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Happy Fourth, everyone!
Careful with the fireworks and the barbecue grills . . .
MA
After all, HE could be lurking about!, - Friday, July 04, 2008 at 07:39:50 PM (EDT)
I long for nothing more than to give you a hug and thank you for all that you have brought the world of acting! You are terrific, Alan, and I've fallen in love with you. Mail me, and we'll talk!
Big Fan <rudundantmailforme@gmail.comfoo>
A Hug, - Thursday, July 03, 2008 at 11:05:35 PM (EDT)
Sure, I'll have some of that. *clink* Happy Birthday, FOF!
Suzanne
Is RL getting lessons from HIM? Hope it gets kinder soon! :-), - Saturday, June 21, 2008 at 08:14:57 PM (EDT)
It's June 18th---Happy Anniversary to FoF!
I know it's been mostly crickets chirping here lately (real life has been downright unkind) but I hope to resume posting soon and I hope some of our old regulars will join me. Meanwhile, I continue to salute this wonderful institution of Flights of Fancy.
Champagne, anyone?
MA
Salut!, - Wednesday, June 18, 2008 at 10:40:58 PM (EDT)
Hear, hear! *raising a glass to the Bard of Avon*
To the source of so much inspiration for us, with "these blessed plots, this earth, this Realm . . ."
Go, Shax!
MA
With all this talk of shaving, maybe it should be the Beard of Avon . . ., - Wednesday, April 23, 2008 at 07:58:00 PM (EDT)
Bite him?
*snorfle*
On that interesting mental image, the happiest of FOF birthday wishes to William Shakespeare (born April 23 1564) who has given us so many characters with which to identify, amuse ourselves, distance ourselves from, and give homage.
Happy 444 to the Bard!
R
Any offers to shave Judge Turpin?, - Wednesday, April 23, 2008 at 01:18:47 PM (EDT)
Still in the FoF cafeteria:
Mary Anne finally gets her wheezing under control.
“Mistral, if I weren’t a lady, I’d bite you.”
“If I weren’t a gentleman, I’d let you.” He pauses for the inevitable chortles and eye-rollings from both women. “Now, what is this I hear about---“ Leaning forward as his voice sinks ominously into its deepest registers. “---my power to inspire terror?”
“HIS power to inspire terror---“ protests Mary Anne, as Renie chimes in with, “Not that you aren’t inspirational on your own as well.”
“Mmm. Yes.” He settles back, steepling his fingers in front of him, and ponders. “Mary Anne, you’re right that The Interrogator can’t be allowed to stay out of sight too long. Do you have anything specific in mind? After all, this does concern me.”
“Well, since you were eavesdropping, you heard what I said about security and concealment. I do have some specific things in mind, of course; the problem is choosing which. For me, it comes down to two choices, or maybe three, that would give HIM what HE wants.” Mary Anne suddenly grins, more alight with mischief than she has been in months. “Another planet might be fun, but I ruled that one out because of the extra expenses; I’m sure The Director would rather stick with sets we already have. But wouldn’t it be fun to pitch it to him? The Interrogator . . . In . . . Spaaaaaace!”
It is good that Mistral is not drinking anything, or else Mary Anne would be well-revenged. As it is, she is satisfied to see him spluttering with mirth, as Renie adds, “It’s been so long since we’ve heard a good solid bellow of NO ALIENS!”
“My character is not an alien!”
“Yes, well, there are times when HE isn’t exactly human, either,” mutters Mary Anne, before returning to business. “Here are the possibilities I’ve considered---“
Moments later, Mistral nods, then slowly lowers his hands to the table and looks slyly from one woman to the other. “I can think of one more.”
Mary Anne and Renie exchange glances. “And that would be?” prompts Renie.
With a stealthy glance about at the other tables---no one watching or listening now---Mistral slowly traces a word on the tabletop with the index finger of his right hand.
Mary Anne’s eyes remain fixed on the table for several moments before she looks up at Mistral. “That’s crazy.”
“Insane,” confirms Renie.
“Barking mad.” Mary Anne stares down at the invisible word that is still so plainly before her eyes. “And just the sort of thing HE would do.” A slow grin. “Good thinking, Mistral.”
Mistral refrains from obvious preening, but without the slightest alteration in posture he is suddenly the incarnation of Cat, Lord of the Dairy.
“Now, the interesting part will be to sell it to---“
At that, The Director enters the cafeteria. Mary Anne is about to call him over when she sees that he is accompanied by Cindie and Linda from the front office, along with a man she has never seen before. “Who’s that, I wonder? Do you know him?”
Renie shakes her head. “Haven’t seen him. Must be someone new.”
Mistral nods. “Looks like your typical Welcome to the Set tour. Cindie and Linda are probably getting the paperwork in order.” A second, harder look at the man in question, then a slight frown. “Needs a shave, that one.”
Mary Anne hoots. “It hasn’t been so long since you were bristly and disreputable, you know.”
“Sacrifice for the arts,” replies the imperturbable Mistral, fingering his smooth chin.
“Well, maybe that’s what this is,” murmurs Renie. “Maybe it’s for whatever role he’s going to play.” It is a soft murmur indeed; perhaps Renie is a trifle distracted by thoughts of a Gruber jawline.
“Maybe he’s eeeevil,” intones Mary Anne. “Are you up for a little villainous competition, Mistral?”
Mistral’s answering snort, in no way to be attributed to laughter or accidentally inhaled beverages, makes short work of that idea.
MA---don't forget that now Judge Turpin is up for grabs as a character!
If anyone's interested, that is . . . , - Wednesday, April 16, 2008 at 10:39:45 PM (EDT)
Happy St. Patrick's, everyone!
MA
Is Dev standing by with an appropriate toast? (Or even an inappropriate one . . .), - Monday, March 17, 2008 at 08:16:38 AM (EDT)
Fixed. Well, sorry I didn't get something done sooner. :-)
Suz (D.o.C.)
He has permission to put his hands on my should anytime. 8-].....
Ooops! D.o.C., please? Two things:
“We’ll, we’d better get something done . . ." That should be "well" and not "we'll."
"A hand settles on her should and a voice breathes right in her ear . . ." That should be "shoulder" and not "should."
Thanks,
MA
Don't know where the "should" is located, but Mistral is too much a gentleman to go putting his hands on it without permission---of that I'm certain! 8-), - Tuesday, March 04, 2008 at 09:06:58 AM (EST)
Later that same day, the FoF cafeteria:
“---and The Director said this is not to be a ‘Mary Anne and Renie chat,’ if you know what I mean.”
“How can it not be a ‘Mary Anne and Renie chat’ when Mary Anne and Renie are chatting?!”
Renie sighs, a little too dramatically, and pushes aside a stack of script pages. “It’s not like him to be so unreasonable.” Carefully keeping her face straight, she watches Mary Anne from the corner of her eye.
Mary Anne does not fail to take her cue. “Yeah, just because a talk between our characters usually takes three months worth of script writing for half an hour’s talk---I think it balances out, don’t you?”
Renie bites her lip and considers. “Well, in this case, we have to remember that my character has just had a baby---“
“And mine is in recovery after surgery. Perhaps they won’t feel much like talking to each other . . .”
The two women look at each for a moment and then burst into guffaws so loud that a ripple of amusement passes through the entire cafeteria, and the cooks and servers all the way back in the kitchen glance over their shoulders and smile, exchanging looks of They’re at it again!
Indeed, they have been “at it” for a good portion of the late morning and the early afternoon, and the table is littered with the remnants of lunch, with scatterings of paper and cups of tea and saucers of cheesecake crumbs. As their giggles die down, Mary Anne briefly considers going back through the line for another slice of cheesecake, then shakes her head and heroically pushes away her plate, remembering Brandon’s gift of chocolate truffles for Saint Valentine’s Day, and the accompanying note:
Whatever you do, don’t tell The Director, or he’ll be after us like Javert.
That part of the note had made her laugh aloud. (Inquire not, Readers, as to the rest of the missive, which had provoked a response quite different though no less appreciative.) However, Mary Anne is under no illusions as to The Director’s awareness of what takes place within the confines of the FoF sets. He had known of the gift; of that she is certain. But he’s been decent and hasn’t said a word about it. The least I can do is not make myself sick on cheesecake.
Mary Anne reaches for another stack of pages. “Our characters, not up for a good talk? Then is doomsday near.”
“They’d have to be dead not to talk,” chuckles Renie as she refills the teacups.
Mary Anne’s eyes narrow. “Don’t let that give you any ideas, dearest. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a hundred times---“
“I know; I know! ‘There will be no dying!’ And I doubt if even that would stop us. If one of us were dead, our ghost would come back for a chat.”
“Well, we’d better get something done to show His Directorial Majesty---“ Sardonic, but affectionate. “---or else he’ll make ghosts of us.”
Renie nudges her arm. “Mary Anne, I dare you. Go to his office and tell him that when the time comes, we’ve decided to go improv on the chat scene.”
“If I want to die, there are easier ways! He’d murder us in the first if we told him we’re going to improvise on a scene that important.”
“Foul and most unnatural murder. Right.” Renie stirs her tea. “But we do have a lot of catching up, don’t we.”
“Oh, I’ll say. The Clemenceau document, for one thing; Mary Anne’s going to be, um, somewhat perturbed about that. Along with Renie having her baby and Hans not being there with her; just you wait until Mary Anne gets her hands on him---“
Renie smirks. “Fair enough, if Renie gets her hands on Brandon. An exchange?”
Mary Anne flaps her napkin at her comrade. “You know what I meant, Trouble! Now, let’s see; what else?”
“As if that’s not enough! Well, there’s The Interrogator. Speaking of doomsday and murder, I’d say HE would be a major topic. And just where have you stashed HIM, anyway? It’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question these days.”
“Me?” A wide-eyed stare. “What makes you think I’d know where HE is?”
“You should know by now that innocent routine doesn’t work with me! Where on earth is the man?”
A soft chortle. “What makes you think he’s on earth?”
Renie settles back in her chair. “Well, the Tardis picked up on HIS desire for a place of security and concealment. I hardly think most of us would choose another planet if that was our foremost desire.”
“Well, I do have a few ideas---but you’re right, I need to be making up my mind. We can’t keep HIM out of the picture for too long, you know. A bit of absence with that character builds up the suspense, but keep HIM gone too long and it might be out of sight, out of mind---” Mary Anne sips at her tea. “---and The Interrogator would lose HIS power to inspire terror.”
A hand settles on her shoulder and a voice breathes right in her ear, “Would I indeed, Mary Anne?”
Renie grimaces and pushes back her chair as Mary Anne utters a choked wheeze and a fog of exhaled tea settles over the table . . .
MA
Naughty man, sneaking up on people like that . . ., - Sunday, March 02, 2008 at 09:39:34 PM (EST)
Scene: Just inside the writer's offices.
“Well, good morning.”
Claudia thinks of replying with “Is it?” but discovers that she has her hands literally full up nearly to her nose, trying to manage the towering bundle of costume ideas she volunteered to bring in to Wardrobe. So a muffled clothing-covered greeting is all that issues from her mouth. Besides, she is actually in a great mood, despite the ten o’clock hour.
“Can I help?” Renie takes a share of the spoils, and together they saunter towards Wardrobe. How very like Claudia not to use a suitcase, or a rolling rack, or any other ready means of transporting costumes. Claudia wears a happy expression, as if remembering where she was—and what she was doing—a mere handful of hours ago.
“I wasn’t sure you’d be in this morning.” Renie has heard that Claudia tore up the dance floor tiles with Ed, Colin, and whomever else she could lasso.
“Dancing always gives me energy—for days.” Claudia’s step is in fact light and quick. “It was a wonderful party, though not everyone stayed so late. You left early?”
Renie balances her pile in one arm as she knocks and opens the storage door. Inside, a long, wide, niched hallway used for “dressing up” possibilities reveals some strange and still unexplored FOF adventures yet to come. “Not so early. The Director was already well “roasted” by his writers and actors, and the technical crew had ummm . . . presented their pyrotechnic birthday cake. I’ve never seen the like.”
Claudia wonders aloud how the cake might have tasted if the fireworks hadn’t been so liberally applied.
“Maybe we’ll use the footage somehow. It was pretty spectacular. At least, before the cake and icing bits landed . . . the camera crew shot it all. I think they got the worst of it. Thanks, Renie. Are you coming?”
Renie looks down the hallway, and sits on the edge of a chair, careful not to wrinkle some fabric carefully slung over its back. “In a few minutes. You go ahead.”
Claudia cocks her head to one side. “Getting an idea?” She waves and leaves Renie to survey the “futures” room.
But her mind was in the past. The recent past—last night, at the party, where she had clapped, and sang, but more or less stayed in the background. The Director had looked genuinely satisfied, surrounded by people he considered friends. At ease—except perhaps a moment of understandable concern over the mini-explosion of the cake; how he immediately reassured the assembly when he asked if his next birthday gift might be a fire extinguisher.
He was a man for whom life would always be about opening doors, and for whom friends would always be at his side.
She was honored to be one of them.
R
Yes. The kindest and best of men. Happy Birthday!, - Friday, February 22, 2008 at 02:25:23 PM (EST)
The Director’s office:
The Director enters . . . and stops.
There on the desk is a long envelope and a potted plant.
He approaches warily. On this particular day there are often practical jokes, particularly from Mary Anne, and their relations have been somewhat strained lately. His instructions and questions with regard to her work have been met with rather snappish replies. Knowing her as he does, however, he had followed a policy of restraint (no, not that kind, Readers---minds out of the gutter, please) and courtesy, even going so far as to pretend ignorance of the box of chocolate truffles Brandon had delivered to her cubicle on St. Valentine’s Day. Those, perhaps, had restored some of her sweetness of temper, and with that hope, he picks up the card and opens it.
The Director smiles.
The card wishes him a happy birthday and contains a hand-lettered coupon:
This coupon entitles the bearer to one day free of mischief, payable immediately upon presentation.
Next to her signature is a tiny drawing of a silly face, which causes him to grin back as if Mary Anne stood before him. Yes, perhaps things will be better now.
The Director turns his attention next to the houseplant, a handsome specimen with long stems bearing glossy green leaves and white flowers. Fortunately, it does not seem to have the same tendency to . . . proliferation . . . as her gift of the kudzu plant, which he had finally had to have removed from the office---“before I have to prune it with a flamethrower,” he mutters. This, however, seems to be something that can be kept within reasonable bounds.
His brow furrowed in concentration, he steps over to the next room. “Cindie?”
She looks up from her work. “Boss?”
“What do you know about plants?”
“I work some with roses. Why?”
He gestures. “Come here, please.”
She complies. At his gesture toward the plant on his desk, she answers, “It’s a peace lily, sir.”
MA---at last, a chance to break the drought.
Happy Birthday to The Director!, - Thursday, February 21, 2008 at 08:42:03 AM (EST)
Hi Anne--
I don't think the "True Love's Curse" storyline was ever finished. However, not all of 2004 has been loaded into the Archives, if I remember correctly. Suzanne has been working away at it but has been plagued with computer problems lately. So you might want to check back after all of 2004 is available.
MA
A trip to the Archives is always fun. Or should that be the ARchives? ;-), - Saturday, January 19, 2008 at 08:16:08 PM (EST)
Hello everybody,
I'm sorry but I haven't been here for years, and recently I decided to collect the complete True Love's Curse story I loved so much.
I started collecting the entries... And haven't found anything after Lee's last post in the Back Issues (March 2004).
Have I missed the ending or is there nothing more of the story?..
Thanks in advance.
Anne <notre2005@yandex.rufoo>
- Friday, January 04, 2008 at 08:16:35 PM (EST)
Would you pour me a spot of that, R, dearest? Thanks.
Christopher, suppose you follow the excellent example set by Hans . . .
MA *sigh* I do so love a nice nuzzle.
Happy New Year, everyone---here's to the adventures awaiting us in 2008!, - Monday, December 31, 2007 at 11:55:09 PM (EST)
*POP*
Never too early for a bottle of bubbly . . .
*pours*
KKrrrrsshshshchchchshchhshshsssssssssshhhhhhhhh
*raises glass*
To you, you each know who you are!
R (Hans), how can I sip if you're nuzzling me?
Joy in the New Year!, - Monday, December 31, 2007 at 11:06:53 PM (EST)
A Happy and A Merry, to all!
R
- Monday, December 24, 2007 at 08:03:48 PM (EST)
*sigh* R, dearest, I did try to warn you in that e-mail . . .
Here, Hans, let her lie down on this. *spreading the fainting couch with extra cushions*
Suzanne, if ever I saw a punishment designed to tempt someone to further sin---yow. AR fondling beautiful old books: what's not to love?!
MA
Howling like a barbarian librarian--arooooooo!, - Friday, December 21, 2007 at 08:11:06 PM (EST)
I'm sure the h*nd business must have been all AR's idea. It *might* even make up for the fact that they don't let him sing Johanna . . .
Oh, Suzanne, I keep rewatching that beginning . . .
*choke*
*more noises*
Hans, darling, the idea is to catch me *before* I'm on the floor . . .
R, - Friday, December 21, 2007 at 02:14:45 PM (EST)
*GASP*
*heartbeats*
DOC, you are most kind, but Suzanne!!! You are MOST wicked!
Someone pleeeeeeease help me . . . no, wait . . . don't . . .
*LOUD THUD*
Oh dear, there are those noises again.
That clip could be debt service for a year!--R, - Friday, December 21, 2007 at 02:09:00 PM (EST)
Imperial Palace—elsewhere in the Medical Wing:
“If you are certain you wish to do this, Your Majesty . . .”
A firm nod from The Empress. “I am certain.”
“Very well.” Mansel gestures to the door and then steps back. “Only . . . please recollect what Doctor Blalock has told us. There is every hope of a full recovery. Call if you need anything.” With that, Mansel withdraws, leaving The Empress to her private thoughts and the beckoning door.
She knows---none better---the difference between hope and expectation. Between expectation and certainty.
Nevertheless.
A brief intake of breath and she is through the door.
Looking at Rupert Cadell.
Slowly, slowly, the held breath is released. She had been told what to expect, told that her chief advisor’s condition is better than it looks. Well, it would almost have to be better---hard for it to be worse. The tangle of machinery, the ominous lights, assorted beeps and clicks and hums . . . and Rupert himself. The Empress steps closer, wondering if there had been quite so much silver in his dark hair before.
A second look, however, reveals some promising signs. Rupert is breathing on his own---slow, shallow breaths, but powered by no device but his own will and strength.
And there . . . the faint glitter of barely-opened eyes.
A sigh of greeting.
“ . . . Majesty . . .”
Dignity be damned. She is there in a heartbeat too quick to be measured on any monitor. “I’m here, Rupert.”
A long pause, then another gathering of breath. “ . . . not a dream, then.”
“No.” Softly. “None of it.”
Rupert’s left hand stirs, and The Empress settles her fingers on it, light as the fall of a leaf, tender to the bruises. Soft as her touch may be, she can feel his skin shiver under it, but she fights the impulse to withdraw and after a moment he calms and his heart rate steadies.
“Is HE . . .”
No mistaking those ominous capitals, even in that low whisper. The Empress shakes her head. “Escaped. We’re searching.”
“Mrs. Brandon?”
“Injured, but it missed everything vital. She’ll be up and about in no time.”
“Mrs. Gruber? The baby . . .”
“Is here, and she and her mother are just fine.”
For a moment, Rupert seems to rally his strength. “No ordinary girl---heiress of the Gruber empire. Empires, rather. Should start her dossier immediately---“
“Plenty of time for that,” laughs The Empress, rejoicing inwardly at this flash of the Rupert she knows.
He continues as if she had not spoken. “---and keep her safe. Just by being Renie’s daughter . . .” His voice drops, fades. “The Interrogator---“
“Shhhhhh. We have thought of that, as well. They have Guardsmen and Alliance all around them. Everything will be all right.”
Hope. Expectation.
Certainty? She must behave as if certainty is possible. She must make him believe.
Already, his eyes are fluttering closed, the surge of strength exhausted. One more touch of her fingers upon his. “Be well, Rupert. Hurry and be well. I need you.”
His eyes are closed; his breathing slow and regular. The Empress leans over him, watching for a moment, then reaches out to smooth his dark hair with its tracings of silver, brushing it back from his pale forehead.
No one to see. No one to know.
No one to hear if she murmurs a phrase from an old carol.
Sleep in heavenly peace.
MA
"Love really is all around . . ." 8-), - Wednesday, December 19, 2007 at 11:39:39 PM (EST)
Ah, the good old days. Posts deleted/un-merged. Since Mr. I, of course, is apparently to blame, no shackles for you this time, R. However, for old time sake, remember the h**ds debt service? Watch this video. Yes, I know it will be extremely difficult without fainting dead away, but... Hans will be there to catch you. :-)
No rest for the wicked...
Suz (D.o.C.)
And it looks like it ate part of my last post as well. *shaking head* Poor D.o.C.---good thing they work through the holidays as well. ;-)
MA---don't fret, R dearest; I blame HIM, of course.
As a matter of course. "Oh, a horse is a horse, of course, of course, unless it's Mister I . . .", - Wednesday, December 19, 2007 at 10:17:41 PM (EST)
And SHACKLES of course!
DOC, please delete the double entry. (Really it should have been one long post--oh bother!) Thanks.
R
Penitent. Yes. , - Wednesday, December 19, 2007 at 08:56:17 PM (EST)
Scene: And we are in FLASHBACK . . .
A close-up of hands.
Fingers are spread apart, slightly, and we pull back wider to see a man, sitting with his head in his hands. The voice of Anton Gruber, silky, soft, consoling, even as he grapples with the loss of his only daughter. In German he tries to soothe his eldest son.
“We cannot always protect the ones we love.”
Hans’ hands slip from his face—revealing the younger, less careworn, but equally defiant face of Hans Gruber, red with anger and sorrow. Competing emotions run behind his tiger-eyes, so he closes them, shutting out the voice of his father, the cries of his sister . . . he shakes his head, as if to free himself of all of them.
He will steel himself against love.
In a DISSOLVE, we FLASHFORWARD to a guestroom in the Manor House on Egdon Heath . . . Hans has torn himself away from Renie’s deathbed as she hovered between life and death . . . only to return to her side.
That day he fell on his knees, for love of her.
How he told her not to be afraid. That she should open the black Russian lacquer box.
How she had opened it.
"Renie, I love you more than I have ever loved a woman. And I love you more now than I have ever loved you.”
A glittering pear-shaped diamond ring, flanked by two tiny brilliant cuts of alexandrite.
Her breathlessness.
How her hand had trembled, taking the ring. How she had covered it up, closed her fist around it, to hide its fire. As if it was too bright. As if it was not to be believed.
As if to hide the fire they each knew they could not escape.
"Tell me, now. Tell me, forever."
How he gently pried her small fingers open.
"That you'll be mine. That I will be yours."
How he had turned over his left hand, and waited for her to put her hand in his.
"That you will marry me. Marry me, Renie."
As we DISSOLVE, we FLASHFORWARD to the Hansbank Penthouse at Nakatomi Plaza in Los Angeles . . .
To Christmas Eve 1997, as Hans watches his bride-to-be as she begins to walk towards him, arm-in-arm with Colonel Brandon . . .
. . . barely aware in that moment that Mary Anne, Claudia, Claire, and so many others are in attendance, watching too . . .
Too far away yet to see her clearly, Hans is instead aware of Renie’s presence inside of him, an unidentifiable feeling he connects with something like faith, something that enables him to live life, with meaning and purpose . . . when suddenly Hans hears the echo of his father’s voice, in German . . .
“We cannot always protect the ones we love.”
Hans knows his father is wise. He knows his father believes this to be true.
But Hans will be different. Hans will be one step ahead, at all times. Hans will protect her.
What keeps us from the absolute abyss?
Love.
As we DISSOLVE and we are in REAL TIME . . .
Hans Gruber removes his hand from the inner pocket of his jacket.
Straightening himself, he makes for the door of his room, and turns right to head towards the labour ward of the medical wing of her Majesty’s Palace.
R
Ach--there you are Hans . . . , - Wednesday, December 19, 2007 at 08:48:24 PM (EST)
Now, now, ACC---Brandon and Mary Anne have definitely indulged in a few, um, "dance numbers" at the Palace. All that's holding Brandon back at the moment is that his wife is injured. The man's a gentleman after all. But Mary Anne is certainly no gentleman (and at times she's no lady, either).
So give them a bit of time . . .
*singing*
MA loves mambo
Brandon loves mambo
Just hear ‘em sigh with it
Fly to the sky with it
Defy Mister I with it, wow (huh!)
MA
With profuse apologies to Perry Como . . ., - Monday, December 03, 2007 at 09:16:21 PM (EST)
I don't think we need to worry about this being classified as a "porn" site-Christopher and Marianne havent done the horizontal mambo since their honeymoon-just like real life LOL
ACC
- Saturday, December 01, 2007 at 11:45:17 PM (EST)
Before the day slips away entirely: Happy Anniversary, Christopher.
MA
A little canoodling with the Colonel . . . ;-), - Monday, November 26, 2007 at 09:06:31 PM (EST)
So that's where Hans is! Why am I not surprised? ;-D
So, Christopher . . . there's nobody growling into my neck . . .
MA
*putting on low-necked sweater*, - Friday, November 23, 2007 at 09:49:14 AM (EST)
*POP*
*pours*
*kkrrrsssccchchchchhhhchchhzzzhzhzhhzhzhzsssshhhhhh*
A Thanksgiving toast to my FOF family, here's to every one of you!
Much Love, R
Mmmmmmm, Hans, how can i sip if you're *growling* into my neck . . . , - Friday, November 23, 2007 at 12:51:50 AM (EST)
Imperial Palace, medical wing:
“OUCH!”
Joanna McCoy does not even blink as she works away with her probes and disinfectants. “Now just keep still, Mary Anne, and this won’t hurt a bit.”
“Doctors always say that and then it always does.” (homage)
“Well, it won’t hurt so much after this time; you’ll see. You’ll know what to expect. And besides---“ McCoy glances up and her keen blue gaze sharpens. “---these dressings were going to have to be changed sometime, and how would you like it if the Colonel came back before we’re done and had to sit and watch this? Just as well that you managed to talk him into visiting Mrs. Gruber. Now if you’ll cooperate, we’ll be done before he gets back.”
With a surly mutter, Mary Anne subsides into her pillows and limits her protests to an occasional wince as McCoy inspects and swabs. “Tell me, Joanna, do they teach blackmail in medical school? Or is that just your natural bedside manner?”
“I was never much for what most people call bedside manner, myself. I’m a doctor, not a babysitter.” McCoy peers at the incision site and nods in satisfaction.
Mary Anne waits until it is clear that McCoy is done with her painful probing and as the doctor reaches for a roll of gauze she blurts out, “And you’re wrong about Christopher, you know. He’s a soldier; it’s not as if he’s never seen anybody wounded before.”
McCoy’s eyes fasten upon hers, shrewd but kind. “Of course he has, but ‘anybody’ is not the same as you.”
Mary Anne looks away. “I just didn’t want you to think he’s . . . weak. That’s all.”
“I don’t think that about him.” A pause, broken only by the snip of scissors. “Or about you, if that’s what you were wondering.”
“They must teach mind-reading in medical school, too.”
“What, did you think you were letting down the side because cleaning a wound and changing a dressing can hurt? You’ve done pretty well, actually. Some people yell bloody murder.”
“It’s just strange, the difference between this and . . .”
Mary Anne is silent for so long that McCoy looks up and what she sees on her patient’s face makes everything clear in an instant. “You may think you were ‘braver’ while The Interrogator was trying to kill you, but adrenaline can do that. Besides, you had to get away, and so your body made it possible for you to do it. Any fussing you’ve done about this---“ McCoy leans forward to tape a pad of gauze into place. “---it just means that you feel safer here, that’s all. You can vent.”
“Actually . . .” Mary Anne hesitates. “Now that I think about it . . . Joanna, this is going to sound crazy, but I don’t think The Interrogator was trying to murder me.”
McCoy nods. “You’re right. It does sound crazy!” She sits back a little on the bed and points at Mary Anne’s bandaged shoulder. “What do you call that, if---“
“Oh, you don’t need to think I’m going soft on HIM or anything!” Mary Anne’s eyes are glinting, diamond-hard. “Yes, HE very nearly did kill me, but---“ A low, bitter laugh. “If you’d seen the look on HIS face when HE pulled the sword back after . . . it was dumb luck, that’s what it was. I got distracted and HE lunged, and those bloody long arms, that reach . . . it was all over in a second, but I don’t think it’s what HE intended.” A pause. “That’s what makes me furious, Joanna. I’m the one who has experience with a sword; anything HE knew was only because I knew it. I should have been able to kill The Interrogator and then all this mess would be over. Instead, HE’s loose out there somewhere and a danger to us all, every minute. I just feel as if I should have been able to kill HIM and as if I failed everyone, somehow, because I didn’t.”
McCoy ponders this for long moments as she packs up her medical kit. “I’m not sure I’m the right person to help you, Mary Anne,” she finally offers. “I’m not a psychiatrist. I’m certainly no swordfighter. But just speaking as a country doctor, my job is to heal people however I can. They get sick; I try to make them well. They get hurt; I patch the holes. Like now, for instance. People do awful things to each other and . . . well, I get to try and undo some of those things. And I’ve seen people die in spite of everything I could do for them, let alone if I had been trying to make them die. So think about this: try not to be too sorry because you didn’t kill someone---even if you think it’s a mistake. The other way around, now, that mistake is a lot harder to fix.”
Mary Anne would be willing to argue this point, but her attention is caught by a sound from the corridor. “What on earth is that? It sounds like a circus parade is coming down the hall!”
McCoy grins. “Let me know if you see any elephants; it means we gave you the wrong meds.” Turning away and taking a deep, silent breath of relief that Mary Anne’s attention has been diverted from their grim conversation, McCoy steps to the door and swings it open . . .
MA
"Mischief, thou art afoot; take what course thou wilt." ;-), - Thursday, November 22, 2007 at 09:57:11 PM (EST)
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! (Yes, Mister I, even you. Maybe it'll humanize you a bit . . .)
Giving thanks as always for my FoF family,
MA
*saluting with turkey drumstick*, - Thursday, November 22, 2007 at 01:24:36 PM (EST)
*hehe* Okay, okay, the new Mom has been granted a reprieve (paragraph fixed). :-) Congratulations, BTW!
Suz (D.o.C)
What mischief between R & MA await us?, - Tuesday, November 20, 2007 at 4:45:25 PM (EST)
Someone wrote something! Don't you dare put her in cuffs, she can't write that way!
ACC
- Tuesday, November 20, 2007 at 02:34:24 AM (EST)
DOC, would you be so kind as to fix my paragraph?
R
And of course, the obligatory set of cuffs, please. , - Monday, November 19, 2007 at 12:15:03 AM (EST)
Scene: A small table overflows with gift baskets and boxes, desserts wrapped in every imaginable plastic and tissue, cut flowers and beautiful plants, cards and letters. Vague morning sunlight enters through one window, spilling onto a hospital bed in the labour ward.
Strangely, there are few actual words exchanged while Colonel Brandon contemplates the young life before him. Brandon does not ask to hold the infant, but clearly his mind is engaged with tender thoughts which he keeps to himself. What these might be we can only imagine.
Likewise, the notion to take such a truly tiny baby into his own arms seems far from the mind of Anton Gruber—though the gentleman can hardly be called reticent where his daughter-in-law is concerned. He knows, perhaps, that there will be time to bond with his granddaughter. For now, it is miracle enough that she has arrived into the world, safely, and safe likewise rests her mother before him. Life does not always hold such joy. This he knows.
Therefore, to miss the moments, is to miss everything.
As Lyla Dragomir finishes attending to the last few details, Brandon’s plum of a voice coats the room.
“I must be getting back.” Brandon takes Renie’s hand in his own. He looks at her.
“Yes, yes,” comes her quiet answer. “It was so good of you to come—please give Mary Anne my love and tell her I miss her.”
“You may tell her yourself, if I understand correctly.” Brandon’s eyebrow perceptibly rises at Nurse Dragomir; she nods back.
It only takes a moment. Yes . . . Lyla’s efforts to put the room back into order . . . soooooo . . .
“I’m being moved?” Renie recalls Antonia’s words a little earlier. You don't mind sharing a room do you? I have a feeling you'll like your roommate.
Her father-in-law looks pleased as German punch. If there is such a thing.
Colin has a few words with Lyla, and confidently tucks Mercedes into a pocket of blanket under Renie’s right arm. “There. Brilliant.” He moves behind Renie’s bed where she can’t see him. The sound of wheels coming to a stop. “I’ve got the crib then.”
A second mental light bulb flares, as Renie watches Anton and Brandon flank to opposite sides of her bed—then slide the sidebars upwards into a locked position.
“But--but I look like—you can’t be serious?” Could they? Are they? “Can I at least— ”
Brandon has decided to enjoy this, and with perfect military dignity gives the order. “Forward, march!”
The doors of the labour room swing open.
Outside, the four-man heavy guard posted breaks off. Two men take over for Colonel Brandon and Herr Anton Gruber, at the three and nine-o’clock positions bedside. A dragoon leader takes the lead at the foot of the hospital bed, and a fourth man covers the twelve o’clock position, driving and steering from the headboard.
Just down the hallway, Doctor Blalock appears with Antonia at his side. They wave at Mrs. Hans Gruber and her retinue.
Back in the labour room, a helpful janitor in a plain grey suit gathers the remaining items from the makeshift gift table, handing them off to the now available Brandon, then Herr Gruber. The two men fall in behind the last of the security regiment, now bearing gifts and baskets of fruit and flowers.
The janitor does not linger, but leaves quickly.
As the caravan moves down the hallway of the medical building, Renie gratefully waves back to the two doctors with her left hand—her right arm protectively encircling the bundle of babe.
Antonia reminds herself again of how it might have ended in tragedy, and crosses herself. “Doctor Blalock, do you know the Feast of Santa Lucia? This reminds me. An entourage. A happy day of celebration.”
Blalock gives his short-quick Southern laugh. “More like the Macy’s Thanks-giving Day Parade.” He fairly snorts. “It’s a float, you see?”
R
Still wondering where Hans could have gotten to . . . , - Monday, November 19, 2007 at 12:13:22 AM (EST)
Scene: Imperial Palace. The medical wing. Labour ward.
“Christopher!” And it seems to Renie that she has not seen Colonel Brandon’s welcome face in so long—so long that, indeed, he seems to have aged just the littlest bit. Lines of more than concern around his eyes, a weariness nearly invisible to anyone outside of Renie and Mary Anne.
Though Brandon smiles, now, and his eyes dance at seeing her safe and sound before him.
“It is a wondrous day.”
“Let me—” as Renie struggles to sit up, Brandon quickly murmurs, “Allow me” and moves to her side to hold her gowned arm and help comfortably position the starched white pillows. He arranges her long dark chestnut hair—and then steps back, ever the gentleman as well as dearest friend.
“How is Mary Anne? Is she safe? Is she well?” Renie’s eyes search his for unspoken evidence of Mary Anne’s condition.
“She is a lioness, as you know. It will take more than a man to best her.” And let’s see if any man can even get to her, as long as I’m around.
“But you can tame her?
“I would not care to try.” He shakes his head as if, on the contrary, he knows he will spend the rest of his life---happily—trying to manage just that.
And loving every minute of it.
“Oooh. She has got you—right where she wants you. That, or you are as wise as an owl, my dear Christopher.”
“Whoooo can talk sense to such a monkey?”
“Ahh! A monkey am I! Let’s hope Mercedes hasn’t got a tail!”
A VOICE from the doorway.
“Is this the palace zoo?” It comes out tzzzzoooo.
Through the large doors appears the senior Gruber, who glides into the delivery room, his face temporarily obscured by cards and gifts, his arms full of baskets and boxes and bags.
“Oh—but what’s this?”
Baskets full of tiny lady apples, rare pears, huge grapefruit, and grapes nearly the size of the grapefruit. Boxes of homemade pies, cakes, tarts and confections. Knitted baby clothes, flowers, and bundles of cards.
“From well-wishers. There are more outside, and more arriving every few minutes.”
Renie chooses a card, which reads, “To Mr. and Mrs. Hans Gruber—May you and your new daughter find happiness wherever you journey. Sincerely, Marty and Noah Everdene.” "From the Everdenes."
Unconsciously, Renie taps the card against the palm of her hand. “But, I don’t know these people. At least I don’t think so.”
“Don’t look zo surprised. Word spreads fast in the Realm.” Anton looks in vain for an unoccupied table, and shrugs helplessly at Colonel Brandon, who takes his cue.
As Brandon leaves her side to find a resting place for the gifts, Anton adds, in a low tone meant only for his daughter-in-law’s ears, “Many people were moved by your letter at the trial. Whether they agreed with you or not. They believe, and rightly so, that you are an exceptional woman.”
The trial. How far away that seems at this moment. “Anton, will Hans come in to see me?”
“He went to get zomething for you. Don’t worry, meine daughter-in-law, my son will be back.”
Brandon returns from behind a curtain, a table in his strong hands, and a second later, there is the cry of a newborn.
Colin walks proudly over to the hospital bed, while Lyla ties back the curtain.
All eyes are on the tiniest life in the room.
Colin utters only one word. It is a joyful sound, disguised as a whisper. “Mercedes.”
R
Oh boy! I mean, oh girl! , - Monday, November 05, 2007 at 08:27:03 PM (EST)
My pleasure, Claudia---glad you liked it.
MA
But be careful, for HE is loose out there somewhere . . . =8-O, - Wednesday, October 31, 2007 at 07:54:51 AM (EDT)
I love you Mary Anne ;) Thanks
Claudia
- Tuesday, October 30, 2007 at 01:27:11 AM (EDT)
Imperial Palace:
Dragging up a chair, she settles into it and waits.
And waits.
It’s good cop, bad cop, thinks Claudia as the silence lengthens. But which of them is which?
It is Mansel who finally breaks the silence. “To return to our earlier question: if you know anything of where The Interrogator has gone, it would be best for you if you told us. Immediately.”
“Is that a threat?” Claudia is proud that she manages to keep her voice neutral, but has to swallow back a lump in her throat at the slight scrape of Ed’s chair as he pulls it closer to her. Good old Ed, and a few rapid blinks clear her eyes.
“No,” replies Mansel, “it is a simple statement of fact. You do realize that The Interrogator will not forget about you; HE will not forget someone who as good as joined---“
“I did not---“
“Hear me out, please. I said, as good as joined. You have said your intentions were to get at HIS secrets and destroy HIM. You did manage to infiltrate---“ Mansel smiles. “And I have to give you credit for courage on that. Not many women would do what you did, just walk up to HIM in cold blood---“
My blood wasn’t all that cold . . .
“---and expect to be welcomed. It’s amazing you got so far as you did.”
Claudia almost feels as if someone else is watching from behind her eyes, weighing and appraising. She has learned a thing or two in her stay at The Palace and remembers the moment when she had been watching Rupert Cadell and suddenly realized the man was far more dangerous than he looked. A lamed man, constantly in need of a cane: no great opponent, surely? And yet, if the rumours flying about are true, this lamed man has survived a fight with The Interrogator, a fight in which HE might have been expected to prevail. True, Rupert is badly wounded---but by all rights he should be dead. It occurs to her that Mansel is another of the same sort, that The Empress has surrounded herself with just such formidable men who can fade into the woodwork if necessary---or suddenly emerge, to the dismay of their adversaries.
This, of course, is to say nothing of The Empress herself, who looks quite harmless and even fragile, at times. For a fraction of a second, Claudia thinks of Mary Anne’s blue eyes, opened wide in their “innocent” look, and is hard-put to repress a snicker. And just think of the wheels turning inside there! Yes, however The Empress may look, she commands men like these who serve her and would cheerfully perish rather than fail her.
Feeling as if she has just stepped back from the edge of a cliff, Claudia nods thoughtfully. “I see what you mean.” She is not at all certain she does, but there is no reason for Mansel to know that, and she ventures a bit further. “For now HE’s concentrating on survival, but later, when HE has time to think . . .”
The Empress nods. “There is no reason to suspect HE will think of you immediately. But we cannot be certain of that, can we?” Something in that quiet voice sends the ice down Claudia’s spine. “And it is not only your safety. The Interrogator is out there, presumably still in The Realm, and I am certain you could name a dozen people, potential targets . . .”
Claudia nods. “Without even half trying. It’s only that there are so many places HE might have gone!” She furrows her brow, thinking. “Not back to the woods around Delaford, I suppose . . .”
Mansel shakes his head. “I wouldn’t make it HIS first choice: too many Alliance personnel still stationed there. But that’s just the point with HIM, that there’s no way to know.”
“And there was somewhere in the States, I think, on the West Coast . . .”
“The Valley of the Moon.” There is a gleam in The Empress’ eye, something Claudia cannot define but it makes her decidedly uneasy. “No. Trust me when I tell you that is one place HE will not go.”
“Why not?”
“The Alliance found it some time ago, before the Brandons’ wedding.”
Claudia waits, but no more is forthcoming and so she continues. “I know of at least one hideout in London.”
“So do we, and Mister Holmes has agreed to keep an eye on it for us.”
Claudia shrugs helplessly. “Then you probably know more than I do.” A deep breath. “And besides, that isn’t what this is about, is it?”
“How do you mean?” Mansel’s expression is as bland as vanilla, but The Empress is already leaning back in her chair, smiling a little to herself.
“Your plans to search for HIM are already in place, and this isn’t about whether I know anything more; you already knew I didn’t. It was about whether I’d even try to help you---“
“You’ve quite lived up to what I expected of you, Claudia.” The Empress has hardly moved in her chair, but suddenly Mansel seems nearly invisible, studying the pattern of the carpet, and Claudia feels herself magnetized by the gaze of the woman sitting across from her. “Though you’re only half-right; I would have been interested in anything you had to tell us of HIS plans, if you knew them. But I will admit I was very reassured to find you a trifle . . . belligerent . . . at the beginning of this interview.”
Claudia can hear Ed’s muffled snort behind her, a murmur of “a trifle?” and longs to thump him in the ribs with her elbow, but all in good time.
“If you had come here eager to help us and everything had run as smoothly as silk, I confess I would have been somewhat astonished. Worried, even.”
Again Claudia feels a chill crawl along her spine, but she manages to ask in a level voice, “What are you going to do with me? Do you still think I’m a traitor?”
The Empress shakes her head. “I wish I could say something along the lines of how it doesn’t matter what I think---except that in this case, it does. I have the power to release you, on no evidence save that of my own judgment. Or to keep you here, by that same power. However, your . . . stay . . . with HIM has brought us valuable information, even if it was not brought out during the trial. And on that basis, I choose to release you. On that basis, and on my conviction that there will never again be any . . . doubts.”
The warning is clear, and this time it is Ed who speaks up. “There will be none, Your Majesty.”
“Good. My council will advise you as to your safety in The Realm once you leave here, though you are welcome to remain for a time if you prefer. Meanwhile, you are free to move about The Palace. That will be all.”
It is a dismissal, and as they leave the sitting room, Claudia turns to Ed with a puzzled frown. “Did what I think just happened . . . happen?”
Meanwhile, The Empress remains where she is, with Mansel beside her, waiting quietly.
Finally, she sighs. “Yes, Mister Mansel?”
“You realize she will be a target the moment she leaves here. A very likely one, in fact.”
“Yes.”
“You are thinking---“ It would be tactless to say hoping. “---that she might draw HIM out.”
“It is a possibility. And that is why I mean to see her protected; if there is any chance of The Interrogator coming after her, I want our people there when it happens. If she leaves, I want her watched. Do not interfere with their privacy, you understand, but when Claudia leaves the protection she enjoys here, there must not be a single day, not a single hour, when she is out of our reach---because I do not want her within HIS.”
“Understood.”
“Select your teams, and see to it.”
“At once, Your Majesty.”
MA----suffer no more, ACC.
Anyone else care to relieve a little suffering? "2X2L calling CQ . . ." (Obscure reference of the day), - Monday, October 29, 2007 at 11:17:01 PM (EDT)
Does anyone but me notice that the last entry was made on OCTOBER 12, and it wasn't a story? Im suffering here....
ACC
- Sunday, October 28, 2007 at 08:19:17 PM (EDT)
Thanks, young wench
ACC
- Friday, October 12, 2007 at 02:22:45 AM (EDT)
Imperial Palace:
Claudia, who is far taller than The Empress and tall enough to look Mansel in the eye, had hoped the mere act of standing and facing her questioners might intimidate them. Instead, she gets the impression that her gesture has fallen rather flat; The Empress and Mansel simply look up at her with the politely interested expressions of Sunday afternoon visitors admiring a giraffe in the Imperial menagerie. The Empress, in particular, returns her such a fixed and unwavering look that Claudia shifts uneasily. Unwilling to give in and return to her seat, she strolls over and leans against the fireplace mantel, wondering, How does she do that?!
“What is there to make me think you’ll listen to me now?” Less forceful, this time. A real question.
The Empress does not even blink. “Try and see.”
Claudia glances around her at the room to which she had been summoned for these questions. No cell this time, nor any sort of Imperial office, but a comfortable sitting room, warm and cheerful in soft, inviting colours, with deep armchairs and a fire burning brightly on the hearth. Claudia glances over at a low table, half-expecting to see a teapot and a plate of scones, and is hard put to smother her grin. A sitting room---Mary Anne and Renie will be showing up any minute for one of those ‘chats’ of theirs, you’d think. But a low cough from Ed returns her to reality. At least she can have Ed with her and that’s a comfort, of sorts. Ed, this cozy room . . . meant to lull her, put her off guard, perhaps?
Claudia crosses her arms. “If you had wanted to ask me questions, why not call me as a witness during HIS trial?”
Mansel shakes his head. “We could not predict what effect it would have on you.”
“That didn’t stop you from calling Mary Anne.”
“Ah, but we could predict, to a degree, what effect it would have on her. And Mary Anne did not have a possible incendiary device planted in her leg.”
Claudia flexes the limb in question. “But The Doctor removed it, and nothing happened.”
The Empress leans forward. “And what does that suggest to you?”
Claudia thinks it over. “Well, you know The Interrogator; it’s all about the mind games, with HIM. Probably got HIS laughs from watching everybody worry about the thing when all along it was harmless . . .”
Both The Empress and Mansel make the same impatient noise, but it is Mansel who speaks. “Give yourself credit for some intelligence! You have behaved recklessly, but we know you are not a fool.”
Claudia cuts her eyes at Ed, daring him to say a word, as Mansel continues. “Knowing The Interrogator as you say you did---“
Ed mumbles something that sounds like, “in the Biblical sense” but Claudia concentrates on Mansel. Later for you, Ed! And then, a touch of bleakness, like a cold finger on her spine: Yeah, that’s the trouble, isn’t it? It’s always ‘later’ for Ed . . .
“Knowing The Interrogator the way you say you did, can you imagine any device of HIS being harmless? Seriously!”
Claudia bristles. “I could, if HE thought HE could make people afraid when there’s nothing to be afraid of . . . HE’d be splitting HIS sides, laughing.”
“Or,” suggests The Empress, “HE could misdirect you. And HE would enjoy that equally. Had you thought the device in your leg might have been a decoy, to keep your attention from something else?”
It is a chilling thought. Finally, Claudia shakes her head. “No . . . The Doctor checked me over when he took that thing out and there was nothing wrong. He said that I’m completely healthy, physically---and one more sound out of you, Ed, and I’ll---“
“What?” protests the wide-eyed Ed, pushing a hand through his unruly hair. “I didn’t say anything!”
“Good,” replies Claudia, turning back to her questioners. “Anyway, The Doctor didn’t find any other devices.”
“Well, that is something we can discuss later.” Mansel looks up at her, silently inviting her to resume her seat, and after a moment Claudia decides she may as well comply. Dragging up a chair, she settles into it and waits.
MA---sorry to take so long; real life is a pain sometimes!
- Monday, October 08, 2007 at 10:29:19 PM (EDT)
The Imperial Palace:
“I don’t have any idea where The Interrogator is.”
Mansel and The Empress exchange looks. They had known this would not be easy. They had been prepared for any number of things---fear, reluctance, grief---but nothing had quite prepared them for this defiance with more than a hint of fury stirring beneath it. Mansel assesses those narrowed blue eyes and reproaches himself. Not such a surprise, if we had been thinking. We should have expected this.
“And what makes you think I’d know where HE is, anyway?”
Mansel clears his throat. “You have had dealings with HIM in the past . . .”
“Dealings?” The word catches in her throat. “That’s a tame word for it. I already tried to explain my dealings with HIM once before. Was anybody listening?”
The Empress remains silent, waiting, and Mansel tries again. “Of course we were. I remember the explanation you gave for your actions, and I should think you would be glad to help us---“
“Nobody listened to my explanations, then.” A pause, and Claudia rises from her chair to stand with her arms crossed in front of her, staring down at her questioners. “So what is there to make me think you’ll listen to me now?”
MA---a bit upset there, Clods?
Back into the routine again . . . more soon! 8-), - Friday, September 14, 2007 at 08:31:40 AM (EDT)
What do they know of kisses?
-----
Makes ME lightheaded... how about you?
me <me@infoo.comfoo>
What do they know of kisses?, - Friday, August 24, 2007 at 07:48:50 PM (EDT)
A kiss is just a kiss, so they say.
What do they know of kisses?
While it does not last forever, there are kisses which linger on, which have lasting effects . . . long past the moments which are shared in time and space.
Now, finally, Colin releases Renie from such a kiss.
Where there were tears, there are none. Colin breaks the silence, unwillingly, but of necessity. She must remain calm. He must see to it.
"You were in danger, Renie. Hans could not bear the prospect of losing you. It has to do with Hans, not with you. You see, his sister died in childbirth. Her baby too. He cannot forget that tragedy--he was there.
"But . . . I didn't know. How did you . . . who told you all this?"
"I read it--in the doctor's file. I found it unattended, down the hall. Hans told the doctor how worried he was--for your safety. Everything must be sterile, everything must go well, nothing must go wrong . . . Hans forced himself into the delivery room despite all his fears. When you began hemorrhaging, it must have been too much."
"And he didn't tell me."
"Do you see what this means? He loves you. You and Mercedes. Nothing is dearer to him. That he could not confide such a personal loss . . . "
"I see. Appearing to be weak in any sense is intolerable to Hans."
"Exactly. And I am afraid that by telling you about his sister, I have breached an unspoken contract, which censures a man who reveals another man's secrets. For whatever reason, I have put Hans in a poor light. And to his wife, no less."
She hugs him, an entirely different feeling passes between them. "For the best of reasons, Colin. To look out for what and whom he cherishes, when he lacks the strength to do so himself." She pulls back and looks at Colin. "It wasn't easy, was it?"
"You made it easy."
The doors swing open, and Antonia breezes in. Colin instinctively moves away, and Renie sits up a bit more, allowing Antonia to check her heartbeat, and tick off items on her clipboard.
"That's better. I don't know what sort of magical cloth Dr. Blalock used, but I'd like to order six warehouses full for the hospitals back home."
Renie smiles, thinking of the Doctor, whom she has no idea has had an audience with Empress. "I'm just grateful for the one. And for you and Dr. Blalock. Thank you both."
"There is someone who'd like to come in and see you, if you're finished here," Antonia looks at Colin with interest, but without judging. Renie nods.
Colin rises. "May I hold Mercedes?" He indicates the back behind the curtain. "'ll just wash up, right?"
"As soon as Lyla is done with the second round of tests. So far, Mercedes is all tens. And then we'll move Mrs. Gruber out of delivery to a recovery room. You don't mind sharing a room do you? I have a feeling you'll like your roommate." Antonia grins, then turns to Colin. "Follow me."
Renie
Still in NYC, - Tuesday, August 21, 2007 at 12:27:52 PM (EDT)
Imperial Palace, medical wing:
Sitting by Mary Anne’s bed, watching her, Brandon imagines he can see a change come over her still face. Is it imagination? Uneasily, Brandon glances over at the heart monitor; he has learned in these past few hours to listen for that steady beat as if it were the pulse of the universe itself. Reassured, he looks back at Mary Anne.
No, he had not imagined it. The drugs had granted sound sleep, as McCoy had promised, but now the lines of pain and anxiety in her face have relaxed and in their place is a look of such serenity as he has not seen . . .
Since we came here, really. From the moment Mary Anne understood what was before her. And then when she had to face HIM again . . .
Weary as he is, the truth startles Brandon fully awake and he sits up straight in his chair. Mary Anne stirs in her sleep and releases a long sigh before settling down into her pillows.
The Interrogator. HE is gone.*******************************************************
Meanwhile, in a nearby conference room:
“WHAT?”
The Empress is seldom shaken from her austere composure; when it occurs, it is an interesting phenomenon, preferably viewed from safe distance. But her self-control is not least among her remarkable qualities. Rising from her chair---and waving her advisors back to their seats---she paces about the room in silence.
The Doctor remains just within the doorway, flanked by Guardsmen, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, his normally cheerful face now flushed with misery and embarrassment. But after a moment, The Empress sets her lips tightly, nods, and then gestures for The Doctor to take a chair.
“The whole story, Doctor, from the beginning.”
The Doctor has removed his hat and sits twisting it in his hands. “There isn’t much to tell, I’m afraid. I had moved the Tardis to a spot where I thought it would be out of everyone’s way. Not out of HIS way, though. As I left, The Interrogator . . . what is the word? Oh, yes. The Interrogator hijacked the Tardis and me with it.”
“So HE has left The Palace, then.”
The Doctor hesitates. “I wish I could be certain of it. There is a remote possibility that HE doubled back here, but . . .” He shakes his head. “Too many factors involved. Let us say there is a ninety-eight per cent probability that HE is elsewhere.”
“It’s that other two per cent that worries me.” The Empress makes her decision. “Mister Hanbury, pass the word in public that the searches have been called off---but set up a few private random patrols, just in case. Inform the Captain of the Guard and have him coordinate with Lieutenant Sifuentes. Mister Brownlow, send a bulletin to the Alliance to activate their emergency search protocols and alert the Safehouse network. I want all of HIS known refuges locked down tight, starting with the West Wood in Barton---“
**************************************************************
“I’d be interested to know just how HE overpowered you, Doctor.”
All of the Empress’ advisors have scattered to attend to their various assignments---all but Mansel, who sits watching intently as she walks up and down the room, as if her movement, energy, and sheer force of will could avert disaster.
The Doctor, though by no means restored to his normal buoyant temperament, is capable of a calm answer. “HE was behind me and had the element of surprise. Perhaps you are aware of the advantage that confers?”
The Empress’ hand lingers briefly on a piece of marble statuary displayed on a console table. “I do know something of it. The Interrogator was armed, I presume.”
“Of course. That is generally a safe assumption with HIM.”
“How was HE able to operate your machine?”
The Doctor sighs heavily. “The Interrogator has been in Mary Anne’s presence for weeks, and very likely had traces of her DNA about his person. This was enough to convince the Tardis---“
“---that The Interrogator was Mary Anne?” Mansel knows this is no time for levity, but his mouth quirks into a dry smile.
The Doctor is not disposed to see the humour of it. “That is precisely what I mean.” Then, before Mansel can reply, he turns back to The Empress. “You will recall that I warned you against bringing HIM here. Bringing HIM together with Mary Anne.”
The Empress halts in mid-stride, and her voice, when she replies, is dangerously level. “Do I detect a rebuke?” (homage)
When The Doctor does not reply, she moves nearer, her taut expression shifting to one of concern. “Or did you . . . Doctor, did you see something of what would happen?”
The Doctor’s response is not quite a shrug. “I’m a Time Lord, not a clairvoyant. At least, not always. Seeing the timelines is not like . . .” His voice trails off as he thinks of matters inexplicable to a limited human. “Obviously if I could always see what would happen, HE could not have surprised me. But where their timelines intersect---HIS with Mary Anne’s---“ His voice softens almost to a whisper. “There is something there, always. A trail of fire . . .”
A long silence. It is Mansel who breaks it with a mirthless laugh. “Yes. Roman candles in an ammo dump, that would be safer than having those two in the same room, I believe.” A nod to The Empress. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but the important thing is that we find The Interrogator. Doctor, did you not attempt to trace HIM, after HE left your machine?”
The Doctor nods. “I did try, but HE had not been exposed to the artron radiation long enough to leave more than a trace, and it would fade within minutes. As soon as I got free, I checked, but HE would have to be near to artron-toxic to have left any discernible trail. After that, I thought the best thing to do would be to come and warn you.”
The Empress nods. “Bravely done, Doctor. Most people would rather have hidden than come and bring me such news as this.”
A long look passes between them. The Empress is a formidable woman, but still a human, and the man across the table from her---no, he is not a man, but a Time Lord who walks in eternity (homage), a representative of one of the most powerful civilizations in the galaxy. Each takes the other’s measure and is satisfied, and finally The Empress gives a long sigh and leans back in her chair.
“I find you blameless in this matter, Doctor; you did the best you could, and that is all any of us can do. But as Mister Mansel has said, we must find The Interrogator. Do you have any ideas as to how we might do this?”
The Doctor is silent, but Mansel pulls his chair forward, his eyes intent. “Your Majesty, The Doctor cannot tell us where HE has gone. But there may be someone else who can . . .”
MA
Sorry to be away so long, but life got very scary for a while. Hopefully things will stay normal for a bit, now . . ., - Friday, August 10, 2007 at 08:38:20 AM (EDT)
A Truly Eventful Year
Chapter 2
Once back at school, Anne hoped that Daisy would forget about this guy or whomever she met on her milk errand. She'd been laughing and joking and having tiffs with her parents as usual but sometimes Daisy would harp on about him a bit. Well, once she'd caught up with her mates in the third form she'd be whispering about class pranks on the teachers, not about this random bloke, thought Anne. After her stay with the Smalls, Anne would not see her cousin until maybe dinner time on the first night back at school. Her friends Ginny and Mel bounded into their dormitory just as Anne started to unpack.
'Hey Anne! How was Christmas? How's Daisy?' For a while they talked avidly about their holidays, and Mel produced another tale about Ewan, her boyfriend, and how they kissed on New Year at midnight.
'Oh it was ever so romantic,' gushed Mel. 'We were on the hotel balcony and all the beach lights were all lit up, and he held me and kissed me like that!' she giggled. 'And then the big clock chimed twelve just then. Oh it was awesome!'
'Thank goodness for that,' muttered Ginny to Anne when Miss King (their matron) called Mel about some name-tapes. 'I thought she would start planning her new book about Her First Kiss With Icky Ewan. The endless emails I got would just do for a book.'
'Oh lighten up Ginny. You and Mel love each other really.' But there weren't any quarrels as they clattered down to dinner at six. Most of the boarders had already arrived, though lots of girls didn't arrive until after dinner or even breakfast the next day.
Just when they had found a free table, they were joined by Daisy Small.
'Half my form aren't back yet,' she told them. 'Wonder what's happened to them all. And I don't want to talk to Lacey.'
'Talk to us then,' quipped Mel. She and Ginny liked Daisy. For a while they talked about how funny the London pantomime had been, and then they were joined by Danielle Stiples, the least popular second former.
'I thought that panto was awfully silly,' she drawled. 'But Delia seems to like them. And speak of the flipping devil-'
Danielle's first form sister plopped into the seat next to her. The other girls sometimes wondered how their personalities could be so different. Danielle was spiteful and mean whilst Delia was livelier and friendly, despite being a bit odd. For a while no one spoke.
'So...how was your holiday?' Anne asked.
'So-so,' replied Danielle. 'Mum had to come into school a lot. Reverend Harvey passed away, did you know?' They all nodded, remembering the letter their parents had received. 'They've found a new vicar for St.Peter's-'
'And he's called Obi-Wan Kenobi,' added Delia. The other girls stared in surprise.
'Really? So we have a Reverend Kenobi carting round a light saber saying ''may the force be with you''?' laughed Daisy. 'That'll be cool actually.' Anne, Ginny and Mel giggled.
'No, that's just Delia mixing things up as she always does,' sneered Danielle. 'He's called Obadiah Slope.'
'Sounds even more random than Obi-Wan Kenobi,' Ginny murmured audibly.
'Don't be mean Gins,' sighed Mel. 'He was probably born Obadiah.'
'Wonder what his parents were called then,' said Daisy. Danielle looked cross.
'Obadiah is this person in the Bible,' she said haughtily. 'I think he helped Elijah.' The others just looked bored. And thus passed suppertime, with the occasional zany outburst from little Delia. But instead of laughing with the others, Danielle would snarl at her like a wolf.
'She's awful,' said Mel, as they fell onto some bean bags in the TV room. 'I don't know how poor Delia puts up with her. She may be weird but she's a little saint at heart.'
'Well her mum is a school governor. I guess she feels she has the right to queen it over us. No wonder the other teachers have to think twice before sitting on her,' said Anne, ruefully. She hoped that Danielle wouldn't spoil this term, and that this term would be less eventful than the last one. But she was wrong. Plenty of things were to happen in the next three months!
Liza
- Monday, July 23, 2007 at 06:02:09 AM (EDT)
A Truly Eventful Year
Chapter 1 (continued)
Martha Hammerton was in her living room, crocheting a cardigan for her niece's baby daughter. As a schoolgirl she had been labelled the 'Queen of Crochet' in her class because she had started to make her own winter clothes. Today had not been a good day fo walking alone in the park because of the snowfall and wind, so an afternoon at home with her crochet, radio and Earl Grey seemed a very welcome sight. Yesterday Martha had arrived home very late after visiting her younger brother and sister, and was looking forward to some peace and quiet before New Year's Eve. Suddenly the telephone rang, making her jump. Martha was tempted not to answer it, but then it could have been some urgent family or school news. However, the call was not from her family, or from a governor. It was from the vicarage.
'Miss Hammerton?' It was Robert Masterson, the dean. 'Reverend Owen Harvey passed away a quarter of an hour ago.' Martha felt a chill. Reverend Owen Harvey had had cancer for over a year and just a month ago it looked like he was starting to recover. However his health had suddenly deteriorated near Christmas time and he was bedridden not long afterwards. The loss of St. Peter's leading vicar would be deeply felt by everyone who knew him, not just his parish. Reverend Harvey had been very cheerful and charismatic during his church career, and those girls who went to church were forever laughing at his jokes on their walk back home.
'Oh...right,' murmured Martha. 'Do you need me to come over?'
'Thank you Miss Hammerton, but it's family time over at the vicarage right now. I'll let you know what's happening after tomorrow's service. In the meantime we're all praying for his family.'
After she had hung up, Martha was hesitant about picking up her crochet again, as if she had never received the call. But Reverend Harvey would have wanted her to carry on with her various hobbies. For a moment she wondered who would be taking his place, and then remembered a conversation she'd had with Robert. A young chaplain from London had been found, and he was very keen to take up Reverend Harvey's position. He had a peculiar name, a biblical name in fact. In the spur of the moment, Martha forgot what his name was.
Liza
Sorry for the ages-long delay!, - Saturday, July 21, 2007 at 03:09:56 AM (EDT)
Borg version?! Mister I, what have you been doing in my Tardis?
The Doctor
Dear, oh dear, as if one wasn't enough..., - Friday, July 20, 2007 at 04:33:31 PM (EDT)
So, resistance is only foolish and not futile? Then that must have been the Borg version of Mister I, earlier . . .
MA
A Borg version of The Interrogator---not a good thought, this close to bedtime! =8-O, - Monday, July 16, 2007 at 11:27:50 PM (EDT)
*gulp*....
Suzanne
I fear you know me too well., - Sunday, July 15, 2007 at 01:28:31 PM (EDT)
My dear, my very dear Suzanne:
Midnight has indeed come and gone, and so I shall now resume being my usual self.
After all, that is how you like me best, is it not? You know it is, and so . . . confess.
Mister I
(Resistance is futile), - Sunday, July 15, 2007 at 10:27:25 AM (EDT)
*arriving fashionably late for the party* WOW, I can't believe there's some champagne left! Next time we'll add a chocolate fountain as well. :-)
Dido what MA and Renie said. :-) The last ten years have been amazing, you guys are the best, thank you so much! I, too, have made many wonderful friends here, some of which I was fortunate enough to meet in real life (and still hope to meet more in the future!). It is so great to see so much recent activity. Claire, Dana and Cindie (thank you!), I've missed you! :-) And welcome back, Liza!
Ah, Valmont, you charmer. You know I can't resist (even though I know better). :-)
Mr. I, is it after midnight yet? *shiver*
Happy Birthday, MA! And Therese, also!
Here's to 10 more years of fun, fantasy, and friendship. *clink*
Suzanne
Spam has been cut from the menu., - Sunday, July 15, 2007 at 01:45:26 AM (EDT)
Hey, who let those !@#$%! spammers in here? This is a private BBQ! Shoo! OUT!!
MA
BBQ'd spam, bleccchh! X-P, - Wednesday, July 11, 2007 at 08:52:40 PM (EDT)
Hans, liebling, how delicious! And so is the cake . . . ;-9
Thanks, R dearest, for the good wishes. And German chocolate, nummy. But you know chocolate of just about any nationality is fine by me!
MA
And is that Mistral I see back there, brandishing the BBQ fork? , - Wednesday, June 27, 2007 at 06:25:56 PM (EDT)
FOF Set:
"Mary Anne! A moment!"
Mary Anne turns with a teacup of Earl Grey in her hand, to face the formidable Hans Gruber--except that Hans is dressed in an apron of all things--forcing Mary Anne to blurt out her tea--some through her lips, and yes, some in a genuine nose spray.
"Thanks for that," comes the Gruber growwwwl, yet the laughter is of course infectious, and in a trice Hans has what can only be called a grin more like Ed than the world's most clever and spine-tingling thief. "At least I'm wearing my apron."
Mary Anne cannot get over how amusing Hans looks, though to laugh in the face of Hans Gruber is inadvisable, whatever the provocation. "It's not that you look--"
"NEVERMIND how I look. It's what I've done."
"Mary Anne is genuinely stumped. "Done?"
"Forgotten your birthday." Hans raises his hand before she can respond with her customary politeness. "We HAVE a little luncheon party for you, and hope you won't hold it against us."
"The shooting schedule has been busy lately, I know, but a luncheon party sounds wonderful! When?"
"Now. Through those doors. I've just finished the chocolate birthday cake. Hence, the apron."
"I didn't know you could bake, Hans!"
"I'm an exceptional baker, and it's a German Chocolate Cake," preens Hans. A point of pride.
"I doubt I'll eat anything else! May I ask what the main course is?"
She takes his offered arm, as they stroll towards the party.
"I should think you might not want to disappoint the chef, Mary Anne. You see," a wicked twinkle lights his amber eyes, "it's a BBQ."
R--Happy Birthday Mary Anne! Sorry to be late!
I guess I'm due for the Department of Corrections, *again* . . . but at least I won't be hungry! Hope it was grand!, - Tuesday, June 26, 2007 at 05:19:02 PM (EDT)
Scene: Imperial Palace. The medical wing. Labour ward.
And so it was that Mercedes was born in the eight o’clock hour, when the world was in its day of peril dark, (homage) came a morning like no other.
Now, the red towels are gone. In their place, an extra blanket--not really for warmth but for comfort, for reassurance, for a sense that for the time being at least, the fates smile on this small room in the medical wing of the Imperial Palace.
Renie adjusts the baby blanket so that she can better see the oh-so-tiny face, eyes tightly shut. “Is Mercedes safe, Doctor Blalock?”
Almost immediately, Blalock’s voice settles into his natural homey rhythms, now that the uppermost challenges of the delivery and post-delivery are past.
“Ah. Safe as houses, she is. She was only in danger in so far as you gave us a turn, Mrs. Gruber. But as a gentleman, ah am not IN-clined to hold it against you. So you are fo-given. Lyla, please run the second set of tests on that darlin’ baby, then come and tidy up here.”
Lyla wisely waits a few extra seconds until Renie volunteers to hand over her baby, and, taking the newborn in her arms, the nurse promises as quick a return as possible.
Blalock straightens up, adjusts his wire glasses. “Ah will leave you in the hands of---” The doctor looks pointedly at Colin.
“Colin.”
“—with Mistah Colin. Your Antonia will return shortly.”
“Thank-you Dr. Blalock. I don’t know how to thank you and Antonia.”
“We’ll think of something, Mrs. Gruber.”
And with this, Dr. Blalock winks at the exhausted, but clearly grateful woman who lies on the hospital bed, finally—inexplicably—out of danger.
Alone with Colin, the new mother cannot help but feel the physical drain of the last 24 hours. The Tardis. The jail cell. HIS escape. But also rising within her, are the fears and emotions, which she has barricaded back in order to give all her energies to safely seeing Mercedes into the world. No longer having the strength to hold them back, they rush over and out of her like whitewater, her words shooting the crazy rapids of her heart.
“Hans has gone—he doesn’t want me. He’s left. He will never forgive me for the letter to the court—for seeking clemency of HIM—and now Mercedes and I mean to Hans everything he wants to turn away from—away from her and away from me—”
Colin finds that letting her vent, letting the explosion run its course without his interrupting or calming her is impossible to do, as her intensity seems to be building rather than subsiding . . .
“Renie, you’re wrong. I know you’re wrong.”
“He’s gone. I have lost him. Mercedes and I are without husband and father—”
He sees her tears, struggles to keep himself composed. Impossible. “Renie. You must listen. Hans—”
“It’s no use Colin. He will never—“
With a kiss to her lips, Colin stops her mouth. Her frantic tone had forced his hand. He had to stop her ranting, stop that torrent of words, and kissing her was the only means of physical restraint he was comfortable with—he would tell himself later. She would have to forgive him, and if she didn’t, well, he would deal with that, too.
For love is the draught of forgiveness when there is every reason for an empty glass. Sometimes the contents of the glass can be deceiving; it may appear empty, or it may appear full, and sometimes, well, it is too dark to see inside the glass at all. But still we hold the glass, and put it to our lips, for we have known the taste of paradise, known the waves of it, waves of life, resuscitating a barren shore.
R--“The Good, that guides and blessed makes this realm…”
The Divine Comedy: Paradise, Canto 8, - Monday, June 25, 2007 at 03:07:31 PM (EDT)
Bravo ladies! My glass is raised to you for these wonderful years I have enjoyed your stories.
Cheers..May we have another fun filled 10 years. Keep up the good work and please keep your adventures coming..love them all..
Pam <Massachusettsfoo>
- Wednesday, June 20, 2007 at 06:43:33 PM (EDT)
*handing Claudia a big glass of champagne*
Ah, how nice to see all this activity. Cindie, your Valmont is as smoooooooth as ever; fortunately The Empress can see right through him.
And Renie---Mister I and the bunny suit?! Oh, do tell! ;-D
MA
- Wednesday, June 20, 2007 at 08:31:47 AM (EDT)
Thank you Suzanne, and to everyone else for 10 years of fun and games. Sorry to come in late, and not bringing any gifts. I will help you drink that champagne though!
Love you all.
Claudia
- Tuesday, June 19, 2007 at 09:20:59 PM (EDT)
A Truly Eventful Year
Part Two Chapter 1 (dan dan daaaaaan!)
It was Boxing Day at the Small's house in London, and the two families had just got back from watching the 'Dick Whittington' pantomime at the theatre. Anne and her cousin Daisy were about to rush to switch on the TV when Mrs Small called Daisy into the kitchen.
'It's all right I can pop down to the corner shop and get some more milk,' offered Mr Trelawney. But Daisy remembered her manners and accepted the fiver from her mother's hand. She also wanted a bit of piece from all the family in the suddenly cramped household.
It was freezing cold outside, and the walk to Portlands seemed endless. The crowd inside the shop didn't help either. Daisy clutched the large milk bottle and buried her nose into her coat so much that she didn't quite see where she was going.
'Ow!' Daisy's glasses were nearly knocked off her nose by the tall skinny man in front of her. The books he was carrying tipped off his hands.
'I'm sorry sir,' she murmured, helping him pick up his books. She looked up and noticed that he was quite dark, and had very piercing dark eyes. 'I...I should've seen-' The man smiled.
'That's quite all right. You didn't do too much damage,' he said kindly. 'Now run along before someone else gets knocked over.' Daisy nodded as he went his way. His wind-blown hair made him look even more attractive than he already was.
'Long time no see,' joked Anne as Daisy flopped beside her in front of 'Home Alone'. 'You missed the cute bit when Kevin runs wild at home.' They had a great time in front of the movie, laughing and saying 'Oh I remember that part' and so on. But Daisy couldn't help remembering the man she had bumped into earlier; he looked soulful and intense. And his voice when he spoke was deep and resonant. She wished he'd said more. Somehow she stayed calm for the rest of the day, helping her mother heat up turkey leftovers for tea, unloading more mince pies from the oven and helping Anne eat them all. The parents were very good at suddenly going on diets at Christmas and letting their only daughters enjoy their food.
'Daisy and Anne get along so well they might as well be sisters,' muttered Mr Trelawney to Mr Small. 'I don't think I know two other cousins who are that close.' Mr Small agreed, and privately thought that young Anne steadied Daisy, who was headstrong and often stubborn at times. Mr Trelawney thought that Daisy made quiet Anne laugh when she needed to, even though Anne had two best friends.
'I saw this man when I went to get the milk,' Daisy told Anne as they climbed into bed that evening. Mr and Mrs Trelawney had gone home.
'Oooh was he handsome?' asked Anne. 'No wonder you looked all googly-eyed when you got back.'
'Hey I thought I was the one with the jokes,' chuckled Daisy. 'And I wasn't googly-eyed. But he was quite good looking,' she added.
'What was his name?' said Anne, looking more intrigued. Until now, boy talk between the cousins had been rare.
'I didn't ask,' replied Daisy. 'But he dropped a book and there was a name-tape on it. Think it said Slope.' Anne giggled.
'Well, we'll have to see him again then won't we whoops!' chanted Daisy in the pantomime way.
Liza
- Tuesday, June 19, 2007 at 06:43:24 PM (EDT)
Just outside that famous rose garden:
“My lady.” Valmont’s bow was so low that a lesser man surely would have toppled over. Never one to stint on the courtly graces, the Frenchman’s display was quite impressive.
Suzanne, ever one to take advantage of such an opportunity, leaned forward on her toes, the better to take in the view of the back of his neck. By the time the Vicomte straightened, Suzanne was composed. Mostly. She studied the offering being presented with one arched golden eyebrow. “Correct me if I am wrong,” her tone, even while not playing the Empress, made it clear that she well knew she wasn’t wrong, “Weren’t those lovely roses earlier gracing the bushes for the Delaford set?”
Another man might have been embarrassed or at least given the appearance of being slightly abashed. Valmont, however, knew that such details were not meant to concern him. “I obtained the gardener’s permission.” He lied so suavely that one was ever tempted to simply believe him and have done with it.
Suzanne did not believe him for an instant, but that did not prevent her from accepting the exquisite bouquet. “Thank you.” She smiled the Mona Lisa smile that was her trademark.
Valmont was careful not to let his reaction to that particular smile on that particular woman show on his face. He had a reputation to consider, after all. He gave his own brand of smile, “Shall we walk?”
“Certainly,” she replied. And in a quiet voice added, “I can view the scene of the crime.”
Cindie
Thank you, Suzanne! , - Tuesday, June 19, 2007 at 02:19:04 PM (EDT)
Renie, mein Abendstern, I shall be most pleased to direct you to the Rose Garden.
Hans
*offering arm . . . and whatever else is needed*, - Tuesday, June 19, 2007 at 08:05:31 AM (EDT)
Suzanne, may I say that the Champagne fountain was a stroke of genius? Your hospitality is equalled by your grace, warmth and dedication, over these past 10 years of FOF.
*Rubbing ears from trumpet blasts*
Mister I, according to various people in the Wardrobe Department, your definition of "behaving yourself" is rather broad. Or rather that the exclusionary list of antics and dramatis personnae is somewhat, shall we say, limited. I will only mention the "bunny suit" in passing. Let's leave it at that, shall we? As I'm not sure if Cindie is around just now . . . though peut-être I may have spotted her in a deep serious tête a tête, au courant avec Monsieur Vicomte de Valmont, one cannot be sure after SUCH amounts of that Champagne which has graced our FOF lot on SUCH an auspicious, poignant day...can one?
Of this, however, I am sure.....*raises glass*...
That the power of words can fill us with delight
With fear, with joy and laughter
With a will to do right, to do better
And a will to forgive
With each turn of phrase, we offer ourselves,
and in each story, find ourselves
So let us salute, on this day of days,
The power of words to fill us with love
The power of words to fill us with hope
The power of words to join us in friendship
Bridges that are never too great to cross.
Cheers to our dear hostess, our writers and readers over the years.
And now, I shall, with some difficulty, endeavor to locate the Rose Garden . . .
R
Thank-you, Suzanne. Here's to the FOF family!, - Tuesday, June 19, 2007 at 02:11:06 AM (EDT)
Paneling. All about the paneling . . . *snort* mmrrrfffffffflfllfllffllllolololo
*dizzy*
- Tuesday, June 19, 2007 at 01:36:06 AM (EDT)
Wow 10th anniversary! That's so cool that you guys could keep this going for that long. I've been looking through the archives at all the Snape and Jamie stories I remember with nostalgia, as well as catching up with my own characters. Gissing won't be back though, but the girls and other Remmington staff (not to mention a new and exciting character) will.
Liza
- Monday, June 18, 2007 at 11:07:51 PM (EDT)
Suzanne:
In honour of the occasion, I have been behaving myself and will continue to do so for the rest of the day.
Of course you realize that at midnight all bets are off.
Warmest regards,
The Interrogator
And who knows where I will be by midnight . . . ?, - Monday, June 18, 2007 at 07:41:07 PM (EDT)
FOF 10TH ANNIVERSARY CELEBRATION
The brightly colored banner fluttered in the gentle June breeze.
Sinclair, shoulders hunched forward, shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his khaki trousers, and glowered. He was tired, jet lagged and in no mood for games.
Where was everyone? The studio lot was eerily silent.
10 years, the thought depressed him but time had been kind to his features, a few grey wings to the leonine blond mane, and the work excellent for his bank balance. Was he still the same hungry actor who had spent those first FOF weeks in a lift? Imperceptibly he straightened, tensed his stomach muscles and reached up for the imaginary ceiling. Paneling, the thought ran round his brain, it was all about the paneling. His slender fingers traced invisible detail and then he couldn’t resist dealing an imaginary hand of cards. The riverboat man, yes that role had opened so many doors most of them in places far flung from where he stood now.
PL, Dana, Claire all those months together on the Oregon Trail. There had been talk of another series to complete the route but somehow the finance usually spluttered out. And of course the personal issues, where had filming ended and real life begun?
Abruptly aware of his surroundings Sinclair with a sheepish grin glanced around self-consciously. The place had been good to him, poignant memories tugged at his heartstrings. He had loved and been loved.
A wheezy mechanical cough drew his attention to the open door of the storage facility beyond the banner. He would know that sound anywhere and there just had to be one rider with or without his goggles.
The Rickman Metisse farted a huge black smudge as the engine roared to life.
“Trust you to have a literal carbon footprint PL” Sinclair exclaimed and started to run. He was feeling better already, FOF had worked it’s usual magic.
*****
Dana paced the lot corner impatiently; it wasn’t like Claire to be late. Whenever she said she’d meet Dana somewhere, usually an international arrivals lobby, she was there.
This summons had come suddenly and unexpectedly, but perhaps the timing was, as usual, perfect. She thought back to the timid newcomer who first ventured onto the FOF lot with no idea what lay in store for her…love found and lost and found again, and a lifelong friendship that outshone it all.
Despite living on different continents, she had worked with Claire often over the years the range and complexity of their cooperative projects sometimes baffled the imagination. Stumbling into that mansion had been a stroke of fate.
She placed a hand over her fluttering stomach, surprised at this new burst of nerves. How long had it been? Too many years had passed since the last Oregon Trail cliffhanger had left them on the trail, grubby and cold, with no renewed contract. At least the potato famine dream sequence had allowed for pretty dresses and baths.
Through all her work here at FOF had been the frisson of excitement she felt working with PL O’Hara. Intuitive, resourceful, handsome as sin, and with a heart of pure gold hidden beneath a gruff exterior, he had stolen her heart immediately. But in that ironic way life had of imitating art, she had watched him walk away.
There she is! “Claire! Over here!”
*****
“Tell me again why it is so important to have this bike running this afternoon.” Sinclair waived the spanner airily “There must be real mechanics on the lot … somewhere.”
O’Hara engrossed with a rag and small pieces of the engine did not respond directly but started another line of conversation. “ Did I hear you settled down at last? Some place outside London – spending those big fat pay cheques?”
“Well you know how it is, hard to call anywhere home in this business but yes I picked up a property close to the river.” Sinclair bent down towards the prone figure. “I have a sail boat ….. with an engine.”
“Any time old man, any time.” O’Hara, face now streaked with a mix of sweat and oil, laughed. “Always wondered, did you ever nail Claire down, or was it the other way round? “
“Never heard what became of your love life either” replied Sinclair uneasily. Pages of a book he thought long closed - fluttered. “Here – clean up with this.”
“Still chasing in general, you know me … can’t resist”. O’Hara’s wide smiling face a testament to many broken hearts. He gave the chrome tank a final wipe with Sinclair’s handkerchief. “Come on now darlin’ you and me have an appointment with someone special” he whispered.
Throwing the balled wad back “Fancy a ride Sinclair or are you walking?”
“Where to?” Sinclair held the catch and immediately wished he had not.
“Egdon Manor – Lot 43B – where else? “
******
“They’re here already? You’re sure?”
“What can you be sure of with that pair.”
Dana’s cheeks flushed slightly as a smile lifted one corner of her mouth, “A wild ride, that’s about all you can count on.”
Claire tilted her head, listening to something other than the flapping of banners in the breeze. “That bugger never misses a cue.” The two stepped aside as the sound of the engine grew louder.
“Claire.” PL touched a long forefinger to an imaginary hat brim and nodded. Then the amber gaze moved slowly over Dana; a hint of a curl moved the upper lip. “Care for a lift?”
“I’ll walk, thanks.” Claire winked at Dana. A lone figure was sauntering their direction.
Dana settled herself and wrapped her arms around PL. “All you had to do was ask.”
******
“Not changed much has it?” Surveying the familiar Manor exterior the four stood in peaceable companionship.
“Things don’t change, it is people who move on.” Sinclair remarked philosophically. “Funny after all the time we have spent together I was quite nervous of coming back”
“WOW” Claire exclaimed. “I never thought I would hear you admit that, actually I did not expect to see you today. But you are right. It is like stepping onto the stage again for the first time.”
“The FOF lot feels timeless. Just think of all the productions that have passed through these gates … and how many more to come” mused Dana. “We could almost pick up where we left off” They looked at her incredulously.
“It was just a thought, you guys are just the best and we will work together sometime in the future”
There were nods of agreement, and a surreptitious sniff from Claire. PL put his spare arm around her shoulder. The years dropped away, Sinclair saw his cue and surrendered.
“Oh this sooooo American” he muttered as they swallowed him up in a group hug.
“Shut up Sinclair!” came the muffled cry in unison.
Claire and Dana
This is for you Suzanne - Thank you for tending
this VERY special place , - Monday, June 18, 2007 at 08:28:53 AM (EDT)
As trumpet blasts resound throughout The Realm:
Hear ye, hear ye! Today, June 18th, 2007, is the TENTH ANNIVERSARY of Flights of Fancy!
I’d like to take this opportunity to thank our glorious Empress Suzanne for her attentive care in matters touching The Realm. If she had not taken up the challenge when the AR pages looked likely to vanish, scores of Rickmaniacs would have been bereft of a fan site whose level of civilized discourse is hardly to be equaled anywhere on the world wide web.
Neither should I neglect to mention the excellent people I’ve met through this page that I would probably never have known without it. It has been wonderful and I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. This has been one of my favourite places to play, to blow off steam, to allegorize and satirize and fantasize. It’s been a decade of delight and danger, of derring-do and debt services (remember those?), of suspense and hilarity and love.
Thank you, Suzanne, and all my friends who have made FoF the wonder that it is.
And now, on with the festivities! Dom Perignon, I think . . .
POP!
krrrrrsssshhhhhhhhhh . . .
MA *raising glass*
Salut! , - Monday, June 18, 2007 at
08:25:13 AM (EDT)
A Truly Eventful Year
Anne Trelawney and Daisy Small were in Mrs Trelawney's car going home for the holidays. Daisy was going to spend a week with the Trelawneys, and Anne would spend some time with the Smalls. They were talking about the turbulent events of the end of that term with Mrs Trelawney.
'So Mr Gissing won't be coming back then. That's a shame, he sounded like a wonderful teacher.' she said.
'He's marrying Mrs Deegan!' giggled Anne. 'That's so weird. I thought they hated each other.' Miss Hammerton had announced that he would be leaving, and marrying her in the last week of term, and the whole school had clapped.
Ginny told Anne and Mel that she would be starting singing lessons next term. Mr Gissing had recommended this to her mother after the final performance of 'Oliver!'which had made Ginny feel quietly proud of herself. Meanwhile Mel was in a slight huff that her new favourite teacher was leaving so soon.
'I wouldn't worry too much about Mel' said Ginny as Anne once saw her looking droopy-eyed in class. 'By the time it's the second week of the holidays she'll be sending me non-stop emails about icky Ewan in the Carribean.'
'Ewan's not icky!' squeaked Mel. 'He's so handsome when he's surfing with his-'
'Y-fronts,' finished Anne. She and Ginny then spent the rest of their French lesson in silent fits of laughter, much to Miss Steiner's annoyance. After she dismissed the class, Mel walked by their desks and hissed 'I meant his surfboard!'
Miss Meyers was also coming out of retirement until another Head of English could be found. Anne was happy that she was coming back, much as she had liked Mr Gissing. There had been a lot of drama at Remmington High this term, and she was relieved that things might settle at school next term. But she was far from right...
John and Caroline Gissing were married on the day before term ended. They took advantage of the Remmington High Carol Service to have a quiet wedding with a few of their friends around. Georgina Meyers was also there, as were Caroline's parents. Georgina had hugged Caroline fiercely after they signed the register.
'You're a lucky woman,' she whispered. 'I thought that you and John might get along somehow. I never thought for a second that you'd be getting married. He'll look after you,' she had added, looking in his direction. Caroline stared with her, at her new husband chatting to his friends. John stared back, as he once did when they were first sitting in a school assembly together. He still had the same slightly amused expression, but his eyes were softer. For a few seconds they just froze, as they had done on the first school day in September.
'Well, it's a pity you can't be with us much this Christmas,' sniffed Mrs Maloney-Jones. 'Melissa won't be coming at all; she's got that Brian Unwin fellow now, and of course Claudia is back in Canada now.' Caroline smiled politely at her mother, who was not likely to change soon. She would still exist in the hope that her two daughters would just stay in her home until she died, and her father would still be putting up with her.
John glanced at his wife, who was talking shop with her parents and Georgina. He was confident that the drama with Melissa would soon be forgotten as they made their way through life. He had forgiven Caroline since she first started being hostile to him, and John thought with a sigh, that he had always known how much he cared for her. Despite her baggage, she was a warm and loving person.
The next day, John and Caroline were saying goodbye to all of the leaving pupils. They watched with amusement as swarms of girls big and small were pushing each other about with suitcases, tuckboxes and hockey sticks.
'Lea you idiot you've got MY blazer in your suitcase!'
'Mrs Reginald I still can't find my tuck box keys! I need a hammer to get my library book out of it!'
'Harriet send me some photos of you in Thailand! Have a good Christmas!' It was utter chaos and Eileen Reginald looked shattered. Caroline was secretly glad that she wasn't a housemistress, much as she approved of Eileen's discipline. As she sorted out each child, they would approach the newlyweds and wish them luck, which touched John. He smiled as they squealed 'Merry Christmas Mrs Deegan!'
'Before we go you might need to remind Martha to tell the girls to call you Mrs Gissing next term. Unless you want to carry on being Mrs Deegan at school,' whispered John.
'Oh no that's done. I've already had the label on my door changed,' grinned Caroline, squeezing John's hand. Suddenly she couldn't help it, and kissed his cheek. Eileen's sharp eyes caught hers.
'You two!' she hissed as she pulled of a struggling first former. 'If you weren't just married I'd put you both in detention. Congratulations and I hope you have a lovely holiday. Now I must get my holiday before it ends.' She kissed Caroline's forehead and shook John's hand before helping the first former with her trunk. A minute later, they were alone in the large entrance hall.
'Well, let's get our honeymoon done with before it ends,' laughed John. They
went to the Northern Wing to pick up Caroline's things.
Liza
Here is
my last Gissing chapter..., - Monday, June 18, 2007 at 04:04:49 AM (EDT)
Thanks! Someone else can claim Gissing in the meantime as he'll be in just
one more chapter but if no one else wants Slope then he'll be in my next part of
'A Truly Eventful Year'.
Liza
- Monday, June 18, 2007 at 02:32:02 AM
(EDT)
Liza, welcome back! *steering Welcome Wagon in your direction* I'd say that if there are no other takers already set for Gissing or Slope, then go for it. Anyone?
Anonymous, I agree completely---Hans loves her and always will. However, just as soon as Mary Anne can safely get out of that bed, she might walk up to Hans, grab him by the ear, and ask him what was he thinking to go off and leave his wife when she's having a baby?!
*setting fingers in pinch position and showing scary RAWRRRR teeth*
MA
She would do it, you know . . . ;-), - Saturday, June
16, 2007 at 09:52:17 PM (EDT)
Hello I'm here agin after nearly 4 years of not writing! I was wondering
if I could finish the first Gissing instalment and then borrow Slope for the
next instalment (leaving Gissing available for anyone who wants to write about
him). Thanks, and it's good to see everyone here again!
Liza Rosette
-
Saturday, June 16, 2007 at 02:36:49 AM (EDT)
And always will.
Anonymous
- Friday, June 15, 2007 at 01:03:36
PM (EDT)
Gruber men do not give their love lightly . . .
One who knows
- Thursday, June 14, 2007 at 08:31:00 PM (EDT)
The miracle . . . is that he still loves her.
Anonymous
-
Thursday, June 14, 2007 at 12:16:55 PM (EDT)
In the Tardis:
Respiratory bypass or no, the Doctor feels his breath hitch. “You’ll go nowhere without me; it won’t work. The Tardis controls are---“
“---isomorphic, yes. You’ve told that tale before, but it’s only a tale, I think. Shall we find out?” The Interrogator passes one hand lightly over the surface of the console, lingering among the switches before deftly flipping one . . .
And the Tardis door opens.
The Interrogator smiles, and the Doctor’s hearts sink. If only a patrol had been passing by!
And now the door is closed again, as The Interrogator gives the control panel an appreciative caress as the Doctor takes refuge in sarcasm. “This is the first time I’ve ever seen someone attempt to seduce a Tardis.”
HIS eyebrows lift. “Seduce? Not necessary. She knows me, after all.” HIS voice drops, an acid parody of affection. “Dear old thing; I believe we shall get along well. And so---“ HIS expression hardens as the pistol comes around to point directly at the Doctor. “---I suggest you avoid lying to me again, about what your machine will or will not do. I do have inside information, as you know.”
“You unspeakable abomination. (homage) What I know is that you did your best to kill her---“
“Hardly. If I had done my best to kill her, she would be dead.”
“---and if you know so much, then you know I’ll regenerate if you kill me.”
“Oh, but it’s such a delicate business, isn’t it? Regeneration doesn’t always go smoothly, and you haven’t so many of them left, have you? Don’t throw one away by resisting me.”
The Doctor gazes at HIM a moment. “I’ve sacrificed a regeneration before and I did not consider it a waste.”
“This one would be.” HE turns back to the panel. “Yes.” Quietly. “This one, I believe . . .”
HE touches a switch.
The Doctor’s eyes widen in dismay as, first with a low hum and then with the familiar grinding shriek, the Time Rotor begins its rise and fall, and the Tardis dematerializes.
There is a long silence.
“You’re quite mad, you know.”
“Am I? Then why are you the one in the improvised strait-waistcoat?”
“Do you know what you’ve done? There’s a randomizer in effect; where do you think you’re going to land us? The Gobi? The Eye of Orion? The Lesser Magellanics? The Royal Edinburgh Hotel?”
The Interrogator is pale but smiling. “Why don’t I let the Tardis choose? I’m sure she will pick an appropriate location.”
The Doctor can feel it, then: a small murmur of confusion in the subliminal thought-stream of the Tardis. Not fear. She thinks she knows who it is.
The Doctor turns cold at the thought. The Tardis is semi-sentient, but only just: she doubtless recognizes a brainwave pattern that seems familiar . . .
HE has been too close to Mary Anne for weeks on end; the synchrony must be almost exact, and the artron energy is reading that. But the DNA . . . oh, dear. Great Rassilon, HE injured Mary Anne. Spilled her blood. If there’s any of it still on HIM, anywhere . . . and she does have some Gallifreyan DNA.
Immobilized, with the Tardis in flight and a murderer with a pistol working the controls. No, this is not a good time to try and enlighten the Tardis, if it could be done. The Doctor contents himself with calming his mind, letting his link with the Tardis remain soothing and reassuring. Yet there is that worry chewing at him: where will she choose? Reading that man’s brainwaves, sensing the unrest, the devouring need for safety, refuge, . . . what will the Tardis choose?
It is seldom that the Doctor allows despair to overtake him, and it does not do so now; the fighting, adventurous spirit that has sustained him for hundreds of years is not bowed down. Nevertheless, he cannot deny the thought passing through his mind, kept carefully distant from his link with the Tardis. I should never have attended the Academy, never become a Time Lord. I should’ve hunted up the Sheboogans. Wonder if they would’ve taken me in? A more peaceful life, certainly . . .
. . . and a boring one, as you know perfectly well. You know you haven’t regretted any of it. Don’t begin now .
“Doctor.”
The Tardis has rematerialized, and The Interrogator is standing over him. The two gaze at each other, human versus Time Lord.
“The Tardis has chosen---and I think she did very well.”
The Interrogator has pushed him over onto his side, and the Doctor tenses, preparing to struggle though struggle is useless . . . and yet, all The Interrogator does is turn The Doctor’s face to the wall, away from the door, and HIS voice is almost gentle. “I’d rather you didn’t see where we are, Doctor, if you don’t mind.”
“And if I do?”
”Learn to live with disappointment. (homage) I believe the term here is ‘a clean getaway,’ is it not? I’ve set the controls to automatically dematerialize again as soon as I leave, so do me the kindness of not searching for me. And while I’m thinking of it---“
With a wry expression, The Interrogator reaches deep into the coverall pocket and draws out the Doctor’s Tardis key, dangling from its chain, and drops it on the floor. “A praiseworthy attempt to plant something traceable; I’m sure the metal is unique where we are, but . . .” A shrug. “I have my reasons for being wary of people putting things in my pockets.” HIS face hardens. “Or taking things out.”
In one smooth motion The Interrogator rises to HIS feet. “So tell me, Doctor, before I leave you: how does it feel to be a deus ex machina?”
For a moment, the Doctor thinks of some of the beings he has known who would count themselves gods---beings who are power-hungry, power-crazed, or simply powerful. Omega the renegade, the Black Guardian, Sutekh the Destroyer, last of the Osirans: these dangers, met and defeated, put The Interrogator in proper perspective, and The Doctor looks up, now able to smile a little. “The machine part of it, I’ll grant you. As for the rest . . .” Sombre, now. “Young man, if you’d met some of what’s out there, you’d mind your tongue about what you call god.”
“Perhaps I should, at that. It has been interesting to see you again, Doctor---but just now, I’d rather you didn’t see me. And so, farewell.”
The Doctor hears the door open and squirms furiously, trying to turn himself, to see . . . but no, the dematerialization has already begun, and the Tardis roams the void of time and space.
In a few moments, the Doctor has finished working himself free from his bindings. Amazing how much easier that is, without a weapon pointed at you! And then he is on his feet and concentrating furiously at the control panel . . . but no, there are too many options among the selections of the randomizer circuitry, no knowing at which of these places HE had departed. It would be just barely possible to narrow down the choices by limiting to Earth and scanning for residual artron energy, but even now the trace would be fading. Not a long enough exposure, and the stabilizers are working perfectly, for once. HE would have to be close to artron-toxic to give off any traces now.
With a heavy sigh, the Doctor absentmindedly strokes the console as he checks for damages. First order of business is to restore the Temporal Grace circuitry. And make it much harder to disconnect, with multiple failsafes, as soon as possible!
And now there is another daunting task ahead. Setting his jaw, the Doctor adjusts the controls for Earth, locking in the coordinates for the Imperial Palace, triangulating until he has the settings for the exact corridor from which he had been abducted. And once there . . .
It will not be an easy task, to face The Empress and tell her how her infamous prisoner has made HIS escape.
MA---you can call off the search, Your Majesty . . .
The
Interrogator has left the building! And where is HE now . . . ?, - Thursday,
June 07, 2007 at 10:49:58 PM (EDT)
Scene: Imperial Palace. The medical wing. Labour ward.
“There.”
“I don’t understand it, Doctor Blalock.”
“I received it while in surgery with Mary Anne. It saved her life. Stopped the bleeding. That’s all I know. You’ll have to ask your patient, Dottore. And here she is.”
Above her, a face which looks familiar, yet not quite so.
“Don’t be alarmed, Mrs. Gruber. I am Doctor Alfred Blalock. And I am very pleased to meet you this fine morning.”
“Mercedes . . . .”
“Lyla bring that beautiful little girl over, will you?
“Give me just a moment,” answers Lyla, from behind a curtain.
Behind Dr. Blalock’s face Renie sees Colin, and wishes she could gesture to him to come closer, but her arms, her fingers, aren’t responding just yet . . . fizzy, but growing warmer . . .
“Hans?”
For some reason, the doctors look at Colin, who shakes his head.
“He had to step out. He’ll be . . . right back.”
Lyla brings over a tiny bundle, wrapped in a clean baby blanket.
Colin gasps at the sight of the newborn, swaddled, eyes closed tightly. “Two miracles.”
Dr. Blalock cocks his head. “Whether we live or die is science. Which is--I admit--very often, a mystery. The miracle . . . ”
And here, Blalock reaches out to help Lyla settle the baby in Renie’s weak but waiting arms. He sighs a contented sigh before continuing his thought.
“The miracle . . . is that we love each other.”
R
To miracles., - Wednesday, May 30, 2007 at 02:31:35 AM (EDT)
Scene: Darkness. A garden. Expansive. Explosive in bloom . . . yet moonlight bathes what might be, what would be, bright bold colours by day. In this cobalt world, heliotrope lies hushed.
Its fertile beauty, eerily veiled, hues of blues and greys, where life sleeps underneath a cool shadow.
Where am I?
A man emerges, small in stature.
“Hard to imagine that in a few moments, this garden will be alive with light. How do you feel?”
Hungry.
“Here you are.”
A warm taste of peach . . . rich, juicy, ripe, floods her mouth.
“One day, you will come and walk in this garden. But that day is not today, Renie.”
But . . .
The small man raises a finger as if to stop her. “I will answer your questions another day. I look forward to it, Mrs. Gruber. Right now, you are wanted.”
R
I'm sure it was the thumping threat that did it, dearest., -
Wednesday, May 30, 2007 at 02:28:30 AM (EDT)
Scene: Imperial Palace. The medical wing. Labour ward.
Bedside, in the delivery room. Doctor DaMozzici stands at the foot of the bed, pressing buttons on a monitor.
“What’s happened?” But even as Colin chokes out his question, the scene before him does not leave much to the imagination.
“It’s a girl. She appears fine--Lyla is with her, administering a battery of tests. I’ve just sent for Dr. Blalock.”
“For Renie?”
“Yes. This delivery—this entire day for that matter—has been too abrupt.”
“Tell me all of it.” When Antonia hesitates, Colin does not. “I’m standing in for Hans. There are reasons, trust me.”
“She’s hemorrhaging. After the delivery the placenta begins to separate from the uterus but it may not complete the process quickly enough, exposing the blood vessels where it was previously attached. We may need a surgeon.”
“How dangerous . . . will she . . . “
A blast of the open doors.
“I can’t say, Mister Molyneux.”
“But I can." It comes out, "But ah can." "Alfred Blalock. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Dottore DaMozzici. I know just the thing to stop this bleeding.”
R
It's tempting either way . . . *wicked grin* (And hello
ladies!), - Wednesday, May 30, 2007 at 01:50:59 AM (EDT)
Imperial Palace:
Instinctively the Doctor stiffens, only to feel the barrel dig painfully into his side. “You may have two hearts, but you would find a hole in even one of them a serious inconvenience. Now, inside.”
The Doctor complies. “I’m not so certain of that. Some people---“ Tartly. “---manage very well with none at all.”
There is no reply, only a mirthless chuckle, and the Doctor allows himself to be dragged into the Tardis, managing to bump awkwardly against his captor several times and hoping against hope the machine will recognize an enemy . . . but there is no such alarm, and in short order the Doctor finds himself trussed hand and foot with a long, multi-coloured muffler left hanging from the hall tree. I knew I should’ve packed that away a long time ago.
Quite an awkward position in which to find oneself. The Doctor watches and, though his hearts pound frantically, tries to remain calm as The Interrogator strolls through the Control Room right up to the panel, gazing on it in smiling wonder---and, what is worse, recognition.
Numbskull. Of course HE recognizes it; HE knows what Mary Anne knows! Some of it, at any rate. The thought of it turns him cold as a Yeti’s cavern and he twists his arms, testing the knots and trying not to tip over. After all, it’s only a knitted muffler; how strong can it . . .
The Interrogator pulls open a panel and reaches inside; a moment later, there is the sharp pop of a plug coming loose.
“Temporal Grace circuitry, I believe.” Pleasantly. “If I remember correctly, my pistol will fire in here now. So keep still or I’ll rip out that circuit entirely, and then try a little target shooting.” The smile does not reach HIS eyes.
“If you damage the Tardis, you won’t be getting away from here, will you?”
“I was not thinking of the Tardis.”
That silences the Doctor for a moment as he tries again, ever so subtly, to twist at the knots about his arms, but The Interrogator seems to have mastered the art of watching in two different directions; though HE is examining the console intently, it seems there is never a moment when those sharp golden eyes are not alert for an escape attempt, and the Doctor finally allows himself to slump a little in his bonds. No use in this. Perhaps something else . . .
“So, what are you going to do?”
“I told you; we’re leaving.” A predatory smile. “Or, more correctly---I am leaving.”
MA
And R, dearest: if Renie and the baby are not both all right,
Mary Anne is going to be out of that bed MUCH sooner than she should be.
Consider yourself warned. ;-), - Monday, May 21, 2007 at 09:47:56 PM (EDT)
Well, Redwolf, we'd better give you something to avidly read, then. And Glowbox---Doctor you love, Doctor you shall have!
MA
Like Yoda I sound, yes, hmmmmm . . ., - Monday, May 21, 2007 at
09:46:01 PM (EDT)
I'm still here, a devoted lurker and avid reader.
Redwolf <Redwolf546@aol.comfoo>
- Thursday,
May 17, 2007 at 12:15:27 AM (EDT)
Yes, yes - I'm reading, please keep it coming!!
Glowbox
I just
love that Doctor, - Saturday, May 12, 2007 at 03:29:04 PM (EDT)
Imperial Palace, a deserted corridor:
The Doctor steps out of the Tardis, patting his pockets for the key. At last, a spot that isn’t overrun with---well, just about everyone, really: guards and soldiers and doctors and nurses and whatnot. Hardly a minute’s peace. To say that life has been interesting at The Palace lately . . . a poor, pale sort of word. The Time Lord shakes his head. Interesting. Perhaps in the sense of that ancient curse: “May you live in interesting times.”
Ah, well. This is what you can expect, taking up with humans. Every moment in which he feels himself akin to them brings with it a dozen more in which he cannot hope to understand what they are about, but perhaps that is part of the attraction; a species, thoroughly investigated for good and all, can become boring. Or worse.
The Daleks. Now them I understand, much good may it do me. Or even the worst human generally has better manners than a Sontaaran.
Yet there are moments that drive him to pace the long hallways of the Tardis in puzzlement. Take that Renie, now. Why did she insist on coming here to see that man, after all that’s between them? And about to have a child into the bargain. Why in Rassilon’s name---
No key. The Doctor begins rummaging another pocket.
---couldn’t she stay put . . .
Oh, bother it all; you’re starting to sound like those old fossils in the Panopticon. Calcifying, the lot of them. “Why,” indeed? If you thought it was a such a bad idea, why did you agree to bring her here?
“Ah!”
That’s the right pocket. Let’s get you locked up again, dear old thing, and I can go check on how everyone’s coming along. We’ll not be in anyone’s way here.
How gently but suddenly the arm tightens about his neck, cutting off his oxygen. Even now The Doctor is little troubled; a bypass respiratory system has its uses, and Venusian aikido can throw off most such attacks.
But this hold is from someone who knows the business of it: balanced and strong. And The Doctor recognizes that hard pressure against his side; even Venusian aikido, in the multiple hands of the most advanced practitioner, cannot stop a bullet.
“Back inside, Doctor. We’re leaving.”
MA---carrying the FoF flag . . .
Anybody out there? *peering
about*, - Thursday, May 10, 2007 at 09:51:11 PM (EDT)
Imperial Palace:
Many levels beneath Mary Anne’s sickroom, The Interrogator awakens with a startled exclamation. HE had not meant to sleep, only to rest after nearly an hour of following a search party. Reasoning that two parties would not be engaged too close together with all the ground of The Palace to cover, HE had slipped behind one band of searchers, following in their wake; the hunters had become the hunted until, after their investigation of a large storeroom had turned up nothing, they had moved on and HE had slipped gratefully into the room, hidden in one of the closets, and closed HIS eyes.
So HE had slept, not meaning to do so. Ah, well, HE thinks as HE stretches cramped limbs and carefully opens the door, all the better. I needed any sleep I could get. Grimacing, HE runs his tongue over his teeth, wincing at the taste of stale coffee that lingers in HIS mouth. More food would help as well; that stolen breakfast had not satisfied for long.
But let that be. The Interrogator steps out into the storeroom, taking stock of the resources. Not much. Brooms, mops, buckets, cleaning rags, a large sink with oversized taps---and there, a few sets of dark coveralls tossed over a chairback. Well, that’s something. HE rummages the coveralls and, finding the first set far too small, tosses it aside. The second is better: legs and sleeves long enough, perhaps even a little too long as though intended for an even larger man than himself, but that may prove useful. Quickly, HE strips out of the stained and wrinkled surgical gear, ties it into a ball, and flings it into the closet, then zips into the coverall, sighing a little in relief at simply being free of the scrubs. The coverall fits beautifully over HIS own clothing, and yes, the long legs drape over the tops of his shoes without their laces. A minor detail, but if even one Alliance agent were to spot it---Sifuentes, for example---HE is a dead man.
You are that anyway, as you know very well. Let even one of them sight you and no matter what orders The Empress has given, you know what will happen. Shoot to kill.
With