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TO DIE FOR: THE FEMININE MISTAKE PART 1: HAPPILY NEVER AFTER by BKWillis The great philosophers of the ages have often been given to con- sidering the concept of Life. What is its nature? What is its meaning? What can we do about it? Some of the greatest minds in existence have contemplated this subject, studied its angles and intricacies, and generally avoided doing any real productive labor while sitting on their duffs scratching their chins and look- ing thoughtful. The answers that they have arrived at after all these centuries of intellectual three-card-monte can basically be boiled down to the following theorem: "Life generally sucks." Had any of these so-called intellectual giants thought to do it, they could have simply asked someone who knew this. In particular, they could have gone to This Time Round, ordered up a whiskey- and-soda, and gone to a small side booth where their questions regarding the generally sucky state of the human condition would have been answered. They could have sat down, had a bit of a chat with the very pretty redhead in the opposite seat, and heard all about how Life not only bites, it bites the big hairy one. Nietzche and Plato could have nodded sagely over their cups as Mill and Kant scribbled down notes and Descartes tried to get a good view of the girl's ample cleavage. Eventually, though, things would have gone badly when Marx made a lewd pass at her, citing the phrase "from each according to her ability, to each according to his needs" as the reason she should go upstairs with him. As it is difficult to philosophize when one's head has been removed and inserted into one's rectum, poor Fred Engels would've had to write _The Communist Manifesto_ all by himself, with the result that Communism would have been a pathetic, abysmal failure in- stead of the utter socio-political catastrophe that we are familiar with. Or, to put it in less convoluted terms, Number One was currently very female, very depressed, and intent on getting very drunk. "How do I hate my life?" she thought. "Let me count the ways..." She took a long pull at her fifth Singapore Sling and began to silently enumerate her woes. One. She hated this stupid curse that turned her from male to female when she got doused with cold water. Two. She hated whoever had turned on the lawn sprinkler just as she (he at the time) was walking up to the pub door. Three. She hated the way her wet shirt stuck to her. Four. She hated the way the men in the pub kept staring at her wet, clinging shirt. Five. She hated being stuck in this screwed-up country where it never got warm enough and everybody drove on the wrong side of the damn road. Six. She hated whoever the tin-eared sadist was that set up the jukebox in this place. Whoever heard of a jukebox without any Charlie Daniels or Hank Williams, Jr. in it? Without even so much as a Steve Earle song? How in the Hell did they expect people to get drunk listening to the Spice Girls or any of that wimpy-ass Gen-X bullshit? Actually, there was _one_ song on there worth hearing, but she avoided it like the plague. That song always did strange things to her brain... Seven. She hated being stuck with four incompetent losers as her only allies. She had decided that her curse was their fault, since they caused her original plan to fail. However, she hadn't yet told them about the curse, and wasn't sure she wanted to. She had terrible visions involving the WANKERs, a water hose, and a locked motel-room door. No, best not to tell just yet. Eight. She hated those Adric Defense Force bastards. Actually, that wasn't strictly true. She hated the ADF as an entity, despised the principles it espoused, resented the fact that it was so well- funded, and was enraged that they had gotten the better of her on more than one occasion. But, as individuals, Doug and Diane seemed pretty decent, and a lot more likeable than most of her own people. And, most of the female ADFers were pretty cute, come to think about it. Nine. She hated the fact that her drink was empty. Easy enough to remedy that... Nine. (That last one didn't count.) She hated having to worry about the other Brethren trying to usurp her position. Especially that smirking son-of-a-bitch Number Six. No doubt he was already filling the ears of He-Who-Is-Never-Named with all kinds of misinformation about this latest setback, undermining the Nameless One's confidence in his chief lieutenant. Damn him, and that fuzzy little dirtball Five, as well! Ten. She hated whoever the damn jerk was that shot that cross- bow and caused her to get hit with the Jusenkyou water. She had no leads at this point as to who that might have been, but she would find out one day, oh yes! When she did, that person was going to scream for a very, very long time before they died. Eleven. She hated the stupid rulebook that kept her from just sweeping in and taking out the opposition in one sudden stroke. She had ten pounds of plastique socked away, more than enough to turn This Time Round into so much drifting dust. It would be _so_ simple to just wire the place, call Nyssa out on some excuse, and then blow pub, ADF, Adric, and all into the next world. But, _no_. The Nameless One insisted on playing by the Book, and the Book said that sort of thing was a no-no. Hell. Twelve. She hated-- "Hullo, Harry!" "Hi, Adric!" She hated _him_. Swamp Thing. The math geek from Hell. The Boy Blunder. The Thing That Wouldn't Die. Weasel-boy. _Adric_. She seethed as he came in the door, raged as he said hello to all and sundry, boiled in helpless fury as he put on his apron and set to work tending bar. The sight of him was like a red cape waved in a bull's face. Number One felt herself slowly losing her grip on sanity. "Don't look at him," she tried to tell herself. "Think happy thoughts... Think 'Earthshock'..." But, the happy thoughts wouldn't come. All that came was more of the black, soul-shaking rage. All her sorrows, all her woes, were the fault of this one kid. One whiny, beady-eyed little poster boy for the terminally uncool. He came to her table. "Care for another drink, Miss?" he asked. Something snapped inside her mind. She didn't think to wonder how the pitchfork had suddenly appear- ed in her booth, and wouldn't have cared. She simply snatched it up and drove it through the Alzarian's chest before either of them knew she was doing it. Adric looked down at the handle protruding from his ribcage. A bloody froth runnelled from his mouth as he whispered, "Hey, that..." His eyes rolled back and he slid bonelessly off the bloody tines. There was total silence. Number One looked at the dripping pitch- fork as if seeing it for the first time. No one moved. "Oh my God! She killed Adric!" Ben shouted from the card table. "You bastard!" added Chris a moment later. Several Cybermats crawled onto the boy's corpse and began chewing at it. Tegan looked up from her Bloody Mary-Sue long enough to glare at the room. "Oh, please. It's not as if he won't be back in an hour, you know." "ACTUALLY, I'M AFRAID HE WON'T." Number One stepped back, dropping the pitchfork as Death stalked up to the crumpled body. "THAT WAS HIS LAST LIFE, YOU SEE." The Not- Especially-Grim Reaper grabbed the body by the arm and hoisted it over one bony shoulder. "HIS CARD IS NOW FULL," he told the dumbstruck audience. "I HEREBY PRONOUNCE ADRIC OF ALZARIUS TO BE OFF- ICIALLY AND PERMANENTLY LIVING-IMPAIRED." With great solemnity he removed a rubber stamp from his robe and pressed it to the dead boy's forehead, leaving the word 'CROAKED' in red ink just above his eyebrows. "Hold on a minute!" cried Nyssa from the doorway. "You mean... that... Adric is... dead... _forever_?" The Traken girl's eyes shim- mered wetly and her lips trembled with emotion. "THAT IS PRECISELY WHAT I MEAN. BARRING POSSIBLE RESURRECTION BY DIVINE SANCTION AT THE TIME OF JUDGEMENT, ADRIC IS PERMANENTLY CONSIGNED TO THE NETHERWORLD. CASE CLOSED." "Oh," Nyssa said, her voice small. She stared after the limp body as Death carried it outside. After a moment, she followed, her expression unreadable. "Oi, who offed the punk?" Alexander Carter called as he slipped in past the seemingly-entranced Trakenite. Francois the Ogron jerked a dirty claw in Number One's direction. "Easy-looking girl take out geek-boy. Pitchfork in chest." The Ogron grimaced, a nasty sight. "Pitchfork do job okay, but lack aesthetic appeal of bludgeon or straight-razor." Number One shifted nervously as the crowd began to murmur. The situation had gotten very awkward very fast. She surveyed the room and weighed her chances. The Magnum was still in her truck, and without it, she doubted she could handle a roomful of people singlehandedly. Oh sure, she might get three or four with the pitchfork before they got her, but she'd still go down in the end. "If I'm gonna die," she thought, "I'm gonna die a man." She snatched a cup of tea from a neighboring table and doused her- self with it. The onlookers gasped in amazement as the pretty redhead was instantly transformed into a dark, brawny young man. "Incredible..." "...regeneration of some sort...?" "...easy-looking girl now mirror-eyes man..." "...a _guy_? I was gonna ask her out..." "Silence!" The room fell quiet as the Seventh Doctor stepped out and took control of the situation. "This... person... has just killed Adric! Permanently and forever! And yet, you stand around gap- ing like fools! Don't any of you know where your duty lies?" He glowered challengingly at the crowd. "Will none of you do what must be done?" There was a moment of uncertain murmurring and shuffling, and then, as one, the throng was galvanized into action. They came at Number One in a determined rush. He made a grab for the fallen pitchfork, but was siezed from behind by Sergeant Benton before he could get a hand on it. He attempted an elbow smash, but the crowd pressed him too thickly, and he could barely move. Strong hands held him by legs and arms, and he was dragged to the middle of the room. Number One struggled and writhed, but couldn't get so much as a hand free. Hands reached out and clutched at him... ...and patted him on the back. "Hip-hip-hoooraaaay!!" the crowd cheered. With a shove, he was raised up onto several shoulders and carried around the room. The applause was deafening. They carried the stunned aquatranssexual fanatic thrice around the common room, then set him down to a thunderous ovation at the bar. The Proprietor grinned and shook his hand. "Free drinks for life!" he yelled over the cheering. "My hero!" Number One felt a pair of lithe arms encircle his neck and turned to find a semi-inebriated Tegan looking at him from a range of about two inches. She smiled sloppily and planted a large, wet kiss in the approximate area of his mouth, then slipped away giggling. It was hard to believe, but they seemed every bit as glad to be rid of the pestilential little geek as he, himself was... Number One had never been the center of so much positive atten- tion in his whole violent life. For fifteen minutes, every person in the 'Round shook his hand, clapped his shoulder, slapped his back. He was offered drinks, flowers, and heartfelt thanks. They all cheered him to the rafters. Except for one person... Among all the crowd of patrons and staff, Time Lords and Comp- anions, villains and heroes, bit-players and recurring characters, Nyssa of Traken was conspicuously absent. Along with all the inane grinning, sheepish shrugging, and self-deprecating nodding Number One did, he also kept up a watch for her, but to no avail. Brooding, he pulled out a cigarette. Instantly, a host of people crowded around to offer him a light. He nodded thanks to Jamie, Victoria, Sarah Jane, and Peri, each of whom had stuck a match to his coffin nail, and took a long drag. "Speech! Speech!" Roz and Tegan began a chant, and soon the whole room thundered with cries for the Man of the Hour to offer a few words. Number One sought to demur, but they would have none of it. With a sigh and a boost from Harry, he climbed onto the bartop and smiled nervously at his audience. "Umm... thanks, y'all. I've, uh, been after the little jerk for awhile, but I guess I just saw an opportunity and took it. I had, ah, no idea I'd be a hero for takin' him out..." The crowd roared its approval. Modest, self-effacing heroes always go over well. "Really, I guess I did it for Nyssa." Number One's voice caught a bit as he said her name. "I just want to make sure she's happy..." "Is that so?" Everyone turned to look as Nyssa walked back in- side, her eyes firmly locked on Number One's mirrored sunglasses. In her right hand was the blue star Adric had worn on his chest, a small spot of Alzarian blood staining one side. The crowd parted Red Sea-like as she strode up to the bar, her face expressionless. "You say you want to make me happy," she said. "But, I am _far_ from happy right now." Number One's mouth opened and closed several times, but no words would come out. It felt as though his heart had frozen inside his chest. The world wavered in his sight. Could she _possibly_ have had feelings for that... that... that... Adric?! "How could I be happy? How, when Adric is dead and the person who did it... _hasn't asked me to marry him yet_?" A gasp erupted from a roomful of throats at her words, while Nyssa merely smiled slightly and looked at Number One expectantly. "Well?" she prodded. The ice had left the Southerner's heart, only to lodge in his brain. For a long moment, he couldn't remember how to speak, or how to close his mouth. Finally, a voice in the back of his mind shouted, "_Say_ something, you idiot!" "Er, ahh... will you, uh, marry... me?" It came out as more of a squeak than his usual low drawl, but at least it came out. The crowd held its collective breath. Nyssa looked thoughtfully at him for a moment, then help aloft Adric's badge for the crowd to see. As everyone watched, she snapped it in two and threw the pieces into the fireplace. "Yes," she said. For the second time, the cheering shook the roof. Nyssa was quickly hoisted to the bartop to stand by her new fiance, who still seemed rather uncertain what he should do. The Trakenite had no such problem and, to a chorus of wolf-whistles, wasted no time in throwing her arms around the startled man and en- gaging in what is colloquially known as a 'liplock'. The crowd loved it, as did Number One. "My best friend is getting married!" Tegan shouted in drunken glee. Zoe gave a happy squeal and the Fourth and Fifth Doctors looked on with avuncular fondness. Alexander Carter weaved his way over to Number One, a jug in his hand. "A wedding present!" he declared. "Just pour it on your head." Number One looked at it a bit dubiously. "What is it?" "Water from the Spring of Masculinity on Togenkyou Island. I got it right before Ranma destroyed the Spring in the second 'Ranma 1/2' movie." "It's... a cure for my curse?" At Carter's nod, he unstoppered the jug and dumped its contents on himself, wincing from newly- acquired reflex at the touch of the cold liquid. "Nothing happened," Nyssa observed. "I'm... still a guy. I'm _still_ a _guy_! Yes!" Number One pumped his fist in the air, then turned back to Carter. "Thanks, man! I--" But the weird merchant had disappeared. "What is this I hear? Nyssa is to wed this man?" The voice of He-Who-Is-Never-Named thundered from the doorway as the Brethren filed in. The brown-robed fanatics pushed a path to the bar and all bowed deeply before their Goddess. The Nameless One came last, his shadowy bulk towering over the genuflecting Brothers. "Have you in truth chosen this man as your Divine Consort, My Lady?" he rumbled. "I have." "Then, by the power conferred upon me by the Holy Slip, I declare that the man known as Number One is my lord and master, and Lord over all the Brethren of Nyssa!" The Nameless One bent carefully and kissed the scuffed toe of the Alabamian's boot. The others followed suit with proper solemnity, although Number Six may have muttered a few swear words under his breath and Five scowled the whole time. "You bastard! You killed Adric!" The ADF had decided to show up, as well. Six of them, led by Doug, burst through the doorway with guns drawn and eyes wild and rolling. Number One watched in horror as Diane took careful aim at him with an AR-18. He remembered the Magnum still in his truck, and groaned. "Now, the both of you DIE!" Doug screamed, levelling his own gun. "Not so fast, you!" A second armed group rushed in and placed their weapons at the ADFers' backs. "Drop 'em, boys and girls, or else _we_ drop _you_!" Number One blinked and peered at the newcomers. It wasn't... It _couldn't_ be... "Darren? Darren Ullman?" "Right here, boss!" Darren waved as he prodded Doug in the back with a gun barrel, then turned his attention back to the frozen ADF fighters. "How about it, kiddies? Put 'em down, or get ventilated." Sullenly, Doug and his cohorts complied. Number One was still confused. "Darren? When did y'all get so... competent?" "We always were. We were just faking to lull our enemies into a false sense of security. We waited for the right moment, then struck, and the WANKERs win again! See?" Ullman beamed happily at his erstwhile boss, then suddenly frowned. "Wait. You didn't _really_ think we were that stupid, did you?" Eric and Tyson herded the disarmed ADF soldiers into a group where they could all be covered at once, while David trotted up to the happy couple and bowed gallantly. "My Lord, my Lady, what shall we do with these prisoners?" he asked. "Why not take them as servants?" the Nameless One put in. "It is only proper that you should have some." Nyssa looked thoughtful. "That's not a bad idea..." "Servants?" Doug cried. "We will _never_ stoop to the dishonor of--" "I call Chauffeur," Diane interrupted. "Dibs on Gardener," Charlie said a split-second later. Doug looked ready to cry. "What do you think, dear?" Nyssa asked her soon-to-be-husband. Number One grinned like the maniac that he technically was and swept her into his arms. "I think this is the happiest day of my _life_!" ---- "...zzzz ...happ'st day m' life... heh heh... zzz..." "Somehow, I doubt that, Miss," Adric thought as he watched the sleeping girl. People didn't usually drink themselves into a stupor by four in the afternoon because their life was all peaches- and-cream. She smiled prettily in her drunken slumber, and Adric grinned a little to himself. At least her dreams were going well. She looked so peaceful and innocent lying there. Well, if you ignored the large number of empty glasses on the table, she looked kind of innocent. Hell, compared to the girl with whom Adric was most familiar, she looked positively angelic. He wondered who she was. Francois might know. ---- In a dimension a few steps removed from This Time Round, a shadowy figure in a brown velvet robe gazed thoughtfully into a large viewscreen. On the screen, a yellow-shirted young man stood in a pub looking at an unconscious girl with red hair and a pair of mirrored sunglasses perched on her head. "Hmmmm..." ---- "What do you mean, you don't take Debit Cards? _Everybody_ accepts Debit Cards! What kind of place are you running here?" The customer was American. The customer was irate. The cus- tomer was shouting at Francois. The customer, in all probability, would be joining his ancestors in the very near future. "Francois never hear of Deadbeat Card before, so business-type man no can pay for martinis with such." The Ogron held up a sign and tapped it with one sausage-like finger. "It say plainly, This Time Round accept Visa, MasterCard, RaniCard, American Express, SkaroCred, SontaraCharge, Galaxy Express Card, NatWest Card, all forms cash except Zygon eeurkks, money orders, traveller's checks, and barter. It not say anything about Deadbeat Cards." Adric, who had been polishing glasses while he waited for the chance to ask about the still-snoozing girl, sighed and reached for the mop. By the sound of things, there was going to be a mess in a few minutes. "Look, you... you... whatever you are." The man in the Armani suit positively shook with indignation as he thrust the card under Francois's broad nose. "This is an electronic banking card. It works just like one of your damn Limey NatWest cards. It's just the same!" "Where on card is business-type man seeing 'NatWest'? Francois looking, but only seeing 'Compass Bank'. Not say 'NatWest', so no is 'NatWest'. Is Compass Bank Deadbeat Card, and such is not on list." The American crossed his arms and glared stolidly at the Ogron. "This Debit Card is all I have. You can let me pay with it, or you can do without." Adric closed his eyes, waiting for the sounds of crunching and rending and anguished howling that would necessarily follow any such declaration. However, what he heard next shocked him far worse than the sounds of bloodcurdling violence ever could. "Francois sympathize with business-type man's problem--" Adric looked around to see if he had slid into some sort of alter- nate dimension or something. That kind of thing happened from time to time. But, no, everything seemed right. "--but Francois no can change rules. If business-type man want rules changed, must talk to shift manager." 'Shift manager'? What the Hell was Francois talking about? This Time Round had no 'shift managers'. "That will do nicely," the American grunted, satisfied that he was now getting somewhere. "You just get him out here. Now." "Okey-dokey," Francois replied, reaching under the bar. When he straightened up again a moment later, he had a rather crudely- made sock puppet on his right hand. The puppet had a cat's face drawn on with a marker and two paper ears taped to its head. The customer and Adric both stared. "This shift manager," the Ogron said, gesturing at the puppet with his other hand. "Is Mr. Moggie." Francois worked the puppet's mouth and said in a grotesque falsetto, <What is problem, loyal employee Francois?> "Well, Mr. Moggie," the Ogron answered in his normal growl, "business-type man no can pay with anything but Deadbeat Card. Deadbeat Card not on list, so Francois say no. What Mr. Moggie say?" The sock puppet was thrust in the man's face, where it appeared to examine him closely. <Man in such nice clothes surely have money, yes?> the puppet 'asked'. The American was having none of this. "See here, you! I'm not talking to some stupid puppet--" SMACK! Thud. "Ooh, poor Mr. Moggie have tooth stuck in head," the Ogron crooned sadly as he removed the offending incisor. "There! All better!" The customer climbed unsteadily to his feet, blood trickling from his split lips. "Why you crazy--" WHUMP! Adric winced. "Aww. Why Mr. Moggie mash business-type man's face onto bar? Mr. Moggie know Francois have to clean up mess." <Mr. Moggie just showing business-type man what nice fixtures bar have,> the puppet 'answered'. <Customer need understand how much hard work go into making nice pub, so Mr. Moggie want give good, close look. Perhaps if give good, close look at floor, and tables, and plumbing, business-type man appreciate other side of argument.> "Is sound reasoning, Mr. Moggie," Francois said enthusiastic- ally. "Is must be why Mr. Moggie manager and making _big_ money, yes? What say business-type man now?" "N-no more...," the man in question groaned. "I give up. But, I don't have any money on me..." He cringed as he said this last. <Is okay. Mr. Moggie use managerial skills to find solution. Is simple: This Time Round accept barter as payment. Business- type man have on nice watch. Give watch, and Mr. Moggie call even.> Francois gazed at the puppet with adoring eyes. "Mr. Moggie most brilliant manager Francois ever know. Francois in presence of greatness." "My w-watch? But, this is a $7,000 Rolex! You can't expect me to give it to you for a $15 bar tab!" <Just think of as tip. Or, if no want, can explain to Mr. Moggie's boss why refuse payment.> "Mr. Moggie's boss?" the man asked woozily. "Yes," replied the Ogron seriously. "Is general manager, Mr. Cricketbat." The Rolex found its way over the counter in short order. "Have nice day, and come back soon!" Francois called to the American's retreating back as it went through the doorway in an unsteady but rapid fashion. Adric coughed politely. "Umm, excuse me, Francois, but--" The Ogron quickly took the jeweler's glass out of his eye and jammed it and the overpriced timepiece into his pocket and glared at the boy. "Is _not_ extortion," Francois said defensively. "Is just, uh, 'aggressive capitalism'." "Whoa, there!" Adric blurted, backing up a step or two. "No arguments here! As far as I'm concerned, you let the guy off lightly. I just wanted to ask something." "Dead boy is much perceptive." Francois grinned at Adric's wince. He'd figured that the nickname would irk him. "What want know?" Adric pointed to the mystery girl. Said individual was still asprawl among a litter of empty glasses, snoring daintily and with a tiny trail of drool running from the corner of her mouth. All in all, not exactly the perfect picture of angelic innocence, but still somehow very... 'sweet' was not quite the right word, but was close enough. "That girl. Any idea who she is?" The Ogron bartender/thug eyed him curiously for a long moment, and seemed on the point of asking something, but apparently thought better of it and just shrugged. "Francois not know name of red-hair drunk girl, but is guessing must be fan, on account of Polly no hassle for credentials. Girl come in just around noon, complain much about jukebox, then drink many Singapore Slings until pass out sloppy drunk at three." His eyes hardened sudden- ly. "Know one other thing, too. Know This Time Round not rest home. Know red-hair drunk girl pass out without paying bill. Know girl not wake up and pay bill soon, then girl likely wake up in alley _much_ later and with _much_ bruises. Hmm... Act- ually, it appear Francois know _three_ other things, but dead boy get picture, yes?" Adric got it. All too clearly. He knew the Ogron had not the least qualm about thrashing anyone, even an unconscious girl. Somehow, he couldn't bear to see that. Adric was a basically decent kid at heart, in spite of all he'd been through. He couldn't just stand by and let something like that happen. He should go wake her up and explain things. That would be the right thing to do... ---- In the not-particularly-far-but-still-relatively-inaccessible dimen- sion, the brown-robed figure suddenly became _very_ interested in his viewscreen. ---- Adric gently shook the girl's shoulder. No response. He tried again, slightly harder. Still nothing but that soft, almost musical snore. "Hey," he whispered in her ear. "Wake up." No response, which was unsurprising since she had slept through Francois's noisy altercation with the American earlier. Hmmm... Shaking didn't work. Noise wouldn't work. What else could shock a person awake? Oh, yes... Adric picked up a teacup from a recently-vacated table. There was still a bit of tea in it, and it was still hot. Perfect. A bit of hot liquid poured on the head should do the trick. She might be a bit annoyed, but once he explained, everything should be all right. He stopped and looked at her, the cup poised over her head. She was smiling again, an innocent, guileless smile of pure joy. He noted the way her closed eyes crinkled at the corners, the way a lock of coppery-red hair had escaped from under the mirrorshades atop her head and fell across her forehead, the way her pert nose twitched ever-so-slightly. He thought back to another time, and another girl he'd once watched as she slept. That girl had just been through the worst that the Universe could throw at her, had just lost everything that had ever had any meaning for her, had just escaped death several times over, and hadn't had even the false comfort and happiness that eleven Singapore Slings could bring. That girl had finally fallen asleep on an old paisley sofa in a room where the rain beat forever on the windows, and then, as now, Adric had been entranced by the way the girl had looked so peaceful and sweet and... beautiful. Of course, she had later turned into a death-crazed psychopath, but that was another story. Adric sighed, remembering, the vision of the sleeping girl he'd once watched (watched _over_, a part of him liked to think) and the reality of the girl before him intertwining. He looked at that smile again, and thought of another face, and how long it had been since he'd seen that kind of expression. Adric sighed again, then reached up and turned off the light over the girl's head. ---- Deep in the shadows of its cowl, though no one would have been able to see it even if they had been there, the brown-robed figure grinned to itself in deep satisfaction. It would not have been a pretty sight, were it visible. He-Who-Is-Never-Named had just gotten the most _wonderful_ idea... ---- "No luck wake up girl? Mr. Moggie say that too bad--" "How much does she owe?" Adric asked. "Huh? Oh, uh... twenty-seven fifty." Francois looked puzzled. "Why ask? If girl not wake up to pay, amount... not... matter..." The Ogron wound down as Adric passed him three tens. "I'm taking care of it," he said simply. "I'll give you more for a tip when I get it, okay? Thirty's all I have just now." Francois stuck the bills in the register, considered for a moment, then gave Adric back his change. The Ogron looked far more thoughtful than normal and once again seemed to want to ask a question, but once again didn't. "Dead boy no worry on tip." Francois shrugged again at Adric's raised eyebrow. "If want throw money away on sloppy-drunk girl, is dead boy's affa-- uh, business, not Francois's." He offered the Alzarian a wolfish grin. "Besides, no think dead boy top nice business-type man's tip from earlier, yes?" Adric snickered at that, and went back to work polishing glasses. ---- "So, you say this chap beat you up, then forced you to give him your wristwatch?" "That's right, officer." The American was holding a rag up to his bleeding lip, while trying to wipe the stains from his expen- sive suit with another. "There was a whole pub full of witnesses, as well. God, what was I thinking, coming to this shithole of a country?" "I see," the policeman replied, taking careful notes. "Now, do you recall which pub this occurred at?" "You bet your ass I do! It was that strange place at the end of the road, off by itself in the woods..." "You mean This Time Round?" "That's the place!" The policeman leaned back in his chair. "That changes things a bit," he said. "What are you talking about? You get down there and arrest that bastard, or I'll have your ass! I'll call the Consulate! I'll call the State Department! I'll--" "Now, now, sir," the policeman said easily. "No need to take on so. It's just that we have an officer here who handles all the cases from the 'Round, and you'll need to talk to him about all this first." "Well, you just get him out here and get this thing under way!" the suited man snapped. The officer nodded and went off into another office. "Good God," the American muttered, "what does it take to get anything _done_ in this place?" A moment later the door opened again, and he looked up to see... ...a sock-puppet cat wearing a policeman's helmet. <I'm Sergeant Moggie,> it falsettoed, <how can I help you?> "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!" The policeman stared after the fleeing man for a moment, then looked fondly down at the sock puppet on his arm. "Another case closed, eh, Sergeant Moggie? I'm in the presence of a police genius, I am..." ---- Deep in alcohol-induced slumber, Number One remained slumped across her table, head resting on one arm. Somewhere, down in- side her dreams, she -- 'he' in the dream -- sang and celebrated deep into the night. The dream-Number One partied and carried on like he hadn't done in, well, _ever_. The dream-Number One was deliriously happy. A little of that carried over into the waking world. Not much, though. Just enough to make her sleeping body smile and softly mumble a fragment of a song. "...zzzz... heh heh... ...ding-dong, Adric's dead, heh heh hrrmm... ...zzzzz..." On the other side of the pub, too far to hear this, Adric looked up and saw that smile. Such a sweet smile. So innocent. So un- sullied. He'd done the right thing, sure enough. Adric smiled himself, and felt a little better about the world. Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Cut Scene - Notes
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