A Random Assortment of Ideas

Hmm.

azriona@gmail.com — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 22:54:53 GMT

So, I think most folks on the flist are aware that there's another Fanfic Award thing going around - Words on the Wind. I know zilch about it, I have little to no intention of becoming half as involved as I am/was in the CoT awards, and for me, it's mostly been under the radar.

Today, I got a notification that one of my stories was nominated. So first, thank you to whoever nominated it. I'm very flattered that you remembered the story and took the time to enter it! I don't get many nominations, so I treasure every one of them.

Moving on....I'm not sure I should accept the nomination. The nominated story? Is the remix I wrote a few months ago. Specifically, Finding Rose (The Forty-three Days Remix) from the chips_remixed challenge over the summer. The story is mine - but it's based off something someone else originally wrote.

One could argue that I'm simply describing fanfic in general. Hush, you.

So I'm not exactly sure this is something I should accept, and I remember this seemed to be a discussion a while back. (Or maybe this was strictly among the mods at CoT, I can't remember.) Should an author be nominated for a remixed fic? Is it fair to the author of the original fic on which it was based?

Hence...poll. What thinketh you, flist? Do I accept the nomination or not? Mind, I don't have a CLUE what category it's in, although I suppose I should find out.

View Poll: #1483634

My Google-fu is not working. How's yours?

azriona@gmail.com — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 03:39:37 GMT

The first person to find me a picture of Gargamel of the Smurfs smiling gets....um....something. Fic, bookmark, their own personal picture of the Doctor Smurfified, whatever, you name it. Thank you!

Got one, thank you! MWAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHA.

(Hey, the epilogue to Gaston Leroux is short. And I'm overdue for another Smurfy-Wurfy chapter.)

azriona@gmail.com — Sun, 08 Nov 2009 14:55:45 GMT

If I post it, then I'm accountable.

Things to do today:

Clean the bathrooms
Vacuum
Edit the rest of Water Music
Work on the project4editrx cookbook (TESTERS, if you are reading this, go turn in your tested recipe forms, please!)
Clean out the fridge
Grocery shopping (How the hell did I go through 2 dozen eggs in two weeks?)
Make some pie crusts (Bill will want pie)

No, Nano is not on that list. How very observant of you.

Cleo's Trip to the Vet

azriona@gmail.com — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 21:50:47 GMT

Monday:

Me: Cleo, on Saturday we're going to the vet.
Cleo: That's nice. When's dinner?

Wednesday:

Me: Cleo, on Saturday we're going to the vet.
Cleo: Sure. Listen, my mouse is stuck under the oven, can you get it for me?

Friday:

Me: Cleo, tomorrow morning we're going to the vet.
Cleo: Okay. I know I had dinner already, but could I please have a little more? I'm really hungry.

Saturday morning
Approximately 7.30am

Me: Okay, Cleo, I'm going to go out and warm up the car and get all the ice scraped off so we can go to the vet!
Cleo: Do I have to do anything? Because I'm in the middle of a power nap.
Me: You just lay there and look cute and contemplate getting into your carrier peacefully.
Cleo: ....carrier?

7.36am

Me: Cleo! Time to get in your carrier!
Cleo: ....Why?
Me: Because we're going to the vet.
Cleo: WHAT? NO ONE SAID ANYTHING ABOUT A VET. YOU DID NOT TELL ME ABOUT THIS VET. SINCE WHEN DO I HAVE TO GO TO THE VET?
Me: Since you aren't able to give yourself a rabies shot. Okay, time to get in the carrier!
Cleo: HELL NO.
Me: Okay, back legs in first...
Cleo: GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME, BITCH.

7.37am - 7.48am

17 Attempts to put Cleo into the Carrier of Doom
10 Cat Scratches on various human appendages (including one that drew blood)
2 Treats used as (unsuccessful) bait
1 Really, really, really, really, really mad cat
1 Exasperated Human

7.49am

Me: Okay. We're going to try this again.
Cleo: I'M WILLING REPEAT MY YOWLING AND TWISTING PERFORMANCE, SURE. BITCH.
Me: No, we're doing something different. I'm getting your harness and leash.
Cleo: ....Harness?
Me: You like your harness.
Cleo: ....Yeah.....
Me: So you put on the harness, and your leash, and I'll carry you.
Cleo: ....What's the catch?
Me: No catch.
Cleo: ....I'm not sure I trust you. Bitch.
Me: Well, I'm not sure this will work, so we're even.

7.52am

Me: Cleo, it's very sweet that you want to ride all the way to the vet on my lap, but really, I sort of need to DRIVE.
Cleo: YOWL. YOWL. YOWL. YOWL. YOWL.

7.53am - 7.59am

Cleo: YOWL. YOWL. YOWL. YOWL. YOWL.
Me: Um, are you going to do this the entire way to the vet?
Cleo: Yes. YOWL. YOWL. YOWL. YOWL. YOWL.

8.00am - 8.17am

Cleo: YOWL. YOWL. YOWL. YOWL. YOWL.

8.18am

Enter the Slapstick:
So we get to the vet, and I even scored good parking, right around the corner. Nuthin' to it. With a firm grip on Cleo (and her leash wrapped around my wrist just in case), and the carrier over my shoulder, we stared walking to the vet.

We were GREAT until we reached the corner.

And then we turned the corner. Couple of construction workers saw me, and got huge grins on their faces. "She wouldn't get in her carrier," I explained, and they laughed.

We make it past them, and the vet's office is in sight - it's right there - it's so close - I can practically SMELL it.

Which is when.

Jackhammers: RAT-A-TAT-A-TAT-A-TAT-A-TAT-A-TAT-A-TAT-A-TAT-A-TAT-A-TAT.
Cleo: YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME.

All of a sudden, the somewhat calm cat in my arms became BLURRING TWIRLING CAT O' FURY. I couldn't hold her, she spun right out of my arms, and straight for the nearest door. She actually CLIMBED the brick wall in an attempt to get away.

Luckily, we were in something of an alcove. It wasn't quieter, exactly, but Cleo couldn't see the &*^#$ jackhammer going, which was helpful. I was able to gather her back up, whisper in her ear (which she likes, it's calming), and try to calm her down. I peeked around the corner --

Jackhammers: RAT-A-TAT-A-TAT-A-TAT-A-TAT-A-TAT-A-TAT-A-TAT-A-TAT-A-TAT.

Now, here's the thing. The jackhammers? Were doing their thing RIGHT ACROSS from the vet's door - TEN FEET AWAY. There was no dodging them. And try as I might, I couldn't get their attention. All I needed was for them to stop for TWO MINUTES. Not even! And I could carry Cleo easily into the vet's office, and they could rat-a-tat-a-tat all they wanted all the live-long day.

But no. There was no attention. There was no stopping.

So....I got a good hold of Cleo...

My fingers around her harness...

Held my arms in tight....

AND RAN.

I think I just about exploded into the vet's office, with a chorus of Angry Cat Yowls and RAT-A-TAT-A-TATs. The carrier went one way. Cleo went the other. I stared at the receptionist, who stared back at me.

Me: Hi. Appointment for Cleo, 8.30. Can we please go straight into an exam room? Please?
Receptionist: Oh, sure.
Me: I love you.

End result:

1 Rabies shot in the back right leg
1 Distemper shot in the front right leg
1 Extremely Amused but Sympathetic Veterinarian, who thinks Cleo is the cutest thing on four legs (she is, but that's beside the point)
$126 paid for services
(Putting the 9 pound 3 ounce Cleo in her carrier for the ride home was free, but would have been worth twice that)

9.18am

Me: Well, Cleo, home again, home again. You can get out of the carrier now.
Cleo: Why? Kind of nice in here.
Me: OMG, Cat.
Cleo: Wait - I get a treat now, don't I?
Me: YES.
Cleo: Well, jeez, no reason to YELL about it.
Me:
Cleo: Bitch.

Mirror of Erised, Page Five complete!

azriona@gmail.com — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 20:58:27 GMT

On a cold and windy day (April 13, 2005, to be exact), I started a massive cross-stitch project. (Okay, it might not have been cold and windy, I don't remember. I'm trying to set some ambiance here, be quiet.)

I figured it would take me about three years to finish, by which point I would need trifocals, assuming I wasn't blind.

Four and a half years later...I have finished Page Five. (Out of sixteen. Again, be quiet.)

What will eventually become this:

...began as this:

...and is now this:

The Details:
Erised is being stitched 2 over 1 on 28-count antique white Monaco fabric. The pattern is ALL full stitches - no halfs, no three-quarters, and best of all, NO BACKSTITCHING. The finished design will be approximately 12x15 inches and will utilize around 70 different colors. There are sixteen pages to the pattern total.

I began Erised in April 2005 and worked on it pretty much continuously until June of 2006, getting approximately 1/3rd through Page 4. I had to stop at that point, because I was overseas and couldn't get any more of my preferred size 28 needles. I picked it up again in February 2008, finished Page 4 exactly 3 years to the day that I began the project, and almost immediately went into Page 5 before having to start and stop several times to complete approximately five thousand baby announcements. Page Five was completed on November 7, 2009, while watching The Manchurian Candidate (1962). I'm hoping that doesn't end up being significant.

The pattern was taken from the Harry Potter Uno deck (don't ask which card; I've forgotten) and I used a cross-stitch program I found online to create the pattern. The pattern is not for sale, nor is the finished product; all copywrights and honors go to J.K. Rowling and whoever it was who drew the original picture. I don't know the name of the artist, but if anyone can supply it, I'll happily credit them, because I completely love this picture.

You can read about Erised's journey in stitches here.

A Close-up on Page 5

The plan is to go straight into Page 6, which ought to be interesting, as that's the bulk of the glass. But I'm really looking forward to the bottom of Page Six, because that's where I start working on various family members! Whee!

azriona@gmail.com — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 12:19:08 GMT

While killing time before Cleo's vet appointment this morning, I found this via ihasatardis:

A Jack and Ianto dress-up game, with lots of clothing and facial expression options. It is strangely entertaining.

In other news, I realized this morning that despite my lack of appetite, I'm going to dinner with friends tonight. I mean, I knew I was, but for some reason, dinner with friends did not equal having to actually eat something. I'm hoping my appetite comes back in the next 12 hours.

azriona@gmail.com — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 00:53:12 GMT

Hmm.

Tuesday night, approximately 9.30pm - horrific gastrointestinal issues in which I lost every bite I'd eaten since noon.

Wednesday - Two pieces of toast. Half a can of chicken soup. A bit of bread pudding. Half a pita with peanut butter.

Thursday - Two pieces of toast. Small take-away container of beef noodle soup. Two pieces of toast with peanut butter (the pita had started a biological warfare).

Friday - Bagel with peanut butter. Berry smoothie (basically, frozen berries and ice - no dairy or dairy substitutes).

I'm not hungry. I haven't eaten anything in about 8 hours. Should I be worried? This is not exactly like me, usually I'd be ravenous by now.

The Book Meme

azriona@gmail.com — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 12:04:45 GMT

Gacked from cordilleran2:

1. Pick 10 of your favorite books or series.
2. Post the first sentence of each book. (If one sentence seems too short, post two or three!)
3. Let everyone try to guess the titles and authors of your books.

I'll point out that not all of these are fiction.

~~1. Scotland has, in an eminent degree, a haunting character.~~ Scotland, an Intimate Portrait by Geddes MacGregor, guessed by talloakslady

2. There were five of us - Carruthers and the new recruit and myself, and Mr. Spivens and the verger. It was late afternoon on November the fifteenth, and we were in what was left of Coventry Cathedral, looking for the bishop's bird stump. To Say Nothing of the Dog by Connie Willis, guessed by several, but first by time_converges

3. There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the question. Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte, guessed by wordweaverlynn

4. Tuesday, 1 May 1945. Important hours, important as those days at the end of August in 1939 preceding the declaration of war. This is tension of a different kind, expectancy, preparations being made for a change in our way of living. But the tempo is slower.

5. The Porthkerris Council School stood half-way up the steep hill which climbed from the heart of the little town to the empty moors which lay beyond. It was a solid Victorian edifice, built of granite blocks, and had three entrances, marked Boys, Girls, and Infants, a legacy from the days when segregation of the sexes was mandatory. Coming Home</b> by Rosamunde Pilcher, guessed by rosewarren

~~6. This is a very dull page. What is on the next page?~~ The Monster at the End of this Book (starring Loveable Furry Old Grover) written by John Stone and illustrated by Mike Smollin, guessed by several, but first by almosee

~~7. I didn't ask to be a celebrity. I never wanted to appear on The Adrian Lush Show.~~ Lost in a Good Book by Jasper Fforde, guessed by themolesmother

8. In some distant arcade, a clock tower calls out six times and then stops. The young man slumps at his desk. He has come to the office at dawn, after another upheaval. His hair is uncombed and his trousers are too big.

~~9. On the 24th of February, 1815, the lookout of Notre-Dame de la Garde signalled the three-master, the Pharaon, from Smyrna, Trieste, and Naples.~~ The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas, guessed by several, but first by fishface44

10. Harry Potter was a highly unusual boy in many ways. For one thing, he hated the summer holidays more than any other time of year. Okay, fine, this is sort of a gimme on the series. Name the exact book please, and no cheating. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban by J.K. Rowling, guessed by many, but first by time_converges

azriona@gmail.com — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 01:02:55 GMT

I'm not going to say that being sick is fun, because of course, it isn't. No-one really wants to wake up at 2 in the morning because your stomach is in so much pain, you'd really rather someone shoot you and put you out of your misery, and so you lay on the cold tile floors in the bathroom even though you're shivering because you're also somewhat warm and the cool feels nice.

But as far as being sick goes, today was actually a very nice day. I woke up briefly at six to feed Cleo, and then called my boss to tell him I was ill. After praying to various superior entities, I ate some toast, and read a little bit, and fell back asleep.

When I woke up, it was nearly noon, and the sunlight streamed through the windows, along with the dim sound of the landscaping company mowing the public strip of grass behind our row of townhouses. Cleo was curled up on the bed, lazily watching me through slitted eyes, as if to say, "What, you're awake now?" I didn't much want to move, so I read for a little bit longer, and every so often Cleo would get up, and sniff me. I kid myself and say she was checking for fever - but for all I know, she might very well have been trying to determine if I was well enough to give her a second breakfast.

Bill called, which was nice, and my brother called, which was nicer, and eventually, I got up, and watched some television (because it wasn't reading), and had a pita with peanut butter, and crawled back to bed, because I had a bit of a headache, which seems to have gone away now.

(And I've been reading Rosamunde Pilcher for the last few hours, so if I sound a bit odd, I blame her.)

So, yeah, last night was utterly miserable, but a very nice day followed it. I can deal.

Perhaps the one down-side of the day is that I didn't realize until very late that I messed up the coding on the last chapter of Gaston Leroux, and as a consequence, it doesn't appear that many people have read it. It's not easy to read an entire chapter that is underlined and in boldface, so I can't say I blame them. But I was hoping for a little bit of cheer this evening, I'll admit.

Or perhaps they found the ending too corny for reviews! Anything's possible, I suppose.

azriona@gmail.com — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 12:55:21 GMT

Came home last night with a stomach-ache and ended up spending most of the night either in bed whimpering, or in the bathroom whimpering. (Or, in one memorable half-hour, halfway in the bathroom and halfway in the hall. Whimpering. Of course.)

So I called in sick, because I'm certainly not going to work whimpering. (That never goes over well.) I'm pretty sure it's a stomach bug and not actual swine flu. We'll see if the toast stays down.

Anyway, since sitting at the computer does not make my head happy, I'm going off to bed. (With possible whimpering.) But first:

David Tennant is going to be on NBC next year, apparently. The show, frankly, sounds kind of silly. But then, the last lawyer show I watched with any regularity was Ally McBeal, so I really shouldn't be talking. And I'm not sure what accent he's going to use, which could be potentially scary.

But mostly, I want to point out that the picture with the article is the same picture I used as my computer wallpaper at work for about three months, until I got tired of people walking by and saying, "Yikes! Who's THAT???" *sigh*

Fic: The Imagination of Gaston Leroux (9/10)

azriona@gmail.com — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 12:26:22 GMT

Title: The Imagination of Gaston Leroux (9/10)
Rating: PG
Characters: Nine, Rose, Jack, Ten, Jack (yes, twice), assorted others

Summary: Actresses disappear from the stage, the manager is strangely tight-lipped, and there’s an oddly knowledgeable woman in an apricot dress running here and there. Not to mention the overly enthusiastic journalist lurking in the shadows. Will the Doctor and his companions solve the mystery at the Opera Garnier – or will the story be forever changed?

A/N: A sort-of crossover with Gaston Leroux’s The Phantom of the Opera, written for momdaegmorgan. I say “sort-of” because while those who have read the book or seen the movie or heard the music may recognize certain things, it’s not quite a crossover in the classic definition of the genre.

The Extremely Strange Tale of the True Story of the Man Commonly Known as
the Phantom of the Opera,
Or
(if you would rather a shorter title, and goodness knows I would not blame you):

The Imagination of Gaston Leroux

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine: How It REALLY Ended

There are some mysteries that remain unsolved, no matter how desperately one wishes to solve them. Humans are not meant to know everything that occurs, be it in the past, or in the future. Certainly not - for what does such knowledge bring, except false hope and certainty, when those two factors could bring about the very demise their owners believe they are to circumvent?

When the Doctor, Jack, and Gaston Leroux tumbled out of the passageway and into the corps de ballet’s communal dressing room, they did not expect to find waiting for them the previously asleep ballerina sitting on her bed, blinking as if she’d only just stepped into the sun.

“Hello,” she said. “Would you mind telling me what’s going on? I was just dancing, and now I’m here....”

Leroux let out a triumphant shout, and immediately whipped out his notebook. Jack went into his defensive stance, as if the girl might explode at any moment. Only the Doctor seemed to keep his head. He pulled out his screwdriver and immediately began running the same medical scans he had run countless times before.

“You were asleep,” he told her.

“But I couldn’t have been asleep!” said the girl. “I was dancing.”

“Dancing?” echoed Jack.

“Don’t interrupt,” said Leroux eagerly. “Tell us, my dear – where were you dancing?”

“Here, of course. It was the spring ballet,” said the girl, tossing her shoulders back. “It was the most perfect performance – and I did very well.”

“I’m sure you did,” said the Doctor.

“Alone? Or with a lover?” demanded Leroux.

“Oi, stop pestering the patient!” snapped the Doctor, and looked at his results. “Mental capacity at normal functions, heart beating normally, respiration at regular levels.”

“Only dancing?” asked Leroux, and Jack took the man by the scruff of his neck and tossed him into the corridor.

“Thank you, Jack,” said the Doctor, and Jack brushed his hands.

“Now I see why the manager does that so often,” said Jack.

The Doctor turned back to the girl. “How do you feel?”

“A bit tired,” said the girl.

“Well, sure, you’ve been dancing for four days straight,” said the Doctor. “Perhaps you should take a nap?”

“Is that such a good idea?” asked Jack.

“I think it’s all right,” said the Doctor. “Go check on the others, would you, Jack? And see where Alice has gotten to.”

“Right,” said Jack, but stopped before he reached the corridor. “Doc – the alien?”

“Later,” said the Doctor, and Jack left the room as the girl laid back down on the bed.

“I wasn’t alone the whole time,” said the girl, but already her eyes were sliding shut. “At first, but then there were others. And Christine was there at the very end.”

“Was she?” asked the Doctor.

“And everyone was clapping, and smiling and they loved us,” continued the girl.

“Everyone? Who’s everyone?”

“They loved us,” sighed the girl. “They were all blue, isn’t that funny? But they loved us – they loved me.” And with that, she fell asleep.

The Doctor frowned, and scanned the girl again. Still nothing showed – she was in perfect health, in every way. In no way did the scans even indicate that she may have had psychic trauma. It was during the third scan that the Doctor realized the girl was shivering, and almost without thinking, he pulled out the garment tucked in his coat pocket, and draped it over the girl’s thin, bare shoulders.

He kept his hand on the cotton, now dry, and felt the heat from the girl’s skin slowly warm it.

It had been such a remote chance, really, that he would see her. And, of course, far better that he not. He wouldn’t have been able to tell her who he was – he only would have been a face in the crowd. And what was more – a face Rose could not be allowed to recognize only a few short weeks later. It was dangerous enough that he and Jack and Alice were running around the opera while at the same time, he ran around with Jack and Rose. Heaven help him if they all ran into each other—

But it hadn’t happened. He was sure Rose or Jack would have told him about it at the time, and neither of them had said anything. He had little doubt that Jack remembered – but then, Jack had an additional two millennia under his belt now. It was very possible that he had forgotten what had only been a few hours to take in some culture.

Nothing really notable had happened to any of them, really.

Well, to Jack or Rose.

The door to the dressing room opened, and the Doctor stood. The door closed again, and he heard the footsteps as the new occupant walked to stand next to him.

“Doctor,” said the man in the black leather coat.

“Commissaire,” replied the Doctor, and turned to look at his younger self. “If I recall correctly, anyway.”

“You do,” said the Doctor in black, and crossed his arms. “Leroux said there was a doctor here.”

“Well – it seemed easiest to let them think I was,” said the Doctor, rocking back on his heels. “I don’t recall it causing you trouble.”

“All this time, they’re going on about a doctor, and it’s you,” scoffed the Doctor, and he made a face at the sleeping artist. “Thought she was awake?”

“She was,” confirmed the Doctor. “It’s a real sleep now.”

“So it’s all solved then? Nothing left for me to do?”

“Nothing but to pack everyone into the TARDIS and go on,” said the Doctor, his hearts hammering. He hoped there hadn’t been a pause. “All solved after the fourth artist was taken, quite easy. Where you off to?”

“Cardiff for refueling,” said the Doctor. “Might as well, since we’re here.”

“And out of milk,” agreed the Doctor with smile.

The Doctor gave him a glance. “A suit?”

“Oi,” said the Doctor. “Wouldn’t want to meet you down a dark alley.”

“Better than ruffles and lace.”

They both shuddered.

“I’m off,” said the Doctor in black, but he stopped at the door. His hand rested on the knob, squeezing and releasing, in a reflexive, contemplative pattern that his older self remembered all too well.

He remembered, too, what he’d been wanting to ask - and further, remembered not needing to ask it.

“It gets better,” the older Doctor told himself. “It gets worse, too, yeah – but it’s better, now.”

The Doctor turned the knob. “Thanks,” he said gruffly, and left the room.

The Doctor in blue stayed where he was, his hearts aching in time with the Time Lord heading toward the lobby, where he’d meet with Rose and Jack, and bundle them into the TARDIS. They’d go on to Cardiff, and find Blon waiting, and be in the next adventure so quickly, the non-adventure at the Opera Garnier would fade to memory before they knew it. He’d never really understood what his older self had meant, not until later. His younger self thought he’d been asking about Gallifrey, about the pain of losing it.

But answering, looking at the hoodie draped over the sleeping girl – his older self hadn’t been thinking of Gallifrey at all. How could he? Gallifrey had been gone for years – locked away, untouchable.

No – he hadn’t been talking about the loss of Gallifrey getting better with time. Although that was true enough.

It would have been wrong to leave the hoodie there, incongruous and certainly a sloppy practice, to leave a very 21st century article of clothing in a 19th century opera house. Negligent, as a matter of fact. How the other Time Lords would have frowned!

It really did get better.

Alice and Jack waited for him in Christine’s dressing room.

“She’s not awake yet,” said Alice from the dressing table, where she sat swinging her legs. “And I’d like to point out that I haven’t made anything explode.”

“Yet,” said the Doctor mildly.

Alice’s legs stopped swinging. “But it’s done, isn’t it? Alien’s captured, artists are waking up, everything’s fine.”

“No,” said the Doctor, and scanned the soprano with a frown. “Exactly the same,” he muttered. “Not a wit different from before.”

Alice crossed her arms. “You said they were waking up!”

“One woke up,” said the Doctor. He groaned, and ran his hand through his hair. “Nothing – nothing. None of it makes sense!”

“But the blue field we saw?” Jack asked.

Alice’s eyes widened. “What blue field?”

“A psychic line going straight from the creature’s vantage point to the stage,” explained the Doctor. “I’m certain that’s the path the energy took when it put the artists into stasis. Only – they weren’t just in stasis, they were still performing in their heads. They never knew they weren’t. Unless they wake up – they continue performing for the rest of their lives.”

“Which wouldn’t be very long,” said Jack grimly, looking at Christine. “Their bodies heat up, burning off energy – can’t eat, not really sleeping – they’d waste away.”

“The girl who did wake up was exhausted,” said the Doctor. “I just need some kind of clue – there’s something missing, something I’m just not seeing...”

Alice jumped off the dresser. “I,” she announced, “am brilliant.”

“Alice, now is really not the time—” began the Doctor, but Alice stopped him by reaching into her pocket and pulling out a small, blinking device about the shape of a large pebble.

“I found this in the back of the house,” she said. “Not very 19th century, is it?”

“Alice, you’re brilliant,” breathed the Doctor. He grabbed Alice’s face between his hands and gave her a smacking kiss on the forehead, right before he snatched the device out of her outstretched palm.

“He’ll forget in a day or so when I blow something up again,” Alice said to Jack.

“I’ve forgotten already,” said Jack, and she made a face at him.

“Ha! I knew I’d seen this before! Do you know what you’ve found?” demanded the Doctor.

“One of those little clicky devices that tells you where your car is parked?” asked Alice.

“No, it’s—” The Doctor blinked. “Well, yes, actually. It is. How did you know?”

“Brilliant,” Alice reminded him, and he broke into a grin.

“What are you waiting for, let’s go find him. Allons-y!”

“You waited three days to say that?” asked Jack. “We’re in Paris, and you couldn’t come up with a reason to say that before three days had gone by?”

“Pay up!” chortled Alice, and they raced after the Doctor, who furiously clicked at the device. It began beeping when they reached the foyer. It beeped louder when they reached the balconies. It grew louder and louder still, until they found themselves on the very roof of the Opera Garnier.

And there, in the center of the roof: was a pretty little silver saucer-style spaceship, no larger than a dining room table, and not much taller, either. Alice broke into a grin.

“Oh, you’re kidding,” she said, delighted. “I didn’t think those actually existed.”

“There aren’t green men inside, are there?” asked Jack.

“Of course not,” said the Doctor, and knocked on the side of the saucer. There were scuffling noises inside, and several voices, as if the occupants were arguing amongst themselves. Finally, a section of the saucer slid back, as easily as a window shade snapping open, and a small, humanoid face looked out. It would have been completely indistinguishable from that of a human, if it weren’t for the fine hair that covered its skin, and the peculiarly shaped ears, which resembled a cauliflower.

“Yes, we’re sorry, we know we did it quite wrong. Did you locate our key?”

“I did,” said the Doctor. He danged the key from his fingers, just out of the creature’s reach. “Very clever trick there, Xavier, putting them in a psychic stasis. Where’d you pick it up?”

“Discount merchant on Titan,” said Xavier. “He said it was virtually undetectable. Ninety-nine percent!”

“I’m the one-percent,” said the Doctor. Xavier sighed, and held out his palm for the key, but the Doctor pulled it back. “Let the others go first.”

“Oh, let me keep one of them!” wailed Xavier. “Really, she’s quite the best of the bunch. Lovely voice.”

“Doctor?” asked Jack, keeping Alice half behind him. “What is that?”

Xavier turned to Jack and hissed. His teeth were incredibly pointed. The Doctor rattled the key at him, and instantly the creature quieted.

“Jack, meet Xavier,” said the Doctor mildly. “A Duesex from the planet Makina. He collects things of great beauty, and exhibits them in a sort of traveling carnival. Apparently, he decided the opera here counted.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of them,” said Alice. “You came to Egrotat, when I was a little girl. There was a woman who could do the most amazing twists and turns underwater—”

“Legelenda,” sighed Xavier. “She was a beauty, yes.”

“What happened to her?” asked Alice, and Xavier frowned.

“Married. Last I heard she had four children and a newt. No, that’s not it - four children with a newt, yes, that’s better.”

“Oh,” said Alice, her eyes wide.

“But I’ve never had an opera company,” said Xavier wistfully. “Really, just one, Doctor? I dare say no-one will miss her.”

“No,” said the Doctor, and Xavier let out a tortured sigh. He dropped out of sight for a moment, and when he returned, his eyes had changed color from purple to orange.

“Done,” he said glumly. “My constituents will be most displeased.”

“They can come to Earth like everyone else and buy a ticket,” said the Doctor. “Now, Xavier—”

But Xavier waved him off. “Yes, yes, I know. Do not try this again, leave all other opera companies alone, it is defended, etcetera etcetera. One day you need to find a new speech, Doctor, this one is getting rather tired.”

“Hear hear!” called out Alice, before ducking behind Jack again – more to escape the Doctor’s eye than Xavier’s.

“Might I have my keys back, now? There’s a circus troupe on Gallactica Six that I believe will replace my lost opera quite nicely, but I do need to leave rather soon if I’m going to catch it—”

“Hire them properly,” the Doctor warned him, and dropped the keys into Xavier’s palm.

“Of course, of course,” said Xavier smoothly. He turned to Jack then. “I’ve seen your carnival work – very good, really. If you ever tire of Torchwood...” He flicked a card at Jack, who gave it a cursory glance before putting it in his pocket.

“I’ll let you know,” said Jack smoothly.

They stood back, watching as the saucer lifted into the sky, before zapping out into the atmosphere so quickly Alice’s ears popped. She rubbed them with a frown, and turned to the Doctor.

“There’s something I don’t understand.”

“What’s that?” asked the Doctor, his hands in his pockets as he tracked the saucer.

“You had me read the book before we came here, but none of it applied. I mean, sure, Gaston Leroux is real – but we sort of expected him to be real, he’s the author. And the catacombs and underground lake, and maybe it was helpful to know about the passageways, but I didn’t see any evidence of a phantom.”

“He doesn’t exist.”

“That’s exactly my point, Doctor. Why was it so important that I read the book first?”

“Don’t wander off again, and I won’t give you homework,” challenged the Doctor. “Why does no-one ever read anything recreationally anymore? Humans!”

He stalked off toward the stair well.

“I’ll tell you what I don’t understand,” said Jack, in a low voice to Alice, so that the Doctor couldn’t hear. “I don’t understand how Rose found her way out of the dressing room.”

Alice’s look was sharp. “What do you mean? You led her out.”

“No, I didn’t,” said Jack. “When I got there, she was already in the passageways. I just made sure she could hear me leaving so she knew which way to go.”

Alice stared at him. “But then – if it wasn’t you in the passageways – who—”

“Are you coming or not?” called the Doctor from the stairwell, and Jack went to join him, leaving Alice standing in shock on the rooftop.

“Come on, Alice,” said Jack. “You’ve only got minutes to make the chandelier fall or some other disaster.”

“Oh, no worries there,” said the Doctor. “The chandelier fell two weeks ago. Even Alice can’t top that.”

“Hey!” Alice shook herself out of her reverie, and ran to catch up, holding her skirts to keep from tripping.

“True,” mused Jack. “Of course, one could say her kisses were fairly explosive.”

“Stop that!” cried Alice.

The stairwell echoed with their footsteps. “Jack, how many times do I have to tell you to stop seducing my companions?”

“Wasn’t me, Doc,” said Jack with a chuckle. “Well, not me me, anyway.”

“Do I want to know?” asked the Doctor.

“No, you don’t!” said Alice hotly, following them.

“Funny little man, that Xavier,” said Jack. “Does he pay well?”

“He tends not to pay at all.”

“Still. Might come in useful one day. Especially if Alice keeps making things explode on sight.”

“I do not,” wailed Alice, and the rest of the argument followed them down the stairwell and into the opera again.

Next week: The Epilogue: What Happened After

When cats take over the world, they're eliminating Daylight Savings Time

azriona@gmail.com — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 11:09:38 GMT

Cleo: Good morning! Don't forget my breakfast!
Me: Cleo, it's 4.30 in the morning.
Cleo: No, it's not. It's 5.30, and breakfast is in half an hour.
Me: Actually, Daylight Savings started yesterday. It's 4.30, and breakfast is in an hour and a half.
Cleo: What's Daylight Savings?
Me: We turn our clocks back an hour so we can save daylight. Basically, instead of going to work when it's dark and coming home when it's light, I'll be going to work when it's light and coming home when it's dark.
Cleo: That's stupid.
Me: Tell me about it, cat.
Cleo: Anyway, breakfast.
Me: Is in AN HOUR AND A HALF.
Cleo: I don't do Daylight Savings.
Me: You and the cows in Indiana.
Cleo: BREAKFAST. BREAKFAST. BREAKFAST. BREAKFAST. BREAKFAST.
Me: ARGH.

Nano word count: 1,229 this morning. I don't like Daylight Savings much, but at least I'm waking up an hour early so I can fit some writing in before work.

azriona@gmail.com — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 01:02:20 GMT

Having just seen SJA episodes five and six (those would be the one with the Doctor), I have only this to ask:

The Gate? There's a gate? What, is that like the Veil in Harry Potter, just another reference to the Doctor's regeneration?

Any prevailing theories out there, folks?

Today's Nano Word count: 0. Yup, that would be correct, not one word. I have been either goofing off or completely productive on the non-writer front, depending on how you look at it. I've made banana bread, chocolate & pepper cookies, cheese blintzes, purchased a non-stick 8" crepe pan for the cheese blintzes (I made crepes! From scratch! It was way fun), mailed two boxes (well, one box and one tube, really), and nearly completed a cross-stitch key-chain. And swept and cleared out the cobwebs forming on the porch. I also discovered two dead crickets, recognizing Cleo as a mighty huntress, and bringing her Confirmed Cricket Kill Count to Three.

Odd rejection in yesterday's mail. This place sent my query letter back to me. I can't decide if that's just what they do, or if it's supposed to me, "Egad, woman, you write so badly we don't even want to contaminate our recycling bin with your disgusting query letter."

Memage, Take 3

azriona@gmail.com — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 13:54:51 GMT

All five of the Doctor Who specials will be released as a set in the new year. Hurrah! I was wondering if this would happen, so I don't have to buy them all individually.

In other news: continuation of the Questions meme.

From dark_aegis:

1) What "Star Trek" were you watching?

I have a pile of new DVDs that I haven't watched, and I realized I should probably watch them instead of watching the same older ones over and over. The current one is TNG S2; the last episode was Measure of a Man, where Data's on trial to determine if he's his own person or merely a machine and therefore the property of the Federation.

2) What is it that made you decide to start writing in the Doctor Who 'verse?

When I first started watching DW in earnest, I wasn't so worried about spoilers. I knew that after S1, Christopher Eccleston would be replaced by David Tennant. And I knew that after S2, Billie Piper would leave the show. Thing is, I had no idea how those things would happen.

I can't remember exactly when I came up with the idea for the Crossroads 'verse. But I was writing it before I'd even finished S3. In fact, I had to go back and rewrite bits of it - but not that much, and it was eerie how a lot of it parelleled with what occurred in the show. I got a lot of stuff wrong - Jack's demeanor, for one thing - but I got a lot of stuff right. The part that struck me the most was that when the Doctor pulled Rose back from Pete's World, he collapsed time there so that everyone lost about four years. I wrote that long before I saw The Last of the Time Lords - when he does it to reverse what the Master has done to Earth. I incorporated that into the Doctor's character, in that he doesn't tell Rose that he knew he might collapse time. (There's a lot he hasn't told her, actually, although that's a big one.)

But to get back to your question - it was that story that made me want to write. I fell prey to the fix-it-fic phenomenon. I hated that the Doctor and Rose were going to be separated. I wanted to make it better. Hence, fic.

3) If you could command the DW writers to write anything in the series, anything at all, what would it be?

I'm sort of torn. I'd love to see what happens to Rose and TenII in Pete's World. But half the fun of not knowing for sure does give us a lot of artistic freedom, so I kind of think not.

Actually, I know. I want to see Susan again. I've seen bits of her, and I understand her story's been sort of left hanging, what with her in the 23rd century or something like that. Did she die with the rest of the Time Lords? Or is she alive and married to David and happy? I think the Doctor should find her again.

4) What's your favourite story of all time? (fic, novel, whatever)

I have three I will read over and over. The Count of Monte Cristo, Jane Eyre, and a book by Rosamunde Pilcher called Coming Home.

5) What's your favourite holiday of the year?

Passover. The irony is that my favorite food group is bread!

From xebgoc:

1. I look at all the stuff you do - organizing the cookbook for editrx and the CoT reviews and all that fudge making and cooking. Where do you get the energy ? when i get home from work all I want to do is collapse on the bed with the laptop and ignore the world.

I have no idea. Seriously, none. And there are definitely nights I don't want to do any reviewing or cookbooking or fudging, and I do indulge and just sit on the couch and watch a DVD and work on my cross-stitch.

But mostly, I do these things because for me, they're fun. I love making fudge, and trying new recipes. I like laying out the cookbook, and I like reading a fic and trying to find the deeper meaning, and possibly going slightly overboard on the meta.

2. I've always been curious what it was like for someone growing up Jewish in the south. Now that you live in a more northern city (though some would argue DC is southern, and it certainly was once, I think it's probably not so much anymore) do you see that upbringing any differently?

Well, I don't really consider Arizona to be the "south", as in Deep South. I usually tag it as Southwestern, which is very different, culturally. (Incidentally, the saying about DC is that we have Northern charm with Southern efficiency. This is so true, in so many ways.)

My grandfather, now, he grew up in South Carolina, and I still have extended family there. There's a huge Jewish presence in the Deep South, it's just not widely broadcast because it sort of pales next to the idea of the standard bearer of the New York Jew. (Which brought us the bagel. Yay, New York!)

Growing up Jewish in Arizona, though, is probably much like growing up Jewish in any other part of the United States. For me, it was a bit different because the Jewish congregation in Yuma is small, and there were maybe three or four other Jewish kids my age, and none of us went to the same school. I was the token Jewish kid, but I never felt ostracized for it. Most people didn't really think about it - my name isn't all that Jewish, so I doubt most people who didn't know me really thought about it. (I do remember my freshman year, our history teacher thought it would be fun to do a recreation of the Nuremburg trials. I was assigned to play Joseph Goebbels, who was dead by that time, but there were a lot of people in the class so he had to improvise. Several of my classmates thought this was seriously wrong, and asked me if I wanted them to speak up and get my role changed. Me, I didn't mind as much!)

3. A follow-on from the previous one, how did you find it being Jewish in Turkey and other largely Muslim countries?

Hard to answer this one - I didn't really advertise my religion overseas, particularly in the Muslim countries. I don't think it would have been a big deal in Kyrgyzstan, and I didn't spend enough time in Turkey to say one way or the other. But it was an issue I just didn't want to have, and so I decided not to bring it up.

I mean, you don't go introducing yourself with, "Hi, my name is, and I'm Catholic/Jewish/Protestant/Morman/whatever". If people asked, I answered truthfully, but I didn't make a big deal of it.

I suspect this will change when we have kids, because obviously we won't stop having Hanukkah or Passover or anything. But that's a ways down the line.

4. I love your pictures and stories of Cleo. Have you always had cats?

Nope - she's my first cat. I always wanted a cat when I was growing up. If you ask my mom, she'll say my dad didn't want a cat; if you ask my dad, he'll say it was my mom. Regardless, we always had dogs, and I love dogs, but I wanted a cat.

Bill hates cats, always has, ever since he cat-sat for one as a kid and the cat bit him (as he was giving the animal its dinner, no less). While overseas, we fostered two cats for a family who was in between postings, and that was my first experience in actually caring for a cat. Lou and Abby (both girls, btw) were fantastic - Abby's since passed away, but Lou was quite possibly the Best Cat Ever, and would sneak into the bedroom in the mornings to sleep on my head.

A year or so later, when their owner discovered a littler of kittens in her backyard, she decided I should have one, and picked out Cleo for me. Cleo arrived at Dulles' International Arrivals on 2 December 2006 and has been with me ever since.

5. Where did your love of musicals come from ? did you ever perform in them?

My dad loves musicals, and he and my mom own a whole bunch of soundtracks, quite a few as records. I was raised on them.

A few years after moving to Arizona, the community theatre there was revived, and my dad knew one of the guys who really kick-started it into action. The first major production was Fiddler on the Roof, and they needed kids. My dad offered myself and my brother. I played the youngest of Tevye's daughters - I was maybe eleven or twelve at the time. I'd done school plays and stuff before, but this was the Big Time, as far as I was concerned. I loved it. I have no illusions that I was any good, but I loved it. I wasn't in another production until high school, though - Oklahoma, and then Brigadoon, for which I had to learn a Scottish accent, at least as much that would allow me to say my one line: "She's upstairs." Rolling your Rs is seriously hard, people. It took weeks of practice to get it right, and I don't think I was ever convincing. Nor do I think I could do it again!

One other thing about Brigadoon, though. There's a scene early on where the Young Lovers are sitting on stage talking. The director decided she wanted some background action, so she had me sit on stage with another girl, and told us to just come up with something, but we couldn't be loud or anything. We decided to play a game, because mouthing words without actually speaking would have been boring as all heck. We ended up playng pick-up-sticks. It...sort of got out of control, and the game usually ended in an argument followed by a tussle followed by another woman smacking us both with whatever she had handy, usually knitting needles. In retrospect, we should have pretended to take knitting lessons - at least I'd know how to knit! But I do play a mean game of pick-up-sticks now.

Anyway, I did find this on my computer, and thought I'd share. I think there's one of my in my Fiddler costume somewhere, but it's not scanned in. Ah well.

This costume was probably one of my favorites; Mom made it. Yay Mom! That's Dad next to me. You'll note we're not wearing the same tartan - for some reason the director put us in different clans. And they're probably not actual tartans, either - the story went that the director went down to Mexico (we lived on the border, this is not such a difficult journey) where you could buy fabric cheap. She found six different types of plaid, and bought the lot. She then determined who would be in which clan, and thus would wear which plaid.

Fic: The Locked Room (1/1)

azriona@gmail.com — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 12:36:51 GMT

Title: The Locked Room (1/1)
Author: azriona
Characters: Nine, Rose
Rating: PG13

Summary: There was a door on the TARDIS that would not open. Rose went by it every day, and wondered what went on behind it.

A/N: This was my entry for writerinatardis Challenge 2.03. The prompt was: The Doctor has a strange, unusual, or very silly hobby. Rose just found out about it. I went....perhaps a little darker than most. Okay, a lot darker.

But dark and spooky are appropriate today.

Happy Halloween!

The Locked Room

There was a door on the TARDIS that would not open.

“Secret alien high-tech stuff?” Rose kidded the Doctor, when he refused to let her in. “Afraid I’ll run screaming into the night?”

“Somethin’ like that,” he replied, and shone his sonic screwdriver onto the loose connections beneath the console. “Hand me the cross-flexors.”

She did, but not without catching her thumb on the exposed nail-paper. “Ow!”

He sat up. “Here, let me see. Just a scratch, barely bleeding.”

“That stung,” she complained, and he pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around her hand.

“Barely any blood,” he repeated, a bit derisively, and sure enough, when the cloth was pulled away, only one or two red spots marked the white fabric. He shoved it into his pocket and went back to work.

“Clumsy, me,” said Rose.

“You are,” he agreed, but didn’t say anything else, his concentration fully on the sparkplugs and wires and whatever other gizmos made the TARDIS run.

“I’ll just go make some tea,” said Rose, disappointed without quite knowing why.

“Good idea.”

The door remained locked, but Rose went by it every day, and wondered what went on behind it. She never caught the Doctor going in; never saw him so much as glance at it. Yet the door remained front and center, when most other rooms in the ship moved according to their necessity at any given moment.

She supposed he went inside when she was sleeping – it was the only explanation. And yet – it wasn’t his bedroom, she’d seen a glimpse of that one day. It wasn’t a lavatory, she knew of half a dozen that existed at any given time. Rose half thought it was some terribly secret Time Lord thing, and after he told her what happened to his people, she wondered if it wasn’t something to do with that.

“They’re all gone,” he said, so lost and afraid and young. Gone, perhaps – except for what was in that room, kept under lock and key, kept so close to his own self that Rose daren’t touch the door for fear he’d throw her off the ship without a second glance.

And yet – the door beckoned to her. Sat there, in the corridor, every morning when she woke, and every evening as she went to bed. She could not go anywhere in the ship without passing it; she could not sleep but that she would sense it nearby. Every door that opened when her back was turned might have been that door – every time the Doctor disappeared, he might have been heading for what lay on the other side.

Her chance came unexpectedly. She wore her hair down that day, and the Doctor complained that it was everywhere – resting on the jump seat, worked into the TARDIS controls, woven into his jumper.

“I’ll pull it back,” said Rose, and went down the corridors to her room to find a rubber band. The door, when she passed it, leered at her.

When she returned, it gaped, a sliver of light pooling on the corridor floor. Rose hesitated for only a moment, and rested her hand on the thick wooden surface. She shouldn’t go in – it was his space, not hers – private, not shared. She slowly pushed open the door.

The room was longer than it was wide, dark and cold, the air stale. Rose’s arms prickled with goose bumps. There were numerous spotlights shining down, and in a near one, Rose caught a glimpse of the Doctor, turned away, his black leather coat shining under the bright light.

“Oh,” said Rose, thinking she was caught – but the Doctor did not move. He remained standing straight, his back to Rose. She ought to have crept out while she still could – her heart willed her to leave the room – but her feet walked on, closer to the Doctor in the light, until she was far enough to see his face—

It was not the Doctor. It was not anyone she recognized. And in fact, this close, Rose could tell that the man wearing the leather jacket that belonged on the Doctor was not, exactly, standing – he slumped over some kind of stand, as if he were a life-size doll, and his eyes were closed, as if he were asleep. Closer, Rose could see the glass surrounding him, a man asleep in a hollow tube.

“Fitz,” said the Doctor, behind her, and Rose spun, her hands resting against the curved glass. She could see now, all the way down the room, more glass tubes, each one occupied by another figure slumped over a chair or some other bit of furniture. Women...men...all eyes closed. A man in a kilt, a woman wearing Edwardian dress, a black jacket adorned with yellow patches.

“Sorry?” she stammered, not quite knowing where to look. The Doctor stood next to another glass tube, this one empty. He plucked the blonde hairs from his jumper.

“His name was Fitz,” said the Doctor. “I liked his jacket.”

Rose swallowed, and watched him drop the blonde strands into the glass tube, on top of a white handkerchief marked with her blood. “I don’t – you traveled with him?”

“Mm-hmm.” The Doctor closed the tube, and a tornado began to spin inside. “Fitz. Jamie. Ace. Charley. All the ones I want to keep. They’re all gone, Rose. My people – they’re all gone. Except for the ones I keep with me.”

The tornado spun, faster and faster, drawing Rose closer to the glass tube. The Doctor watched it spin with her, electrical bursts reflecting on his face.

“But they’re – they’re dead, you said,” said Rose.

“They are,” agreed the Doctor, and he took her hand. Rose couldn’t fold her fingers around his; the cold skin on his fingers had never quite felt so alien to her. “They’re dead, but they’re not gone. Not here. Not while I still have them, still want them. Look.”

The tornado swirled slower, revealing a figure on the other side of the glass. Rose stared back at her own face, both reflected in the glass, and behind it. One set of eyes open – one set of eyes closed.

“I always keep the ones I love best,” said the Doctor, and his hand tightened around hers.

Memage, Take Two

azriona@gmail.com — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 12:06:58 GMT

• Leave me a comment saying "Resistance is Futile."

• I'll respond by asking you five questions so I can satisfy my curiosity

• Update your journal with the answers to the questions

• Include this explanation in the post and offer to ask other people questions (I'll also answer more, if asked)

Two sets of questions under the cuts:

From earlgreytea86:

(1) Why don't *you* have a separate fic journal?

I didn't always post stories in LJ - when I was part of the Harry Potter fandom, I posted my stories at Schnoogle and linked to them from here. That was...oh, at least five years ago.

When I entered the DW fandom, though, posting on LJ seemed to be the thing to do. And I'll be honest - setting up another journal just for writing seemed more egotistical than I wanted to admit to actually being. Not that I fault anyone for doing it, especially if they want to keep their writing and their personal life separate. Actually, I think that's one of the main reasons to make a fiction journal, and I totally see the merit in it. (I didn't exactly, at the time.)

But I can't say keeping everything together wasn't egotistical as well. What if I created a fiction journal....and no one friended it? Ouch. And so everything's all together, because yeah, I'm shallow enough to admit that having so many people reading my journal on their flists is something of an ego boost.

(2) I've always wondered where your name comes from. Is it just a bastardization of Arizona?

Yes, but more to it than that. We moved to Arizona just before my eighth birthday. My mom was looking through those catalogs you get in the mail, and saw an ad for an inexpensive return-address stamp. So she decided to buy one with our address.

The thing is, when it arrived, the folks making the stamp had spelled Arizona as "Arziona".

My mom shrugged, and used it anyway. As far as I know, she uses it to this day.

Fast forward ten years, and I'm at college. It's the mid-1990s, and the school had something I'd never heard of before: IRC, internet relay chat. In order to go into the chat rooms, you had to create a name. It was recommended to us that we pick something that wasn't our own name - so no going in as FirstNameLastName. Moreover, the girls were told that if we went in with feminine names, we'd probably be hit on.

I wanted something a bit girlish, but not overly so. I didn't want to be Sharon534. And I didn't want something that I'd just toss away, I wanted something that was absolutely mine.

I remembered my mom's stamp. Except "Arziona" sounds...well, not exactly flowing, you know. I changed some of the letters, became azriona, and I've been azriona online ever since. I'm the only azriona out there - if you see azriona1, it's because I forgot my password. It makes life seriously handy.

(3) You've lived all over. If you got to choose one place in the world to live for the rest of your life--without worrying about practicalities like job or expenses or anything like that--where would you choose?

Ooo. The easy answer would be London. I love London, I've lived in London (for a little bit), I speak the language (as far as an American can), and I'm really good about remembering which way to look when crossing the street.

But if I had to really think about it, I might actually have to go with Istanbul. I love Istanbul just as much as London. The food is fantastic, it's inexpensive, the people are wonderful, and the city is gorgeous. It's exotic enough to keep me fascinated for years, and it's just as easy to get to other places as it is from London.

Failing either of those, though --- I really liked the Cotswolds. And all those walking trails! And I never had so much fun in a city as I did when we were in Paris.

Then again, some days, a little cabin in the woods where no one can find me easily sounds nice too. Are you sure I have to stay there for the rest of my life?

(4) You make a ton of fudge, with a lot of experimenting. What's the first type of fudge you ever made, and why?

I'm sure it was the boring fake fudge, the sort where you melt the chocolate chips in with the condensed milk and then chill for three hours. But the first fudge I experimented with was a peanut butter version of the same, where I swirled in actual peanut butter after everything melted and cooled a little. One of Bill's cousins loves this stuff, so it's stayed on the repetoire, and I make sure he gets an especially large chunk of it every Christmas.

(5) What is your favorite thing you've written?

Whatever I last wrote, usually, so this answer changes all the time. At the moment, I'm feeling pretty clever about the OT3 fic I wrote earlier this week. I'm really pleased with Gaston Leroux. But I think "favorite" might have to fall on the ending to Water Music, because it's both exactly what I envisioned a year ago when I thought of it, and better, too.

From rosewarren:

1. How many places have you lived since you married Bill?

Hmm. Boston, DC (both Maryland and Virginia), Bishkek. We've had to live apart since marriage, too, but those don't really count as living together.

2. What's the very best thing about having a cat in the house?

I generally read a little when I go to bed at night. Cleo has taken up the habit of jumping on the bed and laying out on my chest and stomach so that I can rub her ears and neck and chin. She purrs like mad. It's very pleasant.

It is not so pleasant when she decides the performance must be repeated at 5.30am, in case I forget that breakfast is at 6.

3. Do you prefer writing crack or serious fic?

It depends. I really like making people laugh. But I like to send chills down their spine, too, which I don't get to do very often. I think I enjoy the actual writing of crack more, but I like having written serious fic.

4. You don't sound too excited about your current job. What is your dream profession?

Oh, jeez. So I have a friend who worked for a computer software company. And one day, his boss asked him to interview this kid coming in, because the boss had another meeting at the same time. My friend was HIGHLY annoyed, because he didn't really want to interview anyone, so he went in with the list of questions he had to ask, determined not to stray from the path.

Well, he goes down the list. And this kid interviewing - it's pretty clear that he's just not a good fit. But my friend has to stick to the list, and can't end the interview early, so he just keeps on asking questions. And finally gets to this one: "If you were not a computer programmer, what would you do?"

Without so much as an ounce of hesitation, the interviewee replies, "Porn star."

Writing. For anyone, in any way, on any topic. Except maybe not porn.

5. Would you say you're a very good cook or just a good cook? What's the best dish you make? What is the biggest disaster you've ever attempted?

"Best" is largely dependent on who is answering. Bill really likes this chicken dish I make with apricots. I like making my chicken pot pies. My co-workers are happy with anything I bring in.

The worst, though, has to be this chili I made in college which was so horrifically spicy, no one could eat it. Whenever Bill claims that I don't ever make a bad dish, I remind him of that chili, and he usually stops going on about how I'm foolproof in the kitchen.

azriona@gmail.com — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 02:53:19 GMT

View Poll: #1478221

Also, I'm thinking to give you all a treat for Halloween. Well, treat being something of a stretch, but it'll fit nicely with the holiday.

And now to bed.

Memage

azriona@gmail.com — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 01:09:03 GMT

• Leave me a comment saying "Resistance is Futile."

• I'll respond by asking you five questions so I can satisfy my curiosity

• Update your journal with the answers to the questions

• Include this explanation in the post and offer to ask other people questions (I'll also answer more, if asked)

From ladychi:

1. I think our mutual philosophy on fandom is that it can be a force for good, positive things in people's lives. Do you think this positive outlook carries over into real life?

Actually, I think it's the opposite. I believe a positive outlook in real life will turn into a positive outlook in the fandom - or anywhere online. You remember that really corny movie with Haley Joel Osmand, about how you do three good things for every one done for you? I totally buy into that theory.

I'm not saying I'm entirely altruistic - actually, I'm anything but. I don't block intersections when I'm driving because I'm going for the parking karma when I visit friends in DC. I let people cut in front of me in line at the grocery store, because I'm hoping the folks who are buying for thousands at Costco let me do the same when all I'm buying is a carton of eggs.

To me, it doesn't matter where the positive outlook starts - it only matters that it continues. And failing that - because I recognize that no positive outlook lasts forever - that another bright spot exists and will be picked up along the way when it's needed most.

Yeah, it's cheesy. I'll take the crackers and the Brie, please.

2. What about writing do you find challenging? What do you find rewarding?

Smut. I find smut incredibly challenging. Seriously, I get two people naked, and I have no earthly idea what to do with them.

That's not exactly what you meant, was it?

I think it's worst when I have a grand idea and I'm not sure how to put it on paper. Writing Gaston Leroux was incredibly challenging, because it was so horrifically complicated. It might look easy, reading it - and when I read it again, it sure seems that way - but man, it had me walking the halls muttering to myself for a solid week. I had a horrible time trying to figure it out.

But once I had it done - the satisfaction of having finished it, of having done so successfully, that's been incredibly rewarding. The same goes for the Choose-Your-Own Adventure version of Parting of the Ways. It wasn't as complicated as Gaston Leroux - but it was a seriously difficult hurdle, and having finished it, that was a huge accomplishment. Both of those were among the more rewarding things I've written. So I guess they're tied - the most challenging have inevitably been the things of which I'm most proud.

3. What drew you into Doctor Who?

I've told the story of how I was introduced to Doctor Who before. Trip to London, caught "The Empty Child" on TV, was hooked, next episode that aired was "The Sound of Drums", UTTER CONFUSION, three months later get the series on NetFlix, and bounced myself off the couch when the discs finally got to The Empty Chid, because at last I'd find out how the Doctor and Rose and Jack got away from the gas-mask zombies!

What drew me, though - I was raised on Star Trek and Quantum Leap and Broadway musicals. Doctor Who is like a combination of all three. Plus, you have the unrequited love story between the Doctor and Rose, and I am a SUCKER for a good love story. Die-hard romantic, that's me.

And then one day I went looking for fanfiction, and the rest is history....

4. Is there a specific type of character that you find yourself drawn to,
or are you drawn to uniqueness?

I don't think so. Let's see - my favorite characters in Harry Potter are Molly Weasley and Petunia Dursley. They're basically flip sides of the same woman - both are very strong, very opinionated, very brave, and will do absolutely anything to protect their family. They're devoted wives and mothers, and I like them both quite a lot.

Star Trek, I like Beverly Crusher. I'm rewatching TNG S2 and it's driving me nuts that she isn't there.

Doctor Who, I love Donna. Rose is fun, too, but Donna's been growing on me more and more. She's very much like Molly and Petunia, actually, in that she's also strong and brave and smart and opinionated, and she will do anything to protect the Doctor.

So maybe I am drawn to a certain type of character. Or maybe it's that they all have red hair. Who knows?

5. What authors did you read as a child that still influence you today?

Hmm. I was a voracious reader as a kid, I'd read anything I got my hands on. I loved L.M. Montgomery's Anne of Green Gables series - read them all straight through several times. Same with Laura Ingalls Wilder, and Frances Hodgson Burnett. I must have read A Little Princess a dozen times.

But what I really remember was going to the library, and because we had children's cards, you couldn't take out more than ten books or so at a time. So I'd have to be very careful about which books I wanted to borrow. I didn't decide based on the author or the summary. No - I decided based on length. See, I read a lot, and I read fast, and the library was on the other side of town, and Mom was only able to take us once a week at the most. So I had to make my selection of books last the week or two. And the best way of doing this was to get the most book for my money (as it were). So I routinely picked the longest books they had. I'm sorry, short little Prize-winning kid's book. YOU ARE TOO THIN.

This might be the reason I tend to write great big epicy stories. I never learned to keep it short! :)

Various Write-y things, and a bit about cross-stitch

azriona@gmail.com — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 01:53:21 GMT

I finally remembered to do the actual sign-up for this year's Nano - which apparently starts on Sunday. (I was not paying attention. Oops.) I have an idea, but I have NO idea if it'll actually take 50K to write it, plus I'll have major editing on the project4editrx cookbook to complete, not to mention a husband to entertain and the conclusion of Water Music to edit, so this may be extremely entertaining to watch me try to do this.

Anyway, if anyone's doing Nano, and wants to friend me over there, here is my profile. I've got it nice and updated. I have no title as of yet. Hopefully something will occur to me, because with me, if things go untitled very long, they tend to stay that way.

(See: Original Story, often referred to as the O.S., which has remained untitled since 2003. It had a title for about twenty minutes once. It didn't take.)

I was hoping to do a write-in for Nano on Sunday, but looks like all the write-in things are way off in the boonies. The closest one to me is in Manassas. This is criminal. It's not that I mind Manassas, but there's write-ins in Fairfax and Vienna and even one a HALF MILE FROM MY HOUSE, except they're all in the middle of the week at the ridiculous hour of 3pm. Argh.

In other writing news - I've been having a bit of a slump recently. The Jack at Woodstock story went off to a brilliant, funny, clever start. It stalled. The attempt to write the next part of Crossroads was absolutely fantastic....it stalled. We will not speak of the epic poem.

Yesterday, I breached the hurdle, wrote a sweet, funny, fluffy little ficlet with just a hint of bittersweet (as I do), and now I'm writing a companion to it.

They're OT3. wendymr will probably laugh her head off.

*

The cross-stitches for the next Support Stacie auction are done. I might do one more bookmark, but I've switched back to poor neglected Erised, because I'm about ten lines from finishing Page Five, and I really want to finish Page Five.

Still rejections for TRT. I need to get back on sending out queries, I've been slacking the last week or so.

Fic: The Imagination of Gaston Leroux (8/10)

azriona@gmail.com — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 10:55:47 GMT

Title: The Imagination of Gaston Leroux (8/10)
Rating: PG
Characters: Nine, Rose, Jack, Ten, Jack (yes, twice), assorted others

Summary: Actresses disappear from the stage, the manager is strangely tight-lipped, and there’s an oddly knowledgeable woman in an apricot dress running here and there. Not to mention the overly enthusiastic journalist lurking in the shadows. Will the Doctor and his companions solve the mystery at the Opera Garnier – or will the story be forever changed?

A/N: A sort-of crossover with Gaston Leroux’s The Phantom of the Opera, written for momdaegmorgan. I say “sort-of” because while those who have read the book or seen the movie or heard the music may recognize certain things, it’s not quite a crossover in the classic definition of the genre.

The Extremely Strange Tale of the True Story of the Man Commonly Known as
the Phantom of the Opera,
Or
(if you would rather a shorter title, and goodness knows I would not blame you):

The Imagination of Gaston Leroux

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight: How It Ended

The Grand Foyer of the Opera Garnier is a marvelous place, primarily because there is a certain alcove where one can observe what happens in it without being observed themselves. This location was highly popular among not only the patrons of the opera, but of those who worked within its walls. After all, the only way to truly know what went on within the world of the opera was to watch unobserved - a chance to see beneath the glittering surface that was worn for the sake of the public, and to see beneath the mask any actor or actress wears when they do not believe themselves to be alone.

For of course, everyone wears a mask. Whether a literal mask to be worn over the face, or a name by which one prefers to be called, every person has a mask of some sort used to conceal their true intentions or identity to the world.

Just now, as Alice entered the foyer, she believed herself to be alone – for although Alice knew of the secret passageways that connected the opera’s public spaces to its private or unknown ones, she did not know of the alcove from which she was observed. Therefore we might excuse her for reaching into her pocket, and pulling out the small device she had only just secreted there. It was perhaps the size of a large pebble found on the floor of a river-bed, with three or four buttons on either side. It blinked and flashed, but was otherwise fairly nondescript, and certainly did not belong in the 19th century, let alone expect to be found in the rear of a Parisian opera house. It was primarily for this small pebble that Alice had slipped out from the house, while the Doctor and Jack and Rose were distracted, with the intention of finding her own Doctor and Jack with all due haste.

She slipped it back into her pocket, and continued on her journey across the Foyer, moving as quickly as her skirts allowed her. But before she could make it halfway across, she was waylaid by another girl in a pink dress, her blond hair cascading down her back.

“Wait,” said Rose Tyler, holding out her hand, and Alice slid to a halt. “No, I – I just want to talk to you.”

“All right,” said Alice cautiously, taking a step back. “You’re Rose Tyler.”

“Yeah,” said Rose, clearly taken aback. “Wait – when did I tell you my name? How do you know who I am?”

In any other circumstance, Alice might have turned and run – instead, she held the small device behind her back, and fiddled with the buttons. “Heard it here and there. Awfully nice to meet you, though. I didn’t think I would.”

Rose’s eyes widened. “You’re a time traveler.”

“So’re you. I think it evens the score, don’t you?” Alice tried to peer over Rose’s shoulder. “Where are the boys?”

“Went running off with Leroux. I think to check on the artists waking up. And you’re changing the subject.”

Alice straightened her shoulders. “I’ve gone three days without making a single thing explode, and that’s a record. I’m trying to keep it up, thanks!”

“Sorry,” said Rose, not overly apologetic, and then grinned. “That was really Gaston Leroux, wasn’t it?”

“Yup,” said Alice, relaxing just a bit.

“I liked Charles Dickens better,” said Rose, and Alice laughed.

“I liked T’polist’aninrastel.”

“Who?” asked Rose, and Alice shook her head.

“You’d better hurry, if you want to catch up to them, you know,” said Alice.

“Yeah, I—” Rose took a breath, her hands twisting. “Not fair, you know. You know my name, I don’t know yours.”

“Better not,” said Alice quickly, and Rose nodded.

“All the same – you know me, don’t you? You can tell me that much, can’t you?”

Alice’s frown was not quite visible from the alcove, but the way her shoulders tensed was certainly evident. “Know you?”

“In the future, I mean.” Alice took another step back.

“I can’t tell you anything,” she said quickly. “Laws of time and worlds collapsing and all that.”

“I know, I know,” said Rose quickly.

“It’s the first rule,” continued Alice. “Well, apart from wandering off, not like anyone actually follows that one. But he says, he always says, can’t mess with time lines, can’t change anything, not a word. Don’t you dare, he says.”

“Reapers,” said Rose quietly.

Alice quickly snapped to attention; anyone with half a sense could see the sudden worry in her eyes, quickly running over what she’d just said, if it had been too much – but no. It was just enough.

“Yeah,” said Alice.

Almost.

“My mum,” said Rose.

“Your—"

“My mum’s all right, isn’t she?”

“Your mum!” said Alice, alarmed.

“Look, I know you can’t say anything,” said Rose quickly. “But – you know me. So you’re from the future. And you have to know what happens to me. I don’t care about that – but my mum, she worries. She didn’t see me for a year. She thought I was dead. And...maybe I am, when you’re the one – I just want to know. Is she all right?”

For a moment, the girl in the apricot dress was completely still, as if she had simply frozen in time. When she spoke, her voice was strange and thick, crawling out from a deep hole as the world reordered itself around her. “I didn’t think you’d ask about your mom.”

“I don’t like to think about her worrying about me,” said Rose. “She’d miss me an awful lot.” Rose’s mouth quirked a little, as if she’d only just realized something. “But I think I’d miss her, if she wasn’t there for me to ring once in a while.”

Alice took a breath, clearly rattled. The breath seemed to center her; where before she was confused and cautious, now she threw the confusion and caution aside, and plunged ahead, ignoring any sign of explosion ahead. “She’s okay, your mom. Last I heard tell, she was really happy. Really loves you, I’ll tell you that, too – she’d go to the end of the world and back again for you.”

“Yeah?” asked Rose, her voice suddenly terribly thick.

“Definitely,” said Alice, nodding her head. They stood for a moment, quietly contemplating the other – a girl in pink, a girl in apricot, opposite and completely alike.

“I should really go—”

“Why’d you kiss Jack?” asked Rose quickly, and this appeared to stop Alice entirely.

“I was sort of under orders, really,” she said.

“Orders?” asked Rose.

Alice grinned. “Told myself once, if I ever had the chance, to kiss Jack Harkness.” She laughed then. “I never thought it would happen quite like this, but goodness, it was fun.”

Alice set off again, and this time made it past Rose, and almost to the doors before Rose’s voice stopped her again.

“Are you — you’re not just any time traveler, are you?”

Alice’s hand rested on the door, and she did not turn around. “I don’t...”

“I heard you talk about the Doctor. I don’t think you meant a physician, did you?”

“No,” whispered Alice.

“Was—” Rose took a breath. “There’s no opera ghost, is there?”

“Not that I’ve seen,” said Alice honestly.

“It was him, wasn’t it?” demanded Rose. “In the passageways. By the lake? It was the Doctor, looking for me.”

Alice rested her head against the door. “He’s all right, you know.”

A shiver went through Rose; anyone standing in the foyer could have seen it, but Alice still had her back to the other girl. “Why wouldn’t he be?” she asked.

“It’s why we had to keep you apart, you know,” blurted out Alice. “I didn’t think I’d like you so much, that’s just it. But I do. Except — we couldn’t let it happen. Too many things — too many people depend on him. Too many people depend on you! I wish we could have. But we couldn’t. I’m sorry. I wish we could have given him that. Given you that. But I couldn’t. I’m so sorry.”

And before either of them could say another word, Alice disappeared behind the door and left Rose alone in the foyer. She wrapped her arms around herself, as if she was suddenly caught in a strong, cold breeze.

“It was him, in the passageway, wasn’t it?” she said to herself, but the only response was the man coming out of the house.

“Rose?”

“Jack,” said Rose, so entirely grateful to not be alone again that she wrapped her arms around him instead.

“Hey there,” he said, surprised. “What’s brought this on?”

“Cold, that’s all,” said Rose, her voice muffled by his coat. “I thought you went with the Doctor?”

“He’s right behind me,” said Jack. “Did you catch my mystery girl?”

“Not exactly,” said Rose. She looked up at him. “I think I’ve decided. I don’t like opera.”

“Just as well we’re done, then,” said the second man to enter the foyer. Rose’s face instantly brightened.

“It’s really all solved?” asked Jack. “Wouldn’t have thought Leroux would get it right.”

“I have it on good authority,” said the Doctor shortly. He glanced at Rose, and instantly his tone softened. “Rose? All right?”

“All right,” confirmed Rose. “Are we going home now?”

“Home?” he asked, and Rose left Jack to go to him as easily as breathing.

“The TARDIS,” she clarified. “I could do with a nap, I think.”

His face broke into a smile, and anything previously said about the impossibility of his face to perform something so genuinely lovely as a smile should be considered illogical pap. “Home,” he agreed, and still holding hands, they left the foyer, complete with a whistle by Jack.

Next week – Chapter Nine: How It REALLY Ended

Reminder!

azriona@gmail.com — Sun, 25 Oct 2009 11:01:43 GMT

Just a quick reminder to everyone ---- today is the last day to submit a recipe to the project4editrx cookbook!

We are still enthusiastically accepting testers, however. Lots of yummy recipes to try out!

For more info on either submitting a recipe or testing out out, please check here.

azriona@gmail.com — Sun, 25 Oct 2009 03:07:20 GMT

I have spent most of the evening laying out the title pages for the project4editrx cookbook.

OMG, that was so much fun. It probably looks horrifically juvenile and ridiculous and all that, since design-wise, I have no idea what I'm doing, and I'm learning the program as I go. (But I did figure out how to size the photographs and change fonts and colors and create margins! I still can't figure out how to put borders around the text blocks. But I have TEXT BLOCKS. And they have COLOR. And the photos for the title pages look GOOD.)

I didn't realize until an hour ago that I'd totally spaced on dinner. And here it is 11pm and I had no idea!

TESTERS. FINISH TESTING YOUR RECIPES, I WANT TO PUT THOSE IN NOWNOWNOWNOWNOW!!!!!!!!!

azriona@gmail.com — Sat, 24 Oct 2009 17:38:34 GMT

Spent last night at a friend's house, babysitting for their 14-month old. We had a very good time, except there was some compromise on bedtime. (She wanted to go downstairs, as did I - but without her. We compromised by me rocking her to sleep. I think I won, because she went to sleep. She thinks she won, because I rocked her to sleep. The dog thought it was a draw, because he got to sleep on my foot.)

But mostly I am here because I made a recipe for project4editrx earlier in the week, and finally uploaded the pictures. Which is when I realized - white fish? Black topping? DOES NOT PHOTOGRAPH WELL.

View Poll: #1475696

Mind, the recipe's going in the cookbook regardless. I just didn't realize how duochromatic the meal was until I saw the pictures this morning.

And it did taste pretty good, for the record!

azriona@gmail.com — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 03:23:34 GMT

Happy belated birthday, aibhinn!

and....

Happy almost-belated birthday, editrx!

Fic: The Imagination of Gaston Leroux (7/10)

azriona@gmail.com — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 11:05:46 GMT

Title: The Imagination of Gaston Leroux (7/10)
Rating: PG
Characters: Nine, Rose, Jack, Ten, Jack (yes, twice), assorted others

Summary: Actresses disappear from the stage, the manager is strangely tight-lipped, and there’s an oddly knowledgeable woman in an apricot dress running here and there. Not to mention the overly enthusiastic journalist lurking in the shadows. Will the Doctor and his companions solve the mystery at the Opera Garnier – or will the story be forever changed?

A/N: A sort-of crossover with Gaston Leroux’s The Phantom of the Opera, written for momdaegmorgan. I say “sort-of” because while those who have read the book or seen the movie or heard the music may recognize certain things, it’s not quite a crossover in the classic definition of the genre.

The Extremely Strange Tale of the True Story of the Man Commonly Known as
the Phantom of the Opera,
Or
(if you would rather a shorter title, and goodness knows I would not blame you):

The Imagination of Gaston Leroux

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six

Chapter Seven: The Mystery of Meg

To be a managing director of an opera house is a terribly difficult task. There are the patrons who must be entertained - the actors who must be reassured - the corps that must be fed - the musicians who must be paid - and in some cases, the media which must be appeased.

M. Debienne was quite good at all of these things. He had a vivid imagination, so his patrons enjoyed his performances. He was sparing with praise but not with his attendance, so his actors were reassured. He was lavish with the lunches provided after performances, so his corps were fed. He ran a very careful and precise schedule, so that his musicians always had full wallets, and he believed in a sense of decorum and decency so the media was always assured of a pleasant scandal from time to time.

However, now was not the time for a scandal, pleasant or otherwise, and therefore it was with no amount of undue haste that M. Debienne hurried across the Grand Foyer to tap the wayward couple on the shoulder.

“If you please,” he said congenially, and the girl in the apricot dress hopped off the young man, whose face was now covered in lipstick. He looked rather like he was facing a quickly moving train, and had yet to determine which was the safest direction in which to jump. The girl, on the other hand, had a rather glazed look in her eye, though her face was otherwise passive. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve and blinked at him.

“Sorry,” she said. “When in Rome, you know.”

“We are not in Rome,” said M. Debienne, and the girl nodded.

“Oh, I know. Anyway, I think it’s safe now.” She glanced down at her arm, surprised to see Jack’s fingers still resting on her skin. “That’s quite enough of that,” she said, and moved his hand away.

“Hi,” said Jack, and the girl grinned, just a bit stupid.

“That was lovely, thanks,” she said breezily. “And I’d love to do that again sometime—”

“Oh, good,” said Jack, which is why it should not have surprised the girl one bit to find herself being kissed yet again - indeed, she was pressed right up against the wall, under the watchful and somewhat taken aback eyes of M. Debienne, who, poor man, could not manage to locate his handkerchief.

“Oh, this is entirely out of order,” he scolded them. “This is a public facility, and such displays certainly have no place where anyone could walk by and - for goodness sake, young man - move your hand from her – I – ah – move your hand at once!”

“Sorry,” said Jack, and did, although quite not how M. Debienne intended. The girl in apricot did not complain.

The voiced floated down from the corridors above, in time with the footsteps as they pounded toward the stairs. “—might have gone to the TARDIS — oi!”

This broke the two young lovers faster than anything else might have done, and Jack sprang back from the girl in apricot who, mid-kiss, found herself without anyone to hold her up. She fell against the wall, her expression one of absolute bliss.

“Wow,” said she, and giggled.

Jack gave a cock-eyed grin at the two figures on the top of the stair. “Doc. Rose.”

The manager threw up his hands in disgust. “Commissaire Smith, I charge you with arresting this young man for accosting this poor girl.”

“Oh, he didn’t, not really,” said the girl quickly.

“Oh, I’m sure he did,” said the man at the top of the stair, his face set in a frown.

Rose recognized the girl in apricot instantly, and let out a cry of surprise. “Meg!” She tripped down the stairs, passing the manager on his way up.

“Blatant disregard for public decency,” muttered the manager, as he stalked away from the couple. “As if we need any further foolish running about and mooning over people here! I have had quite enough of such...such...such shenanigans thank you – no idea how I shall explain this to my creditors....”

The muttered musings of the manager faded as he disappeared into the corridors, and the Doctor gave Jack a stony glare. “Really, Jack.”

“Hey, she kissed me first,” Jack defended himself. “Well, first she locked me in the manager’s office—”

“Funny, she seems to have a real talent there,” said the Doctor, turning his stony gaze onto Meg.

“Hi,” said Rose, helping Meg to her feet.

“He’s good at that, isn’t it?” said the girl, still somewhat dazed.

“So he tells me,” replied Rose with a grin. “I’ve never found out.”

“Course you haven’t,” said the girl, nodding as if it made perfect sense. “Although – maybe you should.”

“Oi,” repeated the Doctor, tetchy now, and the girl in apricot jumped.

“Just joking,” she said mildly. “I wouldn’t - I mean - I know that - it’s only - anyway, don’t listen to me, I haven’t any idea what I’m saying.”

“I have that effect,” said Jack.

“What’s your name again?” asked the Doctor, crossing his arms.

“A-Meg.” The expression on the girl’s face was akin to one she might have worn had she recently accidentally swallowed a frog.

“Ameg?”

“Yes, Meg,” said the girl quickly. “Not the Meg, not that Meg, just a Meg, no-one to bother with, no-one to fuss over – don’t worry a bit about me, I’ll just pop out and leave you to your arresting of this very nice young man.”

“Thank you,” said Jack.

“Oh, you’re welcome,” said Meg.

“Rather odd practice you’ve got, Meg, locking people into the manager’s office,” said the Doctor. “Mind sharing where you’ve picked that up?”

“Oh, here. There,” said Meg.

“Ninth moon of Alderaan?” suggested Jack. “Very good lockpick school there, I heard. Unless it’s been replaced by banana groves.”

“Haven’t gotten there yet,” said the Doctor mildly.

Meg swallowed, and took a step closer to the wall. “Ah – that’s in Nice, isn’t it? I’ve never been to Nice.”

Rose took a step back. “Wait - are you saying – Meg is the alien?”

“I am not!” exclaimed Meg, affronted. Immediately, her expression reverted to one that implied she had only just then swallowed yet another frog. “I mean, what alien?”

The Doctor took Rose’s hand and pulled her to stand just behind him. “I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to help.”

“I’m not the alien!” cried Meg. “No, really – I’m not. I don’t have any idea what’s happening to those poor dancers or singers!”

“Then why lock us in the manager’s office?” asked the Doctor.

“Ah – it seemed like the right thing to do at the time?” Meg smiled brilliantly at them, but upon meeting three unsmiling faces, faltered. “Oh, honestly, I’m not the alien. Look, scan me, you’ll see I’m not an alien, I’m perfectly human, just like you. Well, just like two of you.”

“Clever, aren’t you?” asked Jack mildly.

“Just scan,” groaned Meg, and held out her arms, waiting. The Doctor gave her a quick once-over with his screwdriver, and frowned as he looked at the results. “Well?”

“Human,” he said finally, in a tone that said there was plenty more to it.

“There you are,” said Meg, and she lowered her arms. “Well, now that’s settled - I’ll be off—”

Meg tried to slip past them, but the Doctor stepped in her path. “Just a minute,” he said. “These scans don’t exactly match with someone from this particular time period.”

“Like he said, I’m very clever,” said Meg, and tried to slide by his other side.

“You’re not here alone,” said the Doctor.

“Oh, definitely not,” agreed Meg, and made a third attempt.

“You’re not telling me something,” said the Doctor.

“Fancy that!” said Meg, and on her fourth attempt, managed to slip out of the Doctor’s fingers. She raced for the theatre, with both the Doctor and Jack in hot pursuit.

Only Rose remained behind them, following slowly, a troubled look on her face. By the time she caught up to the others in the house, the Doctor and Jack had trapped Meg in the center of an aisle, and Meg looked increasingly worried. The girl kept glancing up at Box Five, as if she expected someone to appear beyond the curtains and help her, but no-one was there.

“I don’t actually know anything,” said Meg, more bravado than brave. “I was just supposed to kill the lights.”

“During the performance, you mean,” said the Doctor.

“Right. That’s all. Well, and infiltrate the corps de ballet, to see what the other girls were saying.”

“As Meg, right?” said Rose from the back of the house. “You were pretending to be Meg Giry.”

Meg nodded, looking terribly guilty now. “Just a joke, really. I liked the book.”

“You read the book?” asked the Doctor, surprised.

“Required reading,” said Meg, wrinkling her nose. “Honestly, anytime we go anywhere there’s always required reading.”

“We?” asked Jack.

Meg turned to Rose. “Does he make you read anything?”

“He tries,” said Rose. “I ignore him.”

“I should try that,” said Meg thoughtfully.

“Oi,” said the Doctor, irritable. “If you’re asked to read something, you should very well read it!”

“Then don’t assign books that are boring,” countered Rose. “I read Christmas Carol again, don’t you remember? That should count for something.”

“Traveling through time and space isn’t just a pleasure cruise,” scolded the Doctor. “It’s an opportunity to expand your horizons, both physically and mentally.”

“I can say most of Raxicoriphafi-whats-the-place, I think that shows improvement.”

“Rose—”

“Oh, leave her alone,” said Jack. “I think she’s just fine as she is.”

“Thank you, Jack,” said Rose, pleased.

“She asked about the Fifth Great and Bountiful Human Empire,” said the Doctor. “I only tried to answer her question.”

“I asked if they had universal health care. You gave me an encyclopedia!”

“Excuse me,” said a voice from the stage, and the three of them turned to see Gaston Leroux, peering over his notebook. “Terribly sorry to interrupt, it’s of course endlessly fascinating, but could I inquire as to whether or not dear Miss Cooriweather is in some sort of legal problem, M’sieur le Commissaire? I would be very happy to vouch for her innocence.”

“Oh, that’d be fantastic, thanks, Leroux,” said the newly-renamed Miss Cooriweather.

“Not so fast,” said Jack.

“You know her?” the Doctor asked Leroux.

“Indeed I do, she’s quite the lovely dancer.”

“I noticed,” said Jack, and Meg squeaked.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” continued Leroux, “I was unaware that the young man was your assistant.”

“They’re both my assistant,” said the Doctor. He took a step closer to the stage; Meg quietly sat down on the seat closest to her, glancing back and forth between her captors.

“Ah - interesting! Most interesting. That changes everything, of course...” Leroux scribbled something in his notebook.

“Changes what?” asked Jack. Neither he nor the Doctor noticed when Meg glanced down. Her eyes widened, and she reached to pick something up from the ground. She held it, cradled in her hand for a moment, before slipping it into her pocket, unnoticed by anyone.

“Oh, nothing, nothing – but love triangles are terribly complicated things to describe, of course—”

“Love triangles!” squeaked Rose.

“Older gentleman, training a young girl, who is quite in love with her contemporary,” said Leroux, continuing to write.

“What?” cried Rose.

“Oh, I saw you canoodling with the young one in the foyer,” said Leroux.

“That wasn’t me, that was Meg!” said Rose hotly.

Leroux looked up from his notebook. “Was it?” he asked mildly. “I’m certain I saw a girl in a pink dress.”

“Apricot,” said Rose. “Look, she’s wearing - oh.”

Meg was gone.

“How very peculiar,” said Leroux, and Jack rushed to examine the seat where Meg had been sitting only moments before. “One girl is taken, the other released.”

“What are you talking about?” asked the Doctor, and the journalist looked at him with surprise.

“Oh, terribly sorry. Perhaps I should have mentioned it earlier. I was just with the doctor and his assistant. Just as the doctor discovered the cure - the artists have awoken, for the ghost has released them from his spell!”

Chapter Eight: How It Ended