trans_9 | The Situation, as it stands.

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The Situation, as it stands.

[ooc: Read this before tagging.]

The AI of Seamus Harper's ship, the Andromeda Ascendant was trapped here along with everyone else, her AI core stolen or at least copied to Stacy's systems. Other AIs had been captured along with her. But she did have answers to some questions, and apparently was willing to tell the crew things Stacy wasn't willing to without being questioned.

Apparently, one of those things was that Cybil Bennet, someone who had popped recently, right along with them, and was merely a police officer back home, was the captain of their crew.

Their crew of what, Harper had asked?

Andromeda's answer:

"The crew of this ship, Harper."

It was then that the eyelid-like visors covering the windows of Obs Deck started to separate, letting in the light--and oh, was there light. They were in the currents of a multi-colored cosmic riptide, surfing the stream. Stars shot past beyond the lights, nebulae, galaxies sped along them as if they were what was moving and the ship wasn't.

It was beautiful.

It was horrible, because it meant they were in space--or something like it. That was a very long way away from their homes.

"We are a very, very long way from Commonwealth space."

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Flash yes, Starfire...vaguely. The Doctor, definitely. Starbuck, sort of (she hadn't seen the new series). Xander, for certain. That Sam guy, the ghost guy and a bunch of other, no.

There was some she recognized. And likely some that recognized each other.

"Yeah, uh, time to talk about the elephant in the room," the teenage girl with the rather wicked looking scythe and chain strapped to her back spoke up.

"Some of y'all are fictional. On the TV and in comic books and stuff."

That was when Stacy chimed up with a little revelation.

||All of the individuals present in this room are fictional.||

"I knew that!" Well, not really. But he knew some of them were, and as Time Lord, he needed to keep up appearances.

Besides, in a way, everyone but Gallifreyans were fictional. If you squinted and tilted your head a bit to the left, and thought very hard like a council member.

That provokes a long, almost-choking laugh from Mr. Wednesday. "Of course we are. If you really need something done, you look in the mythologies." One hand rubs at his face before tracing down to press at his throat.

"Some people call me Mr. Wednesday. Unless you're more than what you seem, I'm fairly sure I'm older than any of you." His gaze drifts over to the Doctor, left eye a little more open than the right. "It's been a long time since I was a proper warrior, but I've learned a great many things in the time since. Now, if I could just borrow someone to - lean on -"

Without further ado, he collapses.

"............All of us?"

But then Wednesday collasped, and she yelled, hurrying over to him, "Who's a medic??"

The Doctor ran over as well, kneeling to check on the man. Over his shoulder he called, "For the record, I am NOT this sort of Doctor!"

Wednesday groans, eyes rolling open again. He was solidly unconscious there - if only for a few moments. "This isn't any place for me," he murmurs. His breathing is slow and a little unsteady, and he looks even paler than he did before.

A hand reaches up to grip the Doctor's arm - and he stiffens, letting out a shuddering breath. "War, war, all dead," he mumbles. "Ten million ships burn in the long light of the sunset." His hand tightens, almost painfully, on the Doctor's arm, and he pulls himself up, heedless of any upset he might be causing. "The last son of the dead kings, buried men who live through the world..." His eyes are rolled back into his head. "Then shall come to pass these tidings also: all the earth shall tremble so, and the crags, that trees shall be torn up from the earth, and the crags fall to ruin; and all fetters and bonds shall be broken and rent..." His voice trails into a whisper.

He collapses again. That he hasn't actually let go of the Doctor's arm may be a problem.

The Doctor stared at the crumpled old fellow, grim, sad, and not nearly angry enough. It seemed that once again, his tragedy was to be broadcast, his grief brought to the surface. His anonymity compromised. Still, he didn't try to break free.

In fact, bar his expression, he didn't react at all. He'd deal with this later, if the man survived. Instead, he half turned again. "Well?! Medic! Come on, one of you has to know something!" He almost called them apes. Perhaps not as calm as he wanted after all.

Energy tentacles emerged from the walls, wrapping themselves around Mr. Wednesday, lifting him up and moving him towards one of the fleshy couches. They moved slowly enough that the Doctor could follow along easily.

||Doctor, please remain near Mr. Wednesday until he has recovered.|| Stacy instructed.

The Doctor nodded and stood to follow the tentacles. Upon arrival he took up position, arms crossed, standing grim vigilance beside the flesh-couch.

"Stacy! What's wrong with him?"

||He is far removed from the source of his power. He is not ill. He simply needs rest. I will be monitoring his status, to make sure he remains stable.||

"What did you mean? That we're all fictional?"

Kitty raised an eyebrow. "Clearly, she's delusional. We can't all possibly fake, or fictional. I'm sure it's a simple explaination. A lot of us may appear as fictional to many others in their own home dimension, simply because some talented individuals in their dimensions are keyed into the frequencies of our home dimensions, and what they see they believe to be imagination. So they write down these imaginary tales which to them are just stories - fiction - but which to us are real because we're real. Just vibing on a different frequency in the universe. Or something." Kitty paused. "Am I making sense or am I just going crazy? Do I need a straitjacket?"

The Doctor smiled encouragingly at her, impressed. "That's good. That, that's real good. That's how it works, actually. Exactly. Yes. Very good. Well, add multiple alternative universes and it's exact, but the concept, the concept's good."

||This is the nature of the Macroverse. Everything must exist somewhere.||

A hologram appeared over their heads, showing Earth. Then panning away to other stars and planets and galaxies, and then panning away even further to show this universe as a bubble swirling in a storm of other bubbles just like it.

||Ideas and Stories are living things. Events occur on one world and sentient beings make their mark on their universe, creating a Story.||

There was Xander! And the rest of the Scooby gang, fighting vamps. Kicking ass and taking names. Glowing with a strange light, all different lights, words, and images, unseen to the naked eye. That mass of...stuff swirled through the air, and up away from the Earth, up away from their universe, upward and onward to another universe, another Earth, a somewhat funny-looking man typing away on a computer, putting his name on his script: Joss Whedon.

||Ideas are the only things that can traverse the universe--an the Macroverse, to other worlds, without assistance. Where others can receive them. And create literature and other forms of entertainment from them.||

The man was on the set of a TV show, filming a blonde kickass young woman staking a man dressed as a vampire.

It flashed to a teenage girl watching that very same show on television--Xander would likely note the special effect did not do the real events justice.

||Some people, however, simply create.||

A girl drawing a picture, with strange creatures and twisty trees, a beautiful alien landscape, entirely from her own mind. It was a girl the doctor might remember, still creating, still drawing, even if she was now separated from the alien playmate that gave her drawings life.

But they still lived anyway.

The same light swirled from it and drifted on to another, empty, primordial place.

||And their Ideas are strong enough to bring life to dark places, and structure to the primordial nothing that exists before a universe does.||

The picture shaped a world through it's creation, into its prime, a beautiful place, one that continued growing and evolving.

||You are all real. And elsewhere, in another universe, by coincidence or transferral of an Idea across the tides of creation, you are all fictional. It is unknown and irrelevant if your worlds existed first and became an Idea, or became an Idea and then existed. You all Live, regardless.||

A pause. ||Some like Mr. Wednesday, however, are more fictional than others.||

A smile crept up on the X-Man's face. "Check me out. I'm suddenly Knowledge Girl. I'd like to thank Dr. Hank McCoy and the late Professor X for this, thank you, thank you. Without them, my crazy theory would never have been possible for me to think of. Or...y'know, it still might have been. It just would've been in way less, unintelligible words." She paused for a moment, a small frown replacing the smile. "And now my head hurts. Anyone have a Tylenol or an Advil?" Another pause. "Anyone except for the crazy Mothership known as Stacy?"

Kate had come back to stand nearby, and nudged Xander.

"You all right?"

Xander in the meantime was staring at the images. That was all of them. And there's a TV show, and a guy writing. And then he got thinking of all the beatdowns, all the abuse he's dealt with. Those lost. Especially Cordy, Ahn, and now...

"..........I really HATE that guy."

Angry Xander is angry.

Especially at the funny looking writer guy hologram.

Wednesday groans, straightening up.

The color's come back into his cheeks, and his eyes - well, his left one, at least - are a little brighter. In fact, as he rubs at his face and slides from the fleshy couch-thing he was put on, he seems almost... chipper.

"My apologies for that outburst," he says, and his voice is gracious and smooth, no longer so raspy and strained.

||That 'guy' has simply received your story.|| Stacy said. ||And made a very lucrative writing career off of it. There are action figures.||

Dimensions, alternate realities. Weird stuff. Maybe it should go under something quantum, but that sure as hell wasn't his area of expertise. He liked machines, cause and effect, and knowing (generaly) what the end results were going to be. He liked things that were physical. Things that were real. Even arguing over it.. well, for once, he'd kept his mouth shut. Tony had showed up to the party somewhat late, it seemed, but he was listening, absorbing, and his brain was actually running too quickly for his mouth to catch up.

This whole scene made his head hurt. He could agree to that much. unfortunately, this place didn't exactly have a wet bar built in it.. not that he could find, anyway, and he desperately needed a scotch. So much for his idea to cut back. Or maybe he was going to have to go at it cold turkey.

"Do the figures have a kung-fu grip? That's the important question." Why not focus on the inane?

||No.|| Stacy said.

She added: ||They have over 25 points of articulation, however.||

"Why is it always the newfangled ones who get the action figures," Wednesday mutters unhappily.

"Wow...that's great," Sam spoke up in the dry monotone of his sarcasm. "Add that to a can of spinach and then maybe we can just Popeye our way outta here."

"Or we could just see if Popeye's in one of the pods." Wally suggested.

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