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"Now, let's go over this again: what is Rule One?"
The Doctor looked at the rather alarming broad sword Rupert Giles was holding, ran a hand through his hair nervously, and fell back on what he knew. "Never give anyone any information unless you absolutely have to?" He was actually good at that. They'd all said so. Not telling anyone his name for nearly two years had definitely earned him points.
"Well, yes, but I think Rupert means the first rule about sword fighting," said Charles Xavier. The confusing thing was that all of them had their own Rule One, and sometimes it varied depending on the situation at hand.
"Er ... try not to cut your own legs off?"
Morpheus frowned at him. "I don't think you're taking this seriously enough. What if a party of Agents attack and you only have a sword to defend yourself with?"
"Well, obviously, I end up dead and my powers pass to someone else. Next question?"
Now they all frowned. The young shaman squirmed. Any second, someone was going to call him 'little doctor.' He just knew it.
"I realise that your powers are ... impressive, as far as they go," said Giles, "but you can't always rely on magic. It's important that you be able to defend yourself, and the knowledge you carry, against demons of all kinds."
"Or aliens. Even I have to punch the occasional alien, you know," Xavier said, unhelpfully.
The room was full of old men, and every single one of them could have kicked Jeroen's arse without breaking a sweat. Most of them didn't even bother to lecture him, too deep in conversation to notice the impromptu fencing lesson taking up the clear space just inside the door. If the Doctor was lucky, they might pay enough attention to mix him up with the more famous bearer of his name. So far he'd managed to respond politely to inquiries about what incarnation he was up to now and where he'd acquired that odd accent. But the next person to ask him for a jelly baby was going to spent the rest of their brief existence as a shrub.
Most of the time, Jeroen didn't know why he bothered coming to this well-hidden manifestation of Subreality. Being here always left him with the feeling that he should be sitting in a remote cave somewhere, and not only to escape ritual humiliation at the hands of his well-meaning senior colleagues. Like all Doctors, the current one knew in his bones that you were only meant to have one shaman at a time. Although this place was an echo of the Singularity itself, with less surrealism and more tea, the fact that its denizens were (generally speaking) alive and whole made his spine prickle. When he was here, Jeroen always felt surprised that the Jedi order had lasted as long as it did, and he didn't wonder that it remaining members had chosen separate and solitary exile after the collapse. His kind were territorial and naturally inclined to isolation. Especially from those like themselves.
Yet that made the very existence of this place - not a bar, certainly not a café, just a non-de-script building marked out only by the small falcon on the sign above the door - all the more puzzling. The general effect it gave was of a 19th century gentleman's club, where the gentlemen could cut you in half with a lightsaber or fry you where you stood, if they weren't too busy arguing among themselves. His kind had followers or companions if they were lucky, apprentices and surrogate children almost by definition, minions if they fell into darkness. What they did not have, by choice or instinct, were peers.
"Ripper," said a voice from the doorway, "if we wait until he learns how to fight we'll be late. Can't you just give it up as a hopeless cause?" Ethan Rayne, warlock, Chaos Lord, and something to Giles that Jeroen didn't want to think about too hard, tapped his watch for emphasis. He wasn't even supposed to know this place existed, not that breaking rules usually bothered him. Yet the Doctor was always interested to note that even this disciple of disorder didn't dare step over the threshold without permission.
"He needs some way to deal with the dangers inherent in our profession that doesn't involve hiding behind his stronger team mates." said Xavier.
"Well, *I'm* still alive. He's already not bad with the magic, and all you really need besides that is the ability to talk fast. I think that knowing when to stay and gloat and when to bolt like a rabbit might help, too, although I admit I'm still working on it myself."
"Ethan," said Giles, "those are *villain* tricks and you know it. I doubt that any lesson of yours would do him good."
"Oh, I'm certain I could teach him a few things ..." the warlock's tone of voice suggested that he wasn't talking about magic, or at least not the kind commonly used in battle.
"My God, you really *will* screw anything," said Giles, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.
"Famed for it," Ethan replied, grinning, "and since you're so obviously busy ..."
"Please be aware of how your behaviour reflects on me - don't sully *my* reputation by lowering your standards into the gutter. Bad enough that you've been through most of the regulars in our own universe, not to mention taking up with *Constantine* ..."
Jeroen had a feeling that the Watcher was insulting him, but since he had no intention of being seduced by Ethan Rayne he didn't much care. "Look, I hate to break this to you, but I'm the Authority's token straight. Really."
"None of you people are any fun at all," said Ethan, sighing theatrically, "I think I'll go and see what Q is up to."
With that, he wandered off, no doubt to cause interesting kinds of Chaos elsewhere. Jeroen looked after him wistfully - it would almost be worth exploring the seedier corners of slash just to get out of this, and there would probably be exiting new drugs involved as well.
"So, as I was saying, Rule One ..." said Giles, picking up where they'd left off.
"I think we've been over that enough, Rupert," said Xavier. "Perhaps Jeroen would be better off with a defence technique that doesn't involve sharp objects?"
"I've always believed that the best form of defence is attack," said Morpheus. "It's also useful to know how to disarm an opponent. If you'd just allow me to run a proper training program ..."
"I think we've covered why that's cheating," said Giles, annoyed. He might have dated Jenny Calendar for a while and had a hacker for a protege, but he still put no faith in computers.
"In that case, Rupert, would you help me to demonstrate?"
The Watcher grimaced and muttered something about head injuries, but he took up the proper stance, brandishing his sword as if unconvinced that it would do him any good. Sure enough, Morpheus was so fast that Jeroen only realised he'd moved at all when his opponent went flying across the room ... only to come to a halt in midair. With a hand gesture from Yoda, both Giles and the sword landed safely on the floor, none the worse for wear. The diminutive sage went back to his discussion without a word for them.
"Did you get that?" asked Morpheus.
Jeroen took a careful step away from his would-be instructor, and considered the question. "Well, not really." In all the Bleed, there was *no* universe where he'd be able to do that. "Am I right in thinking, though, that outside Subreality that could be lethal to an opponent?"
"Of course," said Morpheus, who was a big believer in lethality. Jeroen held his breath.
"I'm not sure I approve of that ..." said Xavier. Jeroen exhaled. It worked every time.
"You're not seriously suggesting that I should *not* kill Agents? That I should *reason* with the soulless killing machines that keep my kind in unwitting slavery?"
"Well, some of them seem to have developed the beginnings of real sentience - that Agent Smith, for example, seemed to be evolving into a true life form, albeit one that didn't like you very much ..."
"For God's sake, haven't we been over this enough?" said Giles, dusting himself off more from habit than necessity. "The way you make the world a better place is by sticking sharpened bits of wood into vampires and anything that works into the rest of the denizens of hell. Wishy-washy liberal ideology is all very nice when applied to *people* but it won't help you against an enemy who wants all humanity dead or in chains."
Xavier was nothing if not stubborn on this particular point. "I just think it's too easy for our kind, for whom dying is often a temporary setback ..."
"Speak for yourself," Giles interjected.
"... to lose sight of the absolute nature of death for most people. Well, I hear its absolute for most people, although I confess that this does not seem to be the case where I come from."
"Do you think I don't know what death means?" said Morpheus. "I have lived with it every day since my liberation, killing even comparative innocents who don't know the true nature of reality when I must, but that doesn't change the fact ..."
Hiding a sigh of relief, the Doctor quickly backed away from the argument and the open lighted space, and went to find a quiet table towards the back of the room. Unfortunately Morpheus was blocking the only exit he knew about, but he soon found a smoky corner to hide in ... and it wasn't until he'd already sat down that he realised someone had beaten him to it.
"I am glad to see that you have mastered the art of sowing dissension among your enemies, at least."
Even if he hadn't recognised the voice, there would have been plenty of other signals available to tell Jeroen who he'd accidentally disturbed. Robes and a long beard were almost compulsory here, but that staff ... Sword hanging at side. Pipe. Pointy hat.
Oh shit.
"Um, sorry, I didn't see you there, I'll just ..." he said, flustered, getting out of his chair.
"Now, now, dear boy, no need to be afraid of me," said the wizard Gandalf, "it's a free dimension, after all. I even promise that I won't try to teach you anything."
Jeroen, relieved by the gleam of humor in those blue eyes, relaxed. "Another lesson would be all I need," he said, leaning his elbows on the table. "I swear, those guys are addicted to the sound of their own voices. And they call *me* a junkie."
"They really are fond of you, you know."
"They have a funny way of showing it."
"We often do. It's not something many of us are good at."
"I know that, really. They're just trying to help." That was something Jeroen didn't often admit to himself, let alone anyone else. "My problem is, I'm useless at all of this. I keep *telling* people I'm not cut out for this job, but nobody ever listens."
"Hmmmmm." Gandalf brought is pipe to his mouth and took a long, thoughtful drag on it. "Do you know how I became what I am?" he asked.
"I tried to read 'The Silmarillion' once, honest ..." The Doctor privately thought he hadn't been close to stoned enough at the time, and given his usual state that was saying something.
Gandalf smiled in a way that suggested he was used to hearing this. "It's not in the quasi-official texts at all, actually, only the 'Untold Tales.' In any case, the Valar - gods of my world - asked for volunteers from among their immediate inferiors, the Maiar, to depart for the mortal realm of Middle-earth. There, they would gather opposition to the dark lord Sauron, in preparation for a future war. Some came forward at once, eager to help, or perhaps for the glory such a struggle would bring. However, everywhere in Valinor people asked 'where is Olorin? Is this not his calling? Why does Olorin, wisest of his kind, not come forth?' It will not surprise you to learn that this was my name, in my youth. Can you also guess the cause of my reticence, Doctor?"
Jeroen had a feeling he had heard this story after all. "You were scared?"
"Terrified," said Gandalf, wryly. "Of Sauron, and of living as a mortal as we would have to do in Middle-earth. However, in spite of this I could hardly ignore Manwe, master of us all, when he summoned me specifically. I told him of my misgivings, and refused the position, whatever need they might have of me, whatever honour it might bring. Do you know what he said?"
"Oh, I know this part: that not wanting the job made you perfect for it. They fed me the same line when I became the global shaman. Catch 22."
"Exactly right. So, trembling and ashamed, I crossed the ocean in the form of a man. To my great surprise, the elf lords greeted me with more enthusiasm than my more willing companions ever received, far more than I thought I deserved. In the end, however, everyone's instincts but my own proved reliable. While those who had journeyed with me were lost, or fell into shadow, or became so enamoured of the world they had been sent to save that they neglected their duties, I alone remained true."
Jeroen shook his head. "That's a good story, and I know what you're trying to say ... but, well, I'm not you."
Gandalf extended a hand, palm up. "What do you see?"
Jeroen paused, suspecting a trick question. "A hand. A pretty ordinary hand, too, if that's what you're getting at."
"What kind of creature would you say it belonged to, if you didn't know who owned it?"
"Well, it's human. It's just the bits inside that are still spirit or demigod or angel or whatever you are really."
"Why do you think the powers of the West placed me in the body of a man, and an old man at that? Rather than, say, something that could match the raw force of a Balrog, or even an Elven warrior?"
Jeroen knew this lesson, at least. "Power corrupts. Absolute power corrupts absolutely. I can warp reality all I want, but I can't use my abilities to turn myself into Superman. Like AD&D wizards not being allowed to wear armour, I guess."
"Indeed. Yet it is not only power that corrupts, but also pride. This form is a reminder of humility, and the difficulty inherent in our profession. I do not believe that anyone wise enough to perform our tasks would be foolish enough to seek them out. Look around you, Doctor. Do you think anyone here chose the path that brought them to this place, freely and with their eyes open?"
Jeroen looked. At Morpheus, told by a seer that only the Chosen One could save his species, and that only he could find the Chosen One. At Rupert Giles, informed at the age of ten that he would be a Watcher like his father and grandmother before him, even if he'd rather be a fighter pilot or a grocer. At Charles Xavier, who had wandered the globe until injury forced him to sit still and save the world. At all the dozens of other reluctant wise men. Perhaps they came here for the simple comfort of knowing that there were others in the same situation.
"Do you have a Rule One?" asked Jeroen, surprised to find that he was actually interested in the answer.
Gandalf made a thoughtful noise. "Not as such, but there are things that ought to be remembered. Fear is a sign that your mind still functions properly. Do not be too eager to judge. Remember your own humanity and that of those around you. Never forget your pipe."
The Doctor grinned, and extracted his own particular type of weed from one of his innumerable pockets. "Now that," he said, "is my kind of rule."
The sound of intellectual debate and the clink of teacups continued to echo in dark, smoky corners.