The Universe's Mixer

Dinah had spent the better part of her day tracking down building plans for the Asylum and starting to form her own plan of attack for rescuing Jake. She already knew that she could count on Harry and Murphy to show up to the planning session, which would be at the cleared out Sherwood Florist. The backroom was a large enough space for however many people were able to show up and she'd cleared the table of any flowers and now had the blueprints all laid out. Now she needed to go through the list of others that she was going to call for help.

Dinah wasn't a huge fan of calling people for help, but she knew that taking on the Joker alone or even with a group of two or three was far too dangerous. She wasn't going to risk everyone getting hurt, or worse because she was too proud to ask for help.

So, she pulled out her phone and began to go down the list of those that she would call for help. There was Fred, and Dean, who had already been helping. Alfred, who could get a message to Bruce for her, since she'd had yet to actually see or talk to Bruce outside of the suit. Even Oliver. While she wasn't entirely sure about asking him for help, they had become allies here, and if he was anything like the Oliver she knew, he'd want to help.

The only person she left out of things was Barbara. She felt guilty, and she'd done her best to avoid the Clocktower apartment that day, but she didn't want Barbara anywhere near the Joker. Or Jake, for that matter. She had a feeling that the presence of a younger version of Barbara would just be a trigger for Jake and she had no idea what the City's Joker would do if he knew that Batgirl was in town and still had the use of her legs.

In retrospect, the time that Sam had spent in the City seemed to have flown by in the space of a blink. He'd gotten used to hunting on his own, and the best part was, no Lucifer haunting his dreams. It was probably the best thing that could have happened to him after he and Dean had split.

On the other hand, he knew that Dean had lived roughly two years in what was now for Sam an alternate reality. One in which he--Sam--had probably lived as well, and he--Sam--wasn't sure he wanted to know what his other self might have done, left to his own devices.

But he knew he'd rather have all the cards on the table than allow the rift between himself and his brother to remain, yawning, between them.

After some serious thought, Veronica took out an ad in the City paper and put up a web site Mac would've been sort of proud of. She still intended to get back to FBI work, if she could, but for now, she needed money, and she'd take the cases she could get as a PI.

Mars Investigations was back. Only this time, it was hers, and not her dad's.

Her first bite for a case left her with some interesting flashbacks to 'Ghostbusters': the librarian thought someone was trying to scare her to death. Apparently there had been some pranks and some... poltergeist-like things happening in the place. Could Veronica hang around there, see if there was anything going on?

Yes. She could.

So now, at 9 on a Thursday night, she was sitting in the fiction section with a flashlight, her camera, a taser, and a candy bar. Waiting for something to happen. The library closed at 6:30. It was quiet, and she'd had plenty of time to look around. It was much bigger and much more impressive than the one she worked in at Hearst. There were some glass cases here that were... really, really disturbing. They weren't what she was here for, but she couldn't help looking at them and wondering about them. Logan's surfboard? Here? Lilly's plaque? That was hanging in the foyer area of the... she guessed museum was the word... wing of the library. And then there was the case full of medical drawings, with a name on them that really scared her. Hannibal Lecter? An eye in a jar? What exactly was going on here?

She'd get to the bottom of this.
Once she figured out why she was hearing footsteps.

She'd sounded concerned. No, she sounded more than concerned, even if she was trying not to. Dean Winchester knew that sound. He'd heard it in many women's voices before, and he'd probably had something like it in his own voice. No, he hadn't lost a child, but he had lost someone he loved. More than one. He was going to help her get Jake back. The kid wasn't all bad; he needed to relax, but Dean guessed that the kid was high strung, if that's what it could be called, for a reason.

He'd "borrowed" a car to get most of the way, dropping it off a block away. He walked the rest. The older Winchester found it with a little looking; it wasn't exactly in the same place Dinah had seen it last. He wished that Sam was around. Not so much to help, though the sasquatch would have been helpful in seeing over really tall obstacles, but to know that the guy was safe, okay, whole.

Fred, the almost hot geek, had said somethings that bugged Dean; actually she'd a whole hell of a lot that had bugged him. Yet, the time travelling bit, which Dean was getting somewhat use to, gave him a small hope. It would explain Castiel, and if Sam could be whole here...Dean didn't think too hard about it. But, if Sam was okay, soul intact here, Dean was going to do what he could to keep his brother in the City. Soulful Sam, puppy dog eyes, girly habits, and all, was a good thing. Plus, if Sam was here pre-apocalypse, there was no way he would ever go to hell. It wasn't ideal, but it wasn't the worst idea ever.

Dean didn't see Dinah right off, so he started looking for clues. Even if the blood was a really big one. There might be other things. She'd said something about pictures for Fred? So, out came that handy dandy phone he couldn't get rid of to start snapping prints, whatever.

Beretta? Check. Silver bullets? Check. Knife? Check. Flask with holy water? Check and double check. ID…? Sam ran through the mental checklist, making certain each item was physically accounted for and on his person before taking further stock of his surroundings. At first glance, it appeared to be a normal motel room, in a normal city, but this time Sam knew better. And it still him flashbacks to the time the Trickster had stuck him in an endless loop of Tuesdays. “Come on, Sam,“ he muttered to himself as he stepped outside, “What is wrong with this picture?” 

The car parked outside his room, for one. That hadn't been there the last time he'd stepped out the door. 

It made him wonder...what else had changed?

Howl had spent the day shopping. It was probably the most enjoyable shopping trip he'd ever been on, once he figured out that he could have anything he wanted. All he had to do was reach in his pocket, and the exact amount of money he required was right there.

( It had all started in a clothing store... )

The Library seemed the best place to go. Surely, it would have something there about the leprechauns. They reminded Fred of Lucky, but the language she heard some of them use, the way they drank, and the bawdy gestures they made certainly did not seem very Lucky the Leprechaun like. Not one bit. So, with the need for information, and not knowing what to do once the leprechauns had left, she led the way to the Library.

Of course, the City was being difficult in letting them get there, and she'd had to explain, even if Sam didn't need it, that the City could move places. It didn't seem to be held by the normal laws of physics, or even the abnormal ones. In fact, she even when she thought she had finally figured out how the world, the City actually, worked, it went and did something that went completely against what she'd finally figured out. There were days she felt as if she were some Fred shaped rat in a very confusing maze, and she wasn't even getting a piece of cheese for all her troubles. At least it wasn't the pleasure button; Fred had a feeling many people would have died by now if that were the case.

She sighed as they turned a corner she had promised for the umpteenth time to be the right one, but then she smiled. Well, if they couldn't go to the Library, maybe the Library could come to them.

"It's the office. Angel Investigations. Maybe Angel will be there. He's another hero type. He was a vampire, but he isn't anymore. He went to some place really bad. Hell, maybe, I didn't really ask much, or if I did I am going to pretend like I didn't. Because the two of you are really odd when it comes to the feelings thing. He knows about..." The phsycist gave him the once over. "You know. Emonday loodbay." Just a quick smile and a motion for him to join.

"Who knows. Wesley may be in. Oh, you have to meet Wesley again. He's smart, really smart. He knows all sorts of things about demons, and I hope you ..the other you, the you before you you, put up the books Angel said you could borrow. Probably did." She nodded and started walking again. The office was in a small hole in the wall kind of place, or seemed to be, and it was in so many shades of green, Fred hoped Angel wasn't around. He probably would not have liked it.

When Sam rolled out of bed and into the shower that morning, he'd just grabbed the first clean shirt that he could get his hands on. He didn't really know where half of his clothes had come from, despite the fact that he still had to do his laundry from time to time. He certainly hadn't had much on him when he had arrived. But this was a new shirt, he was sure of it. It just happened to be in his closet. It just happened to be green.

When he came out of the shower, tugging the green shirt over abs that would make Twilight and Supernatural fans alike want to bake cookies on his stomach and sigh when said shirt met his jeans, he went back to the closet to grab another layer--wondering what was up with the crack-fic commentary in his head. Was it something in the City air? And what was up with all the green? Was it March already?

Green, green, green. Button-downs. Tees. Everything but his jeans and his old jacket, and whatever dirty laundry was stuffed into the hamper that was in need of taking to the laundromat. He glanced down. Even his boxers were green plaid. He went to his drawer and pulled out a pair of socks. "Thank God." They were regular, white-and-gray crew socks. He didn't think he could have dealt with argyle.

Not when he was hearing strange noises from the kitchen area. He poked his head out once he was satisfactorily dressed, his brow furrowing at the sight of an open cupboard door. He didn't remember leaving anything open the night before, but he shrugged it off and turned on his computer. Another scuffling, scurrying noise, followed by a creak, and then a thump. He peered into the kitchen again and the cupboard door was shut. Was it his imagination, or did the revolving corner cupboard swing on its carousel an inch or two? "Oh, no, you don't..."

Lestat was bored.

Boredom was dangerous, with Lestat around.

He'd taken to filling Aeon Flux's apartment with straws more often, making her more harried and unnerved. He'd taken to following Dr. Henry Jones Jr., whistling his theme song. He'd taken to lounging in bars with a glass of red wine, writing in a leatherbound journal.

He couldn't find Mona. She must be gone. Dr. Wilson was too busy most of the time to be much of a help in alleviating his boredom. He kept, as always, a close eye on Hannibal and River. And he knew this place was down to only one crazed hormonal female that might try to ram a piece of wood through his heart.

That was just fine.

The pen scratched across the fine paper, and the vampire smiled darkly behind his purple glasses, even though the bar was dark enough already. A stray though assaulted him from across the room, and he fought back a laugh.

This would be fun.

The day was crystal clear. Warm, even, considering what time of year it was. Kids were happily running around the park wearing their shorts and maybe a light sweater. Flowers had bloomed unseasonably. Bees and butterflies busied themselves while birds sang.

To top it all off, in a nice grassy area some picnic tables popped up. They were all covered in food and drink. A big banner unfurled across a nice space that could be seen from the road. It touted "Annual City Picnic" in bold black lettering.

Betty's hand traced along the stone of the castle wall. Castle. In the City. This was really the strangest place she'd ever been to, and she hadn't even gotten her voluntarily. Sure, the journey had been voluntary, but the end result, not so much.

( Even so, she wasn't unhappy. )

Beretta? Check. Silver bullets? Check. Knife? Check. Flask with holy water? Check and double check. ID…? Sam ran through the mental checklist, making certain each item was physically accounted for and on his person before taking further stock of his surroundings. At first glance, it appeared to be a normal studio apartment, in a normal city, but the longer he was there, the more it felt like something was off--only he couldn‘t quite put his finger on it. All he knew was that it was giving him flashbacks to the time the Trickster had stuck him in an endless loop of Tuesdays.

He'd checked his cupboards--or rather, the cupboards in the apartment he'd woken up in that morning,seemingly at random--hoping for salt.  Rock salt would be ideal, but even table salt would do--and sure enough--he found a canister of the latter above and to the side of the stove, as well as a bag of the former under the sink. Just like the doctor ordered. Only he told himself it was probably left over from winter...or something. He opened the fridge/freezer with the thought that he should find something non-greasy and hopefully non-disgusting--like waffles--to eat, and there was a box of Eggos. He shut the door, his brow furrowed. He opened the refrigerator door again, deliberately thinking about maple syrup. The real stuff, not Mrs. Butterworth's. There it was. Coincidence? He shut the door again. It had to be. It only made sense that someone would have syrup to go with their waffles. Right?

“Come on, Sam,“ he muttered to himself as he stepped outside, “What is wrong with this picture?” Maybe he would find someone on the street who could tell him where the hell he was.

It had been a long night. Before that, it had been a long day; and even before that, it had been another long night. The Winchesters were used to getting sleep when they could and where they could, but they never just dropped in the middle of a gig.

At least, not unless they were very, very tired.

The three tables were situated on an open green in one of the park's numerous clearings. A battered tin trash can was chained to the only occupied table, which supported a heap of books both open and closed and black thermos with the lid off. The younger Winchester had his head cushioned on the curve of one thick arm with an open book as a pillow, a book that was literally indecipherable unless you were used to picking out meaning from handwritten medieval French. The little cup of coffee was stone cold next to his other elbow, which rested on a few newer books that proved to be facsimiles of other French manuscripts. Lay le Freine was the uppermost. His cellphone marked a page of an Old French Language Resource.

For once, Sam was unarmed and unharmed. He looked more like a student than someone who had recently come off a battlefield. He was not so much asleep as "dead to the world" and it took a lot of the grimness from his usual expression.

Buffy's last thought before feeling a large rock thrown at the back of her head was, Ow. Before that unfortunate moment, the slayer spent night questioning why she still bothered to patrol. There appeared to be more than enough competent heroic types around to take care of The City's creepy crawlies. What difference did she really make? Was she supposed to be disappointed or reassured that she hadn't come across a vampire in the last week?

Buffy walked aimlessly through The City Commons, the infamous Mr. Pointy slipped into the sleeve of her red sweater. Though her arms were crossed over her stomach she was plenty warm. There was a mild breeze and the temperature was perfect. Buffy heard an orchestra of crickets and looking through the trees appreciated perfect starlight supernaturally protected from the artificial glow of The City surrounding the park. Not even Sunnydale had such a view. It was so nice that not even her troubled thoughts or the mosquito bite on her shoulder could dampen the moment.

Buffy thought about the dream with the talking bird. She thought about the impressively hairy guy who seemed to do just fine dispatching vampires on his own. Buffy visually flashed back to naked Dick. Multiple times. This was precisely the reason she hadn't noticed the giant man-eating troll lurking under the bridge, it's gender difficult to discern. Her stylish yet affordable boots clicked loudly over the wood construction, while wandering through the impressively large park. To be fair, it more closely resembled a giant-sized assortment of rock and ruble than it did a being, and it smelled like the earth when she disturbed its slumber.

An hour had passed by the time her eyes finally opened. She was first pleasantly surprised to be alive. She was then pleasantly surprised to be pleasantly surprised at still being alive. The realization was both welcome and reassuring. But Buffy was annoyed by two equally important things. First, that the large lump on the back of her head really hurt and second, that she was bound, gagged and tied upside down to a tree branch. Her forehead just barely missed touching the earth below.

There was a large fire going in the dried up creek several feet from the bridge which crossed over it. Upon the blaze sat a cauldron which Buffy could have easily fit into twice. Looking up where were feet were tied, she swung absently testing the strength of the branch. It didn't creak. The slayer began to protest loudly, but the rope gag in her mouth kept her from saying anything intelligible. The troll ignored her, chopping misshapen roots into the stew it prepared, singing in an ugly baritone, "They call me Troll; Gnawer of the Moon, Giant of the Gale-blasts, Curse of the rain-hall, Companion of the Sibyl, Nightroaming hag, Swallower of the loaf of heaven. What is a Troll but that?"

(Continued from here)

Fred nodded; of course, they had supplies. They would probably have C-4, not that Fred wanted to know if they had C-4, although if they did...She'd always wanted to see what she could do with a nice bit of explosive; sure, she could probably make her own bomb with regular household chemicals, but really, that wasn't the same thing as having the stuff right there, ready made.

"Rough job. You sound like..." Well, she didn't say anything more, having noticed he was dialing, or it seemed like dialing. The phone was certainly out and ready for talking. She guessed. Cell phones were still a little odd for her; it wasn't like lots of people carried them around before she left, not often anyway, and it certainly wasn't like they'd had them in Pylea. Her voice softened, partly because of the phone and partly because he was probably tired of hearing himself compared to Angel, "Angel."

The clipboard was tilted to let her write a few more ideas, and the equations that had been marred by the hearts and painfully sweet girlie doodles were coming back. It wasn't like they'd ever really gone, but she'd been a little disheartened by what hadn't exactly been in her control. She walked beside him, thinking and...eavesdropping.

( This was so out there, pretty friggin weird didn't begin to describe Dean's situation. )

Fred just didn't get it. How could the City do that? Well, she was certain she knew how the City could do it, or not so much how but why. Really, it was more of a why answer that she could guess at than the how. The how was being elusive, which made things interesting for the scientist but interesting wasn't always good. There was that old curse "May you live in interesting times," and Fred was certainly living in interesting times. Well, they were sort of interesting, so why had the City done it?

Godzilla, zombies, love - really sick twisted love that shouldn't have happened at all because there was no way she would ever ever ever in her life fall for someone so very sour, grumpy, dark, brooding...He was just too old. Fred's lips pursed as she knew exactly why that line of thought didn't work; Angel was older than that ass of an editor, but then she would never say she'd been in love with Angel. Sure, lust, overly like, fanatical even, but not in love. Not too much. Just crush. Really big sorta drawing on the wall crazy crush.

How had she known she felt anything toward J.J. Jameson? The stupid clipboard was mired in hearts, which wasn't something Fred really bothered with, her name or initials and his name or initials. Of course, that could have meant something else entirely, but she didn't think so. Didn't help matters that she was rather certain the heart nonsense was covering a part of an equation that would allow her to create a moving geographical model of the City. She just needed to see if Veronica's laptop could handle the kind of algorithms...if she could even make an algorithm out. She was pretty sure that x was not going to be a function of "J.J. + F.B." and it did not equal "4 Ever".

So, it was with a little frustration, Fred was making her way to Angel Investigations. She thought maybe Angel could advance her a little on her non-existent pay, she hadn't really done anything to get paid for lately, to buy a computer. Then again, she could maybe ask for a case to get money to buy a computer; she wasn't ready to go to the Institute quite yet with her thoughts. She wasn't sure she could calmly talk to the Bruce Banner about any of this yet.

( Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It's been months since my last confession... )

( The man tied to the chair was waking up. )

George had been perfectly happy to wait out the storm in her own apartment. As long as the water was running and the toilet was working, she didn't care if all she had to eat was ramen noodles. Then the post-it came. George stared down at the small piece of yellow paper, her expression a picture, perfect expression of indignant shock. Wrapping up the best she could she went out into the storm and was caught in it.

Hypothermia, unlike other times George had been hurt, had the one advantage of a numbing factor. The shivering itself wasn't so bad at first until it became more violent. On the bright side, the stabbing pain in her fingers and toes became numb, and she didn't need coordinated control in order to knock on the apartment door when she finally reached it. Her lips and nose were an odd shade of blue but the reaper's only concern was that she didn't have a line of frozen snot down her face because that would be gross. She didn't.

When the door to the apartment listed on her post-it didn't open (at least she thought it was the same address but her mind wasn't functioning at one-hundred percent), she tried grasping the handle with her fingers a few times. The door opened (though she couldn't tell if it was her doing or not) and George stumbled in.

She mumbled a little incoherently to herself: "It is really warm in here..."