Wait! You'll probably look at the first few sentences of this and wonder what the devil it's doing here, but I assure you, at some point or other, this story will pertain. I can guarantee it. If you get all the references made in this story, I will stand in awe of you forever—but only if you get ALL the references, 'cos then you'd have as eclectic tastes as I do!
None of these characters belong to me, I'll say that much. Saying anymore would take entirely too long and ruin the fun. I also make no profit off this. Have fun! I know I did. ;-)
Dream Sequence
(An Ultimate Fanfic)
"Oh what can it mean to a daydream believer…"—the Monkees
Darien lay in his bed, turning fitfully in his sleep. The rest of the room was utterly silent, not even a clock ticking. He turned to his side, mumbling something in his sleep. "Stat…red alert…smeg…frack…aw, crap…"
* * *
Darien looked around in confusion. He didn't remember coming to the Agency's offices. Yet here he was, standing in a hallway with double doors at both ends. Looked like one of the basement lab areas. Was he heading for Claire's lab? Why couldn't he remember anything?
The doors at the far end of the hall crashed open, bringing Darien's head up sharply with surprise. A man and woman strode along, one on each side of a gurney. They were practically running to the other end of the hall.
"What the hell—" Darien murmured to himself, staring in stupefication. He—didn't he know those two? They were both in white lab coats; the man was tall, with short brown hair and deep brown eyes.
"Get out of the way!" the man yelled.
"John, we don't need to hurry this much," said the woman. She was Asian, much shorter than the male doctor. "He's stabilized."
"Chen, I want to get him set up—"
"What the hell is going on?" Darien yelled at them in frustration.
The man—Carter, the thought popped into Darien's mind—looked up at Darien, surprise flaring briefly in the back of his eyes. "This man has had a bad curry reaction."
"Curry reaction?" Darien repeated disbelievingly. He looked down at the young, dark-skinned man. He had long braids of hair spilling over the sides of the gurney and a blissed-out smile on his face.
"Yes," said the woman seriously. "He found the ultimate curry and ate too much of it. I'm sorry, but you'll have to excuse us. We need to get him on fluids right away." They carried on down the hall and left through the other double doors.
Darien blinked. He lifted a hand to his head; it hovered there for a moment, not quite touching his temples, then dropped. He headed down the hall—in the opposite direction of the doctors and their patient—hoping to find his way to Claire's lab.
He pushed his way through the doors into another hall.
A baseball whizzed past, barely missing his head.
"Hey, watch it!" he yelled, ducking instinctively. Who the hell would be playing baseball inside a building? And in the Agency no less?
"No no no," said a burly black man, jogging after the ball and scooping it up in a catcher's mitt that was at odds with his clothes. He wore a black uniform; the only color was at his shoulders. "You don't hit it that way—I already told you! Not that—that underswing you're doing. From the shoulder. That's not even the right bat!"
"Sorry Captain old chap," said the young man sheepishly from the other end of the hall. He was pale-skinned, with long, blonde hair and blue eyes, wearing a cricket sweater under a long yellow frock coat. Candy-striped trousers completed the outfit, and a celery stick was stuck incongruously to his lapel. He held an oddly-shaped bat casually over his shoulder. "I did tell you cricket's always been my game."
"Baseball is a much better game than cricket," retorted the captain.
"Oh, now, I wouldn't agree with you there, Benjamin," protested the younger man. "It rather depends on what you like, you know."
"I agree," said another British accent. Darien spun around; a young, incredibly thin, dark-skinned man with large, clear brown eyes the ex-thief hadn't noticed before was sitting against the wall, in the same uniform as the captain, his lanky legs stretched out in front of him. A tennis racket lay on the floor next to him. "Are you two quite finished yet? I'd like to play a game of tennis sometime today."
"You know we need another person for doubles, Julian," said the cricketer. "Unless—would you like to play tennis with us?" he looked expectantly at Darien.
Darien escaped back through the doors hurriedly, deciding to follow the doctors after all.
What is going on here? he asked himself as he plodded down the hall, hands stuck in his pants pockets. He found a stairwell and a sign indicating the fifth basement—and therefore the Keeper's lab—was downstairs a couple levels. He gratefully clattered down the stairs.
The lab door slid open in front of him. "Claire, you have no idea—" he started as he entered the room. He looked around and stopped. He stared at the person who was staring back at him inquiringly. "You're not Claire."
The other man blinked behind his glasses. He had long brown hair and pale blue eyes and wore a black t-shirt and khaki pants. He was balancing an opened manila folder in his hands. "No," he answered slowly, "I'm Daniel." He shook his head a little, then continued to the desk and sat down, taking a sip of coffee from the mug on the desk.
"Oh. Right. My mistake." Darien stared at the man's back and said, "Uh, what are you doing?"
"I'm going over a translation," the other man—Daniel—answered without looking up.
"Oh. Right. O-okay. I'll just…" Darien gestured over his shoulder, though he didn't know why, since the man was paying him no attention. "I'll just go now then. Uh…yeah." He backed out of the room and watched the door slide shut in front of his face.
I'm in the twilight zone.
He stared at the closed door for a long moment, trying to get a grip on himself and failing. Finally he headed down the hall to the elevator, for want of anything else to do. He planned to check out the Official's office, or maybe Hobbes's, and see if things were just as weird there.
The elevator dinged just as Darien reached the doors. He stepped back in surprise; he hadn't even pressed the button yet.
Darien watched warily as the doors slowly slid open, prepared for more strangeness.
He wasn't disappointed.
A man blinked intelligently at Darien. He was in his thirties, with brown hair and eyes, remarkably normal-looking in fact, except that he wore a bathrobe and carried a towel.
"Hullo," the man said.
Attack of the British accents Darien thought in paranoia. "Can I help you?" he said aloud.
"I doubt it," the man answered. "Not unless you have a cup of tea on you, by any chance?"
"Nope. Sorry."
"Thought not." The man in the bathrobe vacated the lift. "I'd avoid the party on the second floor if I were you."
"What?" Darien tripped into the elevator and turned around to stare at the other man. The second floor was where the Agency's offices were located. "Party?"
"Oh yes," said the man. "It's a very strange party. And you might run into a paranoid android—avoid him at all costs. He'll depress you."
The doors closed before Darien could ask what the other man meant.
* * *
The elevator doors slid open.
Nothing happened.
Nothing continued to happen.
The empty hallway waited patiently.
Slowly, infinitesimally, Darien stuck his head out the elevator doors. He looked around cautiously on all sides. Finally satisfied that no strange people were going to leap out at him, he stepped out of the lift and walked slowly down the hall, not sure where he wanted to go.
He frowned and stopped moving. He could hear—music?
John Lennon singing?
Darien turned around a corner and opened the nearest door, barely peeking his head inside. Inside the small, cramped room, four young men in identical suits with long dark hair played guitars and drums. One had a harmonica. Another young man, Asian and in a dark uniform with gold at the shoulders—in fact, it was rather like the baseball and tennis players' uniforms—stood with the group, watching them play with a huge smile plastered on his face, a clarinet in his hands.
"Hey! You've got to hide your love away," sang the man with the harmonica. "Hey! You've got to hide your love away…" The young Asian with the clarinet began playing, joining in with the others, and then the song finished.
"Gear mate!" said one of the young men in a distinct Liverpudlin accent.
"Yeah, that was brilliant," said the one with the harmonica. "Can you play drums too?"
"Hey, now John, don't start that again," said the drummer.
"Thanks," grinned the young man with the clarinet. "Wait till Paris hears about this one!"
Darien hurriedly closed the door on the group and leant against it, taking deep breaths and hugging himself in his corduroy jacket.
After a while, he felt up to walking again and decided, since everything else was so insane anyway, Hobbes really couldn't be worse, and he would go to Hobbes's office.
Of course, that was assuming it was still Hobbes's office. And that Hobbes would be in there and not…some other people instead.
Darien found his feet slowing down as he came closer to the door. He stopped in front of it and stared at it. The look on his face seemed to say that he expected the door to start wishing him a happy day or tap-dancing. When it did neither of these things, he breathed out a quiet sigh of relief. He thought he could hear noises from inside, now that he paid attention—voices, and some sort of tapping sound. He forced himself to reach out to open the door.
His hand was just reaching for the knob when he heard someone scream. Feet pounded on the lino toward him.
Darien pressed himself against the door and panicked because he couldn't go invisible. A young woman with long, curly brown hair, in a revealing, skin-clinging purple outfit was running toward him at breakneck speed.
"Wait Christine!" called a man in a tuxedo, black cape, and white half-mask, running after her.
"My name's not Christine!" she yelled over her shoulder, running even faster. "It's Deanna!" She disappeared around the corner. The man followed her.
Darien threw the door open, jumped inside, and slammed it shut behind him.
"Would you please stop playing those damned spoons," yet another British accent grumbled. Darien turned around slowly, bracing himself. "You're only trying to distract me from the game so you can win."
It was definitely Hobbes's office, but there was no sign of Hobbes. Two men sat facing each other at the desk, a chessboard between them. One man, in something people from the seventies would have considered a fashionable space suit, with short brown hair and a small, cynical mouth, was toying with a knight. The other man, in a sweater vest decorated in question marks, a dark coat and pants, and a hat that shadowed the top half of his face, was playing the spoons; rather expertly in Darien's opinion.
"It's not my fault you can't concentrate," the man with the spoons said in a Scottish burr. A black umbrella with a red question mark for the handle sat on the desk next to the chessboard, covering some of Hobbes's papers. "You must learn to ignore the distractions, Avon, if you want to win. Besides, I don't need to resort to distractions—I always win."
"Hmm," said the other player sardonically. "Well, you certainly make a better opponent than Blake ever did, Doctor." He put the knight down. "Checkmate."
The other man stopped playing his spoons, let them clatter to the floor. "What?"
Darien slipped out of the room as quickly as he could.
"I can't take much more of this," he said to himself, pacing frantically. "I'm going crazy. This isn't happening. This can't be real. I must be hallucinating. Maybe I'm losing it. Maybe I'm having a bad reaction to the counteragent." He stopped pacing. "Look at me! I'm talking to myself!"
Something honked.
Darien whirled around, tensed and ready for almost anything. An oddly dressed man, with yellow curly hair, was honking his coat. Or rather, something in one of his coat pockets. The man's eyes were huge, his mouth a wide O, and he ran down the hall, skidded to a halt, turned the corner, and disappeared from sight, all without making a verbal sound. The little man in the German WWII uniform who'd been following the other man stopped next to Darien, looked up at him, took a drag on his cigarette, blew his smoky breath out, and said, "Verrrry interesting. But stupid," before continuing on his way.
"This isn't happening to me," Darien said. "Please don't let this be happening to me." He stumbled to the Official's office and threw open the door.
"Oh," he said. Intelligently. "So this is the party."
The room was full of people. All kinds of people. Bobby Darrin was singing "Splish Splash" in the corner, actually sitting in a bath. DI Peter Pascoe was grilling James Herriot about some lost sheep. Ramses Emerson was comparing disguise tricks with Hannibal and Face. Gary Hobson was telling Frank Parker not to use the sphere tomorrow. Fox Mulder was drinking Ka D'Argo under the table. Actually, to be exact, under the Official's desk.
Darien wandered through the crowds of people, a dazed look in his eyes. "How can you stand working with that silly man from New York?" a young man with a Russian accent and dark hair that appeared to literally be a mop on his head asked a thin man with short blonde hair and blue eyes.
"It can be difficult sometimes," the blonde conceded, also in a Russian accent.
"Wouldn't you rather have a Russian partner?"
"At times, but Napoleon can be quite useful. In his way. When he's not chasing the girls."
The Cat, while checking himself in his little mirror, was discussing Life, the Universe, and Everything with Rum Tum Tugger, who was, of course, doing as he pleased. Percy Blakeney was discussing fashions with Joseph, whose amazing dreamcoat was a little worse for wear. MacGuyver was showing Ryan Stiles magic tricks. Peter Newkirk was picking Lovejoy's pocket, who in turn was sweet-talking Beatrice, who kept saying he reminded her too much of Bennedick.
"Excuse me," a man tapped Darien on the shoulder. Darien turned around slowly, shoulders braced, eyes closed. He cracked open a single eye, released a pent-up breath, and relaxed.
"Yeah?" The man looked fairly normal. He wore a nondescript suit.
"Do you know where I could find a mirror?"
"Uh…why?"
"I don't know what I look like," the man explained, "and Al hasn't shown up yet to tell me who I'm supposed to be."
Darien gulped.
The man suddenly turned slightly, focusing over Darien's shoulder. "Al! Finally! Where have you been?"
Darien glanced reflexively over his shoulder. There was no one there who could possibly be listening to the man. Of course not. Darien hadn't expected there to be.
"Oh boy," said the man. A worried look creased his forehead.
Darien turned away.
Tommy and Tuppence Beresford were conversing with the White Rabbit; the Irish Doyle was telling Nick Knight about a friend of his called Angel. Marius was singing to Aeryn Sun about his friends who would sing no more; she looked rather unimpressed. Eugene Wrayburn leant against the wall in the corner, smoking a cigar and looking bored. A unicorn was dancing with the mouse Jerry.
What happened to Gene Kelly? Darien thought absurdly. He noticed more people.
The Lady Door was conversing about London with Maggersfontein Lugg, and Oscar Madison was playing poker with Juan Epstein, Arthur Dietrich, John Steed, and Mork, who didn't seem to be doing well. The Baker's wife danced with Wolf, replete in black velvet. Athos spoke to King Arthur; a random Prince Charming was living up to his name with Nora Charles, who was quite happy being charmed since Nick was busy talking about detection methods with Professor Peter Shandy.
Al Kann was arguing with Michael Flaherty, and the three Stooges were pretending to be the hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil monkeys. Garfield the cat was playing with a gremlin. Hawkeye Pierce, Max Bittersohn, ALF, and Greg Montgomery were starting up another poker game—strip poker this time, although ALF was complaining about that. Antigone and Juliet were having a conversation about love and death.
"But why would you kill yourself for a man? He's not even your brother!"
"I love him," the young Italian girl said simply. "Why would you defy your uncle for your brother when you knew that would mean losing your fiancée?"
"Yes," sighed the Greek. "I know, I know."
Frankenstein and Dracula came up to Darien. "You seem like our kind of guy," they told him.
"Uh…I'm not. Really." Darien slipped away as quickly as he could in the crowd. Things were fast becoming impossible. This was insane.
A young man jumped in front of Darien. "Why, it's Professor Reed!" he said in a strong southern accent. "Hello Jack!"
"AGHHH!" Darien yelled in horror.
The phone woke him up.
* * *
Darien groaned, fumbled around, reached out from under the covers, pulled the phone over to his ear, and growled, "What?"
"FAWKES!"
Darien bolted up, the phone falling away from him. "Gack! Jeez, Hobbes! You don't have to yell in my ear!"
"Where the hell are you Fawkes?"
"At home," Darien replied sarcastically. "Obviously."
"Answer your phone more often," Hobbes told him. "This is the third time I've called you. What're you doing anyway?"
"I was sleeping," Darien answered with difficulty as his dream came back to him.
"It's ten o'clock! Get over here, would ya?"
"Hobbes?"
"Yeah Fawkes?"
Darien paused. What could he say? Hey, are there any strange people playing chess in your room Hobbes? Or Would you check and see if there's a party in the Official's office?
"Never mind," he sighed and hung up.
He got dressed and went to work.
He immediately checked out Claire's lab and the Official's and Hobbes's offices, getting strange looks from all three people when he came in with a hunted look in his eyes that quickly changed to relief after he looked around suspiciously.
Everything was as it should be.
He was intensely relieved.