The Time the Stories Went Dark The Second Annual Pro-Fun Troll Hoedown (On-line HTML version at http://curry.250x.com/HoedownII/) _________________________________________________________________ Contents 1. Arrival 2. The party continues 3. An uninvited guest 4. Authorial Persona Manipulation 5. A stranger on horseback 6. Sailor Gallifrey held captive 7. Emergency! - the Reset Button 8. Is Kid Curry really guilty? 9. In search of the Master 10. The Circus Wagon on the plains of Titan Three 11. The plot begins to come clear 12. The search for Sailor Gallifrey 13. Kid Curry demands an explanation 14. Arrival at the Valeyard's cave 15. A traitor in their midst 16. The menagerie 17. Kid Curry's origins 18. The Sword of Authorial Freedom 19. Return of the Odd Trio 20. Confrontation with the Monitors 21. The first victory 22. Back in the TARDIS 23. Locked memories begin to crack 24. Kid Curry tells his story 25. Off to the Circus! 26. Trouble in Vortex City 27. Imran has a sudden flash of insight 28. Six gryphons 29. Preparing for the Psychic Circus 30. Preparing for the Psychic Circus (2) 31. The Contessa makes contact 32. The Gods of Ragnarok arrive 33. Daibhid gets stage fright 34. Harlequin and the Typo Gremlin 35. Nyctolops on the high wire 36. Cats and Dogs 37. Blinded by Rage 38. A challenge from the Gods of Ragnarok 39. The Fortune Teller 40. The charm reawakens 41. Echoes of another Universe 42. A Duel between the Doctors 43. Undead Gladiators 44. The Nth Doctor 45. The Equine Magic of the Twelve Sweethearts 46. Allie's collapse 47. A ghastly chariot race 48. Bokman and Zoe's magic act 49. Kid Curry goes to find Allie's soul 50. The Gods' magic act 51. Escape from the Cave of Annwn 52. Riding the outlaw trail 53. Gordon's pantomime 54. Interview with the Contessa 55. Conclusion of the pantomime 56. A hundred lost years 57. Siren's sister 58. Gordon's return 59. Sailor Gallifrey goes missing 60. The trapeze act 61. The Taming of the Fiercesome Beast 62. A judgement in the Underworld 63. Sandra and Allie 64. The Salamander 65. Starting to fight back - the finale 66. The song battle begins 67. Victory conceded 68. The Feather of Ma'at 69. The Odd Trio vanish 70. Dreams and other weirdness 71. Deciphering the Tarot 72. In the Glory 73. Monsters 74. In every ending is a beginning 75. Loose ends 76. A nice jar of home-cooked smoke 77. Epilogue CHAPTER 01 - ARRIVAL Let the Party Begin... It is a warm May evening, and you are driving through the suburbs of southeastern Virginia, hoping, maybe, to find a quiet beach for a long stroll in the moonlight, just like you've always read about in the personals. Unfortunately, you seem to have gotten very, very lost, and are trapped in a maze of cul-de-sacs. The lawns are all as neatly manicured as a golf-course, and the two car garages are all closed for the night. Peering into a few of the windows, you catch glimpses of T.V.s with the evening news on, and toy-strewn floors. You sigh. If there's any romance here, it's all very domestic now. You decide to turn around and try to find your way home. But you make a wrong turn, and drive into another cul-de-sac. The scene, here, however, is very different. Cars of every shape and color, with license plates from as far away as Australia and Finland, and every place else, line the asphalt circle. Squeezed in between the cars are Police Boxes, Greek pillars, and several free-standing doors, each draped with black crepe, as though in mourning. The epicenter of all this is a small grey house with blue shutters. Several helium filled balloons are tied to a lamppost at the end of the driveway, along with a large cardboard sign, announcing "THE SECOND ANNUAL PRO-FUN TROLL HOE-DOWN HERE! All Welcome!" "All" seems to be taken literally. The sounds of laughter and fiddling pour from behind the house's doors, and party-goers have spilled onto the front lawn, standing in groups of three and four, talking and laughing. There must be at least a hundred people here. Whoever they are, they're not the kind of people you'd expect to see in an Upstanding Community like this one. Even stranger still is that the neighbors don't even seem to notice what is going on. You, however, notice with alarm that several of the guests seem to be children, dressed up in strange costumes left over from last Halloween: like Teletubby outfits sewn together by someone high on pot. As you slow down, wondering whether you should call the police, someone in the crowd waves to you and calls out: "Come on! Join in! Don't be a lurker!" "What the hell," you think, "at least I may get some action." You park your car and get out. "Go on in," your new friend says to you. "The dessert table is to die for this year!" And as if to punctuate that remark, he licks chocolate frosting off his fingers. As you make your way to the door, you realize that the "children" aren't children at all, but real, honest to goodness aliens -- or somethings -- short, round creatures with long noses and longer tails, big bare feet, and bigger grins. Some are clothed, but many more are naked (or nearly so, since each one of them is wearing a brightly colored paper birthday hat -- all except for one, who has tied a plush toy Gengar to the top of his head). A potent mix of eager excitement and nightmarish apprehension well up inside you as you reach for the door handle, but you've come too far to turn back now. You take a deep breath, brace yourself, and push open the door. But no amount of bracing could prepare you for what is beyond that threshold: a real, honest-to-goodness barn -- at least 2,000 square feet of floorspace, and every inch of it, it seems, is filled with people and creatures, each there to celebrate for a reason of their own. Balloons of every color, and crepe paper twists of every other color, line the ceiling, and drape over the partitions between the animal stalls. The stalls themselves have been swept spotlessly clean, and in the place of their former occupants stand tables groaning with food of every sort. Over each stall, where the animals' names used to hang, are various announcements: "Happy Birthday, Alryssa!", "Congratulations, Cardinal Krizu and Auntie Zorak!", "We're Happy, too, Paul Ebbs!" "Gareth for the Ninth Doctor!", "Happy Birthday, Ol' Blue -- 15 May, 1963!". Down at the end of the line of stalls, however, is the one somber place in the whole scene, the sign above draped in black crepe just like the doors outside, bearing the words: "Douglas Neil Adams, RIP". You barely have time to take this all in, however, before the lights go out. Then a single spotlight snaps on, illuminating a small round stage in the center of the floor. One of the strange creatures is standing there, wearing a highly embroidered fishing vest with bulging pockets, and holding a fiddle in one hand. An expectant hush falls over the crowd. The troll (for that's what she is) raises the fiddle to her shoulder and begins to play. It's an old folk tune you're sure you've , but you can't quite place it. Soon, the troll adds her voice and words to the melody: Once I lived on the mountain top, now I live in town; I'm posting on the RAD-Wah 'group; hosin' flamewars down. The old Doctor, the renegade, travels in a box, Crazy as a fat June bug, crafty as a fox! The old Doctor, he had a dog, strangest I ever saw, Had a laser for a nose, but never could run far. The old Doctor, the renegade, travels in a box, Crazy as a fat June bug, crafty as a fox! The Doctor, he fought pepperpots that would never make you sneeze, But when they said "Ex-term-in-ate!" we all got shaky knees! The old Doctor, the renegade, travels in a box, Crazy as a fat June bug, crafty as a fox! The inside of the Doctor's ship, it surely is no game: Fifteen miles of corridors that all look just the same. The old Doctor, the renegade, travels in a box, Crazy as a fat June bug, crafty as a fox! I won't talk to the nasty trolls, tell you the reason why, Say so much as "How do ye do?" they'd spit right in my eye. The old Doctor, the renegade, travels in a box, Crazy as a fat June bug, crafty as a fox! I wish I had my own sadfan. I'd put him on a shelf, And every time he'd smile at me, I'd get up there myself. The old Doctor, the renegade, travels in a box, Crazy as a fat June bug, crafty as a fox! Once I lived on the mountain top, now I live in town; I'm posting on the RAD-Wah 'group, hosin' flamewars down. The old Doctor, the renegade, travels in a box, Crazy as the fat June bug, crafty as a fox! She takes a bow, and a wild roar erupts from the crowd. The wildly clapping figure, entirely dressed in black and sporting an enormous grey cat lolling in the crook of one arm, fades discreetly into the background, appears momentarily at the bar to snare a gin & tonic, and then makes herself unobtrusive again. /Ninni Pettersson, back to lurking "What have I gotten myself into?" you wonder aloud. A short, turquoise troll at your elbow overhears you. "Well," she says, "if last year's party was any indication, I'd say you've gotten into a fantastic adventure!" She proffers a crumpled paper bag filled with sweet fruit candies. "Would you like a jelly baby?" Cameron reaches into the back and pulls out a red jelly baby. "My favourite!" he exclaims. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- A large U-boat, painted in a purple and green camouflage pattern, with a big smiley face on the front, trundles into the car park on extendable monster truck wheels. A hatch on the conning tower opens and from the mist appear several shadowy figures, in uniform. The sinister effect is somewhat spoilt by the party hats, the goofy grins and the fact they're all on spacehoppers... The Captain and a cheerful hunchback are last out, carrying what looks like a person-sized and shaped package, covered in brown paper and sticky tape, with jiffy bags on the ends of the extremities. "Careful with that Igor," says the Captain. "We don't want to spoil the surprise do we?" "Nope." "I must admit, you have outdone yourself this time!" As the crew bounce off the deck and into the house, Captain Gordon (for it is he) reminisces with Igor about catching the end of last years event. Our Hostess finishes licking the 'spilled' drops of fondue cheese from her fingers, and looks out at the cul-de-sac to see who is arriving next. She grins a large grin from ear to large ear at the sight of Captain Gordon and his crew, wonders, with a slight thrill of anticipation, what (or who) could be wrapped up in that package, and starts humming a song from her childhood to herself: "I'm gonna wrap myself in paper, I'm gonna daub myself with glue. Stick some stamps on the top of my head -- I'm gonna mail myself to you!" She pauses, though, when she hears Gordon start to reminisce:"I was a newbie to RADW. I didn't know what rolls, pro-fun or otherwise, were at that time." :::Oh dear, she thought -- those typo gremlins are bold this year... I'd better set out some gremlin repellent. They can really create havoc in the fictional dimension -- you never know what strange twists in a plot can happen when they get loose!::: "I didn't even bother lurking, I just jumped straight in without thinking." He smiles. "I think I got away with it though!" "The very first thing I saw was the first Pro-Fun Hoedown. I had no idea how it had started, or exactly what it was. I just knew it was daft, silly and fun. I knew I'd found a home!" Captain Gordon and Igor walk to the end of the stalls and stand for a moment, hats held in their hands in respect for Mr. Adams. "He was one of the people who showed me what pro-fun was all about." Gordon says, quietly. He turns to Igor. "You go on ahead, I'll catch up with you." Gordon finds a small stall that has no banner, nor anything else in it for the moment. He removes his big black coat and holds it in front of the stall before whipping it away to reveal a small, round table, with a large smiley hand-painted onto it. A photograph and a small plaque sit at its centre. The photo shows a smiling old man, in a black suit, with a smiley badge on one of the lapels. The plaque reads - "Harvey Ball died on April 12th 2001, at the age of 79. He was one of those people whose name wasn't well known, but what he brought to the world touched us all. In 1963, he designed the original smiley face to put on badges for a morale boosting campaign at an insurance company. His design spread throughout the world. It has become a worldwide symbol for fun. R.I.P. Harvey Ball. We may not have known you, but your smiley will live on." Gordon lowers his head in respect, for a moment... He twirls round in a blaze of colour. He wears a football shirt with the name Adams and the number 42. The front emblazoned with a mahoosive smiley. He takes off his captain's cap to reveal a plush Gengar strapped to his head. His human form discarded, he now looks like he stepped straight out of a particularly silly Chuck Jones cartoon. He walks round the room for a minute, taking everything in. He recognises a few of the people here, and notices one or two are missing. He instantly recognises the head pro-fun troll, who has been such an inspiration in recent times. He sees Igor is already delving into his sack and bringing out brightly painted metal pipes, tin cans and monkey wrenches for the percussion section of the band. "I can't help thinking there's something missing," he ponders. A light bulb suddenly appears above his head and lights up. (Literally, we're far beyond the realm of serious laws of physics by now...) He waves his coat (now technicoloured) about a few times, lays it on the floor and whips it up to reveal... ...a bouncy castle and a foot pump. "Any voluntee..." Before he can finish, a small, but hugely enthusiastic troll is pogoing up and down on the foot pump to the beat of the music, laughing as it does so. "I don't think this will take long." Gordon says to Igor, who has returned from setting up his...drums, for want of a better word. "So," he whispers quietly to Igor. "Now all we have to do is wait for our victi...er....guest to appear." They both smile, fiendishly. (But a pro-fun fiendishly...natch.) -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Several guests turn in surprise as their hostess sprints from the room, returning shortly after with votive candles that smell a little bit like citronella, and a little bit like licorice. Moving quietly around the room, the avocado green troll places a candle at each end of each table, and lights them one at a time. Unlike other repellent candles these beauties (brand name "Typo-nope") have multi-colored flames, that give off striped, polka-dotted and swirly-colored light. The hostess smiled. "Don't know if it'll work," she said to herself. "But the effect is sure nice." By the time she returned to the line of tables, Gordon had already set up his tribute to Harvey Ball, and she stops to read the plaque. "Thank you, Gordon," she said to him, after she had finished reading it. He is truly one of the founding fathers of Pro-Fundom. For where would Pro-Fun trolls be without :)?" She read the plaque again. "'1963', huh? A very good year, on many counts!", and she threw Gordon a ;-). Turning around, she caught sight of the bouncy castle, and all the trolls lining up to dance the edifice into being. "Yay!" She exclaimed. "It's perfect!" -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- From his near-permanent encampment near the food tables a tall young man in a bright green jacket that clashes badly with his bright red shirt and appears to be a battleground between Doctor Who and Discworld icons looks at this scene with an expression of combined apprehension and interest. Then he shrugs, hopes he won't be the vict... "guest", and returns his attention to the food. You notice that although he joins conversations readily, he doesn't really start any, unless you count "Is thins vegetarian? Oh, good." "Is this vegetarian?" Daibhid corrects himself, adding "Darn those typo gremlins! Darn 'em all to Heck!" Still, he seems glad to be there. Three typo gremlins pop up behind him and cackle. Bokman chases them away with a flashlight, then exclaims "Okay, who brought the Mogwai?" At this point, a large grey owl flies into the barn and turns into a short furry creature with enormous eyes and wearing a shocking pink party hat. From under the party hat, she produces an enormous bowl of guacamole and a giant bag of tortilla chips. "Ah, I thought I heard someone asking for something vegetarian, so I brought this. Enjoy!" She finds a place for the guacamole and chips on the table and wanders off to greet the Pro-Fun Trolls and other guests. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- As you watch, a young man in a battered green anorak hurries over to the Douglas Adams RIP sign, and replaces it with a new one, which reads: Douglas Noel Adams (1952 - 2001) "I think you ought to know I'm feeling very depressed." The avocado green troll puts down her fiddle and trots over to the young man. Noticing the sign which has just been replaced, she shakes her head in wonder. "It's those durn typo gremlins," she commented. "I just hope they don't cause any more trouble than that, this year..." Gordon tuts as he walks by. "It was bad enough when they had the Doctor peeing over a shelf..." "Reminds me of the time Nicolas Bryant came to visit," comments Bokman, searching for a place to put the fondue pot... "Typo Gremlimss, what Tipoh Gremlins?" asks Cameron as he places a Bread and Butter Pudding on a table. Our Hostess leads Bokman to the "hot foods" buffet table. "I was hoping someone would bring fondue," she said, sniffing appreciatively. "It's always been one of my favorites." As she makes sure the warming plate is working properly, she asks: "So, this Nicholas Bryant ... Nice fellow, is he? Think he'll show up tonight?" ... CHAPTER 02 - THE PARTY CONTINUES As more guests arrive... -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Suddenly, without warning a door bursts open to reveal a tall, thin man standing on the threshold with hands on his hips. "Did someone mention Jelly Babies?!" he bellows. The turquoise troll prances over to the man in a single bound and offers him the bag. With an almost anti-climactic "Thank you" he took a Jelly Baby and devoured it. He then looks up to the rest of the crowd and shouts at the top of his lungs "IT BEGINS!!!", the crowd gasps as he reaches into his capacious pockets, and then breaths a sigh of relief as he pulls out an impossibly large Hi-Fi, he places it carefully on the floor switches it on, runs over and onto the central stage and attempts to dance the Funky Gibbon to Unchained Melody. "BEHOLD THE POWER OF FUN," he shouts, "I WAS ONCE A LURKER, BUT NOW DUE TO THE ENORMOUS POWER OF THE HEAD OF THE FUN TROLLS, I AM NOW AN..." dramatic pause "...OCCASIONAL POSTER!" There is an unprecedented burst of applause from the strange mini-people. "I AM SMITH, AND I VOW TO CONTINUE POSTING OCCASIONALLY WHENEVER I FEEL LIKE IT FOR THE REST OF THE TIME FOR WHICH I CAN BE BOTHERED TO READ RADW" or words to that affect. "Welcome, Smith," the hostess said, as he stepped off the stage. "May you always find at least one conversation that strikes your fancy, even if it is only to listen." Meanwhile, the "affect" lets the typo gremlins loose again. This time, a wave of residual energy? magic? weird sparkly things? from the workings of the gremlins is caught by an unsuspecting lurker, turning her red-on-black shirt black-on-red and causing her long hair to sproing up into Tom Baker-style curls, upon which no party hat can sit comfortably. Understandably a little disconcerted, the lurker looks for the avocado troll for advice on to reverse the accident. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- An enormous double-fudge chocolate cheesecake with oreo cookie crust and chocolate ganache appears out of nowhere with a wheezing, groaning sound. It is carried by a pointlessly tall man with blue eyes, shaggy blond hair and a short beard. He clears his throat. "Sorry about that wheezing groaning sound," he says with an apologetic grin. "My sinuses are a bit backed up at the moment." He sets down the cheesecake and rummages into his backpack. From its murky depths he produces a large mirror, a yo-yo, a can of deodorant marked "This is not deodorant", a lit floor lamp, a large party umbrella, a stripy deck chair, a startled fat black cat who purrs inquisitively, something that looks suspiciously like the Key to Time, and a crystal decanter of good port. "Aha!" he exclaims, finally producing a tall, sparkly, pointed blue hat with small stars on it. "Knew I had it somewhere." He places it on his head; suddenly a large POOF of purple smoke billows forth, and a three-horned, blue-skinned troll appears in his place. "Bugger," he says. "Wrong hat. Oh well, it'll wear off in an hour or two."Zorak turns swiftly to der Kabinett das Doktor SallyGary, and whips out the real 2nd Annual stars for the 2nd Annual hoedown... (having been busy with shears, mower and rake he is very glad to set the hoe down): Zarbi Supremo, Yartek Leader of the Alien but Slightly Fatter than on TV Voord, Menoptra in pyjamas, a slack-handful of Mechanistrans, and a small annoying dog (not Gaspode, as he's a B7 fan, but Butch the small french bulldog (as if!) from MCMLXV). The avocado green troll turns in alarm at the all-too-familiar sound. The last time she heard that inside her barn, the hoe-down went distinctly pearshaped from that moment on (though, to be fair, they did end up saving the world because of it, so the trouble with Compassion did have its upside). Still, she was relieved to see it was a Friend Bearing Chocolate, and not a TARDIS Bearing Chaos. If she could choose between chocolate and anything chocolate would definitely win out. By the time she carefully wove her way past the mirror, yo-yo, aerosol can that claimed not to be deodorant, the lamp, the umbrella, the chair, and the 3-D puzzle pieces that she is sure she'd seen somewhere before, the tall dessert bearing man was replaced by a three-horned troll in a sparkly hat (a wizard's hat, probably, she thought. Even official Pro-Fun hats didn't have those powers of transformation). "Welcome Jim!" she said, extending her hand in greeting. "I hope you enjoy the party." Leaning over, she whispered into his ear: "If that puzzle thing is what suspect it is, I suggest you keep it with you at all times. It might come in handy if we get caught up in crossing timestreams, but if it gets into the wrong hands..." she trailed off, not wanting to even contemplate the consequences. "Anyway," she said, brightening, watch out for typo gremlins..." "Twas merely the wrong hat, lass, that puts me in this horny mode. I'm betting Auntie Krizu or Phi1ip Legge switched it while I was busy baking the cheesecake," the jim-troll replied. "As for the plastic sculpture, fret not. It's not the Key to Time. It's just the Key to Time and the Rani, and it doesn't work very well anyway..." -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Cardinal Zorak boggles at the mention of Auntie and Phi1ip. "Only them??" :-(( Jim looks around... "I don't know, I'm used to being 6'5", not 24"! Everyone looks so different from down here. I'm used to seeing just the tops of peoples' heads. About all I can see here is Philip's Legges and Auntie's Krizu...." --- Somewhere in the background, c1ose-by to the gathering in the Virginian cu1-de-sac that is home to the avocado-co1oured tro11, a fami1iar sound begins to sp1it and jar atoms out of their random osci11ations in the atmosphere. Out of nowhere a rectangu1ar shape starts to so1idify, resemb1ing a 19th Century wardrobe in Ita1ian neo-c1assica1 sty1e, made of wa1nut and topped with curious urn-shaped finia1s at each corner. Phi1ip, a young man sporting a somewhat untrimmed goatee and resemb1ing a stick-insect in bui1d, emerges sneaki1y from one of the doors of the ta11 wardrobe-shaped SIDRAT. Immediate1y after 1ocking the doors he scratches his ear, which he imagines is itching for a reason! He notices immediate1y a very short b1ue-co1oured tro11 standing before him, and 1ooks rather sharp1y at him, b1ue-grey eyes staring through round g1asses. "You weren't ta1king about me behind my back I hope?" he asks in a rather gruff basso. Litt1e does the tro11 know that Phi1ip's apparent harshness is just a p1oy with which he hopes to e1icit a repeat of the ear1ier comments, but instead he remains si1ent. "Ah, my dearest Cardina1!" Phi1ip recognises Zorak immediate1y from his resp1endent red ve1vet cassock, and embraces and kisses him in the European manner, on each cheek. "I'm so g1ad to see you! I'm sorry I'm 1ate, I was p1aying Cupid with some friends at another party just now." "I suppose that exp1ains why you're dressed in that toga?" Zorak raises an eyebrow to comp1ete the inference. "Um... yes, I did want to put in a 'Deus ex machina' appearance!" Phi1ip rep1ies. "Is dearest Auntie here yet?" Cardina1 Zorak shakes his head but answers enthusiastica11y, "I'm expecting the grouse to f1y in at any minute!" Phi1ip beams and picks up a g1ass of that sinfu1 O1d Janx Spirit from the Doug1as Adams tribute tab1e. "We11 here's to your hea1th sweetie, and Auntie's! I suppose I'd better put on my pro-fun tro11 hat!" From underneath one of the numerous c1oth 1oops of his toga he pu11s a green and purp1e tricorne, which c1ashes incongruous1y with the white of his toga. "Oh we11," he says sad1y, "fashion was never my strong suit." Phi1ip sudden1y rea1ises the two-feet-high b1ue tro11 is staring at his shins and sanda11ed feet where they emerge from the bottom of his toga. "Do I know you?" Phi1ip addresses himse1f to the tro11. The tro11 nods, his three horns bobbing up and down 1ike a pecu1iar trident. "I'm actua11y Jim, though you wou1dn't recognise me at the moment!" "Jim Vow1es? What on earth happened to you? You never 1ooked 1ike that before!" Jim the tro11 smi1es wicked1y. "Someone substituted my proper fun hat, which has turned me b1ue, shortened me by three times, and made me a11 horny! So natura11y I thought it might have been Auntie or you." Zorak frowns s1ight1y, and mutters, "But if Phi1ip's on1y just arrived, and Auntie is yet to f1y in, then who can have done the deed?" Phi1ip muses, "Who indeed? And why have a11 of the 1ower-case 1etter 1's in my post sudden1y turned into ones?" WHO INDEED SUBSTITUTED JIM'S HAT? WHAT IS THE SECRET PLAN OF THE TYPO GREMLINS? ARE THEY RESPONSIBLE FOR ANNEXING THE LOWER-CASE L'S FROM PHI1IP'S POSTING? FOR ANSWERS TO ALL OF THESE QUESTIONS AND MORE, TUNE INTO OUR NEXT EXCITING INSTALLMENT, COMING SOON TO A NEWSGROUP NEAR YOU... -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Meanwhile, the avocado green troll is surprised when a platter of assorted crispy, cracker like things :::zzippops::: into her hand. Tentatively, she tastes one. "Hmm, an interesting blend of bell pepper, carrot, celery and onion.... These must be Vegetarian Thins!" She trots over to Daibhid and hands him the platter. "For you, Sir, I believe. Courtesy of the typo gremlins." "Thank you," says Daibhid, and looks around for the typo gremlins to thank them as well. The three Bokman chased off reappear, and apologise for their behaviour earlier. They claim to know nothing about Phi1ip's prob1ems... The troll bows, then turns to see how Gordon is coming with that bouncy castle (and to see if she can sneak a peek under the wrapping of that mysterious "package").... Oops! The discussion of packages reminds Daibhid that he hasn't made any contribution to the food table he is so eagerly depleting of all things non-carnivorous. Finishing off the Vegetarian Thins, and washing them down with a pint of Irn Bru. he calls his rucksack, which runs up on hundreds of tiny legs. "Sapient Polyester" explains Daibhid, before realising that Pro-Fun Trolls and their friends see weirder stuff than this every day. Rummaging through the bag, he pulls out a stack of comics, "The Key To Time", "The Thief Of Time" and a black cat in a green collar called Schroedy, before finally locating a bag marked CCCB[1]. "I brought these from afp[2]." he says, unaware that the mere mention of that group has caused him to break out in footnotes[3]. "There's a bit of a flamewar going on there at the moment, but they're generally pro-fun, so I didn't think they'd mind." He pours the beans into the platter the Thins were in and sets them on the table. "I'm not that keen on them myself, but I'm told that if you like that sort of thing they're delicious." He then follows the avocado green troll to see what Gordon's up to... [1] Chocolate Covered Coffee Beans. Favourite snack of most of afp[2], recently featured in Thief of Time. [2] alt.fan.pratchett. My other main hangout. [3] A common occurrence on afp, those who post there regularly find it occurring on other newsgroups and message boards. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Igor looks perplexed... "They're late, they should have arrived yesterday..." Gordon muses. "We may have meltage, leakage and spillage problems." mumbles Igor. "We should be okay, that's special wrapping paper, it'll keep the package cool until the victi....guest arrives. I just hope they've got plenty of mops...." --- A couple, hand in hand, appear at the troll's side, and give her a huge hug. "It's wonderful to be back here again!" says Alryssa, her face flushed with excitement. "Even after all that palava last year, I wouldn't miss this for the universe." Thomas grins, and winks at the hostess, who surreptitiously winks back. Across the huge party space, the various incarnations of the Doctor are dancing, or chatting with others, or in the case of the Fourth and Eighth Doctors, having a drinking contest involving much Guinness. People are laying bets on who will go down first. "My money's on Fourth," Alryssa mumbles to her significant other. From out of the crowd emerge Gordon and Igor, pushing the man-shaped/sized mystery package before them in a shopping trolley 'appropriated' from the local Tescos. "You're late," says Gordon accusingly. "Luckily we found a couple of Ice Warriors and Cryons in the beer garden so we stood it next to them to keep it cool." The crowd as one turns and sings..."HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU! SQUASHED TOMATOES AND STEW! BREAD AND BUTTER, IN THE GUTTER! HAPPY BIRTHDAAAAAAAY TOOOOO YOOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUU!!!" "Now open your prezzie before I fwap you with this inflatable musical frying pan!" grins Gordon. Alryssa tentatively starts to peel the wrapping off the package. She catches a glimpse of what's inside and rips off the rest of the paper like a hyperactive Tasmanian Devil with a sugar rush. Finally she stands back to see... A big ice cream cake in the shape of Paul McGann, with 23 purple and green candles sticking out of his head. Alryssa's eyes went like this... (O_O) -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Meanwhile, outside Phi1ip's SIDRAT... In a dark corner, a wheezing groaning sound is heard... a peepshow box materializes with a thump! Phi1ip and Zorak look towards the creaking door expectantly, and scratch their heads when they don't see anything. Suddenly, Phi1ip jumps, clutching his toe, the tails of his toga flapping dangerously high. "AAAAAK!" Phi1ip lands on his behind with a thump, his thin legs sticking in the air and the long folds of his toga draped over his head. With effort, Zorak tears his eyes away from Phi1ip's slim, perfectly-formed thighs. "What is it?" Grunting in pain, Phi1ip points down. Zorak looks back down at Phi1ip's pointy^H^H^H^H^H thighs. "Do you want me to kiss it better?" Phi1ip can only make a muffled sound as he tries to extricate himself from the tangled toga. >;-) There's a sudden noise, and... Zorak turns to see a white flurry of feathers whooshing past, and disappearing around a corner. "Oh, bloody hell..." "Does that mean what I think it means?" "Yes, I think so..." Heavy bootsteps can be heard from behind the corner, stopping as if to pick something up, then a faint cooing sound as the steps come closer. With a swagger, the Ainley Master steps out of the shadows, cradling a happily pot-potting snowgrouse on his left arm. Scritching the grouse's chin with his right hand, he and the grouse both chuckle evilly and grin at Phi1ip and Zorak. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "And me without my umbrella," Jim observes. Suddenly a large part of the set tilts, as though on an unconvincing and gentle pivot accompanied by a wildly tilting camera. Everyone slides leftward with exaggerated movements and giggles. "Bugger," says Jim, who then has to leap away from several guests who thought it was a suggestion for the next party game. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "Quick, into the SIDRAT!" Phi1ip cries. "You might find that a little difficult, with it trapped in a Time Cone," purrs the Master, and with the flick of a switch on a small black device in his hand, the wardrobe SIDRAT vanishes into invisibility. Zorak and Phi1ip look furtively around as if to run, but suddenly the Master steps closer and stares into their eyes, which begin to glaze over. "I am your Master, and you will obey me." Dumbly, they repeat the Master's words back to him, "You are our Master, we will obey." The grouse flutters up to the Master's shoulder, and whispers in his ear. "What to do with them? Oh,... very well!" The grouse coos and pots in delight. "Slaves, go to my TARDIS, and fetch out the torture chaise-longue and the silk bondage ropes!" the Master says triumphantly. Zorak and Phi1ip look at one another with a stupefied look, and then unquestioningly troop across to the Master's TARDIS, cunningly disguised as a peepshow box. "And now," the grouse thinks to herself, "how to attract Doctor number five away from that drinking race he's overseeing between Doctors four and eight!" is going well... CHAPTER 03 - AN UNINVITED GUEST As snowgrouse Auntie Krizu enjoys herself with Zorak and Phi1ip... -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Our hostess, the avocado-green troll, looks around her and smiles. The Hoedown is going well. Nasty trolls are keeping their distance, no one has yet slipped any bitter pills into the drinks, and people have arrived ready to have a generally wonderful time. The Doctors have all arrived and joined in -- and none of their TARDISes have gotten tangled together (she makes a mental note to make sure there will be enough beer for the other guests after 4 and 8 have finished their drinking contest). She really must congratulate Gordon on the bouncy castle and ice-cream cake -- such a mix of innocent and naughty is perfect for a gathering of Pro-Fun trolls. The only hitch may be in the typo-gremlins, but they can't cause nearly as much trouble as Eris did ... can they? She isn't sure of the answer to that, and quickly changes the subject in her mind. She searches the crowd for a familiar face, and to her delight, she finds it. "Jamie, me lad!" she calls out as she goes up to him. "I'm so glad you came! You brought your pipes, I trust?" Jamie looks hurt. "Ach, now what piper would arrive at a gathering such as this without his pipes? I'd shame the whole McCrimmon clan if I had left them behind!" Our Hostess beams. "Wonderful!" she exclaims, as she leads him to the stage. "This hoedown has everything it needs -- but too many people are standing still and just watching. But I think a good reel could change all that." Jamie picks up his pipes and grins. "What is your pleasure?" he asks. "Oh, lots of things," she answers with a wink, "but right at the moment, I'm thinking of a song from your own country and time -- an anthem for Pro-Fun Trolldom if ever there was one: 'The Reel of Tullochgorum'! If you'll play, I'll sing it." Jamie nods, an ear to ear grin on his handsome young face, and begins to warm up his pipes. The wheezing, groaning sound, and the loud first few notes, startled the partygoers to attention. The troll let him play one verse through, to get the rhythm and melody into her head, and then she belted out the words -- her voice, surprisingly loud from someone of such short stature, bold enough to compete with the famed highland pipes of the McCrimmon clan: "Come gies a sang," Montgomery cryed "And lay your disputes all aside, What nonsense is't for folks to chide For what's been done before them." Let Whig and Tory all agree. Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory Whig and Tory all agree To drop their whigmegorum, Let Whig and Tory all agree To spend this night in mirth and glee And cheerfu' sing alang wi me The Reel of Tullochgorum Tullochgorum's my delight, It gars us a' in ane unite, And ony sumph that keeps up spite, In conscience I abhor him Blithe and merry we's be a', Blithe and merry, blithe and merry Blithe and merry we's be a' To make a chearfu' quorum. Blithe and merry, we's be a': As lang's we ha'e a breath to draw, And dance, 'till we be like to fa' The reel of Tullochgorum. Let warldly minds themselves oppress Wi' fear of want, and double cess; And silly saules themselves distress Wi' keeping up decorum: Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, Sour and sulky; sour and sulky; Shall we sae sour and sulky sit Like auld Philosophorum? Shall we sae sour and sulky sit Wi' neither sense, nor mirth. nor wit, And canna rise to shake a fit, At the reel of Tullochgorum? May choicest blessings still attend Each honest-hearted open friend, And calm and quiet be his end, Be a' that's good before him May peace and plenty be his lot, Peace and plenty, peace and plenty; May peace and plenty be his lot, And dainties, a great store o'em: May peace and plenty be his lot Unstain'd by any vicious blot; And may he never want a groat That's fond of Tullochgorum! Our Hostess let her voice trail off, since now nearly everyone was "shaking a fit" of some sort or other (though the old curmudgeons and purists would all agree that there was no sort of reel among them). Still, "fun was had by all" and that's all that mattered. "Ye're a Hielander, Daibhid." remarked Jamie afterwards. "Why did ye no' leave yon food table and show 'em how it's done?" "I know how do a reel in a technical sort of way," Daibhid admitted, "it's the fact that I've got the natural rhythm of a stunned goldfish that's the problem." "Ach, dinnae put yerself doon, lad. I'll gie another skirl in a whiley, and I want to see ye up on the floor!" "Aye, okay." Daibhid agreed reluctantly. He knew a Pro-Fun group was somewhere you should feel comfortable making a fool of yourself; he'd done it before, but he still felt uncomfortable starting off. Once he started dancing he was sure he'd... But then a shadow filled the door of her barnTARDIS, and a bellow loud enough to drown out the pipes interrupted their fun. The leader of the Pro-Fun Trolls felt her face go cold, and her hands get clammy. :::Oh, no! she thought. Not him!::: -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Doctor - Fifth, this one - frowns. 'Typo and Tense Gremlins... This is not good.' 'What's a Tense Gremlin?' Charley asks. 'You notice that post of Imran's, a bit further down? The one with the title ' <...and what we did there> '?' 'Yes...' Charley says. '...Oh no. We're switching between tenses!' 'Exactly,' the Doctor says. 'Some of the Pro-Fun posts are reporting what is happening... and some, like our hostess' and Imran's, are reporting what has happened. Past and Present Tenses. And that could cause problems...' Charley blinks. 'Past and Present?' The Doctor's eyes widen. 'Past, Present and Future! Charley, that's brilliant... Eight Time Lords - eight mes - our TARDISes, and Compassion... and the three Goddesses of Past, Present and Future... Between us, these Gremlins should be no problem! And if we can get them joining in the Pro-Fun, too...!' Charley peers over at Imran, currently happily tapping away at his latest recipe for chocolate martinis and milkshakes whilst gulping down a tomato sauce sandwich. 'And of course, it's our resident chaos-bringer the gremlins are attracted to...' The Doctor shakes his head. 'Eris was the Chaos-Bringer. Imran's a Bookworm - that's how he described himself in the last Hoedown. And Bookworms always slip in without anyone noticing. They do get involved in Pro-Fun - Bookworms adore it. But as a Bookworm...' '...he suffers from gremlins,' Charley realises. The Doctor grins. 'Ask Sam about the time she spent as a boy - "he" where it should have been "she"...' 'Ooooh...' Charley winces. 'So what'd he bring for the party?' The Doctor considers. 'Stories. Pro-Fun Trolls enjoy good stories. And so do Bookworms... In more tangible terms... a collection of milkshake recipes, his secret formula for honey samosa, the Pro-Fun Video Camera, his wizard's - and warlock's - hats, his mad scientist's coat, the karaoke machine, a floating Gladstone bag... and a magician's cabinet.' He grins. 'I think he's planning a Mad Magic-Science Show...' -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- A large bellow resounds through the barn TARDIS. A shadow fills the door. The Partygoers, Bookworms, Doctors, Companions, Trolls, Captains, TARDISes, goddesses, and other assorted entities pause from cakewatching, drink contest betting, and general merrymaking and hoedowning, and turn to the source. 'Oh no,' the Doctors - all eight of him currently present - mutter. 'The Flame Bringer.' 'But Flame Bringers usually ignore the Pro-Fun Trolls...' Seventh thinks out loud. 'Zoe,' Second whispers. 'Check the whipped cream. Fire Extinguisher size... One way or another, we'll be needing it.' Zoe nods, and heads for the Second's TARDIS. ---- Bokman's ears pick up at the mention of the name Zoe. "Zoe's here? Well, I suppose I'd better introduce myself," he declares, heading for the Second's TARDIS in his turn. ---- Tense and Typo Gremlins. The Flame Bringer. Whipped cream. Jim's puzzle pieces and substituted hat. Gordon and Igor's Paul McGann-shaped cake for Alryssa. Imran's case of Gremlin Attraction. Well, at least the timelines aren't too tangled... yet. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Daibhid was astonished to see Schroedy, along with all the other cats brought by various guests, rush for the opposing wall in a mass of howling and spitting. "It's okay, kitties," he said "It's just another TARDIS... isn't it?" "I thought I heard the Doctors say it was a Flame Bringer." muttered someone on his left. Daibhid went white. "A Flame Bringer? At a Pro-Fun Hoedown?" He had to help. After all, he'd just agreed to dance, and he wasn't going to give a Flame Bringer the chance to make fun of him. He looked for the purple, legged form of his rucksack. It was gone. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Our Hostess turns from the disturbing entrance of her latest "guest" when she feels a tap on her shoulder. "Excuse me," the sproingy-haired young woman says, "I seem to have caught gremlin energy, and it's -- well, it's turned everything backward. Any advice on how to get right way 'round again?" The troll absentmindedly hands her some triple C&B's. "Have some chocolate and caffeine. That tends to cure whatever's ailing me." --- Gordon wonders. "Maybe if we feed the typo-gremlins things full of typos, they'll chill out and relax for a while?" From out of his dimensionally transcendental pockets, he brings out several copies of 'The Doctors' by Adrian Rigelsford and a bundle of fanzines. "I edited this pro-fun fanzine several years ago, it was so full of typos we were going to have a 'How Many Typos Were In Issue One?' contest in the second issue. We never got to a second issue though." Gordon starts waving the publications in front of him, calling the typo-gremlins. "Coo-eee! Look! Loadsa, loadsa typos in these!" A small typo-gremlin walks up to Gordon warily. He takes a nibble of a fanzine. He immediately falls over, as if drunk. "Typos must have the same effect on them as alcohol does on us! There are so many typos in the fanzine that just one bite gets them utterly blitzed! We're saved!" Gordon distributes the publications and then moonwalks off to groove mightily on the dance floor... -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Meanwhile.... In a shadowy spot across the street, a wobbulating video effect signals the decloaking - sorry, delurking - of a man in his mid-twenties, with a shock of long, curly hair (which is badly in need of combing), glasses, and slightly too much stubble. He is wearing a blue anorak in a post-modern, ironically self-aware kind of way; a copy of The Discontinuity Guide protrudes from one pocket, while in another is what appears to be a book containing lists of train numbers, some of which have small ticks marked next to them. He hesitates for a moment, taking in the scene, listening to the sounds of pro-fun-ness that carry in the evening air and watching the party-goers on the lawn. Then, he takes a step towards the door... hesitates... and stops, still in the shadows. He looks at his reflection in the window of a car, and mutters to himself thusly: "Hmm... no, a little too ironically sad-fan, perhaps." He considers for a moment. Reality shifts a couple of millimeters, and the lurker's clothes have changed; he is now dressed in black jeans, a belt covered in a celtic knotwork design, an Oxford University DougSoc t-shirt and a black denim jacket covered in assorted badges, mostly but not exclusively relating to science fiction or music. His stubble has vanished, and his hair seems a little more tidy. Once again he stands still for a moment, watching and listening. He tips his head to one side, apparently paying particular attention to the sound of a fiddle. In an echo-treated voice-over, his thoughts can be heard: "Well, it is meant to be pro-fun, which seems to mean not being superior and nasty about other peoples' tastes even if they're different from one's own - but perhaps people won't mind a bit of rock-'n'-roll...." With another jump-cut, his appearance changes again. His jeans are now blue, and flared; the t-shirt is still black, but with a Marshall Amplification logo, and the jacket is also blue, of a different style, and without badges. His hair is now tied back in a pony-tail, and in one hand he holds a Fender stratocaster which looks suspiciously as if somebody has deliberately beaten it up a little in an attempt to create a battered and well-used look. In his other hand he holds a small combo amplifier and a coiled lead (which is, please note, plain black and straight, and definitely not curly or of a bright day-glo colour). The indecisive newcomer makes it almost the whole way across the road this time, before stopping and talking to himself again. "Hey! I can pretend to be Fitz pretending to be someone else - I might even pull that way! Oh... but the only slightly Who-related things I can play are "Smoke On The Water" and "Shakin' All Over", and those are pretty tenuous, especially for people who don't read the BBC books.... Maybe this isn't such a good idea...." Reality does that slightly-shifting thing again. The musical paraphanalia has gone, and the newcomer is now wearing black jeans (again), a grey shirt, a black leather waistcoat, a long black leather trenchcoat, and a black felt hat. His hair is untied, but now nicely combed and untangled, though still fairly wild. "Right. Enough faffing around!" Taking a deep breath, the stranger pushed his hands into his coat pockets and strides across the road and in through the door. Once inside, he walks briskly across the floor. To the casual watcher, his body language suggests confidence - but a more careful observer would note that he's actually rather nervous, not entirely sure whether or not he's meant, or even allowed, to be here, and is thus using the "look as if you own the place" ploy. He glances around, trying to look like somebody expecting to meet people, but avoiding eye contact with the other guests, and not quite plucking up the courage to speak to any of them.... The small turquoise troll, ever on the lookout for uneasy newcomers, appears at his elbow (or rather, due to the difference in their relative heights, his knee). "Excuse me, Sir," she asks, proffering her ever full bag of treats, "would you like a jelly baby?" She smiles as reassuringly as a troll can while he takes his choice, then scurries off to find the Founder. A bespectacled, unshaven young man in a green anorak wanders over from the direction of the buffet table. "Hi," he says. "I'm Paul. Nice to see a familiar-looking face." Philip looks puzzled. "Have we met before?" "Well, no," says Paul. "I meant that in a wider, more metaphorical sense." He waves a hand toward the door. "I was watching your entrance just now, and for a moment I thought you were me..." -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 'And just what do you think you're doing?!' Sixth asks, positioning himself next to Our Hostess... She turns, and gazes up at the fuzzy headed Doctor. "Who, me? At the moment, I think I'm thinking. If you haven't noticed, there are quite a few dangling story threads around here, and if I don't pause and sort them out, it could get really headache-y in a moment. Tangled storylines are even worse on a body than tangled timelines." Suddenly, a lightbulb appears above her head -- a full hundred watt one (Gordon's influence, she thinks). She turns from Jo to the Flame Bringer and back again. "That's it!" she says. "These gremlins can change reality -- make things appear, or turn them backward. If we can get them over to the Flame Bringer, maybe we can change him into something else -- or maybe -- return him to his true nature," she added, noticing that there seemed to be a strange sort of dimensional warp going on around him. She hurried over to Imran, and spoke into his ear: "The words 'Flame Bringer'," she said, "or rather, the letters in the words -- where they are on your keyboard -- you think you can figure out what typos we can use to turn that all around, into something positive -- Pro-Fun?" 'I think I can...' Imran murmurs. 'Of course, with these Tense Gremlins about too... hmm... it may be that he's been shifted from what he is, to what he was or will be...' Imran suddenly grins. 'So, did anyone like the 70s? Alvin Stardust, Slade, Wizzard? Admittedly, I wasn't old enough at the time...' 'A Glam Bringer...' our Hostess says. ' 'Xactly!' Imran says, beginning to tap at his keyboard. '...Hey! That tickles! Hey...!' Unfortunately for Imran, Daibhid's rucksack is rubbing against his legs, having apparently found a new friend. ---- 'All right...' Sixth says, turning to the Flame Bringer. 'Now I know what she's up to... what are you up to?!' 'I am... the Spelling Flame Bringer...' the creature rumbles. 'I come... to flame all those afflicted by the Typo Gremlins...in the name of proper punctuation.' The writers mutually gulp. This is not good. It is at this point that the little turquoise deputy arrives with her ... CHAPTER 04 - AUTHORIAL PERSONA MANIPULATION As the avocado troll's deputy arrives... -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "Hostess," the turquoise troll said, a little breathlessly, as she found the avocado troll leaning over Imran's shoulder, "a new guest has just arrived, and he has some ... interesting abilities. I've been watching him since he appeared in the cul-de-sac, and he seems to be able to change his form at will -- without the influence of the gremlins. Do you think he might be able to transform the --" and here, her voice dropped to a whisper "-- F.B.?" The founder straightened, thoughtful. "Perhaps," she said, slowly. "Though I suspect it's probably just a skilful use of 'Authorial Persona manipulation', and is something he can only work on himself, not others... Still, A.P.M. is closely related in fictional mechanics to Typo Transformation. Yes... yes... He might have expertise which could prove very helpful indeed. Go explain the situation to him, and see if he won't join our little pow-wow." The turquoise troll ran off to do just that, while the hostess and Imran returned to their study of his keyboard. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The turquoise troll runs up to Philip (for that is the new guest's name - note, that's one l [ell] and no 1's [ones]), who is now feeling somewhat more comfortable as a result of a friendly greeting and a jelly baby, and rapidly explains the situation. Philip chews thoughtfully on his jelly baby. "I'm not sure if I can help. But just give me a moment and I'll join you. There's something I should do first." He walks over to the Douglas Adams memorial stall, removes his hat and stands in silent respect for a few seconds. He starts to turn away, and is then struck by a thought; turning back, he closes his eyes and concentrates for a moment, then reaches inside his coat and extracts from a pocket a small cardboard replica of a 1950's talking-type wireless set which he places on a small wooden table next to the stall (which possibly did not exist a few moments previously). In front of the wireless set he places a small card, on which is written: "Sir Harry Secombe, 1921-2001 : Ying-Tong-Iddle-I-Po" "Well, why not," he announces to nobody in particular, "after all, The Goon Show was certainly pro-fun, and there are bound to be a few fans here." After another moment of silence, Philip replaces his hat, and proceeds across the hall to join the avocado troll and Imran. "It's like this," he says. "I don't really know what my abilities are here. I've never studied fictional mechanics. In fact, I'm not really an author - or at least I wasn't before I got here." After a thoughtful pause, he continues: "I think that I can do anything that I believe I'm allowed to get away with." Another pause. "Now, I'm not sure if I can transform this Flame Bringer into something benign - I'm really not sure. But I do have an idea. Perhaps all I need is a little technobabble to convince me that such a transformation conforms to the rules of fictional mechanics as they apply in this particular reality! Yes! Do you think that one of you would be kind enough to ask one of the Doctors to whip up an Authorial Persona Manipulation Field Transference Projector for me?" -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Imran and the hostess exchange a knowing glance. A slow grin spreads across each of their faces, simultaneously. The hostess turns to Philip, still grinning. "Why ask just one Doctor," she says, "when you can ask all eight--" The expression on Philip's face betrays the following thought: "Because I want an APMFTP, not an eight-way argument!" The Doctor looks up with a toothy grin from the bottom of an empty pint glass of Guinness, and says to Philip, "But don't you realise - you don't need an Authorial Persona Manipulation Field Transference Projector at all!" Philip seems slightly unsure whether it is the good Doctor articulating this thought or his Guinness speaking for him: "Ah, I'm not sure I do see..." The Doctor jumps up to his feet, his scarf twisting in the air like an electrocuted snake, such is the suddenness of his ascent. "You'd only need a Field Transference Projector to stabilise the Fictional Space-Time Vortex if only a single author were present!" Imran says incisively, "And that's not the case is it?" A younger man with a fresh, rather innocent face takes up the conversation. "What I believe I am... er, he is trying to say, is that all this time, the various authors have thought themselves in complete control of the Fictional Space-Time Vortex when in fact they are only acting in isolation." Philip says, "Yes, I think I can see that." "-- after all, it sounds like all we need to do is --" and at this, Imran chimed in, and they finished together: "make some adjustments to the !". The troll nodded. "Yes," she continued, "and that was a group effort." An older Doctor suddenly strolls up behind the troll. "Exactly! A group effort, my child, means that there is no ability for one author to determine the fictional outcome." At this, Philip's expression clears slightly. "Well," he thinks, "if they've all done something similar together before...." The Doctor pulls on his lapels and tut tuts. "It's been done several times before. But not without great danger, in each instance..." She turned to number six. "You pull yourselves together for this," she said to him, "while I get the TSV out of the closet." The Doctor closes his eyes with a look of profound concentration. "My other selves, I implore myself now to have come to him." A tall Doctor with a shock of white hair strolls up and mutters, "Great balls of fire! My high Gallifreyan must have slipped in my old age, I don't normally confuse my personal pronouns like that!" Another Doctor wanders up and helps himself to one of the sandwiches and dips it in a savoury sauce. "Not to worry old chap, you see, I've always known how to speak it!" "Ah ha, the scarecrow. How am I?" "You're fine as I usually am, fancy pants!" And finally an eighth individual Doctor arrives, beaming brightly and rakishly adjusting the angle of his hat. "Well, it looks as though we're all here then! What was this about a fictional vortex?" Philip watches the Sixth Doctor gather his other selves. He looks like he wants to make sure that they know what they're being asked to do, but isn't entirely sure that it would be wise to ask; he seems particularly concerned about the Fourth and Eight Doctors, not being sure how Time Lords metabolise alcohol in this reality. A rather washed-out looking, half-human Doctor looks up from his place in the sculling races, peering at his other seven, younger faces. "I think I'm feeling a bit queer in this regeneration. Would one of me give me a glass of water?" "We won't need the Hand of Omega, this time, will we?" Sixth asked a little nervously. "Oh, I shouldn't think so, since we're not dealing with different corners of the multi-verse... yet. A couple dozen D batteries should do the trick." She chortled to herself happily, as she went off to dig around in her TARDIS's boot cupboard, since there is nothing a Pro-Fun troll likes better than to turn nastiness inside out. Meanwhile, there is a brief ... -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 'Hey! Get off! That's my drink!' 'Wait...' our hostess says. 'I think Daibhid's bag may have something in mind...' 'And something on my keyboard...' Imran mutters. He cracks his knuckles. 'I don't know if this will work... the gremlins may not be strong enough... but, hey. It's either this, or experience a Spelling Flame...' 'Right... "Spell Fame Bringer"...' Our hostess blinks. 'What?' Imran blinks at what Daibhid's bag has written using his keyboard. 'I have no idea... Who on Earth brings fame for spells?' The result of Imran's typo, however, has... unexpected effects. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Cameron looks up from his plate of food. "Oh no - not again!" Somewhere on a gramophone, the record gets stuck in a groove... "I told you we should have borrowed Uncle Pete's set of Technics rather than trying to mix on these things..." said Gordon. "Well, it was worth a try" replied Igor, who was currently trying to DJ with an old gramophone, a wax cylinder and a reel-to-reel tape player. Igor tapped Gordon on the shoulder. "Alryssa's opened her present hasn't she?" "Yes." replied Gordon, "I think she liked it. It's going to take weeks to get that stuff out of the carpet..." "Well, if she's opened her present, what's that?" Igor said pointing at another man-shaped/sized package covered in brown paper sitting all by itself in the corner of the barn. "I dunno...maybe some stray moronic engrams duplicated it? Or maybe the Iron Chefs..." (Gordon bit into a yellow bell pepper in tribute) "...have blessed us with an extra one?" "That head's too triangular to be McGann..." Igor pointed out. Gordon's eyes went like this... (o_O) "Oh bugger...I thought he was still lost in Ibiza?" A figure burst out of the package, with a black triangular helmet, a flowing white robe, carrying a....microphone? Igor is suddenly shoved off the decks by a Voord with a big furry hat on. My name is... Yartek, I'm the leader of the Alien Voord, Lock away your beers, get your daughters secured! You thought I was blown up, you thought I was dead, With my funky white robe and my triangular head. Straight out of Marinus, from the acid seas, Had a bit of a problem, with a set of keys. That went in a computer in a big fancy room, Put the last one in and it all went boom! I'm funkier than James Brown. Sexier than a backless gown. Groovier than Isaac Hayes. More valuable than the Dying Days. My brother Voord keep on tripping on their flippers, We'd be better off wearing fluffy bunny slippers. The Doctor thought by beating us he did the right thing, Now most of us are kitchen staff at Burger King! I'm Yartek and these are my alien Voord, through the galaxy we have played and toured. Feel the bassline kick and the breakbeats pound, as we bring you the funkiest sound around! Wooah-ho! Wooah-ho! Wooah-ho! Wooah-ho! Yartek suddenly spots Igor and Gordon and runs through the door...without bothering to open it first... "Quick Igor, after him, he's too funky to be allowed out in public for too long!" Gordon and Igor exeunt with great rapidity through the wall... The avocado green troll picks up a small bit of paper left fluttering in their slipstream. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The black-clad lurker had stared with open mouth at the outlandish spectacle Yartek and his Alien Voords had put on. "My knowledge of early Doctor Who is sadly lacking," she thought and shook her head. Having already consumed one gin & tonic, and now being halfway through her second (as a tribute to DNA she had decided to stick with this drink at the hoedown), her attention was very easily diverted though, and when she saw her hostess reading something she couldn't refrain from peering over her shoulder: "Sorry to run off like this, but the safety of the multifunkyverse is at stake! We'll try and get back before the end...with biscuits. See ya!" The avocado green troll suddenly turned and looked up at the lurker with an inquiring but friendly expression on her round face. "Oh. I'm s...s...s...so sorry. I d...d...didn't mean to pry." She stammered. "I was j...j...just curious." She took a deep breath. The troll didn't look angry after all, and it was her hostess. Perhaps she ought to introduce herself? "May I introduce myself, my name is Ninni and I'm a lurker from Sweden. I'm sorry I didn't bring anything for the buffet, I forgot. What a lot of people there are here, I feel a little lost. Especially since my cat seems to have disappeared. That ... creature ... frightened him, and now I can't find him again." It all came out in a rush, and she felt rather foolish. "You might think I'm a teenager for all the savoir-faire I'm showing at the moment," she thought wryly. The troll smiled. "I wouldn't worry," she said to Ninni. "You know how resilient cats are. They've probably all found the cream pots in my TARDIS' pantry by now, anyway. And don't worry about not having brought anything. I, myself, wasn't expecting this to be pot luck, either. It just turned out that way..." She paused. "But maybe there is something you can do, she added, "I have my doubts that that 'spelling flame-bringer' is what he appears to be. Just for a split second, when he first arrived, I was sure he was someone I knew -- someone we all knew, and that he came here for a reason. But that someone, or something, is interfering. Who (or what) would want us to confuse us like that? And why? Any ideas?" -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Daibhid looks up from his futile attempts to herd the cats. "Is one of these yours?" he asks Ninni, pointing vaguely behind him. Looking over the nervously milling cats, she shook her head. "No, I'm afraid not. He doesn't go on very well with other cats so he's probably slipped away someplace where he can watch the action in safety. And I guess he will soon home in on the cream, he's a glutton. I'll try and stop worrying about him. There are apparently more important things to worry about at the moment." She looked at her hostess, who seemed to have lost some of her earlier air of cheerful contentment. Turning to the troll, Daibhid offers, hesitantly, "You, er, you don't suppose it could be someone Pro-Fun? Maybe playing a practical joke or something? And either it went wrong, with or without Outside Interference, or they simply haven't got to the punchline yet? I mean, it's always a possibility. "So," he continued, slowly, "We could make a list of all the Pro-Fun people who haven't got here yet and see. Even if they aren't the Flame-Bringer, they might hear us and come to see what the fuss is about. Which would be good, right?" The hostess troll considered this possibility for what seemed to be a very long time, but finally, she shook her head. "I don't think so," she said. "It's not really 'pro-fun' style to pull a practical joke like this. And in a multi-author fictiverse like this one, participants cannot influence the story, or be influenced by it, until they delurk... No," she said, after a dramatic pause, her voice dropping a full octave, "I believe our guest is a messenger from Beyond, sent to us by -- by --" she stammered a while, and she returned to her normal voice, "well, I'm not sure by whom, actually, and I'm not sure from which Beyond he's from. But I'm pretty sure I saw a dimensional interference pattern around him when he first came in -- "'Dimensional interference pattern'?" Daibhid asked. "Aren't you going a little overboard with the technobabble?" "Sort of like the moir� pattern you see," the hostess explained, "if you look through two fine meshes at once and move them back and forth in opposite directions from each other. It's like he's out of sync with our world." She hoped that was clear, because she was afraid the story was losing momentum, and if that happened, they would drift here in the fiction vortex forever, and never reach The End of The Story. Her hostess' words filled her with unease, she looked around the BarnTARDIS that was now full of people of all shapes and sizes giving all signs of enjoying themselves. Even the Flame Bringer seemed to have settled down and was now vainly trying to attract the attention of the barkeep. She noted Adric's sudden appearance, and the robot then exploding and killing him. "I wonder what Nyssa will say. Flagrantly poaching on her territory like that," she smiled to herself. "And what was going on over there?!" Her Scandinavian contemporary and the Ainsley Master were evidently planning to enjoy themselves thoroughly. Perhaps she ought to wander over and see if she could pick up some interesting new techniques... Her hostess' new words however, called her back to the matter at hand. "Anyway," she said, "That's why Philip and the Doctors need to finish work on the Authorial Personal Transference Field Projector as soon as possible -- so we can discover who the newcomer is, and why he's here -- and move the story forward!!" "Moving forward... Yes, that's what's wrong here!" Ninni suddenly realised. Nothing ever seemed to lead to anything. There was Adric again for example, walking through the door after a short woman in a bright yellow baseball cap. And Yartek and his Voords had just disappeared, and everyone just seemed to talk and talk. "I bet Auntie and the Master won't get anywhere either," she thought glumly. In fact... "Look! All the Doctors have started bickering too," she exclaimed. "You do seem to be right," she said to their hostess, "some force seems bent on making all the potentially interesting stories fritter out into nothing. We must do something." She hurried off to where the Doctors were loudly arguing. "What are you lot doing?" she asked sternly. "I thought you were supposed to help with the APTFP. Not browbeating yourself because he's conducting an in-depth study of the human lifestyle. Something I think several of you could do well to try," she fluttered her eyelashes at the Fifth Doctor and moved closer to him. "But," says Philip, looking concerned, "if you don't think it's a real FB any more.... I was going to transform it into something benign, to make it safe - now I don't think I know what you want me to do. How can I transform it into whatever it really is if noone knows what it really is? Have I missed something?" "No, not you," the troll said apologetically, "me. I'm the one who missed picking up the clues..." She made her way over to the huddle of Doctors. "Rather than transform our guest, do you think you could calibrate this gadget to reveal his true identity?" she asked. "Are the two tasks really that different from each other?" -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Imran snaps his fingers. 'Just a moment...' A short, brown-haired girl in a truly bizarre yellow and green ensemble pops into existence. 'Oh, thanks so much...' she complains. 'Allie...' Imran says. 'Look, what do you need me for?' 'You're my Muse,' Imran says. 'We really, really need an Authorial Overview, so we know what's going on... and that Philip's plan doesn't go splat.' Allie sighs. 'All right...' Her eyes unfocus. 'Okay... Gordon and Igor are chasing Yartek, and they'll be back in a couple of weeks (hope that depression eases). Ninni's introduced herself to our hostess, feeling very embarrassed and not a little lost, with so many people around... and she's lost her cat, who got frightened by Yartek. Daibhid's lost his bag... and said bag's currently tap-dancing on Imran's keyboard. 'Bokman's followed Zoe to the Second's TARDIS, as Zoe collects some whipped cream, Jim's lost his hat, and Auntie and the Ainley Master have hypnotised Zorak and Phi1ip into strange and kinky escapades with the torture chaise-longue and the silk bondage ropes. 'Our hostess's looking for some batteries for the TSV, as Sixth drags the other Doctors together to reconfigure the TSV into Philip's (not Phi1ip) Authorial Persona Manipulation Field Transference Projector... and the Tense and Typo Gremlins seem to've got stuck to you...' Allie grins wickedly. 'Yes, yes...' Imran mutters. 'And there's the Spelling Flame Bringer which got attracted by all those Typo Gremlins...' Allie observes. '...Hmm. Philip believes he needs a technobabbly explanation to enable him to change the Bringer. However... You gave me the ability to do anything - I am your creative impulse, after all, and that's the whole point...' 'Deus Ex Machina, Al...' Imran says. 'No. Not this time. It doesn't fit the story.' 'Philip's right, though - we can do anything we believe we can do. We're writers. And the barnTARDIS is partly Outside Continuity, where that ability can be a physical reality. However... that does not give us the right to do anything we believe we can do.' 'Because some of us believe we can do most certainly un-Pro Fun things...' Allie murmurs, 'just for the sake of it.' 'Which is why Pro-Fun exists. To remind us that this is fun, and enjoyment, and happiness, and excitement... for everyone. Not just one or two of us.' Imran heaves a sigh. 'Great. Introspection. Just what we need.' 'Hmm... Didn't you say you'd brought a magician's cabinet?' Allie says, almost as an afterthought. Imran starts to grin. 'Yes... and we should have something in there for this...' 'Found the TSV!' our hostess calls. 'And Sixth's got the Docs together...' Imran rubs his hands together. 'Now, if I remembered to bring what I hope I remembered in the cabinet, we should have everything we need...' He grins. 'And a little extra.' Outside, meanwhile, seemed to be arriving... CHAPTER 05 - A STRANGER ON HORSEBACK The avocado troll's quick ears have caught a sound from outside... -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- In the evening gloom, the dull ringing of unshod hooves on the asphalt can be heard for some time before the approaching traveler is visible. As the noise gets closer, a careful listener could make out that it is the sound of six feet, not four -- both horse and man are travelstained and limping, and the passer-by has dismounted and is leading his weary mount cautiously over the hard surface. He looks edgy and somehow out of place as he comes into the radius of light spilling from the open doors. From inside the sound of the party is becoming raucous, and there are still a few late-comers pushing their way sheepishly in. None of them seem to have noticed the new arrival; but then this is precisely how he likes it. He doesn't quite know how he ended up here, but the wild goings-on inside, however daunting, offer a more welcoming face than this manicured dullness of endless square houses and paved roads in which he has been lost for so long. For a moment he hovers on the edge of the lawn, scowling. Then, as another gust of laughter sweeps out from behind the doors, he seems to come to a decision. He leads the horse over to a quiet corner of the lawn and lets go of the bridle, reaches round to pull down a worn Gladstone bag -- which appears to contain all his worldly possessions -- from behind the saddle, and makes his way in towards the source of the hilarity without a backwards glance. The horse looks after its master's departing figure for a moment, then drops its nose and browses tentatively. But it is too weary to take any real interest in grass, let alone in wandering off, even though it has been left untethered, and it is soon standing splay-hipped in the darkness in an exhausted doze. The glowering stranger, bag in hand, pushes through the door and is immediately stopped in his tracks, blinking, by the scope and strangeness of the festivities going on inside -- and the sheer scale of the place. For a moment it looks as if he is about to back out again hurriedly; then a sudden ripple in the crowd blocks him off from the exit and thrusts him into a corner by one of the tables. He retreats rapidly against the wall and stares round wildly, tensed into a half-crouch, as if expecting the shoving of the other guests to prelude an attack of some kind, but nothing happens. Finally, as no-one seems to take any notice of his unexpected arrival, he apparently begins to relax. After a while, straightening up, he takes off his battered coat and hat, and drapes them over the bag at his feet. The traveler is revealed as a stocky dark individual of medium height and a somewhat shifty expression, with a bristling black mustache. He is dressed in a loose hide jacket, jeans, shirt and boots that were obviously never fashionable even when new, and which since that long-distant time have clearly seen many days' hard work. At the moment he carries with him a general aroma of horse, with a certain additional edge that suggests at least a week of unwashed journeying; on the other hand his nails are clean and he has obviously taken the trouble to shave at some point today. The table at his elbow holds a selection of appetizing-looking meats that smell tantalizingly good. He helps himself, glancing round edgily as if expecting to be stopped, and starts to tear into the food with more enthusiasm than politeness, as if he has not had a square meal in several days. Once the edge is off his appetite, he ventures a foray to the neighbouring stall. Here a handful of party-goers who are obviously old acquaintances are holding a heated discussion on the merits of various types of beer. The stranger rapidly acquires a beer in each hand and retreats out of the conversation back to his corner, where he swallows down the first glass in one gasp, and takes a deep draft from the other while observing the ebb and flow of the rest of the company around him. He's seen some strange folks in his time, but nothing quite like these 'trolls'. They seem harmless enough, though... and after all the notice did say 'ALL WELCOME'. A few of the more confident guests, spotting the newcomer lurking on the edge of the crowd, even try to strike up a conversation without much luck. Still, though the stranger continues to give the appearance of a man whose nerves are on edge, and his hand keeps sliding under his jacket as if to reassure himself by the solid presence there, it gradually becomes plain that he is not so much jumpy as simply uncertain of his reception. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The avocado troll's large ears twitched. "Excuse me," she said to Ninni, "There's something I must attend to." She wandered over to the large water trough that stood against a back wall, and moved her fingers quietly in the air above it, as if flipping switches that weren't there. The smooth, reflective surface of the water rippled, and the trough's true purpose was revealed: her TARDIS' scanner. Sure enough, her hearing had not deceived her. There was a horse on the lawn, and he was looking rather worse for wear. She sighed. The "crisis" with the Flame Bringer had yet to come to a head, and she still had responsibilities as a hostess. Luckily, this year, she had a deputy. She called the turquoise troll. "There's a horse outside that looks like he needs some TLC." The smaller troll started jumping up and down. "A horsey? I love horsies!" "Yes, dear, I know... So do I. But this creature may be skittish, so be careful. Bring him round to the other stable in the back -- give him one of the big box stalls. And make sure he has plenty of water." She paused, thoughtful, looking at the creature in the scanner. "Give him some beet mash and oats, too. ... and it looks like he's lame in his right hind leg. You know where the jar of special liniment is?" The little troll nodded excitedly. "Yes, yes, yes!" she said, "I'll make the horsey all better!" The hostess smiled. "I know you will, dear," she said. As her deputy trotted off to make a new friend, she turned her thoughts to the horse's rider. Chances are, he'd need some tlc, too. "Somehow," she thought to herself as she went in search of him, "I don't think he's from the same quadrant of the Fictiverse as the rest of us... I wonder how he ended up here... Still, he may be able to help out. Things sure have gotten strange since the 'newcomer' interrupted our reel." (Since the only flames around were still the multicolored sort from the gremlin repellent, her doubts that he was really a flame-bringer were beginning to grow, she was beginning to think that there was something much bigger at stake, and she was getting uneasy waiting to discover what that was -- like the dreadful stillness and heat that hang in the air before a tornado hits). -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Finishing the last swallow of his second beer, the stranger lets his watchful guard slip for a moment as he sets down the glass on a nearby table. When he turns back, there is a squat, grinning green creature at his elbow. The corner of the table lifts sharply and crashes back against the floor as he backs off abruptly. There is a pallid cast to his swarthy skin, and dark eyes, wild-rimmed with panic, are riveted on the waddling thing. His right hand has darted deep into his jacket pocket. For a split second he seems not only insane but very, very dangerous... But the large flapping ears and feet are irresistibly comic. Far from flinching, the avocado-green troll gives him an almost reproachful look. Finally, it dawns on him that the outstretched hand is holding nothing more threatening than a paper bag, half-open, which is being offered in his direction. The troll, observing the confusion on his face, gives him a wide and friendly smile. "Have a jelly-baby?" As if mesmerized, he watches his hand dip into the bag and emerge with a rubbery orange candy. He blinks down at it. He's seen this ritual played out before, on other guests... As the adrenalin rush of surprise fades, he recognizes this creature, and remembers the way the crowd always seemed to centre around the energetic little figure. He knows well enough how to read a room; it's a skill to pick up early if you care to keep your hide in one piece. The traveler jerks his head in a nod of respectful acknowledgement. "This your party..." (he hesitates, taken aback by an unexpected problem, and finally making a resolute guess) "...Miss?" The troll shrugs it off, her grin widening even further (quite some feat!) "This is our second Annual Pro-Fun Troll Hoe-down," she tells him. "You seemed a bit out of it - so as chief Pro-Fun Troll, I came to say an official 'welcome'!" The stranger looks a mite uncomfortable. "'Fun's not really been in my line much so far, I guess," he confesses. "But I'm mighty grateful for your hospitality. I was about all in when I got here." He glances down at his fingers, and pops the jelly-baby into his mouth. Judging by his expression, the flavour wasn't quite what he was expecting. For a moment he looks about set to spit it out onto the floor; then, catching his hostess' eye, he swallows hurriedly, and proffers her a somewhat cautious hand in his turn. "I go by 'Kid Curry', mostly. There's some that say I'm half-crazy, but then I never cared much for any of them either." He brushes his free hand across his mustache in a nervous gesture, looking down at her. "You got a name?" The avocado-green troll introduces herself, and proceeds to name sundry other regulars in the crowd. But after a dozen or so names have spun by her guest is starting to look distinctly overwhelmed and panicky again, and she stops, with a rueful grin. "You'll get the hang of us all in no time," she reassures him, reaching up to award him a pat on the arm and carefully schooling herself not to notice the flinch from her touch that follows. "But if you can manage here now, I really must dash - there were a couple of problems earlier on, and I'm afraid things may have gotten a touch out of hand..." She turns and starts to trot off rapidly, but after a moment she catches the sound of hesitant footsteps following in her wake and halts, glancing over her shoulder in surprise. Almost equally taken aback, Kid Curry meets her gaze awkwardly, a dark stain mantling his cheeks under her searching expression. "If there's anything I can do...?" He drops his eyes, plainly thrown off-balance at finding himself making the uncharacteristic offer. "Helping out's never been my style; but I reckon I owe you one." At the thought of having this unpredictable individual anywhere near trouble, the avocado-green troll's heart sinks despite herself. But there is a queer yearning in the stranger's face - not so much puppy-dog appeal as dawning hope in the gaze of a whipped and vicious stray - and her Pro-Fun instincts get the better of her. A welcoming smile hides the momentary dismay. "Sure, we can always do with extra help. Why don't you come along?" She hurries across the floor back to the assembled Doctors, where the group's activity seems to have become suddenly hectic during her brief absence. One tiny stray corner of her mind, listening to the uneven steps at her heels, finds itself wondering absently meanwhile just how to persuade a paranoid, footsore stranger into permitting her to treat that limp. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Meanwhile, back amongst the assembled Doctors... Imran, who's been very quiet during all of this, finally speaks up. 'I think... the reason no-one knows what it really is, is so we can't change it in any way. So we can't get the story moving. In other words... someone is trying to stop the story from moving forward.' 'So what we need to do is find out what it really is...' 'Hey! WHAT ARE YOU??' Allie yells. The Flame Bringer turns around from where it's still trying to get the barkeep's attention. 'I am the Flame Bringer. Didn't I already say that?' 'But what were you before? Or what are you going to be?' Allie presses. 'What can you be?' 'What can I be...?' the Flame Bringer murmurs. 'What can I be...' It looks up. 'Tell me who I am. Tell me what I can be. Choose my future. Because I don't know what I'm becoming...' 'So that's it...' the Second murmurs. 'The Flame Bringer's already changing into something, and it wanted us to force that change!' 'But what's it becoming?!' 'Philip!' the Third commands. 'The APTFP, now!' In a matter of seconds, the Doctors are at work on the APTFP. Our hostess hurries over, . CHAPTER 06 - SAILOR GALLIFREY HELD CAPTIVE No-one seems quite sure what the Flame Bringer is... -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Imran was just finishing his theory about how someone or something was deliberately trying to bring stagnation to the story just as the Hostess and Kid Curry arrived. She nodded. "Ninni noticed the same thing," she said. "Said something about dangling story threads tangling up everything to keep the story from moving forward. They're invisible, of course," she added. "But if you focus, you can feel them, wrapping around everyone like sticky spider silk...." She stopped herself before she went off on another tangent. "And it's not just our story that's been knocked off course," she said, with emphasis. "This is Kid Curry, and he seems to have gotten lost ... " she paused, then added, as gently as she could, since she knew how embarrassing it is to have people talk about you in third person while you're standing right there (but this fellow didn't seem ready to speak for himself, quite yet). "Whoever he is, he doesn't seem to belong in the Whoniverse. I think whoever is trying to stop our 'mystery guest' from completing his mission is also trying to stop Kid from reaching his goal, too." "So maybe," Jo said quietly, as the idea was forming in her head, "the two goals are related." "But how?" asked Philip. "Kid?" she asked, turning to him, "can you remember where you were trying to go (or what you were trying to get away from) before you got lost? Can you remember why?" -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- For a moment Kid Curry hardly seems to have heard her. He is staring in Imran's direction, with a sort of mesmerized fascination directed, by the looks of it, almost as much at the Bookworm's unfamiliar keyboard as at the squirming purple knapsack-type object still trying to wind itself around his ankles. He shakes his head, blinking, as Our Hostess gently repeats the question and she catches a glimpse of disbelieving wonder chasing across the wary features. "Lost?... why yes, I guess I've gotten myself lost, right enough..." But as the implications of the question sink in, the momentary innocence drains away, sharp nose and eyes coming instantly on guard. "Sure, I remember why. I was on the run after pulling a liquor store job - that good enough for you?" He looks away, unable to meet her eyes despite himself. Then the dark glance shifts again, a brief flicker up around the circle of faces as if seeking an escape. The gathered party guests shift their weight uncomfortably at this news. "Well," someone in the crowd murmurs, "she was right about one thing -- he doesn't belong in a 'Doctor Who' story." "Have you not read many Virgin New Adventures?" asks Daibhid. Everyone, including Kid Curry and the avocado troll, glare at him. "Just trying to lighten the mood. Sorry." As Kid continues laying out the details of his crime and his escape, the guests find they have things to do elsewhere -- important things -- in the far corners of the barn. Only the hostess remains at his side, not taking her eyes off him. As with Lord Gallifrijan, she senses there is a field of confusion around him, hiding his true identity. This time, however, it's clearly self-imposed. So many years of being on the run, of hiding himself from the authorities and lynch mobs had taken their toll. She wondered to herself whether or not he even remembered who he'd been, once upon a time. "The old man held out - wouldn't hand over the cash. I laid him out, and he split his skull on the counter on the way down." His mouth tightened. "There was maybe ninety bucks in the whole place - not enough to get your head broke in for, not enough by a long shot... Turns out he had a parcel of sons. Just about everyone in the whole town must have been some kin of his, I reckon. They come after me, ten or fifteen of them. I was a good way out by that time, but they just kept coming." Both hands are clenched now, shoulders riding high. "If there'd been a bunch of us, we might have made a stand; scared them off maybe. But there was just me, just the horse and me, and they all knew that country like the back of your hand. Couldn't seem to shake them, no matter how I tried. By the end I was running blind, chasing this way and that, knowing odds were I'd make a wrong turn and they'd head me off -" He bites off the words sharply on an indrawn breath and catches himself back. One hand tugs at his mustache. "I thought it was a dust- storm. Eyes play funny tricks when the dust gets to blowing; a man can see shapes in the wind, and it won't mean a thing. But even if I'd known - even if I'd guessed I wouldn't come out the far side, at least not in any place I'd ever seen - maybe I'd have gone on through anyhow. Maybe it wouldn't have made much odds.":::A shape in a dust storm, the avocado troll thinks to herself, I'll have to keep my eyes peeled for that on Titan Three.::: His scowl dares the onlookers to comment. "You talk about stories that can't find their way to an end. There was an finish to a story coming up pretty clear and soon back then, and it looked like being mine... a dirty little killing in a dirty little town at the back of nowhere, with a rope's end waiting. Maybe I don't belong here... but just maybe I don't find too much appeal in the notion of going back." -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Kid's shoulders sagged, and his fists unclenched, but the culprit was sheer exhaustion rather than a willing drop of his guard. A voice broke into the silence that followed. "Maybe," it said, "he's the one behind this mess. Maybe he's stopping our story to save his own life." The troll shook her head. "No," she answered, quietly, "the trouble started long before he got here. And I don't think, if he were behind it, the effects of his actions could be detected as far away as Titan Three." But her guest had a point. He did have a powerful motive to keep things as they were. Even if he weren't the cause at the beginning, he could sure make a mess for them later ... unless she could convince him to work on their side. In the meantime, she had to make sure to minimize the danger to herself and her compatriots. Slowly, gently, as though reaching out to comfort a wild horse, she took hold of one hand, then the other. Kid tensed once more and tried to pull away, but she was stronger (and heavier) than she looked, and didn't let him go. "Daibhid," she said, "I can't reach -- would you do the honors? I believe you'll find a gun in under his vest on the left side. If you would be so kind as to remove it, and put it somewhere safe?" "A gun?" Daibhid asked, incredulous. "Well, he is a 'Wild West outlaw', after all." Cautiously, and with clear trepidation, Daibhid reached under Kid's vest, and pulled out the offending weapon, holding its handle between thumb and forefinger with a level of disgust usually reserved for a half rotten oppossum found under the porch. Kid tried to resist, but with both hands held fast, and his balance hindered by having only one sound leg, there wasn't much he could do. The troll nodded her approval. "There's a safe beneath the bar," she said. "I suggest we lock it in there until the story is over." Now without his weapon -- the one thing he had depended on to feel safe for all these years -- Kid's defensiveness collapsed. His whole persona shrank in on itself like a three-day old birthday balloon that had been left in the rain. "Come on," the troll said as gently as she could. "I think we should sit down and talk for a bit.." -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The crowd parted to let Daibhid through. Finding his way to the safe he threw the gun in and slammed the door, relieved he had managed this without shooting himself or anyone else. "This is getting too much for me." he thought. "I really need that Irn Bru." Pouring himself a glass of the orange stuff he noted the Rucksack chasing the cats. "I'd better do something about that subplot of mine before it interferes with the story." he muttered to himself. "Not necessarily." came a voice from behind him. Turning, he saw Imran, taking a break from the work on the APTFP. "Remember how that Rucksack of yours worked with me and the typo gremlins? Let a plot thread loose and someone else can pick it up later." Daibhid stared. "There's half a dozen cats running around the BarnTARDIS floor, and possibly more in the other rooms. How's that going to help anyone?" "I'm working on it." "I wonder," Jim says. Several expectant pairs of eyes (and one or two strays) turn his way. "Well, I was just thinking. The Daleks have done wonders with static electricity--they ran a whole city on it, if I recall correctly..." The first Doctor perks up at this. "Yes! Indeed they did, though Susan and I soon put paid to their plans, didn't we?" He taps his nose thoughtfully. "Yes, yes, I begin to see! A sufficient, erm, power source could cause a feedback loop with the source of the authorial disprup, erm, disruption." "Exactly!" "Just one problem, my dear boy," the Doctor tuts, apparently oblivious to the fact that he is addressing a horny troll. "How to harness it?" Swooping in to snag one of the strays with his stubby trollish hand (and surprised to find it takes two hands in his currently reduced circumstances), Jim begins stroking the cat's fur in a soothing manner, and in moments the cat is purring contentedly. A faint crackle of energy is almost visible. Smiling, Jim reaches out to the nearest person and, with a SNAP! and a blue spark, discharges the static electricity. "Zapped," says the fifth Doctor, grinning. "Exactly--and if we zap the source of the disturbance....well, perhaps something will happen," Jim finishes lamely. "In any case, it'll be fun, and the cats don't seem to mind!" -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- At that moment... Allie gasps. 'Allie? What's wrong?' Imran asks. 'Someone's... Someone's trying...' Allie shudders. 'They're trying to stop the story, I can feel it, trying to divert it into pointless action... Trying to stop the creativity.' Imran's eyes widen. 'Stagnation. And Sailor Gallifrey's out of the situation.' He concentrates. 'No. No... No way. No way does the story end here. Allie...' Allie starts flickering. In and out. In and out. 'Imran...?' 'Hold... on...' Imran murmurs. 'Just a bit longer... Fighting the stagnation...' Our hostess turns to Philip. 'Do it, Philip. Someone's trying to stop us from finding out the Flame Bringer's true identity - and trying to stop him, too. We have to help him.' 'Hold on. Hold on... Need to keep the story going.' 'Finished!' the Third announces. 'Philip, it's all yours. Activate the APTFP. Speed the Flame Bringer's change up. Before the story can stagnate. Now!!' Philip nods, and leaps for the APTFP's controls. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- And in Another Place... "Let me go, you snivelling piece of rhinoceros pizzle!" A young woman in a fuku was struggling against her supernatural bonds, her unseen captor laughing with glee. "I must admit that while your insults amuse me, your do-good attitude does not. Your meddling in my affairs will cost you... and your friends... dearly..." "I won't let you do this." "However do you think you will stop me?" "There's a way. There's always a way." The figure turned back to its 'project.' And Sailor Gallifrey, for the first time as a living planet-entity in a Senshi outfit, began to doubt she could actually do anything this time. "Gods help you, Doctor... because right now, nobody else can," she whispered. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Allie, her flickering form a bit more stable, gasped. "She hears us!" she said. "Sailor Gallifrey hears us!" "And she's coming to help?" Jo asked, hopefully. Allie's face fell. "No," said. "She's being held captive, and can't break her bonds." "Where is she?" "I'm not sure," Allie replied. "But she's with our villain, I think." -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- A flash of absolute horror surged through the Hostess, as searing as a flash of lightning, as red as blood. "No... Not that --" she said, which, despite being barely spoken aloud, brought all the dancing and laughing to an absolute halt, as every one of the guests turned their attention to her, "-- anything but that!!" But Our Hostess didn't even notice. She ran to their "mystery guest" as fast as her short legs could carry her, and tore away at the tangle of sticky story threads that had begun to engulf him like a cocoon. Before long, she saw the hem of an old familiar cloak, and the faint smell of banana daiquiri filled the air around him. "Lord Gallifrijan?" she asked, hope and worry mingling in equal measures in her voice, "is that you?" She was answered with a muffled affirmative. "Quickly!" she called to the others behind her. "Help me get him free. We have to save him!" "But from what?" Philip asked. "Someone, somewhere," she answered, "is trying to destroy the magic of storytelling itself!" Meanwhile, had noticed their earlier concern over the stagnation... CHAPTER 07 - EMERGENCY! - THE RESET BUTTON Jim has a desperate solution to offer for the stagnation... -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "I'm sorry, I've been trying to get this bloody hat off my head for the last half-hour," says the Jim troll, interjecting his haberdashified (and temporarily transmogrified) cranial appendage into the conversation. "But I always keep one of these around for emergencies." Emerging fully from the swirly-whirly special effect, he mutters "go on then, go bother someone else" and the temporo-spacial anomaly scuppers off happily. Jim takes a deep breath and pulls a large, leatherbound copy of Hitchhiker's Guide from his voluminous robes. However, the book is a fake, designed purely to hold one object. It is a black box, roughly the size of a paperback novel, and with the same glossy-paper shine to its surface. A dimly glowing red button is set in the exact middle, and gold-scripted alien writing rings the button itself. Below the button, the words "PANIC BUTTON" appear in large, friendly letters, though someone has written "DON'T" above them, using a tin of Liquid Paper. "Behold," Jim says with reverential awe, "the dreaded Reset Button. Rumour has it that a special button was crafted for each season of Trek, allowing writers to conveniently forget all character development, backstory, and any other perceived 'clutter' between stories or between seasons. This is why there are thirty-five stories about Data wanting to be a real boy, several dozen about Worf dealing with his Klingon heritage, and so forth." As the others look on, amazed and somewhat fearful, Jim continues. "This very button holds great power. According to my source, it was used once and only once during all of Trek--at the end of season one of Next Generation." "The one with the brain bugs?" "The very same." A timid hush falls over the room. Jim carefully returns it to the book and lovingly closes the cover. With a flourish, he hands it to the Mistress of the Hoe-down. "My lady, I place this in your care. If you believe it is needed, you may use it. But be warned! I understand that a certain book editor has something similar, and it's caused no end of trouble amongst the fanboys." And with that, Jim folds his arms and beams expectantly at her, awaiting a response.... -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "Oh... FLIP!" This not being the response which Jim was expecting he turns, surprised, to see Daibhid putting a remote-control-sized device with a single button labelled "Deus Ex Machina - Do Not Press" back in the Rucksack. "My big chance to be relevant to the plot," he mutters, "Back to the cat-herding then, I guess." -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The hostess paused in her efforts to free Lord Gallifrijan from the tangled mass of story threads long enough to acknowledge their offers with a smile for each of them. The truth was, she was a tad overawed by the great amount of trust they place in her, but there's no time to let that slow her down. "I don't think we need to go to quite so drastic measures ... yet." She turned back to her task, tearing away at the sticky cocoon with a vengeance as she spoke. "Don't you see?" she asked, "it's been in front of our noses the whole time: first, it was the typo gremlins, then it was the mirage of the 'flame bringer', then it was Yartek. Someone -- or something --" she repeated, "has been trying to stop our story from continuing, and each time --" she paused again while she shook a particularly sticky and nasty mass of dangling plot lines from her fingers "-- each time we've gotten close to discovering the truth," she continued, "an even bigger disruption has been thrown our way. It was the entrance of Mister Kid Curry here," she said, nodding to her reticent guest with a smile, "that finally made it all clear to me. He," she explained, "has been taken out of his own story completely. It's not just our story that's under attack -- it's ALL stories EVERYWHERE! If we don't stop the villain -- whoever is doing this, we might end up scattered through American soap operas, or history books about World War II, or show up in some poor family's genealogical record -- or worse, we could simply cease to exist!" "But who would do such a thing?" Imran asked. "Not the Black Guardian again?" "No, I don't think so. I imagine that Eris has him on a pretty tight rein after the mess he caused last year." "The Valeyard?" Daibhid asked. Lord Gallifrijan, now free from most of his wrapping, coughed and sputtered, and spit out the last of his gag. "No, not the Valeyard -- he's actually the one who sent me. He came back to Gallifrey from Titan Three to warn us about some very disturbing anomalies that started showing up in the temporal fields around there. He said you lot would be the best people to ask, since you all saved him last year." "Does that mean," Jo asked, her heart sinking, "that we have to go to Titan Three to solve this?" "I'm afraid so," the hostess replied. "But that's the most depressing planet in the galaxy!" "I know -- but all the more in need of some Pro-Fun agitation, right?" She tried to sound enthusiastic as she said this, but wasn't quite sure she succeeded. "But if all the pro-fun trolls get depressed," Daibhid said, "the universe will be doomed!" "I know," the hostess said, that's what's worrying me." -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Back outside the barn... A strange vehicle pulls into the cul-de-sac - it has three wheels and pedals and the rider appears to be lying down. A flagpole with a bright orange flag and a small multicoloured windsock is attached to the back of the seat. She pedals into a quiet corner and stops, unfastening her shoes from the pedals with a couple of quiet clicks. As she stands up, it seems for a moment that this might be another troll, but on closer examination it becomes clear that she is merely a short and globularly inclined human wearing pedal-pushers, a Wallace and Gromit T-shirt and a bright yellow baseball cap. From the bags fastened to the back of her trike she takes a heavy metal object like a stretched letter "D", removes its crosspiece and begins to slide it through the rear wheel. Then she stops and shakes her head. "I don't think that's necessary. Not here," she remarks to no-one in particular and puts the bike lock away again. Rummaging further in the pannier she extracts a smallish package and turns back to the trike. "Now Thcrapth, you be a good girl while I'm inside - and don't frighten that horse, it looks a bit nervous." Someone with exceptionally good hearing might think they heard a contemptuous "As if!" at this point.... The rider nervously approaches the door and goes inside, proffering the bag of pistachio nuts she's brought. "Erm, sorry I'm a bit late," she mutters, "the route was a bit hillier than I'd expected. But at least I got here eventually...." "So," said a little yellow troll with purple freckles scattered across its uncharacteristically small nose, "you must have come across the Blue Ridge Mountains... Sounds like you could use a good drink. What's your pleasure?" Enlightenment dawns on the face of the short cyclist. "Is that where I was? Perhaps I should have listened to that rabbit and turned left at Albuquerque.....But where are my manners? I'm Carol, and I'd love some lemonade......and what are they doing over there exactly, or shouldn't I ask?" she inquires peering at several assorted personages who appear to be unwrapping someone from a cocoon of long sticky strings. Carol rummages briefly in her pannier. "I've got some gear cable cutters in here, if that's any help?" she suggests, producing them from the very bottom of the bag.... Lord Gallifrijan strides over to her, brushing the last of the plot lines from his cloak. He bows his head slightly and smiles at Carol. "Thank you, Milady," he says in his most silkily charming voice. "I'm free now. ... But keep those handy," he adds. "We may need them for when the story really gets going." -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Then... ...for the second time that night, a lightbulb flashed above the avocado troll's head. "The 'Authorial Persona Manipulation Field Projector' --" she asked the Doctors, "is it working?" "Yes," the fifth said. "But we don't need it now, do we? How is that going to help us?" "Here's how!" She snapped her fingers and whistled, calling the one typo gremlin who had gotten to Gordon's collection of fanzines too late to join the orgy. "Here boy! Here ya go, a pair of niece jiucy typos!" As soon as it flew within range, she scooped it up in her party hat and set it down on the APMFP. "There! Now, it's an 'Authorial Persona Manipulation Field Protector'! -- As long as the pro-fun trolls join in and become authors, they'll be protected from outside influences, such as depressing atmospheres, and meddling villains.... At least I hope so." Ninni looked at the outlandish contraption. "So this means we can all do things purposefully now, instead of being sidetracked all the time? Good." The avocado troll turned to Philip. "Since this is your pet piece of fictional engineering, I think you should do the honors." "You sure?" Philip asked, a little nervously. "I don't have much experience with this sort of thing." The hostess nodded vigorously. Philip reached out and hit the big purple button marked "on" and a quiet, deep thrumming sound filled the TARDIS. "Right!" the hostess said, heading for her console room. "Time to go to Titan Three. Brace yourselves, everyone!" -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "Excuse me," Ninni intercepted her hostess, "will the transit take long?" "Not at all, not at all. We'll be there in no time." "In that case... If you'll excuse me for a while. I'll be back soon!" All during this conversation she had kept a wary eye on the Master, the happily pot-potting snowgrouse on his arm, whom she had noted was now purposefully making their way towards the Fifth Doctor. She would have to act quickly if she wanted to counter their evil plans. She fairly ran up to the Doctor, grabbed his hand and began dragging him away. "Come on. We have urgent business elsewhere, right now. And then you can tell me all about Titan Three afterwards." Meanwhile, the hostess seized her chance to talk to ... CHAPTER 08 - IS KID CURRY REALLY GUILTY? The avocado troll slips off to talk to Kid Curry... -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Kid let himself be led away as meekly as a newly weaned puppy. The troll brought him to a side room off the main hall and sat him down in the big red armchair where she liked to take her afternoon naps, and pulled up a three legged stool and sat down next to him. "Kid," she said, and waited until his eyes came around to focus on her. "I can only imagine how frightened you must be, and not very well, at that. I know you don't want to go back, and I sympathize. But it's not just the endings of stories that are in danger -- it's their beginnings and middles too. Do you want all of that to be erased? Think back to your own beginning. Surely, there must be someone there you loved -- a parent, a sibling, a pet..." she paused, and took a chance "...a sweetheart." Kid took his breath in so sharply she might as well have punched him. "Do you want to lose that, too?" she asked, after a moment. "Because it will be lost, unless we do something to set it right." Kid didn't answer, at least not in words, but his gaze turned inward, as though he were focussed on finding his way through the maze of his memories. The troll stroked the back of his hand while she waited for his decision. It was then that she noticed the incongruity. "Kid," she asked, "If you were on the run for your life until the moment you came into the cul-de-sac, when did you get the chance to wash your hands and shave?" He tensed again, the old hostility rising to the surface. "You callin' me a liar?" "No, not exactly, but..." "But what?" "Maybe whoever is messing with your story is messing with your memories as well. Maybe you're not as guilty as you think you are." -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Kid Curry turned away almost violently, staring down at the fingers she held in hers. There was a long silence. Finally his other hand came up, tracing along his jaw where the first rough shadow of beard was only just beginning to show, and he shook his head almost helplessly. "I was down in the valley, that's all I know. Down on the track with my horse sinking under me and the hunt on the crest behind, and the dust- storm came up to hide me, horse and all. And when it was gone... All I remember is, it was night. First it was day and then it was night, and I was in town, but it wasn't any town I ever saw. Where I was, in between, all those hours... I don't know. I just don't know at all!" They made an incongruous pair, the two of them; the drained dark face of the outlaw, hunched in on himself against the winged back of the wide red chair like a straw doll that had lost its stuffing, and the tubby little troll with her feet curled up under the stool beside him. He'd have laughed to see it, himself, not long ago - jeered until the victim turned and drew, or else mocked him for a coward. You had to run with the mob; keep your side up, or be pulled down in your turn. More memories welled up, and he let out a quick half-sobbing breath of laughter through clenched teeth. "I always knew I'd swing some day for what I've done - but not like this. Not for ninety dollars and a man I never meant to kill..." He caught hold of the hand that was stroking his and pulled it towards him, bringing her face up close to his own. "Makes a fine story, don't it? Part of the time you're the hunter and the rest of the time the hunt's after you - not a place to stay, not a friend to trust, not a safe name to call your own. You kill, and kill just to stay ahead, and all the time you're on the run. You take the cash, and somehow it never lasts, and the story goes on - and then you hit the twist. That's the end. "You know it's the end, on account of it makes a better story that way. You don't go down for all the stuff you've done; no, you go down for the one time you tried to do right, or the one time you didn't aim to shoot an old man and maybe should have. But it's the story says that's the way it's got to be - just so as it can end like it ought to, on a twist." He took a deep breath. "But this time it looks like something went wrong, doesn't it? Looks like I got twisted clean out of the noose - out of where I was meant to be. Looks like I got another chance -" "No." The avocado troll is shaking her head sadly. "No, Kid, you can't. You can't leave a story dangling like that. Sooner or later it will start to come apart, and everyone in it - everyone in your past, Kid, everyone who made you what you are. And if you let that happen, then you'll start to go. And every story that touches yours. Your whole world, and everyone you ever cared for - even the beginning." Watching his face, she makes another guess. "Even before it all went wrong." Kid Curry says nothing; but the very silence is an admission. The spark of animation has drained out of his face, leaving a stony mask. For a moment she is afraid that she has lost him. "Listen." Her voice is urgent. "What happened to you was a mistake - it has to be. Whoever's doing this, the last thing he could possibly have wanted was to bring you here - to us!" She presses her point as a flicker of interest stirs almost unwillingly behind his eyes. "That must have made your story unstable. He tried to cover up for it, and the whole thing went off-balance. If we can get at the memory of those missing hours, we might be able to get a clue as to just how he's doing it, and work out a way to stop what's going on. We need all the help you can give - and there's a chance -" She breaks off, leaving the words dangling. He takes the bait. "A chance?" "If your story's really unstable," she says slowly, telling herself firmly that what she is doing is not really a trap, "there's a chance that we might find a way to roll it back. We might be able to put you back at the beginning instead of the end. This time, you might be able to make a different choice." -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- :::This is not what I meant, she thinks to herself, desperately. Why is it coming out wrong? Isn't the APMFP working?!::: Her next string of words comes out in a rush. "What I mean," she says, "is that maybe you have someone else's story in your memory -- maybe whoever is doing this planted the memory of the murder and the lynch mob in your head in order to get you off track -- in order to get you to run..." "No!" Kid said, violently. "I know what I did. I know what it felt like to hit that old man, the sound his head made as it hit..." For the first time that night, his stony mask was broken, and he began to shake. He clenched his fists to stop the trembling but with little success. "I'm sorry, Kid," the troll said, trying to imagine the horror of having your own story taken away from you. "But you have to admit, it did get you to run right into that Time Scoop without thinking twice." "'Time Scoop''?" Kid asked. "What in blazes is that?" "It's a -- a --" She stopped suddenly. She hadn't realized what she had said until she heard it echoed back at her. Was it really a Time Scoop? Could the Time Lords really behind all this? She shook her head. No, not even they could be so reckless. But she wouldn't be surprised if it was similar technology.... Now, who would have similar technology, and why would they use it? "Think, Kid," she said to the astonished cowboy, not knowing how to answer his question. "Think hard. Back before the hit on the liquor store, back before you came to that town. Why did you shave? You were going to meet someone, weren't you? Someone important. Someone you wanted to impress." It was all a guess, of course, but she could tell by the subtle shift of muscles around his eyes that she was hitting close to the mark. She just hoped that she herself wasn't implanting false memories. "Who was it, Kid?" she asked, urgently. "How would the story have gone if you had kept that meeting, and not been swept off course?" She watched his eyes, as his mind traced his steps back into his memory. At last, he took a breath, prepared to speak, when the little turquoise troll bounded into the room. "The horsey's all better, Hoste-- eep!" she squealed, in spite of herself, at the sight of Kid. The avocado troll looked from one to the other. The reaction, it seemed, was mutual. If Kid had been ready to say more, he was no longer. She sighed. "It's okay, Dear," she said. "This is the horse's human. He's going to rest here a while." she turned her mind to the other guests. "Do they all know where we are going, and why? Have you told the Master, Auntie, Zorak and Phi1ip?" she added, remembering that those four were otherwise occupied when Lord Gallifrijan finally got his message to them. "I -- I didn't want to interrupt them," the little troll said nervously. "I'll do it," the hostess said. "I want to ask the Master about Time Scoop engineering, anyway. I think we may need his help on this." -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Kid Curry watched the two trolls dive into agitated conference. He'd gotten a feeling it could somehow be vitally important to understand what they were talking about - but it just didn't make sense. None of it made sense... Where was he? What was this place? One hand crept up to rub at his forehead almost desperately, as if trying to erase the furrowed lines knitted there. Valeyard... Gallifrijan... Time Scoop... And the worst of it was, it all sounded familiar somehow. He didn't know what it meant, but he could have sworn he'd heard it before. And that didn't make sense, because he hadn't. He knew he hadn't. He knew where he'd been. He knew who he was - he didn't have to like it, but he knew... Only, suddenly, he didn't. Suddenly, he was in a place where stories shifted and changed - where you could remember a murder out of the mind of some other man - where a guy could be framed for a killing he hadn't done, and even he'd believe it - Blind panic was nibbling at the back of his mind. No wonder these folks were scared. But at least they seemed to know what they were talking about. He didn't. He was way, way out of his depth, and he didn't know what to do. For a long time after the avocado troll and her little companion had hurried out, the fugitive huddled motionless in the chair, eyes closed, jaw clenched rigid. Finally and unexpectedly, exhaustion got the better of him. When the avocado troll peeped back a while later, she found that her guest's head had dropped forward against the side of the armchair. His mouth was open, and she could detect a soft but very definite snore. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- She smiled quietly to herself. :::The Napping Chair strikes again! she thought::: Maybe he wouldn't exactly be right as rain when he woke, but perhaps his memories would sort themselves out through his dreams. She took a deep breath. Time to do what she had been putting off far too long. Squaring her shoulders, she made her way through the milling crowd as resolutely as she could, trying not to notice all the people who wanted her to stop and explain what was going on. "Erm," Imran said, finally, tugging hard at her elbow, forcing her to stop. "We've arrived at Titan Three. What should we do now?" "Sit tight for just a minute longer. There's something I have to do." Going up to the 19th Century Italian Neo-Classical wardrobe, she knocked at the door (With considerable bravery, she thought). "Master? Auntie? Cardinal?" she called. "We've stumbled into a major crisis. And we could really use your help!" The door was ajar... CHAPTER 09 - IN SEARCH OF THE MASTER The avocado troll hopes to enlist the Master's help... -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The door of the wardrobe gradually fell open with a lugubrious creaking noise, and the sound of the Master's chuckling could be heard echoing around the space inside. Distinctly un-nerved, the troll poked her nose closer to the threshhold. "I can hear someone laughing in there... is that you, err, Master?" The avocado troll gestured to Imran to come close and back her up, and then thinking better of involving him, she turned to him and said, "Whatever you do, don't follow me. This could be very dangerous." With no further ado the troll ventured nervously into the wardrobe. She stepped up through the real-world interface into a large black hexagonal room, familiar roundel patterns on the walls, elements of each echoed in the shape of the metallic black console at the room's centre. A strip of subdued lighting around the very edge of the ceiling provided very dull illumination of the contents of the room: a blank scanner on the wall, an interior door, the console, and off to one side of the room another 19th Century wardrobe. The troll sauntered across to it, and examining it closely, it appeared to be an exact copy of the wardrobe she had just stepped into. After a moment examining the lock of the wardrobe she sensed a presence behind her and spun around to find Imran standing between her and the console. "I thought I told you not to follow me." "Yes, but I borrowed this communicator from Doctor number two - apparently we can patch through to UNIT and call for help if we get into trouble." Imran's face fell. "Of course, that's if it works from inside the confines of a TARDIS." The troll frowned. "Well, at least we have safety in numbers. If two's any better than one. Are you any good with locks, Imran?" "Not particularly, but then these wardrobes didn't use particularly complicated locks! I'll give it a go!" After a few minutes of manipulation, first using a similar type of key to the shape of the lock, and then the antenna of the communicator, Imran finally succeeded and the interior wardrobe's door fell open. "Do you have a feeling of d�ja-vu?" the avocado troll asked. "You're wondering whether there might be an infinite recursion of wardrobes?" Imran smiled. "For some reason, that thought had occurred to me..." "Unlikely. I think the Master has simply materialised his TARDIS around the original SIDRAT wardrobe. After you," Imran smiled. "Erm... thank you, I suppose!" the avocado troll grinned. The interior of the second wardrobe was much smaller than the TARDIS; done out in rather plainly varnished walnut, and with a greatly diminished control console at the centre of the room. "Hmm, very season fourteen..." muttered Imran under his breath. "What did you say?" the avocado troll asked. "Not a Master to be seen. Nor a Cardinal. Not even an Auntie." Imran replied. "So what do we do now? The Master must be somewhere else..." The avocado troll turned to go out the same way she came in, and noticed a chaise longue in the corner. "That must be the chaise longue of unreasonable discomfort!" she murmured, "We should get out of here..." Cardinal Zorak and Phi1ip suddenly entered the SIDRAT, still with a glazed look in their eyes, bearing silken cords in their hands. "... before it's too late?" Imran glanced at the avocado troll, arching his eyebrows. "When I say run, run!" the avocado troll whispered to him, and looked around. The SIDRAT had no interior door, and Zorak and Phi1ip were standing right in the way of their escape... -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "Oh, heh, heh..." the troll said, trying to look as though making a run for it was the last thing on her mind. "There you are! We've been looking for you guys." She backed away as casually as she could. "Listen, there've been a few, erm, 'developments' since you ... er ... left the dance floor, and things are a bit hairy right now --" The Cardinal grinned in a wickedly intoxicated way. "Hmmm... 'hairy'," he said, "I'll get the electric razor!" "Nonono, No, NO!" the troll said quickly, "Th-that's not what I meant. I-I think it's time for a quick recap of the story's main plot points. Don't you, Imran?" "What," he asked, incredulous, "all of them?" "Okay, maybe not. The short version then," she said. And then, with a rapid fire delivery that would make a professional auctioneer jealous, she spit out: "The mystery guest (whom we thought was a Flame Bringer) is really Lord Gallifrijan, who was bringing an emergency message to us from the Valeyard on Titan Three, asking for our help. The reason it took us so long to figure that out is that someone or something is deliberately interfering with our story, first with the typo and tense gremlins, and then by making all the dangling plot lines extra sticky. What's more, this someone or something has dumped a spaghetti western outlaw named Kid Curry into our fictiverse, and has thoroughly messed with Kid's memories in the process. But, based on the bits and pieces of what Kid has said, I believe whoever it is has pirated Time Scoop technology, and is trying to undo every story in the multiverse. So I've piloted my TAR-- EEp!" This abrupt end to her spiel was brought on by a dark shadow falling across the doorway. Looking toward its source, the avocado troll found herself staring up at the Ainley Master, dressed in full Dom attire, whip and all. "I came looking for my slaves," he said, sounding almost apologetic. "They were taking far too long. ...I only caught the tail end," he added. "Did I hear correctly -- someone is trying to undo every story in the multiverse?" "That's right," the troll said, grateful that someone seems to have heard her. "And I could really use your expertise on several technical matters." "'Every story'?" the Master repeated. "Even erotica?" "Even erotica," the troll replied. "Sorry, boys," he said to Cardinal and Philip, tossing the whip into the corner. "Business calls." Catching sight of their puppy dog eyes, he purred: "Don't worry, when this is all over, I'll make it up to you -- with a vengeance! Bwa-ha-ha-ha!!" -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Avocado troll pats down her pockets. Eventually, she finds the naughty gremlin. "Bad boy!" she says, giving it a little thwap on the nose, "naughty, naughty, to involve Philip in this little sordid escapade -- he was perfectly innocent! ...I suppose this means," she said to herself, "that Phi1ip is now with the Doctors working the kinks out of the Authorial Persona Manipulation Field Protector..." "The What?!" the Master asked, astonished. "And I thought I invented all the wickedly complex techo-babbly gadgets." "I'll explain later," the troll told him. "Right now, I have to make sure we have all hands on deck, so to speak, for moving this st