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Chapter Text

Harry Brewis Bombington III, professionally known as Hbomberguy--a filmmaker--was seated at this desk in his flat. The moment was late January of a mild winter, where the sun would stream in the window until around 3 and then the sky would pass through every shade of blue into soggy darkness before 3:30. The windows showcased a sort of glassy periwinkle while Harry finished the speedrun he was watching, which happened to be Haboo's 24-Hour perfection run of Stardew Valley. It wasn't Harry's game, really, but the meticulous skill and efficiency of the strategies were energizing to watch, and NPC Abigail was as charming as a handful of pixels could be expected to be. Harry had been skipping around, watching bits and pieces when he was too tired or scatterbrained to work on his current project. What could possibly be as captivating and, somehow, relaxing as watching another man grow pixel potatoes in a tiny grid with the rapidity of a car crash? Humanity had yet to provide.

Were the soundproofing in the place not so thorough, the hum of traffic in London would swell with rush hour right as the video came to its end. Harry closed the window and went into the pantry to get a beverage. On his way back to his desk he paused to stretch, and decided to stop in the bathroom for the usual reasons. Only, in a less-than-usual way, the door to the bath was gone and in its place was a large swirling energy portal.

"Hmm, that's odd," Harry said.

Harry was no fool. His first thought was to take a photo of the portal with his cell phone, which he texted to his partner. His second--and much more compelling--thought was to reach a hand into the portal. "That would be deeply stupid," he assured himself, "but it'll have to wait until I know more." He decided to go back to his desk to have a sip of Raibena and start making phone calls--surely the physics department of a university would have some kind of input?--but even as he turned on his heel, he tripped on a pile of niche media research and retro video games. Tumbling over, Harry fell through the portal. "Oh rats," he swore.

When he found his footing, Harry saw that he was in an enormous dining room in an old mansion. He blinked at the gleam of polished wood and chandeliers before catching sight of the table, laden with a glorious and soy-free banquet that made Harry think of old money or even, possibly, the monarchy. There was certainly a lot of silver. As he recovered from the shock, however, the room and the many people seated around the table began to look familiar--Harry knew them as the cast of the popular Masterpiece Classic "Downton Abbey." "Oh no," he said out loud, "I don't even like this show."

"Show?" a man in an old fashioned tuxedo said. Harry thought he might be the Lord from the show, Lord Grantham. "Young man, what are you talking about? You believe this to be a play for your entertainment? Mr. Aziraphale, is this one of your people?"

Harry looked around and saw the actor Micheal Sheen, fully in-character as Aziraphale from Good Omens. "Certainly not," Aziraphale answered. "I have never set eyes on him."

"Sir, identify yourself," ordered the eldest daughter. Mary Crawley. "Who are you and why are you wearing pajamas?"

"These aren't pajamas," Harry argued. "These are actually very nice clothes that people wear in the day time." They were, sort of--khakis and a pretty casual shirt. A clean shirt.

"Everyone shut up and look," said someone, grumpily. "He came through the portal. He's probably wearing what everyone wears, where he's from." This is about when Harry realized that he had been isekai'd. He was truly in a world of fictional characters, and that the person talking was Crowley the demon.

"Oh...h... you're not actors, are you?" Harry muttered, as he pieced it together. "Is this real life?"

"Well, you might as well join us for dinner," said a blond man dressed in 18th century finery. Harry didn't recognize him but could place his accent as kiwi. "Lord Grantham, would that be alright?"

"I dare say it must be," the Earl answered. "We don't know when the portal will open again."

"So they've been sort of--appearing?" Harry asked. Still recovering from the initial shock of the transportation, he was only beginning to entertain curiousity. He looked around the room to get his bearings. There was no sign of any portals, but there were about two dozen characters from different canons. Some he didn't know. Some were a shock--"Hang on, is that Naruto?"

The young boy in orange, seated toward the far side of the table, smiled and nodded. "Dattebayo!"

"Oh good, you know each other," Mary Crawley sighed. "We haven't been able to get a word of English out of that one."

"Well I do know some Japanese, but not too much," Harry offered, modestly. "I'm not fluent or anything." He took a seat in the nearby empty chair and the footmen came over to offer him wine. There were two footmen, both in full livery, and Harry didn't recognize them at first, but there was something about the swoop of the woman's long red hair, her cat-eyed makeup, and the picture she made with her partner--a man with shoulder-length steel-blue hair. The signs snapped into place. "Oh, are you two here to steal pikachu?"

Jesse--who the red haired woman was, in fact--looked shocked. "What's that?" she gasped.

"Where's pikachu?" James asked, snapping his head around and looking in all the corners.

"There's no need to throw accusations at my staff," Lord Grantham interjected.

"Certainly not!" exclaimed the blond aristocrat. He seemed to be sweating slightly. "No one here would steal...that would be... ruffian behavior..."

"Oh yes," James said, recovering his composure. "We're just here to serve the meal. Soup?"

"Oh, uh, yes please," Harry said, accepting a serving of pumpkin stew. He looked around to see if anyone else was eating and spotted Rey Star Wars nearby, stuffing food in her mouth with a startling degree of impropriety. Feeling more at ease, Harry tasted the stew.

"Oh, this is delicious," he said. He thought he should compliment the chef, or perhaps the lady of the house, but on further examination, only Lord Grantham, Mary, and the elderly Countess (Cousin Violet? Harry couldn't remember Maggie Smith's character's name) represented the canon of Downtown Abbey. The Countess was looking a bit ill.

"I'm sorry to intrude on your dinner," Harry said. "Are people leaving by portal, the same as they've been arriving?"

"I'm afraid so," Aziraphale answered. "It's been Saint Pancras since we sat down. Crowley and I were properly invited, of course, but most of the other guests came as you did."

"Oh, so you're not from---" Harry was going to say "the present," but he realized that his present wouldn't be the present year for any of these people. "--the year 2024?"

"2024! Dang, we've only made it to 2016," said the young woman sitting on Rey's right. Harry knew her face--the actress was familiar--but he didn't know what character she was representing. She was in the MCU, he was sure, and also an American sitcom about a restaurant or something. Harry took a few more bites of stew.

"The house itself is situated in 1919," Mary Crawley said. "Though some of our customs are much older."

"So am I the furthest along in the timeline?" Harry asked.

"That honor would be mine, I believe," said a man in a starfleet uniform. Harry recognized him, of course--a young Captain Picard, his accent perfectly suited to the atmosphere. There were a few other officers there, also, that Harry didn't know. "We have not yet ascertained whether we're from the same universe, the same timeline," one of them noted.

Harry finished his stew and took a serving of fish in sauce. He was beginning to feel the intrigue and mystery of this situation, the confusing implications--what kind of magic systems were in effect, if any? Were jutsus from Naruto possible? Was the Force real in this space? He considered sharing what he knew with the table--that all these people were fictional characters, as far as he knew. He worried the revelation might seem rude or unnecessarily disturbing. He wouldn't want to know that his own life, trials and tribulations, were all part of some story consumed by a whole audience of people of whom he'd been completely unaware.

"I wonder, then," said Legolas the elf. He took a bite of a dinner roll, chewed thoughtfully, and swallowed. "Who among us is most ancient?"

"Oh it isn't polite to talk of that, dear," said the Countess.

"We should share what we know," said the MCU girl. "That's the only way we're going to figure out what's going on."

"We were doing it just that way, before you arrived," Aziraphale said. "Though it did get very cumbersome going around saying our names for each new person."

"It rather did," agreed Mary. "But I do think the newcomers should identify themselves, as they're guests in our home. You are?"

"Darcy," said the girl. She looked expectantly in Harry's direction.

He swallowed a bite of fish. "Harry," he said. "And if we're pooling our information, I should say that--" He was cut off by a loud "crack" in the adjacent room. He peered over, just able to see through the doorway: another portal had opened. A tall, beautiful witch-woman in black stepped out.

"I've got 1717 in the Caribbean," she said. "Is anyone due?"

"Oh thank heavens, that's me," said the blond aristocrat. Harry was sorry to see him go; he would've liked to know more about the man's story, and about 1717, but the man seemed so relieved to be getting back to his own environment that everyone simply wished him farewell.

"Every third portal or so, that woman comes out and announces the destination," Mary told Harry. "Sybil, my sister, ran off with her to an America of the future, and my other sister and my mother went in after her."

"That's insane," Harry said. "You must be really worried."

"I would be," Mary agreed, "however, a number of our guests have assured me that people travel reliably by similar methods in their countries, and our cousin Mr. Crowley has also diminished my worries with promises to seek them out if they don't return."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "So, Crowley Crawley?"

"Crowley Crawley," Crowley agreed.

Another portal came swiftly after that. No one came through it. The next, however, deposited a confused looking Wizard with an Elizabethan affect. A sort of buttery pastry with a brisket-like filling was served after the fish course. Near the top of the table, the Earl was discussing food and drink with the starfleet officers, clarifying some of their misconceptions about agriculture. In the center of the room, Naruto and Rey seemed to be having some sort of eating competition, though neither of them were keen on the brisket dish. Crowley and Aziraphale were discussing the portals, though they were doing so quietly and in a way that was very intent on each other. They seemed to be making plans. Harry had many questions and no one's attention--except Mary's, intermittently, as she endeavored to be a good hostess.

Before long, another "crack" happened in the drawing room, and the witch-woman announced "London, 2024."

"I actually think I'd like to stay for dessert," Harry said. She rolled her eyes, and took two others from the table without interrupting the conversation overly much.

Chapter Text

After the pudding, which was a delightful toffee flavor with heavy cream and syrup, Harry thought he'd stay for coffee and really dig in to the conversation. Unfortunately, the newest arrivals through the portal had a different agenda.

"I'm Greg Davies," said the taller man, "and this sad little fox in a mediocre human body is Alex Horne, my assistant."

"Welcome to our home," Mary said, cordially. She gestured to the two colleagues. "Please have a seat."

"You must know," Davies said, as he obliged. "Our game is one of tasks. We've come into this portal knowing full well we'd find a gush of competitors for the highest honor in the land."

Lord Grantham was put off. "Who told you that?"

"There was a lovely witch," Alex Horne said. "She introduced herself as Yennefer and gave us a briefing on this dinner party."

"Yes," Davies agreed. "Apparently there is a rearrangement of the space time continuum happening today. We've been asked to help things along so that we can all get back to where we're meant to be with the least damage done."

"Who is doing this rearranging?" asked Darcy. Harry wondered the same. He wished he'd something to write with, so he could take notes. Being involved in a multichapter story was a considerably greater information commitment than just a one-off.

"Don't worry about that," Davies answered.

"All the information you need is in ... this task," Alex Horne announced. He presented a stack of envelopes and handed them around the room.

Harry took the folded letter and pushed at the red wax seal. As he opened the page, he was stunned by the glamorous calligraphy. The text read: "you must sautee an aubergine, blindfolded, using only your tongue. Fastest wins. Your time starts... now!"

"Aubergine?" Darcy asked.

"Eggplant, dear," Cousin Violet informed her, with a put-upon tone. She looked extremely distressed at the notion of cooking anything.

"Present the blindfold at your convenience," Legolas said, taking out a flint stone and a dagger from his cloak.

"Actually, Crowley, dear, could you possibly...?" Aziraphale prompted.

"Fine." The demon Crowley manifested a small flame, which hovered over the tablecloth. "If you want a frying pan you'll have to do that yourself."

"Hang on," Mary interrupted, aghast at the fire in the middle of the dining room. "These two show up and we're just expected to provide top service?"

"What's wrong with being a service top?" asked James Rocket.

"All the information is in the task," Alex Horne said.

While Harry pondered how he was going to procure aubergine, the portal opened again and the witch called for the Starfleet officers, and then Naruto. The Rockets popped down to the kitchens to bring up some eggplants and distribute them. There was a festive atmosphere as they all tackled the task at hand in different ways. When the cooking was done, and several silly shenanigans beside, Greg awarded points for the levels of performance. Harry himself scored 3 points for his clever tongue tactics.

Unfortunately, after this, Alex Horne produced another stack of envelopes. A whole other task!

Darcy unfolded the heavy parchment. "Eat as much aubergine as possible. Most eaten in thirty seconds wins," she frowned.

Harry didn't like this at all. He'd just stuffed himself at dinner. "I don't think I'll participate in this," he announced, speaking truth to power in the fashion which his viewers had come to expect.

"Oh, but you must," said Alex Horne.

"Really?" interjected Lord Grantham. "Who is going to compel him? You?"

"Alas, no," Greg Davies answered. "Our power comes from..." he gave a dramatic pause, then pointed straight up at the ceiling. Aziraphale and Crowley exchanged looks. "GOD!" Davies declared.