fruit and caramel? Do you like chocolate cake at a party, or a box of truffles eaten by yourself, or possibly with someone else? Or off of someone else. And if you don't like chocolate, tell us what kind of sweets you prefer.

"A lot of people seem to think that invisibility would be a great thing. You could steal things, you could sneak into the girls' locker room, you could do all sorts of things without getting caught." He sighs. "Well, I've been invisible, and let me tell you, it's not really that much fun."

He walks up to the front of the room, really getting into his stride. "I can't just make myself invisible. I got turned invisible, against my will." He makes a face. "It was right in the middle of a date, too. A date at the zoo. My invisibility did stop me from becoming tiger chow, so I guess it wasn't all bad. Anyway, some people had gotten hold of some alien technology and didn't really know what to do with it. And as a result of a long and very complicated string events, I ended up invisible. But not tiger food.

"You would expect, in the face of some horrible and life-changing work-related accident, that you might expect a bit of sympathy from your co-workers. Of course, Torchwood isn't your usual workplace. Instead of sympathy, or even pretend sympathy, all I got were jokes at my expense. They tried to perform a medical examination on me, to find out if there was anything wrong besides, you know, being invisible. So, lots of things along the lines of 'The doctor will see you now....No, wait, he can't.' and clever things like that. Not that the examination went that well, since they couldn't see to draw any blood or anything like that."

He takes a deep breath. "It's really hard being invisible. No one tells you that part. But try, for example, getting off a hospital bed when you can't see how far your feet are from the floor. And don't even get me started on going to the toilet. Muscle memory ends up being much more useful than you think."

He strokes a hand over his sleeve, almost unconsciously. "Clothing was another interesting issue. The clothes I had been wearing when I got turned ended up invisible too. Of course, you can't have a medical exam with your clothes on, and trying to find them and put them back on afterwards....So I was basically stuck with the option of walking around naked, or walking around as a mobile suit. And let me tell you, it is shameful some of the things people will say when they think you can't hear. I did end up going with the suit though, because it was cold. And I think everyone except Jack was disturbed by the idea of me walking around naked.

"Food is another important thing to consider when you're invisible. Basically, things that are visible, stay visible, even when put into an invisible body. And since nobody wanted to watch me chew my food, or.....what would have happened to it after than, there was pretty much a veto on me eating or drinking anything. Not very fun.

"Of course, as I mentioned earlier, being invisible is very useful for sneaking into places undetected, which we ended up needing to do. Unfortunately, being undetectable also meant being naked. Of course, it was cold, and raining, and there was gravel. It's also very difficult to use a number keypad when you can't see where your fingers are. Of course, there is also the possibility that the invisibility will wear off when you are on said sneaky mission and you'll be left with nothing but a pad of A-5 paper to try and maintain what little dignity you have left."

He looks out over the cafe and hakes his head. "So, those're my thoughts on invisibilty. You can keep it."

"Grazie, grazie mille" - he briefly looks up from the book Donna Isabel gave him - "what could be so interesting about invisibility?" He shrugs. He's got enough on his hands with Miquel whom he sees just fine unless Miquel doesn't want to, doesn't want to be seen or wants to be a pest, so the idea holds no great allure, not to him, whose greatest joy was to be seen, actually, at times and in places no-one expected him, and where his appearance put men to quaking. Granted, there was a degree of invisibility involved, making his return to the stage all the more dramatic, but that was just maschera, a play of masques and shadows. No great magic there.

And Your Honour wouldn't like to sneak up on your opponents, unseen, unheard? The swift judgment of invisible feme?

"Mh?" Cesare turns to Miquel. "No. No, why would I. Isn't that why I've got you?"

Miquel sits back and folds his hands in what seems to be a hoodie pouch, face too serene for his own good.

"I suppose it's a good thing you are invisible, now that your dress sense has firmly embraced the hideous," Cesare remarks. It sounds almost sweet.

Death leans back in his chair. “BEING INVISIBLE IS PART OF MY JOB,” he says casually. “PEOPLE DON’T LIKE TO SEE ME WHEN I’M OUT ON THE DUTY, OR AT ANY OTHER TIME REALLY.” He shrugs. “HUMANS HAVE A REMARKABLE CAPACITY FOR DENIAL. ONLY PROFESSIONAL MAGIC USERS, THOSE WHO ARE IN IMMEDIATE NEED OF MY SERVICES, OR THE ALREADY DECEASED ARE ABLE TO SEE ME.” He snaps his fingers. It sounds like two pool balls hitting each other. “AND CATS, OF COURSE.” He grins around the café. “WHICH CATEGORY DO YOU ALL FALL INTO I WONDER?”

Caprica spends some time silently regarding the water in her drinking glass, turning it slowly to swirl the liquid around inside. She looks up after awhile to speak.

"I wouldn't want to be invisible. I think in some ways, I already know what it might be like. To be indistinguishable from what surrounds you. I've been that, as a Cylon among unaware humans on Caprica. I've blended in as if I'm one of you. 'Invisible' as a Cylon. And before I became more... individual... I was something like invisible among other Sixes as well. The same looks, the same personality, one of many and interchangeable. We had separate missions and I suppose that was the start. And now— I'm distinct now in my experiences and personality, but if I stood with the other Sixes with this light hair, you couldn't pick me out of them without knowing me very well, something of my expressions or how I carry myself. It'd be like I was invisible among very many identical sisters."

She runs a hand slowly through her hair, considering it, before looking back around her. "In a way, maybe we Sixes become the least invisible of the Cylons. The others don't vary their appearance, and they don't take on individual names. If they use a name at all, it's one they all share. They'd be indistinguishable to any of you, and even among us, the Ones are effectively a collective personality sharing memories, so it doesn't matter which physical body we interact with since it's ultimately shared. Sixes, though... Sometime about us is different, I suppose. We set ourselves apart, some sort of streak of rebellion and leadership, maybe. Most of us have this hair, but some of us have darker blonde hair, long or short, black. Different names, I mentioned that before. Lida, Sonja, Shelly. Natalie and Gina." It's difficult to think of some of the stories, but she lightens with a slight smirk. "Of course, with our looks, we never go unnoticed, do we?"

Looking to her side, her eyes focus somewhere in the space near her, and she lifts up her hand. "And there's something else, someone. I don't know what it means. You can't see him, but I do. He often appears to me, talks to me. I don't know what he is for sure. Is he— some sort of damage, a hallucination? A projection I'm not consciously aware of making? We can do that. We can project what we want to see around us, and share it with other Cylons, too. I see myself in a forest here, the dappled light and the breeze rustling, not in some café by the beach. What I don't know for certain is why I see him. I know what I believe and not what the factual reality might be. He knows things that I don't know and tells me them. He advises me. Mocks me sometimes, for... for trying to be like humans, telling me about human nature in such a cynical way. He appears as Gaius, a human man I loved. I saved Gaius's life, and it killed me. It literally killed me. And as soon as I was resurrected from it, I started seeing him. The others weren't aware of him, so I don't think he's a projection, but..."

She curls her fingers, then flexes them out and gestures to the space as she looks around again. "Obviously he's not anyone visible or audible to the rest of you. And that's... that's what I have to say about invisibility. Because I believe that he's an angel of God guiding me, visible only to me perhaps, but he's here with me all the same."

The luggage pads up to the front of the room.


My cna bee envisbul
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He ambles over to a corner and stops. He tucks up his feet and, for all intents and purposes, he is invisible. Just an ordinary box. Not worth a second glance. Poe would have been delighted.

It is rumoured that Monçada, the Archbishop of Madrid, has entire palaces built in the realms of shadow and operates invisibly to even to the eyes of his own clan. It certainly accounts for his longevity, especially within the Sabbat factions. She has not his skills, but can easily slip into the shadows to move where she will. Is it the rustling of silks and silver, or the sounds that the shadows make when they are at play that whispers through the café? Who is to tell, for this once, both are true. Skills must always be honed, practised, and tested lest one lose them. To lose this discipline would be a near fatal mistake, for she relies upon the deception to hide her role as spy for the Family and to provide a skill that no one else in the Family has. Exclusivity has always been a superior survival skill.

Stepping from the shadows, Isabel brushes her hands down her blue and silver silk gown. Shoulders bare, they seem far too luminous to have been hidden from sight in the shadows that the fall of her hair calls to mind; or from the stark black silk masque that partially covers her face, complimenting perfectly the perfection of her complexion. It is still Carnevale, even here on these grey and damp shores.

"I have my own manner of invisibility, as you may see," her lips curl at the small play of words whilst her fingers adjust the lacing of her bodice until the fall of shadows from the laces across her white skin are to her liking: neither too tight, nor too loose, and allowing the drip of diamonds from her necklace to steal under them as she moves. It is only when she is satisfied that the gown gives the impression that it has been chosen and put on to ornament her body and not cover it for modesty's sake that she looks again at the assembly and continues, albeit, very briefly. "It is not perfect, but what is?"

This month I want to know what you'd all get up to should you happen to find yourselves invisible for a day. I realise that some of you may be able to make yourselves invisible at will, and so if that's the case, tell us about your experiences. If the idea of being invisible just doesn't appeal to you, tell us all about that instead.

The tag for this month is invisibility and you can claim your characters here.

You will never age for me, nor fade, nor die.

There's supposed to be a second part to that quote. Nor you for me. But there isn't. Not for him. Not for Jack. Jack will be able to give that to him, but he won't be able to do the same. Assuming he lives long enough for that to become a problem, which he doesn't really expect to. He hasn't really pictured himself growing old, and especially not since he joined Torchwood. It's just too much a high-risk job.

And what will happen if he does? Jack will watch him age and wither away, become an old man with grey hair and wrinkles. But Jack won't age, won't change hardly at all. Maybe a year or two, over the whole span of Ianto's life. And while no one really looks forward to aging, some comfort can be gained from having someone to grow old with. Supposedly. That's what people say. It's just that the person he wants to spend the rest of his life with, well, has much more life than he does. It doesn't seem fair, but then, since when has life been fair?

It's fear, that's what it is. Fear of the unknown, and of facing it by himself. He doesn't really know what's coming; everyone he's known has either died young or aged prematurely. And as much as he trusts the fact that Jack will love him always, regardless of how old he is or what he looks like, how can he ask that of Jack? How can he ask Jack to stay with him like that?

His voice shakes a bit when he finally speaks. "I don't want to get old. No one does. But it beats the alternative." He pauses and almost sits down again before adding, "I hope."

Q stands up. “A very astute man once made the observation: ‘What a drag it is getting old’. And I have to say I agree. Your body aches, your eyesight deteriorates, and you start to go deaf.” He nods at Reg. “Your clothes don’t fit and you forget things. Who wants to go through all that? Not me. No thanks.” He shakes his head. “Growing old gracefully is an oxymoron if you ask me. Not that I want to live forever,” Q frowns. “I don’t think I would anyway. Unless it would be possible to read everything I wanted to before I died.” He sighs. “No, I just don’t see how that could work. I think living forever would be bloody boring. I got a few extra years, even though I didn’t ask for them. I’ll take what I’ve got and hope I die before I get old. Or at least before I start to wear my pants on my head.” He sits back down, brooding.

Growing old. Aging.

... Hell.

Jack has plenty he could say about it, but none of it is something he wants to say. Growing old, aging process, time travel— yeah, fantastically cheerful stuff. Growing old? Doesn't apply to him, he thinks. What aging process? Maybe in a long, long time from now he'll have a few more fine lines, a few more grey hairs mixed with the brown, but that seems to be all the aging his body's capable of and maybe it's just stress wearing on him a bit, no real cellular degeneration. And even the stress lines that suggest a bit of aging of a history of laughing a lot smooth out so much when he's truly relaxed, so he's not sure if they count, either. Growing old is something other people do because they're mortal and he isn't.

Then again, he hasn't even seen much of other people growing old, not truly. He only spent the first couple decades of his life around Boeshane, and that wasn't much time to see anyone age considerably. His father never got the chance; his mother, no idea, aged quicker than usual by grief but never old in the time he knew her, and he has no idea how long she might've lived to be. And— Gray. Yeah. A kid, and then some twenty years later for Gray and over a century for Jack, jumped to psychotic adulthood. Estelle had been a young woman when Jack knew and loved her, and then when he knew her again, an old woman, missing the gradual aging decades in between. Seeing pictures and films of royalty aging over the decades wasn't like seeing someone you knew, although he'd hit on a couple of them from time to time. With everyone around him in Torchwood dying young, Jack has no idea what it's really like to see someone he knows aging from young to old and he can't experience it himself.

If he had the choice of aging? Yeah, he much prefers being locked into his looks to growing older. It'd really suck to be a withered old man forever, much better having his strength and looks still. The very gradual aging, though, has him worried. Maybe someday he'll be that.

Not something he's going to tell just anyone about, though. As far as most of them know— obviously the Doctor and Ianto are exceptions with how he feels about them, and "Death" is, well, yeah, knows otherwise because that's what that being does. He isn't going to consider for long the one who knows differently from testing out his resurrecting over and over. The rest of them, though, can just go on thinking he's as mortal as them. It isn't a good idea for them to know otherwise.

He clears his throat and smiles in a way that doesn't really touch his eyes. "Do any of us really have a choice about the aging process?" Or lack thereof. "Not counting Data's systems, of course. And come on, just look at me. Who wouldn't want to look this good as long as they could? That's about all I've got to say about that. Although, time travel? I don't know what our favorite waitress thinks time travel's going to do for aging. If you do a lot of time travelling, yeah, your body will accumulate a lot more artron energy, undergo cellular changes, develop a really improved immune system. A friend of mine got in a tough spot because someone figured that out about her and— anyway, besides the point, point is that you aren't going to erase the aging you've already done with time travel."

Data stands up. “I do not grow old as you mean the phrase. There has been a progression of time since my activation, but that is strictly a chronological measurement. My systems do not deteriorate as biological cellular structures do. I have an aging program that is designed to simulate the external effects of aging in my physical appearance, but that is strictly cosmetic. It can be disabled any time I wish.” He looks around the room. “I do have to watch the people around me growing old however. And I know that, in time, they will die and I will not. Everyone I have ever known or will know will predecease me. Fortunately, with my memory, I shall never forget any of them.” He sits back down and resumes taking readings with his tricorder.

Sorry for the delay, but you know how time flies when you're hiding in the pantry so you don't have to-. Well, I'm sure I need not go into details.

So, this month I think we shall all share our feelings on growing old. Do you see yourself growing old gracefully, or refusing to give up the robes you had when you were seventeen because they're of exceptional quality and they just don't cut them like they used to, thank you very much? Would you opt out of the aging process entirely if you had the choice? Or how about a bit of time travel?

The tag for this month is growing old and don't forget to claim your character here

"I had my own astrologer," Cesare says, to no-one in particular. "We all had."

He chews his lower lip. "But then Behaim - Lorenz Behaim, from Nuremberg - had always been more than a hireling, not someone who prattles idle for good coin. He wasn't someone who would lie to me to save his hide, or secure his well-paid appointment." Cesare's hands need something to do, so he winds up his wristwatch. Once that is done, he continues to twist a cufflink.

"Behaim was my tutor when I was a boy, and a person like that honours truth. Good Messer Behaim... well. He was brutally honest with me. And so I continued to pay him. I made certain he was on a handsome retainer, enough to furnish his library with the best and most sought-after books. But after a while I... stopped listening to him. My birth chart, he'd said, predicted a meteoric rise, followed by a sharp descent. Twenty-six was critical, he'd said."

Cesare shrugs. His eyes are turned inward. He doesn't see the dingy-yet-cheerful cafe. He sees the Adria, smoke rising from Forlì.

"Time rolled around, Fortuna spun her wheel, and I survived my twenty-sixth year. Not only that; it turned out to be a good one. But I did not forget about the birth chart. Maestro Behaim continued to send weekly predictions, suggestions, cautioning me against this move or that, depending on the day. I couldn't bear to tell him that I'd stopped reading his reports years ago."

Miquel insinuates himself, gently twirling locks in Cesare's nape. So bitter, caro. There were other predictions, too, weren't there. And you proved them wrong. Did not a great many misfortunes not befall you?

Didn't... not befall me? Cesare scrunches up his face in an attempt to sound out the double negative.

Mmm. Forget it, Miquel laughs kindly.

Death sits in the darkest corner of the cafe, nursing a zombie*. He is intrigued, fascinated even, by peoples ability to complicate an existence which, from his point of view, is momentary. But no one wants to hear this, so he is content to stay silent and listen. Perhaps he will learn something new. There is a soft rustling at his feet and a bone-white nose with brittle grey whiskers pokes out from under his robe. "SQUEAK!" it says. "YES, YES, OF COURSE. GO RIGHT AHEAD." The Death of Rats nods and, holding a small scythe in it's mouth, scurries off to the kitchen.

*It's not what you think. You're disgusting.

Jack hasn't come into the café in a few months, trying to avoid run-ins with— a certain person— but he chances it. New year, might as well take a risk instead of staying away out of fear.

He listens to the topic and puts up his hands. "Ohhh no, no no. I'm not telling. Especially if I was in the right universe and knew what was coming up, no. Spoilers. I'm not telling you anything that's coming up, assuming I do know anything. See, if I knew something and told you, you'd be influenced by it. It could change the timeline. A National Lottery number, for instance, that isn't harmless. Someone wins the lottery who wasn't supposed to win it, and I don't mean that in any kind of fate sense, don't believe in fate myself— but as far as the timeline's concerned, they hadn't won it. It gets changed. Maybe they go on to do things they never were going to do, or don't do the things they should have, and along comes a paradox. You get a paradox, paradox destabilises the timeline, and next thing we know, there's no more universe. Except we don't know it because there's no more universe.

"Now, none of us is in our own universe, so what we might know about the future timelines in our own universes may or may not hold true here since— well, it's not our own universe. But we still should be very careful about revealing any definitive knowledge. And since predictions we make could be influenced by knowledge of future events... gotta be careful with those, too.

"So. That leaves some really out there, hopefully benign predictions. Let's see..." He shifts back more in his chair and ponders. "Not the end of the world. I don't have any problem telling you that, because really, it's idiotic how people go standing around proclaiming the end is near. Not even close. If anything's coming up, though, please let it be an end to this era's version of fake tanning. It looks ridiculous. Either get sun-damaged the old-fashioned way or go with your natural pigment level, but don't go orange or look way darker than your skin's able to get. Some people just plain burn, no tanning, but then they go spraying brown stuff on them and it looks like what it is. Fake. When someone comes up with the technology to pleasingly alter your skin tone, then do it, but not yet. I'm not saying I don't think anyone should get any, shall we say, modifications. I thought about them myself before. Not any more, though."

Back when he was mortal and had to worry about aging, he'd wondered if he might get a little maintenance done. It wasn't something expensive or exotic or something to turn your nose at in that time, like it is in this century. Didn't really earn comments since it was widespread and didn't create unnatural looks like these hacking and injecting and implanting techniques.

"That's more wishful thinking than prediction. Go out like that Crazy Frog ringtone, please. Hmmm... I predict... Really amazing coffee will grow less niche. I don't mean Starbucks coffee, I mean the fantastic organic brews that are prepared right without scalding, fair-trade produced, so awesome for everyone, workers and tastebuds. The coffee revolution will of course be spearheaded by King Ianto, long may he reign. And the food here at the Black Pot won't get any more edible if the cook remains in place. It'll continue to be the kind of thing you wouldn't feed a weevil." He raises his hands and waggles his fingers. "Oooo, diiiire waaaarnings. Gives you chills, doesn't it?"