1.
	Rowan sighs, rolling her eyes in annoyance.  Looking directly at 
Crow, she asks, "Di' ye participate 'n a) sacrifice wee 'uns, b) ritual 
cannabalism, c)  mutilation, d) torture, e) rape 'r f) soul-stealing?"  
She looks expectantly at Crow.
	He looks away.  "Don't ask me these questions, Rowan.  You don't 
want to hear the answers, and I don't want to give them to you."
	"I think that answers the questions adequately in itself, no?" 
says Astarial.
	"Bug off!" Crow explodes.  "If she really wants to know, I'll 
tell her." 
	Rowan turns and looks at Astarial in  exasperation.  "An' I 
suppose tha' ye dinna ha' anythin' 'n yer past tha' ye'd be deeply 
ashamed o'?"
	"Things that I am ashamed of, yes. Things of such undiluted evil, no."
	Crow rolls his eyes.  "Don't bother, Rowan.  He's already 
ascended into his moral high chair.  If he wants to kill me, let him.  
I'm not sure which of us he'd be hurting more."
	"I dinna believe 'n their faiths, their Gods.  Tha's more than 
enough ta damn me worse than Crow, 'n their eyes.  A' least he's human."
	"That doesn't say anything about his character. It is the soul 
within that matters, not the shell it wears... I am right in saying that 
you have not done those things I mentioned before? Or those he has 
admitted - having insects eat out someone's living eyes," - a ripple of 
leashed fury passes across his face - "for example?"
	Crow shrugs.  "As I said, I didn't enjoy it, and I didn't *not* 
enjoy it. From a practical standpoint, I'd much rather have simply shot 
them and gone on, but the Never-Born need some really wierd emotional 
emanations to feed on, and Jeroth and I *do* have an arrangement, 
although you're flat wrong about him "owning" my soul.  As if a soul was 
a bauble to be owned! It's not even mine to sell, much less Jeroth's to 
own." He looks dubiously at Astarial.  "You talk like you've been 
watching way too many bad horror flicks.  If you're going to hate me, at 
least hate me for what I've done rather than your extravigant 
fabrications. You want to kill me, fine.  Leave her alone."
	"You don't think she ought to know the truth about you?"
	"I've already told her the truth about me.  Why are you trying to 
hurt her even more?  Are you trying to hurt me through her, is that it?" 
he spits venomously. 
	"I think he's demonstratin' more carin' than ye'd gi' him credit for."
	"Knowing what he is and hearing what he says he has done, I 
wouldn't give him credit for anything. I'd suspect him of playing on your 
feelings to achieve some - no doubt nefarious - end."
	Crow shrugs.  "He could be right, Rowan.  I lie when it suits my 
purposes, although I actually prefer the truth-you'd be surprised how 
effectively unadulterated truth cracks people.  But think about this: if 
I'm lying, what am I getting out of it?  A quick death?  I could just as 
easily get that from pointy-ears over there without a long story." He 
looks at Rowan. "I don't want to hurt you again,' he says softly.  "Why 
is that so hard to understand?"
	"Because you've already killed her once? Do you seriously expect 
anyone to believe that you wouldn't *again*, if your master demanded it?"
	He looks at Astarial, his eyes glittering.  "Yeah.  That's 
exactly what I'm saying."
	Rowan shrugs.  "I trust him... 'til 'tis time fer me ta take his 
life, as he's asked me ta do."
	"Then, my lady," he says heavily, "you are a fool. A kind and 
well-meaning fool, in truth, but nevertheless, a fool."
	Crow smiles faintly, looking at Rowan.  "It's called innocence."  

2.
	The Captain tugs at her insistently.  "Gabrielle, there's nothing 
you or I can do.  Please.  This is far, far out of our league."
	She turns to him, moving slightly out of the way. "I... I can 
-sense-  that it isn't right for me to stop him like this, but... but 
it's your life too..."
	The Captain's hand tightens on hers slightly.  "My guardian 
angel..." He shakes his head.  "I risk my life every day, Gabrielle..." 
	She smiles. "That doesn't mean I can't try to help."
	And Garret awakens.
	The captain lets out a breath of relief.  "Well, maybe *now* 
we'll be able to fix some of this mess."
	He turns to Gabrielle and gives her a serious look.  "I...I 
expect I'll soon be leaving..." He takes a deep breath, "Gabrielle, come 
with me.  Back to my universe.  We can explore the stars together, see 
the wonders of the universe.  Please, come back with me when I leave."
	She blinks. "I.. is that possible? Won't the rift just throw you 
all back to your own
universes?" She looks down and adjusts her glasses. "What place is there 
for an artist on a starship? You wouldn't need me. Maybe what I do here 
isn't much, but I am helping the kids I teach, doing my own part in the 
fight against banality. You hardly know me. Do you even know what I am? 
There's probably too much cold iron around your ship... and would you 
really want me with you, knowing that my impression of you would always 
be colored by my memories of another Garret?" She looks up again, eyes 
clearly saying Convince me?

3.
	A man lies on the polished wooden floor of the pub.  A dead bird 
is at his feet, its feathers the color of ash.  The sea is in the single 
eye he opens, and his hair is the night sky that embraces him as he sits 
up. "Rhiannon?"
	Barefoot, her hair still tangled from sleep, and the buttons of 
her shirt half undone or mismatched, she nods a yes, not trusting herself 
to speak right now, expression frozen into neutrality, but with her heart 
in her eyes.
	The green stone in his left eye pulses brightly.  Garret doesn't 
seem to notice.  He looks at her a bit unsteadily.  There is something 
profoundly different about him, although if asked to pin it down to any 
concrete thing, Rhiannon probably could not.  It's something about the 
way he holds his head, the set of his eye, the small motions of his hands 
as he looks around, trying to get his bearings.  A thousand little things 
that say "I am not as I was".
	She tries to say something, but her voice doesn't work.
	She takes a deep breath, and with a visible effort of will, 
manages to get out (Welsh), "The phoenix did tell you that you need to 
take care of the effects of the last spell you cast when you were shot, 
before you can properly die, no?"
	Garret cocks his head, and Rhiannon is struck more forcefully 
than ever before by the strangeness of him.  Then he leans forward 
smoothly, putting his arms around her, and nestling  his face in the 
hollow of her neck, and *that* she knows *very* well, by the heat of his 
skin, and his smell, like sweat and soap. "Something like that," he 
murmurs, his lips brushing her skin. "Right now, all I care about is that 
you're here, and I love you."
	 Her back remains tense for a moment, as she makes an abortive 
effort to make sure that Garret knows, but she's been under too much 
stress lately.   Suddenly she hugs Garret tightly, buries her face in his 
hair, and tries to forget for the moment about what will shortly happen 
in favor of the now she's been so unexpectedly granted.
	He strokes her back lightly, holding her. "I'm sorry, ke'Chara.  
I've hurt you, and I can't take it away.  I'm sorry you had to see 
this...go through this. " He sighs softly.  "At least we have this. Some 
people never even get to say goodbye."
	Shane drops the sabre and walks out of the pub.  He can be seen 
walking in front of one of the windows, then he's out of sight at the 
side of the building.

4.
	Gabriel looks at him. "If you wish... I will kill you, Crow. Not 
out of self-righteousness or hate" - he turns to scowl at Astarial - "But 
unfortunately what you say seems to be right. I can give you as painless 
a death as you would desire. Or the means to do it yourself."
	Astarial turns to the Sidhe, his cold voice belying the anger 
boiling in his eyes. "Pretty words. From one who has no understanding."
	"That's a bit presumptuous, don't you think ? Unless you have 
read my mind, you have very little idea just how much or how little I 
understand." Something evidently amuses him. "And I can be very sure that 
you have _not_ read my mind."
	"You will kill him, you say. If he wishes. And will you kill him 
again in his next life? Or take the time to comfort the souls of his 
future's victims? Those who still have souls." 
	"I spend my _life_ comforting injured souls, and I know a good 
deal about souls' destruction. 'I have detailed files on human anatomy'. 
I know very well what the issues are, and I still say it is wrong to 
destroy him beyond this life." He gazes at Astarial through stormy grey 
eyes. "The only souls that are forever lost are the ones that people like 
you exercise their judgement upon. Yes, if he was thus in his next life I 
would kill him again, and again, until he found a different path. We 
always _do_ in the end, given enough chances. Both your kind and mine."
	Astarial gestures around the Pub. "Are you all fools?", he asks, 
his voice low and venomous. "Did you not hear what he said? That he has 
been to the Cauls? Or do you just not understand what that *means*? His 
soul has been corrupted; torn out and perverted to serve his masters. If 
you let him live, he will continue to do so, admitted from his own lips; 
if you simply kill him, in your 'merciful' way, his yet-corrupted soul 
will be reborn as widderslainte, tainted from birth. A precious gift for 
the demon he serves, no?"	
	"As long as it _is_ a soul, then it has free will to some degree. 
So if he is truly pre-destined to evil, there is no soul for you to destroy."
	"To end this, the soul as well as the flesh must die here. And if 
you have not the stomach for this, I do."
	Crow watches him. "That's right, my pointy-eared friend.  Destroy 
me.  Destroy us all.  Evil is everywhere.  Root it out.  Burn it, stab 
it, hurt it.  And then, one day, you will come to see that what you 
really want to kill is the part of you that is just...like...me."
	Gabriel quietly chuckles. "Do you teach your granny to suck eggs, too?"
	Crow slips down off the table and begins circling Astarial at a 
distance, like a wolf.  "Why is it that you hate me so badly, hmmm?  I 
taste anger, there.  Betrayal.  Did you fail someone?  Do you hate 
yourself because of it? That's always the first step, you know.  Hate.  
Another, yourself, it doesn't matter, it all comes to the same thing in 
the end.  Or maybe someone else betrayed you, and you blame yourself for 
not seeing it sooner?"
	With a snarl, Astarial snatches his sword, blacker than the 
darkest night or the void between worlds, from its sheath, and lunges at 
Crow as he continues to talk...
	Crow dances backward nimbly, crouching down, ready to bolt in any direction.
	...but then, with a visible effort restrains himself.
	Crow rises warily.
	"I *will* kill him.", Astarial almost whispers as if to himself, 
his face a mask of fury and obsession. "I will kill them all."
	Crow looks at him, his face neither triumphant nor dissapointed.  
"You see?  Your law is just an excuse for you to kill me because you hate 
me. If you're going to do it, then at least be honest with yourself, and 
drop the macho-hero bullshit.  Can you honestly tell me that if there 
wasn't some kind of law that compels you to kill me, you wouldn't do it 
anyway?"
	"I would, damn your soul!", he explodes. "For what your kind have 
done, you scum and your foul masters all deserve to die a harsher death 
than any a mortal can produce. The law gives me a way, but my reasons are 
*mine*, and for them I will see your soul destroyed despite what any of 
these might say!"
	Crow is quiet.  What more is there for him to say?
	Astarial masters himself with visible effort. "Until my debt is 
paid, you live on borrowed time."
	"We all live on borrowed time.  Kill me or don't, either way you loose."
	Despite this, Astarial keeps the black sword pointed at Crow's 
throat - or perhaps the sword keeps itself pointed there, while he just 
holds on to it, it's hard to be sure. And, again for those more sensitive 
watchers, its hunger and cold eagerness contrast sharply with Astarial's 
boiling fury.
	It doesn't really seem to bother Crow.  He looks down at the 
blade and smiles a hungry, eager smile.  "I know you."
	"That sword..." Mutters the priest, fingering the rosary around 
his neck, "Is a thing of Satan."
	"It is not. As I said, it is a simple sword with a minion spirit 
of the Balancer bound into it. And it was given to one of my more heroic 
ancestors by her priests in order for him to maim, eviscerate, slay, and 
obliviate a particularly powerful minion of Corruption. That is all."
	Even Crow doesn't seem to be buying this one.  "Puh-leeze.  I 
can't believe you're pissed at me for using bugs to eat out someones eyes 
when you're walking around with a sword that annihilates people's 
essences. Can we say 'double-standard'?"
	The sword, on the other hand, merely fails to shine in a 
particularly unpleasant manner.

5.	
	Rowan's hands, palm to palm with Crow's, tighten slightly.  She 
turns her head, to look to where Garret was lying on the floor.  
"Garret?" she asks, hope and fear warring within the song in her voice.  
She looks into Crow's eyes, and smiles, a simple smile, real joy plain to 
see.  "He's  alive; my heart-brother's alive!"
	Crow closes his own.  He slips his hands out of hers.  "You 
should...go say hello, then."  His face is closed and unreadable.
	Her hands close over his, before he can finish slipping his 
away.  "I will... an' ye're goin' wi' me.  How else am I goin' ta make 
sure ye stay here?"  She grins at him, 'though her eyes show a healthy 
dose of fear. "Please?" she whispers.  "I dinna know wha' shape he's 'n, 
'r how long 't'll last."
	Something in his face that was open is shuttered tight.  "If 
that's what you want, Rowan.  I'll go with you."
	Garret looks up a tad unsteadily.  "Rowan?  I..." he trails off 
and leans back against the wall.  The green stone in his left eyesocket 
continues to glow and pulse brightly.
	She walks over, pulling Crow along with her, his hand caught 
firmly in hers.  Going down on one knee beside Garret, she  puts her free 
hand out to fleetingly touch his cheek. "Now ye've an eye ta match mine, 
heart-brother," she says teasingly, 'though her eyes remain very worried, 
and her hand, holding Crow's, is cold. Soberingly quickly, she asks, 
"Wha' di'ye need, brother-mine?"
	He turns his head.  The pulsating of the green stone is almost 
hypnotic.  "Time," he says clearly.  "A lifetime that I no longer own.  
You know I have to go back, Rowan."
	Crow looks at him with something rapidly approaching hate in his eyes.
	"How timely." Over his shoulder, the sword-wielding Astarial 
calls back to Captain Corven, "I presume this means you've made some 
progress? Can I safely kill this [copious Eledhrin expletives] now?"
	The Captain rubs his head.  "I think not." He looks at the 
original intentely, and *harrums*.
	Garret looks up briefly from Rhiannon, but doesn't let her go.
	"Captain Corven, of the Ethership Starjammer.  These are my 
associates, Shiva Unit 101011, Professor Corven of the virtual adepts, 
Running Bear of Those-Who-speak-with-Dreams...and Crow...of the Fallen, 
apparently."
	"I know who you are." says Garret quietly, still not letting go 
of Rhiannon.
	Silence.  the captain *hrrrums* again, looking a bit irritated.  
"Sir, I don't mean to belittle what you must have just gone through-"
	"Then don't," Garret cuts him off.  "You have no conception.  I 
have died a very, very painful death, gotten stuck in a harrowing, fought 
some very, very unpleasant repressed aspects of myself, and been dragged 
back into life by my kia, who apparently thinks that despite everything 
I've done, everything I've been through, I still have more to do."
	Reluctantly, he lets go of Rhiannon and stands, offering her a 
hand to help her up.  He pulls the sheets off the stretcher and drapes 
them over him, looking around the room.  His eyes light on his bag, and a 
small look of relief flits across his face.  "Well, at least I don't have 
to run around naked."  He keeps hold of Rhiannon's hand.
	"Let me be plain:  I am not staying.  I *cannot*.  I have seen 
things and been places living people should not.  We have a half-hour, 
maybe a little more.  If I can't repair what I've done by then, then I go 
anyway.  The only way I can stay is if someone else enters the final door 
for me, and that isn't going to happen."
	"Damn..." Gabby whispers. "Damn, damn, damn. We knew, but we 
hoped..."  She raises a hand to her ear and begins tapping a finger 
against it in a rhythmic sequence.
	He looks at Astarial, taking in his posture and attitude towards 
Crow. "Astarial, let him be.  We don't have time for this nonsense."
	His voice hardens. "I'm afraid I can't do that. One way or 
another, as soon as the anomaly is dealt with, he dies."
	"He perhaps speaks more truth than you wish to give him credit 
for.  I know him in a way that you cannot and never will, Astarial, and 
he would resort to the truth if he thought it would hurt you." Garret 
lids his eye as one might hood a falcon.  "One piece of advice, 
freely-given and well-meant, from one who almost let hate destroy him. 
Look at your reasoning very carefully, Astarial.  Be very sure.  The gods 
care, even if you do not."
	More hopefully, "I don't suppose..."
	"No. Perhaps it is his time.  But even I would not allow you to 
kill him, Astarial.  He is me and we are the same, in more ways than you 
perhaps realize.  I am dead, but I still guard the cycle, and what you 
are about to do is a monstrous thing, no matter how much you feel he 
deserved it. Corrupt or not, he is still a single thread in the 
tapestry." Garret opens his eye again.  He looks old, but not in the same 
way that he always did before, when he was old out of loneliness, or 
exhaustion, or worry.  This is an old that kin to the bones of the earth, 
and the molten blood that pulses beneath them.  By the strange light it 
casts, even Rhiannnon looks young as spring.
	With reluctance, he lets go of Rhiannon and pads across the floor 
to swoop up his bag.  "I'm going to get dressed.  When I get back, all of 
you," he extends his finger to cover all the Garri in a sweeping gesture, 
"Are going to help me start closing this thing down.  We don't have time 
for arguments or nonsense, and I need all of you, so to everyone else, 
that means no maiming them, no killing them, unless you really *want* to 
see this particular portion of space-time fly apart like a flock of birds."
	With that, he turns on his heel and tromps into the bathroom.  
Suddenly, he pokes his head out.  "Oh, and one other thing: It's nice to 
see you all again."  He ducks back inside and shuts the door.

6.
	Professor Corven blinks.  "Oh, damn.  I, uh, knew I was leaving 
out an, uh, variable." He runs a hand through his spiky black hair.  
"S-sorry.  I've, uh, been shot, and I can't remember when I last, 
s-slept.  You're r-right.  I'd, uh, be grateful for your help, Lady May."
	The remote on the left chimes in cheerfully. "No problem, prof, 
it's all in a day's work. Besides, Vachon is there. I just can't wait to 
have her in my sights again." The fact that this talk is delivered in a 
voice much like what you hear from cute furry things in japanese cartoons 
may even make it less reassuring.
	Indeed.  "Oh.  Um.  J-just as long a-as I, uh, don't have to hear 
about it afterwards."
	"I'd suggest to use a stressed sub-quantum lattice as a filter on 
our side," says Frederic. The professor nods and boards the Eidolon, 
returning with another peice of silvery metal equipment similar to the 
first, trailing wires and circuitry. As he returns, Frederic has pulled 
soldering goggles and is shining light that manages to be both dark 
purple and too intense to look at, on a piece of glass-like substance 
much like the one he gave to Garrett. He then hands it to the professor. 
"Voila, the filter is able to polarize your gateway so that Pub-time 
doesn't spill over."
	He turns it over in his hand, looking fascinated.  Then he turns 
and crawls halfway into the generator to install it.  Grunting and 
clanging noises emerge from within. "D-Done!"

7.
	"He's  alive; my heart-brother's alive!"
	The worry does not escape Aetna's face.  "But for how long?"
	"A half-hour, maybe a little more," says Garret grimly, getting up.
	He gives a rather agonized half-smile to Aetna.  "It's...good to 
see you again, Aetna.  Take care of that child, you have no idea what 
he's going to be running into when he grows up." The smiles deepens, and 
there is precious little mirth in it.  "They don't bother hiding the 
future from you when you're about to go on, you see."
	"Interesting."  She looks away--then takes a deep breath and 
looks again at Garret, her gaze disturbingly direct.  "Sept leader's 
going to have kittens, but what the hell." She walks up to Garret, 
bearing stiffly straight.  "This is unusual, but what the hey, I'm a 
ragabash.  Garret Corven, meet your godchild, Garret Windsor--future 
philodox of the Sept of the Great Bear.  Kiddo, meet your 
soon-to-be-deceased godfather."  She awkwardly proffers the sleeping 
baby.  "Sorry I didn't make the decision sooner."
	Garret looks at her in shock that penetrates right to his core.  
"I...Aetna, are you sure?" He takes the baby from her gently, and holds 
it as if he's had some experience with them.  "I never had any children 
of my own..." he whispers, looking down into its sleeping face.  "As 
godfather, it is my right to grant him a gift." The flap of his knapsack 
flops open, and a jagged silver klaive tumbles out and slides across the 
floor towards them, stopping at Aetna's feet.  This is probably the first 
time she's seen it up close, and a stylized phoenix is carved into the 
silver of the blade. "Its name is Fireheart.  Keep it for him until he 
grows older." He bows his head.  "I am sorry I will not live to see that 
day."
	Gabby speaks again. "The pendant... Christine's pendant, what 
happened to it? If your enemies found it, she will go against them... she 
thought very highly of you, you know... or if you wish me to, I can take 
it back..."
	Garret nods, digs in his bag, and produces the medallion, 
pressing it into Gabby's hand.  "Take it back to Christine, tell her I 
thank her...and tell her that although I don't like what she does... I 
still remember things about her that she doesn't know about herself.  
Maybe someday we'll get to talk about it." He takes his bag and heads to 
the bathroom.
	The door to the pub opens and a young blonde woman with soft 
green eyes enters.  She's wearing a green skirt and white blouse and is 
generally neat in appearence.  She glances around timidly and her eyes 
widen at the general confusion.  Then she sees the various Garrets and 
looks even more surprised.  As she walks towards the bar she glances at 
Crow and the observant will notice her eyes harden somewhat. "Why are 
there bloody Nephandi everywhere I go?" she mutters under her breath.
	"Just lucky, I guess," replies Crow with a charming smile.
	All the same she turns and walks towards the group containing 
Crow and speaks to all of them politely enough.  "Hello, I can't help 
noticing that someone has got themselves in a bit of mess.  What 
happened?"  It is uncertain if she is referring to the general mass of 
Garrets or the fallen state of the particular Garret known as Crow.  
Indeed Crow gets the definite feeling she means both.  She puts her head 
on one side and observes Crow thoughtfully, "You know you'll regret that 
one day." And that definately did refer to him Falling, she holds out her 
hand.  "Lindara Taylor."
	Crow takes it and kisses it delicately.  "Crow.  And somehow, I 
rather doubt it."
	Watching the myriad conversations take place, Paddy lets out a 
long sigh. He manuevers through the crowd of patrons-some new, some old, 
many of them friends, but not all-to his spot behind the bar.  
Politely-almost uncharacteristic-he asks anyone who is behind the bar to 
clear out as he begins to clean, polish, and set up his old turf. After a 
minute or so of cleaning, he takes a unmarked and rather new
bottle from under the bar,  uncorks it quickly, and begins 
drinking-quickly and heavily. After the second sip or so, he says to the 
crowd- "I'm collectin' outstandin' tabs now; our Suppliers are increasin' 
prices, an' I'm needin' to pay a wee bit more than normal.  No one's 
exempt..."
	Kao-liang shrugs, and pulls out a clip of bills, laying a couple 
of American $100 dollar bills on the bar, before a thought strikes him, 
and he checks the dates printed on them.  "No, you probably don't want to 
wait a few decades before you can use them without being considered a 
particularly dumb forger," he remarks, a half smile on his face, and 
reclaims the bills.  A bit more thought, and he produces a simple ring, 
of finely worked gold set with a flawless two carat emerald, and lays it 
on the bar.  "Would this be enough for me, Rhi, and the Professor here?" 
he asks.
	The professor's eyes get big.  "S-surely I haven't consumed 
*that* much!"
	Paddy eyes the ring in amazement:  "Aye, it'd cover ye, Rhi, 
an'all thevarious Garret's tabs....  Friend, are ye sure yer willin' to 
part with this?  It doesn't look like a mere trinket to give away so 
quckly..."
	"That's...that's very kind of you..." the Professor still seems a 
bit shocked.  
	A shrug, "Then perhaps you would take his order for dinner?  He 
hasn't eaten lately, and losing a lot of blood isn't helping matters."
	Paddy turns to the professor- "Well, what are ye wantin' to eat?  
We've got most things ye can find in a pub, more soups an'a Reuben that's 
know for bein' one o'the best this side o'the Velvet Curtain..."
	"Y-yes, *please*" he says enthusiastically.  "D-do you have 
chicken soup?"
	Shane walks back in.  His trenchcoat is slung over his left arm 
and in his right hand he carries a knife and quite a long bandage. 
Sitting down on one of the barstools, "Padriac, another vodka please."   
After drinking the vodka (and incidentally paying his bar tab) Shane 
starts to sort out his broken fingers. "Gabby, you're right, I did storm 
out the last time I 'fucked up'. However, in neither instance was it to 
sulk."

8.
	A glowing ball of fuzzy blue light appears in the Pub and bobs 
around, making faint *bzzt* sounds.
	Suddenly, it plunges rapidly towards Astarial - who looks up in 
expectant shock as it appears to strike him, and all disappears in a 
blaze of white light...
	... And there is no-one standing there. By the wall behind where 
Astarial was standing, there stands a disc, perhaps a couple of inches in 
front of it (although it's hard to tell as it can't seem to be seen from 
the side) and about 10' in diameter. It hangs there a few inches above 
the floor, glowing vaguely with a pearlescent light.
	And one by one, all the Astarials in the Pub start to disappear.
	
9.
	"Voila, the filter is able to polarize your gateway so that 
Pub-time doesn't spill over."
	The professor turns it over in his hand, looking fascinated.  
Then he turns and crawls halfway into the generator to install it.  
Grunting and clanging noises emerge from within."D-Done!"
	Martin steps down from the vessel and stands on the edge of the 
group, looking pensive. After some time, he raises and index finger and 
speaks. "Maybe we're going about this the wrong way."
	The professor looks up, his face drawn and tired.  The captain 
walks over to listen, and even the cyborg clanks nearer.
	He looks at the others, and continues.  "For a start, we're 
assuming that the Chronohedron is the effect Garret created in the park. 
But we saw that effect, and it was obviously a rift in time, not a 
structure; and we saw Vachon carried off by Wrinkles - Paradox spirits."
	"Now, the Chronohedron appears to us to be growing. It also 
appears to exist in time in the same way as we exist in space. So 
wouldn't it be a logical conclusion that the Chronohedron _endures_ in 
space, in much the way we do in time? That it's not _growing,_ as such, 
but aging?"
	"What if the Chronohedron is not the temporal anomaly, but the 
universe's _response_ to it? That by touching one alternate version of 
the mass/event which caused the phenomenon - in this case, Garret - it is 
somehow countering the original anomaly?"
	"Were it simply a rift in space, paradox could force it closed 
and that would be the end of it; but if that happened now, the temporal 
rift would still exist _in the past_ - the only way to close it is at all 
times simultaneously. Which would explain why the Chronohedron exists as 
it does."
	"The one thing all these Garrets have in common is that none of 
them, apart from our own, were in that park, fought those opponents, and 
created the anomaly. Logically, if it was just locking onto various 
Garrets, it would first bring through the closest alternates? Euthanatos 
Garrets varying from the Garret of this world only in, say, what they had 
for breakfast this morning?"
	"It's deliberately seeking out Garrets who did _not_ create the 
rift, perhaps so that when they outnumber our Garret sufficiently, their 
personal timelines will override his, changing the past and closing the 
rift along its entire temporal axis."
	"Which would mean that the real danger to reality is if we box 
the Chronohedron in. If it _is_ a paradox phenomenon, doing so would 
increase the temporal pressure to an almost infinite degree."
	"But if we leave it to it's own devices, we'll soon be swamped 
with Garrets. The damage the more extreme ones may do is immeasurable. 
But perhaps if we speed up the process, cause it to manifest all the 
Garrets it needs for just a moment, they would be no more harmful than 
the time-ghosts we saw during the last expansion. Perhaps if we trigger a 
paradox backlash within the center of the formation, it would force it to 
expand directly to its final configuration."
	The Garri are quiet.  "Bravo," says a voice from the bathroom, 
and Garret steps out.
	He's wearing some black jeans with biker boots and an old, 
bloodstained leather jacket.  A white collared shirt peeks out from 
underneath, and he's cut his hair, it's now as short as the Captain's.  
He walks across to them, his boots thumping softly on the wood floor. 
"Bravo,' he says again, and for an instant, those nearby are 
unreasoningly afraid.  The Professor shies away almost unconsciously.  
Even to Edison's eyes there is something *wrong* about him, the way he 
stands so perfectly still, the dark green of his eye, like a bleeding 
emerald, the way the light shines off the black crystals uncrusting his 
eyepatch, which is now covering his new, eldritch green eye.
	He spreads his hands, and there is Garret in the graceful 
movement, but there is also something as deep and secret and frigtening 
as the deepest part of the ocean, and the secrets it hides under its 
blue-green depths.
	"We are not a disease, but a symptom.  The canker that I have 
left on time is trying to heal itself.  It cannot do so until we lance it."
	"The Vachon woman," says the Captian suddenly.  "I should have 
realized. She's why it won't close.  Not while she's inside."
	"No," replies Garret in a whisper.  "No.  We cannot remove her 
while time is colliding against itself.  We must shut it first, heal the 
wound."
	"Awaiting instructions" buzzes the Cyborg.
	"Edison is right.  We must call the others.  All of them.  All 
except those who are close to me."

10.
	Frederic turns to Garret-raised-from-the-dead. "What do you have 
in mind when you use this effect? More to the point, unless she improves 
drastically, Vachon is nowhere near able enough in Time influence to 
attarct this sort of attention to her."
	Garret reamins unnaturally still.  Although he gives no physical 
sign, you can tell that he is listening with a frightening intensity.
	"So," turning back to Martin, "How come you see *her* dragged 
away? I only know of one case in which Paradox misses its target." Back 
to Garrett, one finger raised. "We can then either suppose what we see is 
an elaborate paradox flaw, affecting *you* but, seeming from your point 
of view that it affected Vachon. Or..." He raises a second finger. 
"Vachon really was the one trapped by the backlash, and you, my dear 
friend, are a Marauder now."
	Garret remains still and quiet yet, and then he suddenly raises 
his hands and cups them delicately.  Garret's magick normally has the 
stink of mortality on it, the tang of sweat, the iron of blood, spikes of 
pain, heat of passion. This magick is pure and clean as a winter spring 
bubbling up from the heart of a mountain, bound with a wish, a breath, a 
word.
	His hands are suddenly full.  It is not water, although it moves 
like water.  It is not light, although it burns.  It is infinite and 
pregnant with possibility, yet it is bounded and contained by the 
boundary of his fingers.  His body grows heavy with shadow, as though he 
were becoming a hole cut in reality itself.
	"I am so much more than I can make you understand..." the words 
emerge from the darkness like moths seeking the light.  "I ceased to be 
human, as you understand it, when the Lady of Spades blew out my candle.  
I am one, I have been many.  I have lost myself and found myself.  I am 
not the man I was, but I am more real than he could ever hope to be."  
	The light is gone, and so is the darkness.  Garret lets his hands 
drop. 
	"I have no answer."
	Frederic has a look of puzzlement etched on his lean face, but 
then returns to looking at least halfway serious. "May well be. Lessee. 
Transformee inverse de Fourier..." He fiddles with the palmtop for a 
while. "HAH! Brilliant, Doc." He turns to the assembled Garretts from all 
around. "Diffraction figure. That must be what this is about. You guys 
are diffraction figures, and the furthest we get from the point of 
origin, the more bands we see, because our cross-section with the 
diffraction figure enlarges. It's not an evolving phenomenon, because 
nothing really ever evolves. Simply, we change the point of view we have 
of it. Which means we can reconstruct the original event by analyzing the 
figure itself."
	Martin continues with his theory. "Perhaps if we trigger a 
paradox backlash within the center of the formation, it would force it to 
expand directly to its final configuration."
	Frederic looks at Martin. "I happen to disagree, but that is 
because our bases of comprehension are quite far removed one from 
another, or so I think. You believe in the existence of this phenomenon 
independently from any observer and so think that you need to do 
something to it, and I think we need to do something to us and the 
Garrets." He turns to "our" Garret. "Your opinion?"
	Garret puts up his hands as if sculpting something in the air. 
"It is that.  It is more.  It has become more than a spell now, and it 
took more from me than existence.  We are now...tangled.  Woven together. 
It took the Lady of Spades because that was what I made it to do.  It is 
keeping her because that is what it is.  It is bringing us here because 
it knows us better than we know ourselves, and because it is a mirror.  
Fate has had its say, and it is no longer mine and mine alone.  I can 
ask, but I can no longer command."

11.
	Gabriel looks at the empty space where Astarial was in some 
astonishment, before suddenly swinging a chair through it and then 
shaking his head. "He's buggered off."
	Crow snorts.  "Good riddance.  You were saying something about 
telling a story?" He folds himself into a nearby chair and crosses his 
legs, looking dangerous and wary at the same time, which is not an easy 
thing to do. "Well, I'm not much of a storyteller.  On the other hand, 
I'm lean and mean on piano." He looks around.  "Pity we don't have one."
	"On the contrary," smiles Gabriel, indicating an upright piano 
where the keyboard played by Ophelia was.	
	Crow looks at Gabriel with a trace of suspicion in his eyes, then 
shrugs."Why not?  I don't see what harm it can do."
	He crosses the room to the piano and sits down, setting his 
fingers lightly on the keys and looking into space for a moment, his face 
creased with concentration.  As if by themselves, his fingers, long and 
slender and quick, begin to move.
	The first few notes are hesitant, as if Crow is out of practice.  
He frowns and flips his neon-green hair away from his face in a gesture 
of concentration.  A sheen of sweat coats his forehead and the spiral 
tattoos on the shaved portion.
	Then the tempo of the music picks up, and the notes become 
stronger and surer.  Crow looks down at his hands in amazement, as if 
they are no longer truly a part of him, but someone else's hands.  The 
melody is dark and heavy, opressive and smothering like thick velvet 
curtains.  It winds throughout the pub like a pall of smoke, insinuating 
itself into every crevice and cranny, scrabbling at the patron's ears 
like a cloud of locusts.
	The tempo changes again, and the music is now actively 
malevolent. Listening to it is like sticking your hand under a log and 
touching something that's been dead for a long time in the darkness.
	A mangled electronic scream distracts attention from the mad 
pianist. Cybernetic Garret is lurching in circles, swinging his metallic 
arm, his face a twisted mass ofd emotion.  "SyStEm ErRoR" he repeats, 
over and over again, like a charm to ward off evil.
	The other Garri are similarly affected.  The professor simply 
lowers his head into his arms and weeps as if his heart were breaking.  
Running Bear stands stock-still, his eyes glazed, his face perfectly, 
utterly set, like the face of a dead man.  The captain backs away until 
he's up against the bar, his face frozen in terror.  He holds up his hand 
as if to ward something off.  
	Garret Corven shudders and drops to his knees, clapping his hands 
over his ears.  Around him, chairs and tables begin to collapse and rot, 
as though a wave of invisible pestilence is sweeping out from him.  
Strangely, his face is almost serene...peaceful.
	Rhiannon, shuddering in time to the music, holding herself 
tightly, notices this.  Already emotionally drained even before she heard 
the music, her Garret's collapse is the last straw that breaks what's 
left of her tightly held emotional self-control.  Bloody tears begin 
trickling from her eyes and slowly drip off her cheeks and onto her 
shirt, her expression becoming lost, despairing, and desolate, as she 
loses the energy to sustain the pride that was keeping her from revealing 
how much pain Garret's death and resurrection has been causing her.
	And the music goes on and on.  It is hurting and hungry, more 
like a need, an ache, than a song.  Crow looks down at his hands in utter 
horror and spasms, trying to tear himself away from the piano.  The blood 
has drained from his face and left it waxy white.  He moves like a doll, 
a puppet, possessed by the music more than possessing it.
	It moves towards a crescendo.  Out of the filth and wreckage of 
the disparate notes, a clear, spiraling note appears and climbs upward, 
soaring above.
	Crow throws his head back and screams.  Its is a lost, primal 
sound, and it merges perfectly with the single note, as if he had it 
planned this way all along.  The music stops abruptly, and Crow's scream 
cuts off as well, as if something inside him has finally broken.
	And then it's over.  Silence descends on the pub, except for the 
sound of the professor weeping, and the electronic mantra of 101011.  
Crow looks dully down at the piano.  It is obvious to the most 
insensitive that he's not coming back from whatever inner landscape the 
song took him to.  His eyes are dead and empty.
	Kao-liang surveys the scene, then takes a look at Rhi.  A frown, 
almost too fast to see, flicks across his face for a moment, then he 
calls out, "Rhi, is there anything you can," he breaks off, looks at her, 
pauses, then comments in a dismissive tone of voice, "Women."  His head 
turns away, looking towards the male mages in the pub, so he doesn't see 
Rhiannon's face trading in its desolate expression for a proud and remote 
one, albeit one desperately tattered around the edges.
	Garret slowly climbs to his feet.  The aura of agelessness he's 
worn since returning is gone, and he is only a man, frightened and 
confused.  He stumbles uncertainly in Crow's direction, then stops, swaying.
	She gives a raking glance around the pub, then raises her hands 
in a sweeping gesture, the gathering shadows dripping off them and 
shifting, forming a shadow shaped like a concert harp.  She hums a short 
melody quietly for a moment, her fingers twisting in arcane, graceful 
gestures around the newly formed image, then places them on the strings 
of the shadow harp and begins to play, her fingers flashing over the dark 
lines of the shadows as if something was there, faster and more fluidly 
than is humanly possible, her face a neutral mask again, but with the 
blood continuing to drip smoothly down her face from her tear ducts.
	The other Garri take no notice, except for Garret, who jumps 
slightly, and wheels around.
	Amazingly enough, the music she is playing is heard, despite 
being struck from strings of shadow.  At first, it is a reprise of what 
Crow was playing,  shaping nightmares in music, a broken rhythm of anger 
and hate, a harsh jangling twisted parody of a song that should never 
have existed. Again, one note rises from the muck, soaring free.  This 
time, however, it isn't cut off.  Instead, the note is held, while the 
aching need of the bass line continues.
	Running bear cocks his head uncertainly, the first movement he's 
made since all this began.  101011 is abruptly silent and still.  The 
professor, however, continues weeping.
	Rhi's face, showing nothing but a frighteningly alien, almost 
*predatory* intensity, bends more over her harp, her posture eloquent of 
someone trying to draw something out of the twisted wreckage of what Crow 
was originally playing.  Her fingers dance over the strings, resolving 
phrases the original melody left hanging, modulating from one key into 
another, shaping the disordered cacophony into something like music, 
finally reaching a variation on the theme that is a melody, rather than a 
caricature of one, as the original high, achingly sweet note flies over 
the rest of the melody, unheeding of it. 
	This variation is picked up, shifting to a minor key as the 
melody finally moves past its roots, developing, changing, becoming more 
emotionally intense although that seems impossible.  The original soaring 
note also shifts, to match the new key the improvisation is being played 
in, losing its purity as it acknowledges the existence of the original 
theme, still perfectly evoking freedom, wonder, joy, and the existence of 
love, perhaps poorly understood and even more unexpected, but all the 
sweeter for it, while the dark melody changes to reflect the light as well.
	And with this acknowledgement of the two themes by each other, 
the music again changes, somehow the dark melody heard and understood as 
twin to the light, the dark as necessary to give depth and meaning to the 
light as the light is necessary to keep the dark from becoming nothing 
but hopeless and inescapable pain and need, with nothing to do but feed 
on each other in a cannibalistic frenzy.  Finally, Rhi's hands slow down, 
the wild emotions fading with the music that evoked them, and then they 
drop exhaustedly off the shadows, the harp fading into nothingness as she 
loses the concentration necessary to keep the spell working, as her body 
slumps, her head drooping as whatever last reserves of emotional energy 
she tapped are utterly drained.
	Garret closes his eyes, a look of immense relief passing over his 
face. He crosses the pub, his movements much more quick and sure, and 
kneels down next to her.  Hesitantly, he puts his hands on her knees. 
"Rhiannon,' he says softly, "I'm sorry."  Whether he's apologizing for 
dying or living is unclear.
	Rhi doesn't respond for a long moment.  Then one hand moves and 
rests on Garret's, and she asks, her voice totally drained, (Welsh), "Are 
you all right, now?"
	"Yes," he says softly, closing his eyes. (Welsh)  "God damn  
this.  It isn't fair. Dying I could care less about, but leaving you..." 
he trails off.
	Running Bear collapses into a nearby chair, looking exhausted.  
The Captain blinks and looks around, all but a trace of fear gone from 
his face.  101011 is utterly silent, and the smoulering ember of his left 
eye has gone out.
	Crow is weeping.  In perfect, utter silence.
	Kao-liang, standing next to the weeping professor with a 
tentative hand on his shoulder, bends forward and whispers Garret's name 
in his ear, trying to see if his manipulation of his sire's last reserves 
was worth it, as far as finding out what happened.
	Professor Corven looks up, his face red and tear-stained.  He 
tries to smile reassuringly, but it comes out all wrong and makes him 
look even more agonized.  But he *has* stopped crying.  "I-I'm 
s-s-sorry," he says jaggedly, his stutter even worse than usual.  "I 
f-f-felt so b-b-*bad* for him." Kao-liang regards him thoughtfully for a 
moment, then opens his arms in an inviting gesture, asking without words 
if the professor wishes to be held for a moment. Hesitantly, the 
professor puts his arms around Kl and rests his head on Kl's shoulder, 
snuffling a bit.  "I-I c-can't explain it...I f-f-felt like I was 
*him*...and I-I w-w-was *burning* inside..."
	Gabriel approaches Rhiannon cautiously, quietly. "The performance 
of your life, milady. But far from your last." He is moving oddly, 
gracefully in a way no human should manage, and his Sidhe seeming is 
becoming visible even to those who can't normally see such things. He 
pauses. "I owe it to you to answer any questions you might have." He 
pauses again. "Truthfully. But I can only remain here a short time."
	Exhaustedly, quite lacking her usual inhuman grace, as if it's 
almost too much effort, she raises her head just enough to take a look at 
him.  The bloody tracks of her tears contrast vividly with her 
chalk-white, almost translucent skin.  Even worse are her eyes, dead, 
burnt out coals, instead of the usual impression of a banked fire of 
something that may not be life, or death, but *other* - fey, strange and 
equally compelling.  A brief last gutter of emotion flares in her eyes, 
and she explains, in a voice too emotionally drained to have any 
expression, "You are a Sidhe who followed his belief that what is good 
for him leads to the best of all possible worlds," then her eyes turn 
dead again, as her head falls forward, looking eerily like a freshly-dead 
corpse.
	He walks away towards the door, and picks up the cloak that hangs 
there; a long cloak made of diamonds of white and ash-grey. But as he 
puts it on, he turns it inside-out to show the reverse pattern, grey 
diamonds and black. He walks back towards Rhiannon quietly.
	"No, I did not. I did not do this for my own good. I had already 
fed, and now I am overfed, which is more dangerous for me." He looks at 
the shell of Crow. "You may believe me or not as you choose, but this is 
what I say. I am Gabriel Ryan, of the House Leanhaun - not Liam - and I 
take responsibility for this. Crow was frozen, he would not change, and 
the spirit that remained inside him was trapped and growing stagnant. If 
I could have saved him, I would have. But the only thing that remained 
was to set the spirit free, give it another chance to take a different 
path. Something which, by your interference, you have considerably 
helped." He looks back at Rhiannon, and although his eyes are fierce and 
haughty there is sorrow in them. "What would you have had me do, lady ? 
What would anyone here have done for him ? Whatever beauty remained in 
him, it was drowning. To shatter the ice was all I could have done for 
him. This I did, and this I would have done if it meant my death. If you 
wish to obtain that, you may tell my Baroness what I have done."
	But if all this should have a reason
	We would be the last to know
	So let's just hope there is a promised land,
	And hang on 'til then, as best as we can.

12. 
	"So...you're an, uh, vampire?" he asks, looking more fascinated 
than afraid.  Then he says boldly,"I didn't know vampires...were, uh, so 
handsome."
	Kao-liang blushes slightly, courtesy of Obfuscate 3. The 
professor blushes in return, hurredly finds somewhere else to look, and 
fidgets, although one can tell he's pleased with himself. Obviously 
trying for an analytical tone, KL adds, "Most vampires look rather 
normal, if a bit paler than most humans. I'm just in one of the lineages 
where you can  tell the bloodline by looks alone.  And there are a few 
tricks that can be done, if you're willing to spend the time to learn 
them."  A speculative look at Garret, "I could show you one of them, if 
you're interested."
	"Oh yes!" he says brightly.  "Please!"
	"If you'll stand up and look at the mirror?" he says, taking 
Garret's hand in his own long cool fingers. The professor stands and 
blushes slightly, trying not to tremble. The Kiasyd murmurs absently, on 
his face the pleasurable abstracted interest of an artist examining a 
blank canvas, "It's a *really* useful trick for experimenting before you 
start using scissors, or even deciding what color of cloth to buy, though 
in my case it's also nice to have something to take off a foot or so of 
apparent height."  He gives a decisive nod, the alexandrite on his ring 
changes color from red to green, although the light in the pub is still 
obviously artificial instead of natural, and the Garret in the mirror 
*changes* though still remaining recognizably Garret, much like the 
appearance of a Sidhe improves considerably on the Dreaming side. 
	The professor blinks and leans slightly towards the mirror.  He 
opens his mouth to ask a question, which he looses as soon as the image 
solidifies.
	The Garret in the mirror has lost his glasses, which probably 
accounts for why his eyes seem larger and more brilliant.   Maybe the 
nose is more aquiline, the cheekbones more defined, the complexion 
better, with the sensitive mouth of a born poet, but more likely it's 
just that everyone is seeing the facial features without the distraction 
of the glasses. His black hair is now longer, slightly wavy, with the 
type of carelessly windblown style that takes a expert hairstylist hours 
to achieve.  Instead of a grubby t-shirt and jeans,  Garret is now 
wearing a cream loosefitting silk shirt over tight-fitting black leather 
pants, with a pair of silver and black leather cowboy boots.  Doubtless 
it is the difference in posture from half cringing to relaxed and 
confident that makes the shoulders look a bit wider, and the notoriously 
slimming effects of black that make the hips look leaner.  The clothes 
themselves, casual and obviously though understatedly stylish, are cut in 
such a fashion as to make Captain Garret either turn green with envy or 
else start taking pictures desperately so he can copy the outfit later 
for his own use.  
	The professor's eyes widen, and his breath quickens.  He looks 
the sex god in the mirror up and down, and the figure respods with a 
small, sensuous dip of it's own head.  He lifs his hand to his face to 
check that his glasses are still there, and his double in the mirror 
touches its nose with its hand in a coy gesture. "I-Is that *me*?" he 
asks in awe, as if he can't quite believe it.  The expression of awe is 
mirrored back at him by his other self, who does it quite a bit better.  
"I-I could...look l-like *that*?" He smiles a shy smile at the mirror, 
and his double responds with a much more alluring copy, which manages to 
be shy, humble, yet unbearably sexy at the same time.
	Kao-liang says, a note of satisfaction in his voice, "Yes, you do 
look quite nice when you're not trying to hide it."  A bit apologetic, 
"Sorry if this wasn't what you wanted, but I do rather like the advice in 
the saying, "If you've got it, flaunt it."
	"I...d-don't know what to say.." he says, still looking at his 
other self. "I've...I've n-never *thought* of m-myself this way."  He 
lapses into silence, his brow furrowed in thought.  His double obligingly 
looks heroically preocuupied.  He looks down at himself, his true self, 
with his oilstained leather jacket, his grubby clothes, and he reaches up 
to touch his glasses. "It's...n-not really *me* though.  It's...r-really 
the magic...making me l-look like th-that.  Isn't it?"

13.
	Garret gets up and looks at the others, his face pale but set, 
and that curious sensation of age leaking back into it like icewater. 
"It's almost time," he says quietly.
	The Captain looks back at him thoughtfully.  "Gabrielle can't 
come with me, can she?"
	Garret shakes his head.  "No.  You know she can't."
	The Captain draws himself up to his full height. "Then I'm not 
leaving, either."
	Garret's mouth falls open in shock.  "What!?"
	"You heard what I said.  I'm not leaving."
	The professor wipes eyes hurriedly with his sleeve, his face 
muddled with anxiety.  He gets up quietly and stands just behind the 
captain. "I-I don't want to go, either."
	Garret looks at both of them as thought they're mad.  "What are 
you saying?!  You cannot leave a hole in another universe, no matter how 
badly you don't wish to leave!"
	"W-we don't know that!" the professor shouts back, half-cringing 
at the volume of his own voice.
	The Captain nods.  "You said yourself there was more to us being 
here than a mistake.  That it had become something more.  Maybe this was 
just the universe's way of showing us that it's here that we always 
belonged, all the time."
	Garret runs his hand absently through his hair.  "Dammit, I know 
how you feel-"
	"Y-You *don't*," says the professor in an agonized voice, "Or you 
w-w-wouldn't die."
	Garret looks up sharply, his face red.  "You think I *want* to?  
*Damn* you!  You think I want to leave her all over again?!  You think I 
don't bleed inside when I think about being without her!" He takes a step 
towards the professor, who takes a step back, then squares his shoulders, 
swallows and moves forward.
	"Y-you *could*.  You-you h-h-haven't even l-*looked*.  W-what's 
the p-point of being here...if we don't get to choose?"
	The captain steps forward and puts his hand on the professor's 
shoulder. "Isn't that what all this is about, Garret?  Choosing what we 
do with our lives?  Or are we to be like him," he points at Crow, "And 
blindly accept what lies on our plate?  There *has* to be a way for us to 
stay.  We," he indicates the professor and himself," are willing to make 
sacrifices to stay.  I will have to give up command of my ship.  We are 
leaving behind other lives.  Maybe we will not succeed, maybe we will 
die.  But we want to try."
	"*He* does it only because the tall one has seduced him-" begins 
Running Bear, nodding to the Professor.
	The Professor wheels around and cuts him off.  "You SHUT UP!  
Y-you don't k-know ANYTHING ab-about him.  Y-you don't k-know ANYTHING 
about ANYTHING. Y-you're just l-like *him*," he points at 101011's still 
form, "T-too sc-scared to *feel* anything, so you p-p-pretend you 
*don't*.  M-maybe he d-doesn't care about me.  M-m-maybe he *does*.  It's 
m-m-my choice, and if-if *I* want to take th-that risk, th-then I *will*!"
	Running Bear is silent, and looks away from the Professor's 
blazing eyes. In the background, 101011 whirrs loudly, and jerks back to 
life.
	Garret's eyes are cool as he looks at all of them.  "And this is 
really what you want?"
	Running Bear shakes his head.  "I will return to my proper 
place.  I have no desire to remain."
	101011 buzzes.  "This unit wishes to return to its own universe.  
This unit was promised that its pain would be taken away.  This unit has 
been cheated." It's single red eye blazes.  "This unit-" it cuts itself 
off and begins again, "*I* wish to settle the score with *my* employers."
	Garret and the others look at it in surprise.
	"All right.  We can try," says Garret tiredly.  "I wish that I, 
too, could remain."
	"Maybe you will.  Anything is possible," says the Captain kindly.
	Garret waves his hand, clearly not believing it.  "We have little 
time. Whatever needs to be done to prepare, do it."
	The Professor hurries over to the salvaged equipment from the 
Eidolon and begins to power it up.  The Captain gives instructions to his 
ship, and Running Bear and 101011 simply wait quietly.

14.
	The Professor looks up from his equipment.  "I-I'm ready."
	The Captain ambles over to stand slightly behind him.  "Reverse 
the temporal polarity.  We need to merge our fractured timelines before 
we start."
	The professor nods and slips some switches.  A deep, bone-ratting 
humm emanates from the console.  
	Every other instance of every Garret Corven in Wolves Glen pub 
rises and begins to converge.  Timelines twist and splice together, 
leaving only one version of each.  Euthanatos Garret picks up Crow from 
his seat at the piano and carries him near the others.  Crow makes no 
response at all.
	"Ph-ph-phase one complete," says the professor anxiously, 
checking dials and read-outs.  The Captain nods and looks to Garret.  
"Are we ready?"
	Garret nods smoothly.  "We are." He lets his gaze linger on 
Rhiannon, then shuts his face up as tight as a seed.  "Let's get this 
over with."
	"M-mister Edison,I n-need more power.  Can you c-cut on the 
a-a-uxilliary engines?" asks the professor, not looking up.
	"We're bringing the stabilizing field online," says the Captain.  
"We should be able to see the anomaly in just a few moments."
	A deep reverberation, shakes the pub like a miniature earthquake. 
Although it doesn't seem to affect objects, people are forced to grab 
onto things to keep their feet from flying out from under them.  The humm 
swirls and settles into a stattaco beat, like the pounding of an immense 
human heart.
	Swirls of molten silver appear in the air, flashes and curves, 
like noisless bursting fireworks.  They run and twist like watercolors, 
melding and merging until they form a huge character, a heiroglyph or a 
tanagram, constantly shifting and throwing off spumes of silver light.  
	"We've got it," the captain shouts, although the air is deathly 
still and quiet, it's hard to hear him, as though his voice is coming 
from a million miles away...or a million years.  Time in the pub begins 
to fragment in the presence of the hieroglyph.  Cause and effect drift 
apart, movement precedes thought, and chunks of random time clash and 
split apart like waves on the ocean.
	Garret steps forward over and over again.  You can remember him 
raising his hands, because it's already happened.  Will he speak?  What 
has he said?  The moment simply breaks off and swirls away, gone forever, 
but known all the same.
	He spoke to it, then.  He will say many things, and none make 
much sense. Flashes of color and sound that will have echoed into empty 
spaces, the squeal of tires as a yellow car goes flying off a bridge into 
the cold, murky waters of a lake.  Maybe he will tell it a story.  Maybe 
it was his.
	There will never be time.  There will never be time for a 
fabulous crystal ship with a dragon figurehead to appear in the empty air 
over the pub. There will never be time for Garret to complete his story.  
There will never be time for the Professor to scream as the console 
overloads and explodes into a shower of flaming metal, flinging him up 
into the air like a bird.  There will never be time for Crow to rise from 
the floor, listening to a music that only he can hear. There can never be 
time for these things because there is only a tanagram of fire buring 
it's way across the vast expanse of what will be and what has been.
	And paradoxially, there *is* a time when the Heiroglyph ceases to 
burn, and, snared by a story there was never time to tell, cools itself 
to an ember that resembles an egg.  Because all time is a possibility.  
The people who have no time know this, because if time is an egg, an egg 
is a heart, and all hearts stop beating sooner or later, so that they can 
be born.
	The story winds itself around the egg like a shell as it comes to 
its conclusion.  Crow, echoing the first story, slays Garret with a stone 
given to him by an angel with a black sword.  He throws his arms wide, 
laughing as he embraces the abyss within himself, and the music stops 
forever.  
	The Professor's story ends when the explosion cracks the shell of 
his egg, and sets him free forever.
	The Captain loses himself to the ship that sails through an egg 
to a life he has lost forever.
	101011, who truly has a name, seizes the egg until it engulfs 
him.  No matter where he is born, he is changed forever.
	Running Bear, unchanging as always, waits for the egg to come to 
him in it's proper time.  He knows that nothing is forever.
	Garret, slain by a gun, an egg, and a stone, is silent forever.
	The egg shatters.
	Time is born, and everything begins.  Dull, greasy smoke rises 
from the remnants of the Professor's equipment, obscuring his crumpled 
body from those across the room.  The Captain sleeps, his chest rising 
and falling rhythmically.  Garret appears to sleep, but the trickle of 
blood from his crushed skull and stillness of his body make a liar of 
him.  Of Crow there is no trace, save a charred, blasted spot on the 
floor.  Running Bear and 101011 may well never have existed.
	Because I could not stop for death
	he kindly stopped for me
	the carriage held but just ourselves
	and immortality.

15.
	Time is born, and everything begins.  Dull, greasy smoke rises 
from the remnants of the Professor's equipment, obscuring his crumpled 
body from those across the room.  The Captain sleeps, his chest rising 
and falling rythmically.  Garret appears to sleep, but the trickle of 
blood from his crushed skull and stillness of his body make a liar of 
him. 
	Rhiannon watches for a moment, then her head bows down, her loose 
long brown hair hiding any further reaction. Kao-liang walks quickly over 
to what's left, bends down and carefully pulls the shattered equipment 
away from the body of the professor.  A sharp indrawn breath is his only 
reaction, then he crouches down and picks up the body gently, cradling it 
in his arms.  He takes a look at the body of the Euthanatos Garret, which 
disappears.  The door to the pub opens to a breath of brisk, pine-scented 
air, showing a nightime scene somewhere with mountains, and he walks out, 
the door shutting.
	A few minutes later, he walks in again, wearing an outfit in 
cream and green this time, although with the same leather vest, and takes 
a look at the clock, an expression of muted satisfaction crossing his 
face as he notices that he timed it as he intended.  He crosses over to 
Rhiannon, and quietly says in Welsh, "It's taken care of," then walks 
away, ignoring her as courtesy demands until she has regained control of 
herself.
 	Gabrielle looks down at Christine's pendant, held tightly in her 
hand. She slips it over her head and takes slow, cautious steps to where 
her Captain lies. 
	She kneels beside him. Hesitantly she reaches out a hand, 
touching his arm, his neck, his face, reassuring herself that he is 
breathing. 
	She weeps, for the loss, for the strain, for the incredible gift, 
the chance she has been given.
	After a time, she whispers something. 
	A girl enters the pub. She is dressed in black, with short, 
dyed-red hair. She approaches Gabrielle and hugs her. Gabby takes a white 
web-cloth from her pocket, and slides it under the sleeping man. Taking 
hold of the cloth, the two girls lift Captain Corven as if he weighs 
nothing, and carry him away. The pub door closes behind them.
	Gabrielle does not look back.
	She does not look at Rhiannon.