It's all AU.

He got River settled safely in the hotel, then went back out.

He stood for a moment on the street, completely composed. The next second he snarled, whirled around and slammed his fist into the building, hard. Hard enough to break bone. "What the fuck is up with this place?"

ANGER only barely began to describe his emotional state at that moment.

The Master *thought* he'd found a quiet corner of the city to play to trumpet in. He usually hid that away in the TARDIS, but he was a bit restless, and wanted music as well....

He paused and eyed the person watching him.

The designers Jason had found for him had done a good job, and by the time Eric opened De Final had taken on a very different look from the abandoned bar he had first walked into. The colors were darker, and much classier, the chairs had become sofas and armchairs, all in sleek angles. Pam would have approved.

Time for the opening, and the local staff that had somehow showed up to be interviewed and hired was ready to work the place. All of it had been too easy, but the tough part would be making it work.

Flyers had been dropped all across New New York and the Old Town both, making no secret that a vampire ran the place, and as soon as he opened locals started showing up to have a drink. The place was quickly busy, and his staff were both alluring and professional. Exactly what he'd wanted.

Yes, Pam would have approved.



OOC: let me know if you want a thread with Eric and any one of your characters at all!

**potential spoiler warning-character is from post series 3 TW**

It was late morning and he was sober. As unusual as this was over recent times, John was nonetheless in a chipper mood as he looked longingly through the window of the store and at a sonic blaster in particular that was on prominent display there. He didn't move position as he started to speak. "Tsh. See the problem is with this place being free is that it tends to take the fun sting out of procurement, don't you find? D'you reckon that's a Villengard original, or a copy?" 

It might have looked impressive that he'd figured out someone was behind him, but in fact it'd been the shadow of the figure at the edge of his vision that'd given them away. Still, a little showiness never did any harm.

OOC note: SPOILER WARNING: POST AND THREAD MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS FOR TW SERIES 3 TL;DR version: John goes home, and gets dropped back in the nexus post the events of TW S3.

Where he promptly ended up on the steps outside the nexus' Hotel in fake New New York. He sat down heavily as soon as he realised where he was in his drunken state, laughing bitterly as he did so and shaking his head. "Well, that about figures," he said loudly to the air at large.

Lucian had hesitated, then elected not to go and seek out Jean-Claude until the next evening. He needed to rest and collect himself properly, first, not to mention rid himself of that smell of silver before the nausea overcame him.

By the next morning, he had new clothes and felt entirely steadier after a good night's sleep in the hotel. He went down to the lobby and paused, looking at the people milling about and breathing in the odd mix of scents they gave off before heading for the bar area. Hopefully they also served food. Hopefully rare meat.

He went up to the counter and rather than wait for the bartender to come over so he could ask him about it, he turned to the person next to him. "Do you know if they serve food here?"

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.

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.

"So," John drawled seemingly into the air over the bar when he heard footsteps approach behind him. "Who's a guy got to fuck to get some entertainment around here? This place sucks harder than your mother."

He spun on his heel as soon as he stepped through the door into someplace that wasn't the cell he was being shoved into, and cursed loudly and at length when all he saw was a blank wall. Especially as memory returned, finally giving him a clue as to when and where he'd regenerated.

Only when he ran out of breath did he stop the stream of invective, leaning against the wall, and regarding the scenery around him. Not what he remembered, but looking far more advanced than the sleepy little town he'd enjoyed manipulating his last visit. And last regeneration, he thought bitterly.

"Well, at least it's not going to be quite as boring as Torchwood's cells," he said aloud, pushing away from the wall, and started looking for gym, or perhaps a race-track. He didn't want a repeat of his last visit, and he especially didn't want to find himself confined to any TARDIS. At all.

"I need a gun," Brant announced to no one in particular. "A really big one. You want to go shopping for one with me?"

Seasons seemed to happen in faux New New York - it was definitely warm today.

The Doctor held out a shaved ice type thing in a cup to the first person who walked by as he turned away from the vendor. "Muscida fruit? Now there's a flavor I haven't had a chance to enjoy in a while," he said happily, beaming.

John was restless in his skin, waves of prickly tension breaking over his upper back, settling in his neck, his shoulders, along his upper arms.  He was leaning, forehead resting on cool glass, against a shop window displaying knives and various sonic devices. The shop was shut. His hands flexed against the glass, either side of his head, the tension apparent for anyone close enough to care to see.

A hand formed slowly into a fist, and he thumped the toughened glass, setting off a shrieking alarm inside the shop. John pushed off the glass, and pressed a few buttons on his wriststrap, silencing the racket. "You can just shut the fuck up. Whiny, fucking, bastard thing."

Whether he was talking about the alarm or himself was anyone's guess.

He suddenly whirled on his feet as he heard someone behind him, hands already gone back to fists, punchy and ready to fight.

Lorne was wandering through a market in New New York with a massive grin on his face. There were people and aliens and colour and noise and music and Lorne was in his element.

He gazed around at the hubbub and burst into song.

"Who will buy this wonderful morning?
Such a sky you never did see!
Who will tie it up in a ribbon
And put it in a box for me?"

One of the benefits of there being no monetary system was that you could afford anything you liked. Including pretty little shimmering silver and gold tablets.

Which went some way to explain why John was splayed out, face down on the bank of what seemed to be grass on the side of the river, investigating intently a small, bumbling, irridescent beetle.

High up on one of the city buildings, John was laid out on the ledge, so that his head dropped back over it. He kinda' liked the city better this way up. His wriststrap beeped insistantly, telling him that the blanket hologram invite he'd sent out to 'Jack' to come and see him had been picked up and read by someone.

"Alright, alright," he murmured to himself. "So you work then. Good." He swung his arm up in front of his head, and pressed a few buttons. The beeping ceased. "Well, well. At least one of them has got it." He sniffed loudly, and settled back, whistling tunelessly to himself, waiting patiently to see whether anyone would show up.

Faith had taken off running as soon as Sam was out of sight, her feet pounding against the pavement as she tried to shake the dark thoughts of Wesley dead - or worse, doing something to get her back because she was dead. Not paying attention to the streets around her, just listening to the slap of her feet against the pavement, and the pounding of her heart.

She leaned against a building when she couldn't run any further, pressing one hand into her side to try and ease the stitch there, panting. Still wanting to keep moving, to fight or run or something. Anything but keep still and let her thoughts catch up with her.

"Need a fucking drink," she muttered.

After he'd finished up at the Hotel, and finished up his bottle of hypervodka, John was ready to get *really* drunk. His conversation with Mulder had rattled him in a way he couldn't really place, and now he was homesick for a home he'd never had.

He was sitting at the end of a quiet bar in New New York, downing shot after shot, and toying with the settings on his wriststrap, trying to argue himself out of sending out a message to *every* Jack in the place. Jack was the nearest to home that he knew, but annoying logic kept interrupting his desire. 'On HIS terms' was going around his head like a mantra, and it was giving him a greater headache than he knew how to deal with. So, unconsciousness was the goal, until the urge had passed.

John was *pissed*.

Off.

Somebody, or more likely somebodies, somewhere close by, seemed to have been letting off a psychic timebomb. Whatever it was, it was giving John the headache from hell.

He'd retreated to the old Hotel to try to ignore it, but it wasn't helping so far. Neither was the bottle of hypervodka he was currently clutching for dear life, but hey it was worth a try. He really didn't want to get involved. At all.

He was sitting on the edge of a row of couches, head between his knees and groaning softly, when he saw a pair of shoes come into his line of sight.

"Fuck off," he offered, without looking up. "I don't want to know."