Disclaimer: See the one in chapter one. I don't own anybody, yada yada yada. Who likes pudding? Quotations come from "The Devil Wears Prada" and "Jane Eyre." I don't think this chapter will be better than the last- please read and review anyway!

Also… sorry this took a while, but vacation kept getting in my way! Oh, well, at least it's here now.

The scene opens to the same room as before. It is again occupied by an equilateral pentagon table, five chairs, and a lot of old paintings. Suddenly, as you knew it would happen…

POOF! The five contestants from before appear in the room. They seem a lot less shaken than they were yesterday. All of them have on clean clothes, though Rab has stuck his sticker star from before awkwardly on his lapel. It looks like it will fall off any minute.

Paisley: (sounding especially perky) Good morning, my little pumpkins! I hope you slept well in your hotel rooms?

Alexander, Erik, Holden, Sherlock, and Rab: mumblemumblemumble…

Paisley: They are just a tad bit different than what you're used to, I suppose. At least I requested that all the technology be taken out.

Holden: Y'mean… There was one of them new televisions in my room??? I want it back!!!

Paisley: Sorry, Crybaby Caulfield, but it wouldn't exactly be playing "Leave it to Beaver" for you.

Holden: Awwwwww…

Paisley: Anyway, to business! Before we begin today's debate, I think that our dear Sherlock should finish telling us about himself.

Alexander: As a matter of fact, I DEMAND that he should! I must know how he could discern all of those things by looking only at my clothes.

Paisley: (looks expectant) All right, Sherlock, inform us!

Sherlock: The deduction was a simple one, my dear fellows. It was because…because….

Paisley: (dryly) By all means move at a glacial pace. You know how it thrills me…

Sherlock: …because I'M SHERLOCK HOLMES!!!

Alexander: (fuming) We have already addressed this! I demand a straight answer now!

Sherlock: *evil chuckle* Pshaw! You see, that's the point! The best way for me to demonstrate my greatest intellectual achievement, the art of observation, is to do the impossible! To ensure that I am always one step ahead of the competition! No one else can tell you, Mr. Silsbee, that you were setting type for a story about a new Act of Sedition before coming! Or that you, infantile whiner, were having a nervous attack somewhere near Central Park when you were sucked into this game! Or that you, Opera Ghost, have an extensive collection of wax figurines of everyone in your Opera House! Or that you, Paisley, have at one time traveled to the West Indies and had a most horrible time there!!! All of this is my life's work, my cut above the rest, my…

Paisley: CEASE YOUR CHATTER, BLOCKHEAD, and DO MY BIDDING!!!!

Holden: Ohhh, burn.

Sherlock: *speechless*

Paisley: Come now, come now, you don't have to be so dumb now. Speak up!

Sherlock: That's… the first time… anybody has ever….ever… insulted my intellect so!

Paisley: Pleur. We're wasting precious time, Sherlock. Please tell us.

Sherlock: Fine. The deduction was actually a very simple one. Mister The Great, you have wine and ink stains on your front, and, by your resplendent Persian headpiece, I can tell the approximate time during the conquest that you were so unceremoniously plucked from. Mr. Silsbee, your sleeve as of yesterday had a distinct print of the words "Townsend Acts" on it, obviously caught by accident in your setting of type. Mister Caulfield, you smelt of vomit yesterday, you looked quite feverish, were covered in grass stains, and you were mumbling something about 'the ducks in the winter' in a New York accent as you came to after arriving. Monsieur O. G., I have extensively studied your deserted lair, so I know all about you from personal experience. And Miss Paisley, you exhibit the physical signs of having had, at one time, some sort of exotic disease, probably found in the uncharted jungles of the Caribbean islands. It has made your skin quite pasty and squishy-looking. Do I make myself clear?

(All the contestants have gasped at Sherlock's astounding skills as he calls their bluff. All except Paisley, who is in the midst of a scoff.)

Paisley: My dear Mr. Holmes, not only are the West Indies no longer a part of Britain and largely their own sovereign nations, but I have never visited them. Also, the skin malady to which you refer is a result of a certain entity commonly known as OIL PAINT!

Sherlock: (perturbed) You mean to say… you are not that painting?

Paisley: You expect me to answer that?

There is a drawn-out, awkward silence. Zuzu the cat plays a makes a very convincing cricket noise.

Zuzu: eee-eee, eee-eee….

Paisley: You actually though I was a painting?

Erik, Rab, Holden, and Alexander: Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!!!!

Paisley: That…that disrupts every notion I ever had of you… surely you have to be….

Sherlock: (finally seems to snap) Don't. Call. Me. SHIRLEY!!! AUGH!

He pounces at the painting, and tries to do some baritsu on it. Cedric Diggory and Captain Jack Sparrow immediately appear.

Cedric Diggory: (pointing his wand at Sherlock) Stupefy!

The security guards quietly apparate out, with a comatose detective in tow.

Paisley: Thanks, guys. Well, he wasn't the first person I expected to crack (looks pointedly at Holden), but he'll be back once he gets over his first insult. Anyway, to business. Our theme for today's discussion is your merits and talents. However, there are only four talents that I care anything about, and, so, we will only address these. They are singing, dancing, stealing things, and horsemanship.

Alexander: Stealing things? Surely *snort* you're joking!

Paisley: I'm a Jason Mroz fan. What can I say?

Alexander: By Imperial Mandate, you shall explain further.

Paisley: *sigh* A singer named Jason Mroz put a bunch of songs together on what we call a CD. Far beyond your comprehension. Anywho, It's called "We sing, we dance, we steal things." I love music, live for dance, and am a practicioner of stealthiness. And I love horses, and think that equitation is a skill crucial to any kind of hero. Savvy?

Captain Jack Sparrow: (suddenly in the room) Savvy! (disappears)

Paisley: We will address the topics one by one. At the end of the session, the contestant that best exemplifies each quality will get a point. Whoever has the most points wins the day. At the end of Fictitious Hero Idol, the winner will be decided by whoever has the most points. Or by audience vote. I haven't decided yet.

Rab: (mumbles, patting his gold star)

Paisley: We will now officially begin! The first category is: We sing! Going in the same order as yesterday, Rab, you go first. Tell us about any singing that you do.

Rab: I don't sing. I whistle…sometimes. But never actual singing.

Holden: Yeah, right, ya phony.

Rab: 'cuse me…?

Holden: I know your dirty secret! Paisley, roll the tape!

Paisley: I hate to do this, Rab, but someone has to prove you wrong…

A floating screen appears. It plays a clip from the movie "Johnny Tremain," circa 1956. One may look it up on youtube, if one needs an audio accompianment.

Actors Playing, Rab, Johnny, and Sons of Liberty: (singing loudly) It's a tall, tall tree and a grand old tree, and we are the sons, yes we are the sons, the sons of libertyyyyyyyy…

Rab: (the real one) Augh, make it stop!

Actors: *repeat chorus while marching*

Holden: Hah! We had to watch this phony movie in American History class at the Whooton School. Now I can finally get my revenge on ol' Rab and ol' Johnny and that corny Lavinia Lyte chick…

Paisley: Enough! (the screen disappears.) Sorry to put you through that, Rabby. I know that it's historically inaccurate.

Rab: (to himself) You've got that right. (aloud) The Sons of Liberty would never sing anything as awful as that. And my hair is not, and never has been, in a mullet.

Paisley: I know, I know, but the fact of the matter is, you sang at one point in your fictitious hero career. And not very well, either, which we will just have to remember in the final tally.

Rab: Awww, schucks.

Paisley: Anyway, onward we go! Alex, your turn.

Alexander: Dictators do not sing. Ever. (scowls)

Paisley: O-kay, easy enough. You will be at the very back of this category, then.

Rab: (giving a very uncharacteristic arm-pump motion) Yesssssssssss!

Holden: I'm next, and I don't sing, either.

Rab: Boo-yah!

Paisley: You're creeping me out, Rabbykins. Seriously, cut the anachronisms.

Rab: straight up, OG!

Erik: Straight up? I haven't the faintest inkling of what you intend by that probably derogative comment to the original OG, insolent boy, but I suppose I shall let you remain unscathed for the present. Surely (he grins wickedly behind his mask, although there is no Sherlock present) you all know that I am the unsurpassed champion of this "We sing" challenge?

Paisley: Huh? (as before, she and everyone else has fallen into a daze at the first sound of Erik's voice.) Um, sure, I guess… (you can hear the sound of Zuzu slapping her cheeks) Oh, right! No, Erik, I think you need to demonstrate to us your singing capabilities.

Erik: Entirely superfluous.

Paisley: I will not let the opportunity to hear the Phantom of the Opera sing slip right through my fingers! (slightly maniacal) Sing, Angel of Music!!!!

Erik: Creeper…

Paisley: You're one to talk. If you don't sing "The Music of the Night" for me this instant, you can bet your mask that you'll never end up with your precious soprano!

Erik: You mean… I don't end up with her???

Paisley: Yes!

Erik: (With growing panic) And that ignorant fool of a Raoul gets her instead???

Paisley: YES!

Erik: (leaping up onto the table, and shaking his fist at the sky and singing) They will curse the day they did not do…. All that the Phantom asked of…you? No, that will not work. Them? No, doesn't rhyme…(he seems to forget his angst of seconds ago, as moody Phantoms are wont to do.)

Paisley: How about Vous? You know, like French for plural you…

Erik: French is my native language, you know.

Paisley: One would think that you would have thought of that sooner.

Erik: Say, would you like to become a part-time lyricist or something for me?

Paisley: (dies and goes to Phangirl heaven) Yes!

Alexander: NO! That, you masked man you, is BRIBERY. I will not allow it on my game show!

Erik: YOUR game show!?

Alexander: I am the Son of Zeus Emperor of Macedonia, Persia, and soon to be The Whole World, Achilles reincarnated….

Erik, Rab, Holden, and Paisley: We Know!

Alexander: Doesn't that qualify me to be the ruler of all things, including this show?

Paisley: No.

Alexander: Oh.

Paisley: Anyway, though I cannot be your lyricist, Erik, you are still required to sing for us to prove yourself.

Erik: Fine. (breaks into glorious, magnificent, spellbinding song) Let your mind start a journey to a strange new world, leave all thoughts of the light you knew before….

Paisley: *implodes with a scream of joy* YEEEEEEEEEEE!

Everyone else plugs their ears, so as not to become entranced. After a long interval, during which one can hear Paisley's particles realigning, the competition continues.

Paisley: AMAZING! I can't believe I just heard THE Phantom of the Opera sing the Most SPECTACULAR song ever! (Zuzu smacks Paisley in the eye.) *SPAQ!* Ouch. Ummm… so Erik obviously wins that challenge. Anyway, to Dancing! My favorite! Rab, you go first again.

Rab: (suavely) As anyone who's read my book very well knows, I dance with "machine-like perfection," and "fling myself into the dance," and "All the Lindas and Betseys, Pollys, Peggys and Sallys of Lexington" are "clamoring to stand up with me." Heh. I think I'm the best dancer in this room.

Paisley: Second best, after myself.

Rab: You're not in the room. And, you're still materializing.

Paisley: So? I'm still the best dancer. But I know that you're pretty good yourself, Rab, as a flawless person ought to be. Alex?

Alexander: Dictators don't dance. We scheme, plot, and generally conquer things. But we don't dance.

Paisley: You're really turning out a disappointment in the arts department, mister, but I suppose you have other things on your plate to deal with. World domination, for example. Holden?

Holden: Dancing's for sissies and phonies, for carrotssake.

Paisley: I hardly expected more from you, uncultured youth. Erik?

Erik: While I am a stellar composer, and can easily do dramatic, interpretive dance as I sing in my operas, you won't be gettin' no serious rug cuttin' outta me, girrrrr.

Paisley: Now that was creepy. Creeper creepy. Even creeper creepier than the whole wax-mannequin-of-Christine-in-wedding-gown thing. But I'll try and forget it. Rab wins, hands down.

Rab: SCORE! *flexes muscles*

Paisley: Ahem. Stealing things shall now commence! We can skip Rab, because he's perfect, and he would never steal anything.

Rab: Wrong! Don't you know of my heroic attempt to steal a British musket from their stash in Boston?

Paisley: Oh, don't remind me, Rabby! You could have been killed! *bursts into tears, but quickly ceases.* Besides, you got caught, and that stupid British officer told you to go get yourself a popgun, boy, and you generally failed at stealing thing, let alone things.

Rab: Killjoy.

Paisley: I'll pretend I didn't hear that. Alex?

Alexander: Oh, I'm the very best at stealing things. Maybe Phanty-pants here stole some money and notes and horses and other common things…

Erik: I beg your pardon!

Alexander: … and maybe the wimpy kid has mugged someone, or committed some other crass act of theft…

Holden: Hey! I never stole nothin'… it was me that got mugged!

Alexander:… but I would never stoop to either of those things. I steal countries, kingdoms, cities, and armies, and, one day, will have stolen the entire Asian continent from the incompetent hands of others! I am Achilles reincar-

Erik: You try my patience, fool! You would be useless without your vast armies! How dare you criticize the work of a stealing master! Not even a safety-pin can stop me from pilfering whatever I want, whenever I want!

Alexander: And not even the hordes of India with their giant elephants and poison-tipped arrows can stop me in my quest for global dominance! Pthhhhhhhhpt! (he sticks out his tongue and makes a raspberry sound.)

Erik: PthhhhhphtOUTH! (his tongue gets stuck in his mask.) A lithle help here, pleathe.

Everyone else bursts out laughing, as Erik slowly becomes glowerier and glowerier. Eventually, he becomes unstuck.

Erik: (to himself) Must….not….kill….others….must….not…

Paisley: Umm. Alexander is the champ of stealing things, no doubt about it. Horsemanship time! We're running low on time, so I'll let us go out of order to make it snappy. Holden…

Holden: Before you say anything, let me remind you that the plantain-tomated poster for lousy ol' Pencey Academy had some sap jumping over a fence on a horse, but they really didn't have any horses. A horse is at least human, for grapefruitssake.

Paisley: That doesn't help you one bit. Erik?

Erik: I not only stole the best-trained horse from the stables of the royal opera, but successfully keep him hidden in the sub-basements. I can also drive a team of four horses…

Paisley: Gotcha. Sorry, Erik, but the real contest is between these two, and we have mere minutes to watch 'em fight it out. Literally. Go ahead, Rabexander!

(upon both hearing their names, they begin talking at once. Their words sound almost exactly alike, with some deviations. Because of this, they rather dumbly do not notice until…well, you'll see.)

Alexander and Rab: I found my steed as a troubled adult, but, through my own cunning and horse sense, I taught him to carry a rider with ease. He soon became the finest horse in-

Alexander: Asia

Rab: Boston.

Alexander:…Asia!

Rab: Boston!

Alexander: ASIA!

Rab: BOSTON BOSTON BOSTON!!!!

Alexander: I somehow doubt that you and your spotty colt should even be compared with me. Bucephalus could whoop any horse, anywhere, at any time! With both eyes blindfolded! And I trained him!

Rab: I somehow doubt that you and your cowardly showpony should be compared with me! Goblin could outrun, outjump, and outfight any horse EVER, including your pampered parade horse, and have fun doing it!!! And I trained him!

Alexander: Your unpedigreed nag would never match Bucephalus' pure brand of excellence! He'd devour you in two mouthfuls!

Rab: Goblin would devour you in ONE!

Alexander and Rab: (in unison again) You can insult me all you want, but NEVER, EVER insult my horse!!!

Alexander: ALALALALALAI!!!!

Rab: FOR LIBERTY!

They both leap out each other, and hit the ground swinging. Of course, both are excellent fighters, and actually enjoy it, so they are almost exactly equally matched.

Paisley: Break it up! Break it up, you two!

There seems to be no chance of stopping anytime soon. They're still going at it, despite the pleas of Paisley and Zuzu, when Sherlock reappears.

Sherlock: Halloa, what'd I miss?

Paisley: Ugh, we're out of time. Today was just thrilling- STOP IT, you guys!- wasn't it? Hopefully, Rab and Alex (who are frighteningly alike, come to think of it) won't have killed each other by the time we recommence for tomorrow's show, and we can award points for horsemanship. In the meantime, this is Paisley, signing off!