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"I really don't want to hear about medical problems--"
"Just listen, okay?" Dr. Iplier looked up from his notes, unshaven, haggard in the candlelight.
Well, for now, it was Mr. Iplier. His exam was tomorrow, and here he was, cramming like a madman.
"I can't believe I have to renew my license," Mr. Iplier muttered to himself, turning back to the paper-covered desk.
A low chuckle. The shadows in the room seemed to shift, and the creaking of wood echoed through the cabin.
Mr. Iplier scowled at the page he was bent over as if it had done him a personal wrong. "Amused?" he addressed the darkness.
"Very. But," the Author moved into the light, rolling his eyes, "distracted. I let you hole up here, Doc, so you could get some peace and quiet. Not--" his voice dropped dangerously, "--to keep me from writing."
Mr. Iplier snorted, not even looking up. "C'mon, Author. Take a break--"
"I can't!" He swung his bat with a light thump against the leg of the table, making the Doctor's notes shudder.
With a sigh, Mr. Iplier stood and walked around the table. The Author stood in front of him, head down, bat limp in his hands.
"Why don't you come sit with me, hm?" Mr. Iplier guided him gently to a chair, sweeping it clean of textbooks, and lowered the Author down into it. The Author took deep breaths, steadying himself, and Mr. Iplier turned back to his notes while he waited.
"Thanks, Doc." The Author muttered, finally. He leaned slowly back in the chair, watching the Doctor turn pages covered in scribbled handwriting.
"You're overworking yourself."
The Author snorted. "You're one to talk." He watched Mr. Iplier's shoulders tense and jerk, still bent over the table.
"I'm serious, Author." Mr. Iplier turned to give him his full attention.
"I can't stop working," the Author rolled his eyes, defensive. "Writing is everything I'm known for. Everything I am." He crossed his arms, bat held loosely across his legs.
"And medicine is everything I am." Mr. Iplier smiled, gentle. "Look at me now, no title to my name."
"That's different."
"Hmph." Mr. Iplier raised an eyebrow, skeptical.
The Author looked up at him, pained. "My characters quit on me, Doc. They're picked off, one by one, and locked up." He gripped at his hair, mussing it. "That doesn't happen in your line of work, losing people."
"Not in the sense you mean," Mr. Iplier said, biting.
The Author looked up, the full import of his words finally hitting him. "I'm--"
"Forget it, Author." He turned away, face hidden in shadow.
"Sorry," the Author muttered again, fingers tracing the curves of his bat.
"Whatever you write, happens, right?" Mr. Iplier spoke without looking around, and the candle in front of him flickered.
"Well, yeah."
"And you use this power for...?"
"Stories." The Author's mind was working again, pulling at the interwoven strings of a half-finished plot.
"Never for good?"
"Never for evil, either," the Author shot back, ripped from a reverie. "I make interesting things happen, and sell novels. I'm a simple man, Doc."
Mr. Iplier snorted in disbelief. "You kidnap and torture your characters, simple man."
"Only when they don't cooperate." His tone was easy, languid, and Mr. Iplier flinched a little at the simple power of his voice, at the sound of the bat rolling against the floor.
"Is it even a power if you only use it for storytelling?" Mr. Iplier was suddenly bitter, hands curled into fists, the notes in front of him a blur of anger.
"We're not superheroes. Just Egos, figments." Cynical.
"At least I try to help people."
"You help one in a million," the Author drawled. "How much difference do you really make?"
Mr. Iplier jumped to his feet, bumping against the table. The light shuddered, candle splashing, and went out.
The cabin was silent, lit only by the moon outside. The Author watched the Doctor's shaking figure in anticipation.
He laughed, more sob than humor. "Yeah. No difference. I don't matter at all. I may as well not take this exam."
"You know that's not what I meant."
"Shut up."
The Author rose to take Mr. Iplier's hand, curled into a fist. He unfolded it, holding it loosely in two of his. "Doc--"
"Don't even bother calling me that."
"Doc," he said again, gentle. "Why don't you tell me about some medical stuff, huh? For-- For a story."
For a long moment, the Author was sure that the Doctor was about to stab him with the pen he still clenched in his hand.
Mr. Iplier sighed, sitting back down, letting his hand slip from the Author's. The Author reached over to relight the candle, casting firelight over the Doctor's face.
"So, your last story had, er, Daniel hit over the head with a log. But here, if you look at the composition of the skull..."
The Host walked through the warehouse, humming softly. His voice echoed around the room-- it had been years since he'd lost his eyes, and with practice, he'd learned to listen to the way his voice bounced back at him.
Echolocation, the good Doctor had called it.
Well, the good Doctor was gone. In his wake was blood, stained bandages, and Dark's laughter.
Dark laughed too much for his liking, and the Host wanted to return the favor.
His bat scraped along the concrete floor behind him, the metallic sound echoing off the sharp corners of boxes. Everything in this warehouse was straight lines, even the Host's back.
Everything except a hunched figure, curled behind crates, breathing too fast and too loud to be safe.
The Host broke into a low chuckle, swinging his bat onto his shoulder. The scraping stopped, and the only sound was the echo of his own shoes. He was close, now.
"The Host knows where you are." He'd stopped walking, stood in the center of the room. A grin on his face, blood tears dripping from behind the sloppy bandage.
"Stop this, Author." Dark's voice came from somewhere behind him, sounding strained. "The rest are gone. You and I can--"
"Can what?!" The Host's voice overpowered the warehouse, rattling the roof and walls. "We can what? Take over the channel? To whose benefit?" He was bitter, voice hard.
"We-- I--" Dark was stuttering, scared for once in his life. The Host twitched his head to the side. With every syllable, he was even more sure where Dark was. Soon.
"Cooperate with me, Darkiplier," he said, smooth. He took a few silent steps in Dark's direction.
"Author," Dark was trying to be commanding, "you're making a mistake."
"It was you who made the mistake," the Host said, pausing. He laid a hand on the box in front of him, calculating. Too many late nights with the Doctor had left him remembering, rather than imagining, the crunch of breaking ribs and calculated weakness in the spine.
"You killed them all," Dark spat, standing. "All I did was set the bait, you and your precious Doct--"
The Host swung his bat for the weak spot in the skull. Dark bolted, feet pounding against the ground-- powers useless.
The Host grinned ear-to-ear, feeling blood drip into his smile. "The Host doesn't like it when his characters don't cooperate."
He set off in pursuit, humming lightly, bloodstained bat in tow-- the scraping metal and haunting melody following Dark down a dead-end hallway.