Disclaimer: I don't own The Rocky Horror Picture Show


A/N: This is the second to last part of this serial. It's a bit random at times and is mostly filler.

I'm getting the impression that nobody reads RHPS fanfic anymore, though I'm hoping that the dreaded remake might spark some interest in this. Hopefully my prediction is right. Anyway, even if someone is reading this long after it's been posted. Or just enjoy reading it, I suppose.


"So... what do we do?" Jon asked.

Even the professor didnt seem to have an answer to such a question. By then they'd retreated back to the TARDIS console room and the kids had collapsed onto the couch. It felt like they'd been defeated by some dreadful force. Though they'd actually just failed to rescue somebody because the thing the person needed rescuing from hadn't happened. Such a failure is an embarrassing one.

Eventually, Mia spoke. "What if we just hide out in her house - in the least creepy way, of course - and wait there?"

Without further ado the Professor left the room (in search of some sort of futuristic tech, no doubt). This left the two confused teens alone together. Good thing neither of them were much interested in each other. Mia was too innocent to think of such a thing while Jonathan was too uptight. Anyway, they had a lot of more important stuff on their mind.

"I wonder what they would think of this," Mia said softly.

"Who?"

"Mr. Richard O'Brien, Mrs. Patricia Stephens, Mr. Tim Curry, and Nell. They might like all this traveling around to the characters. Don't you think? I mean, Trixie isn't even much of a character in the play!"

Jon rolled his eyes. "Why do you care about them so much? Richard's looks like friggin Lord Voldemort and is equally snake-like. Pat's an ugly old drunk who can't sing-"

"SHUT UP."

It took a moment for Jon to realize the one who'd just shouted was innocent little Mia Foreman. Suddenly she looked livid. Clearly he's upset her. But how?

"Look, Mrs. Stephens isn't a drunk. And she's not ugly. Do you expect her to be that pretty girl she once was at 73? She's fine enough for her age. Jon - she's the sweetest lady in the whole world."

"Mia - how do you know? She could be a bitch. We're just mere fans, who'll never meet the silly old broad. That's like being a fucking peasant living within an area governed by grand old Pat Quinn and her awful red hair dye. I know you have some kind of crush on the younger version of her. But she isn't a god. She's just Pat. Just a normal old lady with too much of a drinking problem, a history of smoking various things, and a failed acting career who's been keeping herself funded by conventions. She's like Bill Shatner, but a thousand times worse. No Adam West-ing comebacks for that snobbish Brit. Why do you love her?"

"I don't. I just wish - remember when my granddaddy died? That was so horrible. He's the only part of my family member who I truly cared for. Not to mention he was the kindest man you'd ever meet. Everyone loved him. As of a few years ago he's... gone. Patricia, Lady Stephens sort of filled that space. She's like an imaginary granny I wish I could actually know cause she means so much. Please don't insult her again. Yes, she could be a drunken old bitch. But to me she's something special and I want to see her only in a good way. If you had proof of her flaws never give them to me. I'm devoted to her as if she were my grandfather all over again."

For a cold moment Jon was silent. Then he softly said: "So that's who Pat is to you."

Then neither of them spoke for a while. Jon didn't want to take back what he'd said, though sort of understood. He'd known Vincent C. Foreman. That man could make the cruelest person charitable with the simplest words. When he was too young got the job he'd been hired by a phone company and quickly risen through its ranks. Never would he harm anyone. In fact, he'd never fought in a war - though that was due to the asthma that halted his showbiz career. Once upon a time he'd tap danced on show boats that went up and down the river in DC with his sister Rose. Old Vincent had told stories to all the neighborhood kids and sung them the standards he'd performed. He'd been wonderful. In Jon's mind there was no way Patricia Quinn of all people could equal such a man. Mia's obsession bothered Jonathan...

Eventually the Professor returned to the room. He quickly noticed the rather unpleasant look upon Jon's face and the silent tears on Mia's.

"What's happened?" he asked.

"Nothing," Mia said, attempting a smile.

Since he hated the sight of tears, the Professor again left. He did all the things he did to keep people from crying. It bothered him that one of his assistants was upset like that.

"You were right about one thing," Mia said, having calmed down. "Mr. O'Brien looks very much like Voldemort. Though he's more of a cross between Voldemort and a younger, less-dead David Bowie. Of course, his personality is surely much better!"

"Though we'll never really know."

Again the Professor returned to the room. This time nobody looked too upset, so he began to explain his plan.

"We're going to do as Mia suggested and visit Trixie's house. I know that this... incident will happen by tonight, I received a cryptic message about it not so long-"

"Can we see this message?" Jon asked.

With a sigh, the Professor reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a crumpled scrap of paper. Carefully he un-crumpled it and handed it to the two kids. They both carefully looked at the scrawled words, which read:

Sunday, January 14, 1973

Today was horrible. By every Goddess, why does the Master have to be so stupid? He seriously thinks that what he did to me is a reward? If he was actually thankful for telling him about transvestitism he should've listened when I told him to piss off. If only he weren't part of the ruling class. I would've killed that freak if I thought I could get away with it. Technically speaking, he can do whatever he wants with a member of the lower class. I'm still feeling sick to my stomach and it's been at least nine hours since… I can't even say it."

"That's like some sort of diary entry," Mia muttered. "How...?"

"Don't ask how I got the message. Just tell me if you'll go along with the plan."

Both teenagers nodded. Though it was all very strange, it seemed right to help save Trixie... whatever that meant.


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