Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

From inside of the car, Colin opened the driver's door and gave her a look. "Of course. Apartment tower on Wilshire near Warner. Five minutes from here."

She pulled out of the driveway and headed north through Century City. There was no traffic this early in the morning as she sped by deserted office buildlings and along the western edge of the Los Angeles Country Club, her favorite shortcut to Wilshire Boulevard. Colin pointed out his building; she pulled into the covered parking area in front.

He turned and gave her a winning smile. "Well, this is awkward," he deadpanned.

"Why? Don't you know what to say to a woman you *haven't* slept with?" Grace volleyed back.

Colin's face turned serious as he picked up her right hand from the steering wheel and gave it a courtly kiss. "I'm in your debt. If you ever need a knight in shining armor, call me. I'm quite good at it, can provide references on request. Although you may doubt that at the moment. But do believe I am sorry for any trouble I caused you, from the bottom of my heart." He gently replaced her hand on the wheel.

She was touched by the graciousness of his apology. It was the kind of moment when trusting friendships are born. Despite his appearance, and his recent conduct, she was sure she would come to value the friendship of Colin Molyneux. Again, she regretted that she couldn't tell him what she had learned about the Investors' manipulation of Hansbank stock. But she was confident it would only be a matter of hours until she could persuade the U.S. Attorney to release the information to the bank.

"I will probably take you up on that knight thing someday," Grace laughed.

"Please do," he chuckled as he slid out of her car. She watched him walk toward the front door of his building, then pulled out of the parking area as the door closed behind him.

The closest correlation that Therese could make was when she had inadvertantly touched electric fence back at the farm in Iowa. . .

Raising up on her elbows, or at least as close to her elbows as she could given the restraints, Therese stuck her tongue out at Mr. I. "You call that an electric shock, Torture Boy? Shoot, that wouldn't keep the weaner calves out of the cornfield for a heartbeat!"

"CUT!!" rang out across the set as The Director stalked over to Therese, and glared down at her, a scowl crossing his handsome features. "What, may I ask, was that? And, heaven forbid me for asking, what is a 'weaner calf?'"

Therese sighed and rolled her eyes. "City folk," she scoffed before continuing. "Weaner calves are baby bovines who have just been separated from their mamas. They go through fences like crazy to get back to the mother cow, so generally farmers put up a strand or two of electric fence-- or a 'hotwire' as we call it in Iowa--with a hefty dose of current to prevent the little buggers from going anywhere."

"Farm Life 101," Mr. I supplied helpfully. "Take her out to dinner sometime--you'll be amazed at what you can learn about relative feed values, crop yield, and the pros and cons to a fourth cutting on a hayfield."

The director shook his head wearily, and consulted his timepiece. "We're calling it a wrap." He glared down at Therese. "And no more improvising tomorrow when we begin the filming day. . ." he hovered over her menacingly as Mr. I had been doing all day. "Remember, you are strapped down!"

"Not so fast, sir," Therese challenged, easily lifting her hand from the manacles, which emitted a tearing, ziiiiip sound. "Velcro!"

The Director sighed. "I should have known," he muttered, moving over to the film reel where he began dealing with many of the technical aspects of production.

"So, what's this with 'Torture Boy?'" Mr. I growled, as he loomed above Therese with the fake electronic probe insinuatingly close in his right hand.

Therese hurled herself out of the chair and straight at Mr. I's midsection. She fell directly upon him, given her feet were still tied together from their previous scene. The electric probe flew backwards out of his hand (much to the dismay of the props mistress, who looked on with a grave air) as they both fell to the well padded floor with a thud. "Tickle fight!" shrieked Therese as she grabbed Mr. I's sides.

"Tickle massacre!" Mr. I corrected, easily flipping Therese over and causing her to squeak and giggle.

"Would somebody get a bucket of water?" the gaffer muttered, rolling his eyes.

"Or at least tell those two to get a room!" added the bestboy.

"All right you two, knockitoff!" the costume mistress stormed over to the two actors who were still rolling around on the floor. "You're going to ruin my wardrobe!"

Therese and Mr. I paused in their attack of one another, she to consult her simple cotton shift with the flesh coloured bodysuit she wore underneath, he to regard the tattered white shirt he had discarded in a heap on the floor of the set. They both started to howl with laughter.

The Director came back over to consult the two of his stars who were wriggling around on the floor like small children. "Untie her feet," he ordered Mr. I.

"What, and give her an advantage?"

"Untie her feet, you, and the both of you--get off of my set!"

" . . . should have known you would not . . ."

I think I must be in need of the Special "Firm Kindness" Corrections Package . . .

Explosive as the situation had been, Mary Anne cannot help smiling.

She had seen a blur of motion and then The Doctor had been between Dev and Colonel Brandon, holding their arms, preventing them from flying at each other--and this so quickly that he had already subdued them before his umbrella toppled to the floor.

Both Dev and Brandon are easily a foot taller than the Timelord, and so the spectacle of him attempting to restrain them should be an absurd one . . . but it is not. Lightly, almost casually, he maintains his grip upon them, offering an apologetic smile to Mary Anne and Claudia, and a quick nod to the guards, as if to tell them that the situation is under control. They, however, can only stare in disbelief.

Mary Anne takes a closer look. The Doctor's grip--that hold using only the thumb and two sharply bent fingers . . .

Mary Anne looks over at Claudia, and observes, "Venusian aikido."

"Exactly," replies Claudia, who is beginning to grin a little herself.

The hold is gentle, but so firm that Brandon is beginning to grimace at the ache in his arm, and Mary Anne catches a stifled Irish exclamation from Dev, something that sounds vaguely like, "Cushleh mochrie!" as The Doctor looks inquiringly up at the two men in his grip.

"Now, gentlemen--that is what you call yourselves, isn't it?--do you think you can behave like civilized humans?" The Doctor scowls fiercely, an expression that does not deceive Mary Anne a particle. "If there is any such thing, which I am beginning to doubt."

Mary Anne clears her throat.

"Sorry, m'dear," chuckles The Doctor. "You know I didn't mean you, necessarily."

"It's all right, Doctor. But I think you can let them go, now, and--" Mary Anne directs a pointed glower at Brandon and Dev. "--they'll be all right."

"If you say so," and The Doctor opens his hands.

Brandon and Dev are distracted for a few moments as they wait for the feeling to come back into their numbed arms, and they eye The Doctor with increased respect. But there are other matters to be taken care of first.

"Mister de Valera wasn't going to strike me, sir," explains Mary Anne to Brandon. "He was just upset because of what I was telling him--I thought he was about to run out of the room and go after Therese, in spite of all we've said. His hand was up because his glasses were about to fall off."

"I . . . see," murmurs Brandon uncomfortably. He does not often lose control of himself in so spectacular a fashion, and it is a matter of shame to him when he does. But the Colonel does not hesitate. "I am sorry to have misjudged you so, Mister de Valera. I should have known you would not--"

"Understandable," replies Dev, his spectacles flashing as he sets them firmly back into place. "I am not fit company today, even for barbarians--to say nothing of civilized men and women." Tiredly. "But you must know that I would not harm your wife, after she has been so kind to me and Therese. My apologies, Mrs. Brandon, if I frightened you."

Mary Anne's heart goes out to him. "It's all right. I know you meant no harm."

Dev steps across the room, closer to Claudia's armchair. "And my apologies to you as well, Miss Claudia, for shaking you as I did. There was no excuse for it."

"You were upset, Dev. I understand." Claudia tries to smile at him in her usual cheeky fashion. "Just don't do it again!" But the smile fades when Claudia realizes that everyone is looking gravely at her, and that they are still faced with the problem of what to do next--about her, and about everything else . . .

"The truth," replies the grim figure at the window, his eyes fixed on hers. "I must know what I shall have to . . . face . . . when Therese is safe with us again."

"When," and not "if." Good man, Dev! No wonder she loves you so . . . Mary Anne nerves herself to offer, "But surely you have some idea . . . based on HIS reputation, if not by actual experience."

Dev cannot keep still, but paces beside the window . . . a few steps across, then back. "I know," he finally responds, "that you have been captured by HIM, on several occasions. Is that correct?"

Mary Anne nods. There is little else she can do.

"And yet, if you will permit the observation, Mrs. Brandon--" Slight emphasis. "--you appear to be in perfect health--"

Dev pauses in momentary confusion, not understanding the look that passes briefly between Mary Anne and The Doctor.

Brandon cuts in with, "You have a point, Mister de Valera?"

"I do." Dev's gaze returns once to Mary Anne. "Either The Interrogator's reputation is greatly exaggerated; or you, Mary Anne--" Caution now forgotten. "--have extraordinary powers of survival--"

Extrrrraorrrdinarry. Powerrrrrrs. The accent always comes out under stress . . .

"--or HIS treatment of you was not . . . typical." Dev steps away from the window and moves closer to Mary Anne. "Which is it?"

Mary Anne can see that Brandon is growing angry with Dev and hurries to reply, hoping to avert a catastrophe. Can the AR guards not see the potential for disaster? A man like Dev . . .

"Dev, I--" Mary Anne takes a deep breath and rises from her seat. Facing Dev. First, she will not allow this domineering, volatile personality to intimidate her. Second . . .

That second part: that is Dev's saving grace, in Mary Anne's eyes. She can detect the pleading note beneath the commanding one, in his voice; the frantic anxiety that cries out for reassurance--or, at least, for knowledge. For information. What must he face? Forewarned is forearmed, and he is desperately trying to arm himself against the worst, if he can only know what it shall be.

Moved, Mary Anne steps nearer to Dev. Brandon's unease is obvious, but he does not interfere.

"Dev, I may be the wrong person to ask. You were right on one point; HIS treatment of me is not typical. The Interrogator has a kind of obsession with me, and part of it--" Mary Anne's face reddens. It is all so near and personal, and the listening guards, strangers to her . . . but she goes on. "--is that HE wants me . . . well, unmarked. HE has never done me any serious physical harm."

If we skip the time he tried to shoot me . . . or the time he was going to rape me. HE has never done me physical harm, but not for lack of trying!

Mary Anne looks frankly into Dev's eyes. "Mental manipulation. Psychological torture. HE plays on fears, on weaknesses, on vulnerabilities. I won't lie to you, Dev, because you'd know it if I did."

Mary Anne holds her breath, wondering if Dev will allow this piece of subtle flattery to pass. I won't lie--but if I told him the whole truth, he'd go crazy, and we're having enough trouble keeping him from running amuck as it is!

Dev is waiting for the rest, and Mary Anne breathes again. "HE is cruel, and enjoys power. But . . . I think the only way you can know what HE will do with Therese is to know why he took her in the first place. A lot will depend on that." Time to shift ground. Get Dev's mind engaged on something useful, instead of letting him drive himself out of his skull with worry. "Has it occurred to you that you would be a very valuable prisoner, Mister Eamon de Valera?"

A tight smile from Dev, and completely humourless. "Yes, I would be, rather."

"And yet HE did not take you, when you were right there, but took Therese instead. Why?"

"Well, revenge is an obvious motive, after she--" Dev stops, and does not quite flush, but does remember that there are ladies present. "After Therese, ah . . . got his attention."

"That's going to quite some length, to take revenge for a well-placed kick," offers The Doctor drily from his seat on the arm of Claudia's chair. And Claudia can think of her own reasons why The Interrogator has captured Therese, but thinks it best to remain silent about them.

Mary Anne wonders for a moment whether Gallifreyan males suffer as much as human males, if kicked in the groin.

Dev halts his pacing as a thought occurs to him; his agitation has knocked his glasses slightly askew, increasing the general air of wildness about him, so different from that icy composure that he can usually adopt at will. "Or perhaps HE did not recognize me at once--but did recognize Therese from their earlier encounter, and so took her."

"Or--" begins Mary Anne, then looks at Dev. "You're not going to like it."

"I already don't like it!" (homage)

Mary Anne takes a deep breath. "Or," she says deliberately, "HE knew well enough who you were, as well as Therese. But--" She bites her lip, then continues, feeling Dev's dark gaze burning into her like coals. "--perhaps HE thought . . . that so far as extracting information goes, you would be better able to resist his methods than Therese. You've been through it before. But by taking Therese--well, as far as gaining information about you, that clears the chessboard, in one move. He gains a source of information, and a hostage that may draw you to him, and an opportunity for revenge all at-- ONCE--!!"

Mary Anne's voice rises in a startled half- cry as Dev moves swiftly toward her, his furious face as white as paper, one hand raised.

And Brandon moves as well, reaching for Dev. The Colonel has had enough. This man had laid hands on Claudia earlier, if shaking can be considered violence; to Brandon's exacting standards, it can. And now he dares to even THINK of striking my wife? Right before my eyes? ENOUGH--!

"How dare you!" roars Brandon, moving to intercept Dev who snaps around toward the Colonel, the bones standing out in his pale face, even as Mary Anne starts forward, trying to intervene.

"Christopher, no, he wasn't going to do anything to me, he was only--"

And the AR guards are on their feet and moving, but not quickly enough . . .

Suddenly, silence falls in the study.

Utter stillness, broken only by the thump of an umbrella, toppling over onto the floor . . .

"You bit me," The Interrogator repeated, HIS voice a mixture of anger and disbelief. "You are a very slow study, are you not? Do you still not realise that I completely control you, can do to you precisely what I like, and you may in no way prevent the things I wish to do from happening to you?" He leaned low over her once again, "Do you not understand?"

Therese jerked her head to the side and way from HIM as far as her limited movement would allow. "I both realise and understand that I am in your control," she began, her voice growing more steady as she continued. "I do not know your specific intentions, though obviously they are not going to be pleasant. My only thought will be to survive whatever it is you intend to do to me until I can escape or be rescued. Do not expect my cooperation in any way. Do not expect me to agree with anything you suggest. I will not submit to you, no matter what your tactics."

The Interrogator straightened before Therese once again, HIS eyes hooded. "Brave words coming from one who is completely helpless. You may yet prove interesting. Perhaps we should test the limits of that bravery? I've done little or nothing to you yet, I wonder if maybe I do have ways to make you cooperate, and submit?" HE paused, a grimly determined look crossing HIS features. "And as far as your escape or rescue, do not believe for a moment that either of those are possible. No one knows where you are. No one."

Therese shuddered at HIS words. She certainly had not meant to provide HIM with a challenge, but neither did she wish for HIM to think that she would turn into an obedient little captive. She would die before that happened.

Death. Could she withstand what The Interrogator planned? Would she survive HIM? Her thoughts went immediately to Eamon. Today was to have been her wedding day, and the beginning of a new life together with the man she loved. Would Eamon have to face the loss of another woman? She eyed the finely wrought gold band upon her left hand, and made a vow to survive whatever HE put forth in order to return to Eamon.

HIS movement broke her reverie, and she watched HIM as HE returned to the drawer at the table yet again. This time HE retrieved a solid black piece of fabric, with a thick black strap attached on either end. A blindfold.

Therese felt a wave of nausea well up inside of her. To be deprived of the ability to see what was coming, to not be allowed to anticipate what HE would do, and prepare herself against it?

Stepping behind her head, HE pulled the material tightly over her eyes, fastening it securely. She could hear HIM then, making other noises about the room. Which ones HE made preparing for something for her, and which ones HE made merely to make noise and scare her she could not determine, so the pain, when it came, was all the more sudden.

The only correlation that Therese could make was the feeling of the few times she had inadvertantly touched an electric fence, back on the farm in Iowa.

Claudia awaits the judgment of her friends . . . who are, at first, too stunned to say anything in response to her story. The Doctor, having served his purpose as a witness to Claudia's story, remains tactfully silent, and Mary Anne exchanges glances with Brandon, each of them knowing that the other is thinking of the Delaford picnic. Of Brandon's disappearance, and near- miraculous rescue which, if it had been delayed only a short time, would have come too late . . .

It is Dev who finally breaks the silence, nodding to the guards. "Perhaps you should make that arrest after all."

"What--!" cries Claudia, overlapping with Brandon's, "What are you saying, Mister de Valera?"

"I am saying," returns Dev, "that she has already been under the control of The Interrogator before. She says that she has been away in a quiet place, to think, and so she may well have been. But what is to say that HE may not still have some say in what she does? For her own safety, perhaps, she should be kept under guard." A pause, as Dev gazes at Claudia with narrowed eyes. "And I find it extremely strange--and frightening--that her arrival here coincides with Therese's disappearance!"

Seated as she is, close to the Colonel, Mary Anne can feel the rage surge through him, the sudden tension in his body. "That is outrageous--" begins Brandon.

"Oh? Would you say as much, if it were Mary Anne that had disappeared instead of Therese?"

Brandon is on his feet at that, and the AR guards stiffen warily, watching the scene before them. But so far it is words, only words . . .

Christopher always looks taller when he's angry . . . And to Mary Anne's gaze--which is, she would admit, far from objective--Brandon towers over everyone present.

"You need not remind me," says Brandon softly, "of my duties: as a man, to protect women, and as a host, to protect my guests. I am aware that Miss Therese is both of these. And--" Brandon nods toward the armchair. "So is Miss Claudia. She will be dealt with fairly, so long as I have any say in the matter. And you would do well to remember--" Brandon takes a step forward. "--that, as I told you earlier, I have been in your exact circumstances, when Mrs. Brandon--"

Mary Anne flinches. That stress on "Mrs. Brandon . . ." Christopher wouldn't mind Dev calling me "Mary Anne," unless he's about to lose his temper completely.

"--when Mrs. Brandon was HIS captive." Brandon's expression relaxes slightly, sympathy and pity winning out, for the moment, over indignation. "I understand, Eamon. I do, I tell you."

"Of that I have no doubt." But Dev is not to be placated. "Tell me this, then: both of you have been prisoners of that--that--" Apparently, no epithet is sufficiently venomous. "--of The Interrogator."

Dev turns from Brandon, to lock eyes with Mary Anne.

"What will HE do to her?"

"But what did you remember?" Dev almost shouted. He was impatient to search for Therese, and this account was disturbing and taking far too long.

Claudia sighed. "You're not going to like it. But I didn't know anyone here when I arrived at the Delaford picnic, and the Master, posing as a guest befriended me and introduced me to his friend, Arthur, who was apparently Colonel Brandon's accountant."

"I know of no such man," frowned the Colonel.

"There is no such man," said Claudia. "We talked and he took me to his offices. He thought I would make a good assistant and would I like to train as a spy. I didn't know him, or any of you then. My life was dull and I was looking for some excitement. It sounded interesting. Arthur told me his code name was Mr I."

Gasps from the room.

"One of my first assignments was to help HIM on an interrogation. It was to be Colonel Brandon, but when we got to the cell the Colonel had gone, been rescued. I don't know what I would have done if you had been there, Colonel, but I was a much weaker person then, through lack of experiences. I doubt I could have hurt you, even in trying to please HIM."

Mary Anne gripped her husband's hand tightly, and he squeezed back.

"HE was extremely angry at your escape, Colonel, and…" Claudia shivered. "HE took HIS anger out on me."

The Doctor stepped forward. "When I found her, she was like a cornered animal. She didn't know me then, of course, and she wouldn't let me close. I managed to stun her and drag her back to the Tardis. The sickbay computers healed her injuries, and, not knowing what her memories would hold, I wiped them. Then I returned her to her bed at Delaford…"

"Where I awoke knowing none of this. I dressed and went down to dinner, and met Ed for the first time." Claudia stood up, and held out her hands in a plea. "I know all of this sounds far fetched, difficult to believe. But it is all true. You trust the Doctor, here, and he has backed up my story, as much of it as he knows. When I remembered all this, it was so overwhelming, such a shock, I just had to get away to think it all through and what it means to me now. I've been at a retreat, a health farm not too far away. Exercising, reading, having some quiet time to come to terms with who I am. I am still your friend. I've just had a short episode in my past I didn't know about… that's it."

"The Master, an evil Timelord from the Doctor's home planet, decided he needed to prevent Ed and I from being together. Something happened to him in his time in the future and on his planet, which was caused by something we did."

Claudia continued to explain how the Master had taken her off, and dumped her on an out of the way beach in New Zealand to stew. In the Meantime the Master had gone back in time to make sure Claudia and Ed never met each other.

Claudia looked at the Doctor for a bit of help here. This was his part of the story.

"Ed and I followed the Master in the Tardis. I'm afraid he returned to Delaford, at the annual picnic where Claudia first met Ed. His intention was to make sure that meeting didn't take place. He introduced the earlier version of Claudia to a friend of his, and arranged for her to be taken from Delaford. Ed and I search the grounds at the party, not knowing what was happening. We didn't find the Master, his Tardis or Claudia in time."

"Things that took place in Delaford last year, I had no memory of," said Claudia trying to piece the bits of the story together in an order that would make sense. "I thought it was because The Master had changed history, but no. What happened at Delaford must have happened. I didn't remember any of it, because the Doctor later suppressed the memories. When I met the Interrogator here again the night of your wedding, I remembered it all."

"What is going on here?" asked the senior officer. "Do you require that I make an arrest?"

"No," said the Colonel. "This young lady has a story to tell. Perhaps she can shed some light on recent events. I thought it prudent that you should be here to witness and take notes."

The other agent flipped open a notebook and her pen was poised to write, she looked from the Colonel to Claudia and back again. Dev came close to Claudia, and leant forward with both hands on the arms of her chair, so his nose was almost touching hers. "And perhaps she can tell us where Therese is. And if she can…"

"Mr De Valera, please…" started the Colonel, and Dev pulled away from Claudia and stood by the window, his face like thunder.

"I don't think I can tell you where Therese is," said Claudia, taking a deep breath and settling in for a long tale. "But maybe my story can help shed some light on what has been going on with me, and with events at Delaford. It is a long and complicated story, as it involves time travel and tampering with events that have already happened. I'm sure the Doctor has told you some of it. He is here to back up my story, as much of it as he can."

The second AR agent put away her notebook. "In that case, I'll save myself writers cramp." She pulled a mini tape recorder from her belt, clicked it on and put it on the table next to Claudia. "Continue."

Claudia could control her anger at herself and at HIM no longer and stood up yelling "Shit!" and kicked out at an unsuspecting footstool. The Colonel immediately stood and placed himself between Claudia and Mary Anne, and the Doctor grasped Claudia's arm to warn her to calm down. She looked about, her eyes glaring, but they also began to fill with tears that threatened to brim over and spoil her tough exterior.

"I'm sorry," she said to the Colonel, "please forgive my outburst. Its just I'm so angry! I could have prevented this, if only I'd said something."

"What do you mean, you could have prevented this?" said Mary Anne, standing too, and putting an arm around the Colonel's waist from behind for support.

"I mean, the Interrogator was here the night of your wedding, dressed as the Highwayman. I saw him, and I didn't tell anyone. If only I'd been thinking more clearly."

Dev moved at that and grabbed Claudia by the shoulders, and shook her. "What do you know of this? What have you done? What have you done!?" The shaking jogged Claudia's tears and they started to flow down her cheeks.

"I'm sorry! When I saw HIM, suddenly my head was full of memories, memories of things I didn't even know had happened to me. All I could think to do was to get away, to get away so I could sort through these things in my head. The next morning I packed my things and took off. I've been somewhere quiet trying to sort through my feelings. I had no idea what was going on here, I swear!"

The Colonel put a hand on Dev's shoulder, and pulled him back. The Doctor pulled Claudia back to her seat.

"I think," said Dev, angry all over again, "We should have a guard or two in this room, and someone should be taking notes."

The Colonel nodded. "I agree. Will you permit this?" he asked Claudia more as a formality than expecting any reply. She nodded anyway, and he went to the door, spoke to a guard who jogged off down the corridor to find some officers.

As a result of her guard's phone call, Andrea is soon visited by Dot and Mesmer. Dot relieves her comrade. Mesmer interviews Andrea. "I hear you tried again to leave us through this window. Are you so eager to be rid of us?"

Andrea objects. "No! That's not it at all. I wasn't running away this time. I was -- running toward -- something."

Mesmer wonders if Andrea doesn't know what she was running toward or if she doesn't want to say. "Something in particular?"

Andrea grows annoyed with the game and gets to the point. "HE was here. Wasn't HE? -- Nearby. -- In the West Wood, perhaps." Her eyes lose their focus as she gets caught up in the intense emotion of the memory. "So determined."

Dot takes notes in case Andrea reveals a new piece of information.

Mesmer encourages Andrea to continue. "Determined? HIM or you? Determined to accomplish what?"

Andrea allows Mesmer to lead her. "HIM. HE had a purpose in coming here. I don't know what it was, but HE was successful." Andrea returns to the present and locks her gaze on Mesmer. "Now it's your turn. Tell me what you know."

An uninformed Mesmer looks to Dot, but she doesn't offer any help. "We are still investigating the incident."

We will be attending a Sunday matinee performance at McCarter Theater, and dinner after.
McCarter is located in Princeton, New Jersey (50 miles from both New York City and Philadelphia) and easily reached by train or automobile.

Please e-mail me and let me know which of these 2 plays do you prefer:
Fool For Love by Sam Shepard (playing Sept. 14-Oct 3)
The Importance Of Being Ernest by Oscar Wilde (playing Oct 19-Nov 7)

The Interrogator stood before Therese, HIS arms crossed in front of HIS chest, HIS eyes studying the figure of her before him, contemplating. Something was making her frantic, HE was certain of it. She hid it well, but her ability to control her fear was slipping. HE took a single step closer to the chair in which she sat, casually retucked his shirt tails, and fastened the buttons which remained. Would the restraints serve a dual purpose, then?

Therese tested the manacles on her arms, pulling against them in a futile gesture. She could move her wrists no more than three inches in any direction, leaving her completely unable to fight back or protect herself. Her feet were also tied together, though their movement was not restricted in any other manner.

HE took three more steps, bringing HIM close enough that Therese's bent knees brushed HIS own as he stood before her. "No, perhaps that is not what you wanted at all?" HE asked.

Therese looked up at HIM, confusion clear upon her features.

"I've gone to the trouble of putting the remnents of my shirt back together, yet you cleary went to a great deal of effort to strip it off me. I'm quite willing to oblige. . . take a good look." HE slipped his shoulders out of the stark, white braces, and removed the shredded shirt.

Therese blanched as The Interrogator began to develop a predatory gleam in HIS eyes. HE knew that HE was nearing success and beginning to crack her resolve, she could feel it in his gaze. This was not unfamiliar territory for HIM; Therese had never been in a similar situation. I will NOT show fear, I will NOT show fear she screamed at herself silently.

"Now why, I wonder, would a barely clad woman wish to have me remove my clothes?" HE asked, leering down at her. "Only one reason comes to mind."

"I did not, and DO not wish that," Therese told him sullenly.

"Then you deny your actions? We both know that this is precisely what you did, only moments before. I assure you," HE leaned over Therese's body suggestively, taking a lock of her hair in his right hand, and stroking it gently, "I am most willing to accomodate your desire."

She could stand it no more. Defiance at a distance was one thing, but to have HIM close to her person, and have to suffer HIS inuendo, was more than she could bear. Lunging forward against the retraints, Therese struggled wildly as The Interrogator stepped backwards, clasped HIS hands behind HIM, and watched. The thin metal of the manacles dug into her unprotected wrists, the skin chafing and tearing under the assualt. Her legs kicked forward wildly, but with her upper body restrained, all efforts were futile. Still, Therese persisted until her breath grew short and ragged, and the newly formed marks around her wrists began to burn.

"Finished?" HE asked. "There is no escape. You are completely at my mercy, and I may do with you whatever I wish." HE stepped toward her again, HIS hand caressing her chin, a finger outlining her jaw, as HE leaned toward her. "Given your situation, it would behoove you to be nice." HE lowered HIS face to her own, HIS lips seeking her mouth, the weight of HIS chest heavy upon Therese's upper body. She moved her head from side to side, desperately attempting to avoid HIS attentions, and HE quickly drew a handful of her hair into HIS fist, holding HER head head still as HIS lips parted her own.

Moments later, he jumped back, a startled look upon HIS face, which was almost at once replaced by anger. "You bit me!" HE growled.

Not that she could do anything to prevent him.

She is more than a little embarrassed by her lapse in judgment over Claudia--but how could she help it? As if I wouldn't run to her and hug her? Of COURSE I was glad to see her safe!

But if what she and Brandon suspect of Claudia is true . . .

You ran straight to her. What if she were under HIS influence somehow? She might have had a knife, or a gun, or . . .

Mary Anne turns in disgust from her own thoughts, as they remind her too clearly of The Interrogator's attempts to persuade her to mistrust Renie. Remember? How many times did HE tell you that Renie had betrayed you--and NONE of it was true! Not one word! And now this . . . shouldn't Claudia have a chance to tell her story before we decide she's a traitor to us all? She said it had all been a misunderstanding. Please, God, let that be true . . .

Mary Anne becomes aware that Brandon is speaking and that Dev is sitting a little more quietly, though it is obvious he would like nothing better than to burst right through the wall of the study and go in search of Therese at once.

"Calm yourself, Eamon. This will accomplish nothing." Rather sternly. This earns Brandon a look of extreme though controlled irritation, which the Colonel sympathetically ignores as he continues. "There is no need for me to remind you of the value of information. Now . . . can you compose yourself, or shall I bring back Doctor DuBois to sedate you?"

Dev's quick glance around the room eloquently signals his disbelief that any or all of the persons present could immobilize him. However . . .

"That will not be necessary," he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair and resettling his spectacles.

"Good. Now, tell us what happened. All that you can recollect."

With a ragged sigh, Dev begins his tale.

Mary Anne listens carefully but it is difficult to concentrate, torn as she is between her pity for Dev's pain and her awe at his formidable will; his effort to pull himself together had been only too obvious, and Mary Anne is conscious of an increased respect for Therese, that she can love this man so deeply and can happily contemplate spending the rest of her life with him. And she will, Dev; she will! We will get her back for you; I know it! But she is glad that no one can hear her thoughts, to ask her "How?"

Keep her safe, prays Mary Anne silently. Of course, any idea of safety is a joke if Therese is in the power of The Interrogator. Nevertheless, Mary Anne continues her petition, the unspoken background to Dev's anguished narrative.

And we cut to:

HIS lair.

Where Therese sits before HIM, completely and utterly helpless . . .

"I don't have time for this!" He ran his fingers through his hair frantically. "I must find Therese!"

"Therese?" Claudia stood, alarm bells clanging wildly in her head. "What has happened to Therese?"

The Doctor almost tumbled to the floor as the chair became unbalanced, but managed to save himself with the umbrella and pull himself up into a stiff backed pose. "I think we should hear Mr De Valera's tale, before your own." He suggested.

"I must find her! I've been through this all before. Enough talk, action is what is required!"

"Mr De Valera, if you would briefly explain what has happened then perhaps we can help," suggested the Doctor.

"The Interrogator has taken her! On the very morning of our wedding! What would you suggest, Doctor?"

Suddenly she heard a voice call out her name from behind. "Claudia!!!" She turned round and saw Mary Anne flying down the stairs and running towards her. She smiled and opened her arms to catch Mary Anne in a hug.

"Where have you been?" Mary Anne said, pulling away from her friend to look at her, making sure she was really here and unharmed. "We have all been frantic with worry".

"I was about to explain. I'm really sorry – Ed shouldn't have involved you all in this. It's a big misunderstanding."

HIS hands paused in their effort, then tightened, almost inperceptibly along the column of Therese's throat. The merest hint of a threat. . .

She turned her head to look up at HIM. "Why?" It was a simple question, asked in a forthright manner, and for reasons completely unknown to Therese, it seemed to infuriate HIM. The pressure exherted on her windpipe increased, and she fought the panic welling within. Do not show fear, do not show fear. . . She repeated the words again and again in her mind, in a sort of twisted mantra. She maintained her position, forced herself to relax as much as humanly possible under the circumstances, and regarded HIM with her huge, dark gaze.

HIS hands fell to HIS sides, and she caught a glimpse of confusion in HIS hazel eyes. HE stepped back from her briefly, giving her a long, contemplative look, then approached her once more, HIS eyes determined and hard.

Therese had sensed within HIM a struggle, and had hoped for some sort of respite. It did not seem as if that possibility would now materialize. Sliding the chair away from HIM Therese rose and backed away several steps.

"Sit. Down." HIS voice was glacial.

"No."

HE moved to the table, and removed HIS jacket, which HE folded neatly, and placed upon the back of HIS chair. HE methodically rolled both of HIS shirt sleeves, then opened the same drawer from which the white shift that Therese now wore had come. HE drew forth a lightweight set of manacles.

Therese could not help herself this time, and she fled to the furthest corner of the room, which was not insubstantial in size. When she could move about, she could fight, regardless of HIS superior physical power, but to be strapped down and imobilized. . .she would truly be helpless.

HE took several steps toward her, the chains draped over one arm. "The longer I have to chase you, the harsher things will be when I have you situated."

Situated? It did not bear thinking about. She looked about the room, fighting the overwhelming sense of futility, which, she imagined, was precisely what HE wished. If only there were some way out, if only she had even the smallest weapon, if only she were not so much smaller than HIM. If only, if only. . .

HE advanced upon her steadily. Therese was careful to maintain the distance between them, feining left or right as necessary as HE attempted to close the gap. She would have probably been able to keep HIM at bay far longer had she been in full form, but this day had begun to take its toll on her. The combination of sedative, no food or drink, emotional upheaval, as well as HIS brilliant bursts of speed finally did her in. HIS arm locked over her own as HE pulled her about, feinting from the right in a move which would have been the envy of many professional athletes.

As soon as Therese felt HIS hand lock over her wrist, she turned and fought, kicking, clawing, and tearing at HIM with whatever she had.

HE was momentarily taken aback by her strength, which though in no way matched HIS own, was comendable for a woman of her size and stature, and it took him several moments to get a good enough grip to slip the manacles in place. She continued to struggle, even with her arms together in front of her body, and managed to claw at the front of HIS white shirt, her fingers catching at the material and tearing it downward. Had HE not worn braces, she would have probably pulled the material completely from HIS body, but the garment caught under the straps, the loosed buttons rolling upon the floor.

"I see I am not the first to wish you harm!" Therese growled at The Interrogator, indicating the criss cross of thin, white scar tissue which patterned HIS chest.

"Hardly," HE responded, twisting a fistful of her hair in HIS fist, and effectively imobilizing her head. "Just merely one of the many who wishes to do so but is not capable."

"We shall see," she muttered darkly as HE half drug, half carried Therese back to the waiting chair, and flung her roughly into it. There were clips already mounted into the armrests, which attatched to the restraints on her wrists, and it took HIM mere secconds to similarly secure her legs.

Therese sat before HIM, completely and utterly helpless.

Thanks so much, everybody.

Achilles, I'd like one of your famous kisses, please--and my other "wish" is for this scene to finish! What is everyone about to spring on poor unsuspecting Mary Anne?! =8-O and 8-D combined!

While Dot watches, Raz strides to the bed and forcefully pulls down the covers. He steps aside for Andrea to walk past him and lie down. Once she is settled on her back, Raz kneels on the floor beside the bed. He places his hands above Andrea's pelvis and asks her to confirm his information from the Holy Mother. "The pain is here? -- but inside."

Although Raz's hands do not touch her, Andrea feels their warmth. "Yes. -- Dr. Dubois gave me antibiotics to fight the infection, but the cuts still don't heal."

He knows what to do. "You have someplace special where you go to relax?"

She can guess why he asks. "Yes. There are a few places."

"Choose one and go there now -- in your mind. You understand me?"

Andrea nods and allows her eyelids to flutter closed as Raz passes a hand over her face from her forehead to her chin. After giving her a moment to form the mental image, he softly asks: "Where are you?"

"By a stream in the forest."

His voice sends her deeper into a state of hypnosis. "You hear the water spilling over the rocks, the breeze blowing through the tree branches? -- Now, feel the pain leave your body. Let it go. -- Is the pain gone?"

Andrea is barely conscious. "Yes."

"Good. Go to sleep." Exhausted and in pain, Raz collapses onto the floor.

After placing a quick call on her cell phone, Dot slips off Andrea's shoes and pulls the bedcovers over her.

Can I screw anything ELSE up when I'm here!? What was that Raffaella said about being 'chaos on legs' the other day. . .I think it may have been contagious!!

DoC, I realize that I'm never going to see the light of day as it is--so while I'm at it, could you please change that to 'P.L. and Sinclair' in MA's Birthday post?

Far off the set. . .

"Come on, Chrissie, you look great!"

Colonel Brandon sighed and rolled his eyes. Chrissie?? "Miss Therese, are you certain that Mary Anne will appreciate this, er. . ." He waved his hands helplessly in front of his, um, outfit, and awaited her response.

Therese took a step back from Brandon, and eyed him in appraisal, sparing him no thought. She started at the tip of his fair head, glanced over those amazing hazel eyes, paused for a brief moment, appreciating the distinct nose, spent an inordinate amount of time peering at his well formed--and bare--arms and shoulders, appreciated the flat stomach, became woozy over the looooong, black clad legs, and received a vicarious thrill at the calf high black boots. "You'll do," she assured him.

Taking the colonel by the arm she led him onto one of the lesser used sound stages on the back lot, pausing at the rear entrance. "Don't move," she whispered to him fiercely, "you had BEST be here when I return."

Brandon shot her a look that suggested she'd better not be gone too long or he would, in fact, decamp, and that his patience, though heroic, was flagging. "You, Miss Therese, are a bossy little woman. I do not find it hard to imagine that you once taught school."

Therese grinned up at him, laying a comforting hand on his arm. "And was quite liked by my students, if memory serves. Stop worrying, Christopher, Mary Anne is going to ADORE this, and all of your trouble will have been worth it. I just have to check to make sure Mr. I has everyone in place, and that The Director has arrived with our guest of honour."

********************************************************* Elsewhere On The Set

Mary Anne paused at the door to The Director's office, her breath coming just a bit faster than it normally would. Everything had been so quiet. . .had they remembered after all? The message she had received had demanded her presence, IMMEDIATELY. One did not keep The Director waiting. She knocked.

The Director looked up from the stack of papers on his desk, and smiled at Mary Anne. "Ah, very good, I like it when my actors are prompt." He stood at her approach. "I need your help, it's urgent for the coming scene," he gave her a baleful look, "need I tell you how far over budget we already are? Anything we can save by going through the contents of that unused soundstage will help maintain our viability."

Mary Anne looked toward The Director, confused. Over budget? Her help? Soundstage? Viability?? "I'm sorry, sir, I don't understand."

The Director looked at her and shook his head slightly, as if he were dealing with a rather slow child--who happened to be a relative. "The--Lair--Scene. We need a Lair! Or has it slipped everyone's mind that this doesn't actually exist? We have referred to it, but not SEEN it--and given the turn of the current story, we had better get one built, and soon. Your character's storyline revolved around Mr. I and HIS accomodations for quite some time, who better to see if anything can be of use, which DOESN'T have to be paid for!?"

He laid an arm over Mary Anne's shoulder, turning her around and herding her out the door to his faithful golf cart. "That's right, in you go!" he said, pushing her down into the awaiting seat, he hopped in the driver's side, and zipped off toward the abandoned soundstage. All right, Therese, I've done my part--what of you?

****************************************************** "Here they come! Places!" Mr. I's voice rang out over the assembled crowd. Sinclair reached for the lights behind the bar which had been hastily set up in the far corner of the room (An FOF party sans bar? Not a chance!) and plunged the room into darkness.

P.L. and Sinclair, (they may now be independent--but will always be part of the FOF family and are therefore required at all parties. . .) Raz, Mesmer, David, Hans, Colin, and all of the other male actors situated themselves behind conventient boxes and unused equipment piled upon the stage. Renie, best friend and official M.C., readied the mike and music while Therese cracked the rear stage door, grabbed Brandon's arm a bit more tightly (can't have him slipping out at the last moment!), and awaited Renie's cue. Andrea, Lin, Claire, Claudia, Kari, Grace, and all of the other female actors, found hiding spots beside their counterparts, as they waited impatiently for The Director to escort Mary Anne through the door. . .

I guess my teeth must have been chattering or something.

Mary Anne hesitates on the stairwell.

She can hear the commotion below in the study, and would rather walk into a den of lions than proceed. Brandon's voice . . . that "ENOUGH" and then the thunderous "MOVE!" make her press herself against the wall, shivering a little. How many times has Brandon ever raised his voice to her? She can count on one hand and have fingers left over; it is not a common occurrence. But when it does occur . . .

It is not fear for herself that freezes her there on the steps, watching as AR personnel file out of the study, shrinking back lest they look up and catch a glimpse of her there. No. It is . . . a conviction of her total inadequacy in this situation. What, after all, can she do? That, and the certain knowledge of how Dev's face will look when she enters the room. His eyes. She can imagine . . .

She remembers her conversation with Therese in that study, trying to divert her during the search for Claudia. And how Therese had looked so amused when she said, "Men are so powerful." Perhaps she had sounded a bit the wide- eyed innocent on that; no wonder Therese thought it was funny.

It would have been more accurate to say, "OUR men are so powerful."

Mary Anne wraps her arms around herself, trying to believe that she is shivering because the house is cool--and not believing it for a moment. Thinking of Brandon's touch upon her, gentle as the fall of a leaf, yet irresistible in its loving power to carry her past fears and doubts and hesitations.

But that same hand that caresses her so tenderly . . . her memory travels back and drags her with it . . . back to the room at Safehouse #3, The Interrogator slumped against the oak wardrobe . . . Brandon advancing, sword in hand . . .

Her nails are digging into her palm. She opens her hand before they can draw blood.

And then, there is Dev. Stubborn and domineering Dev, who adores Therese . . . who did not hesitate to forcefully show her the error of her ways, but was just as quick to recognize the error of his own. Mary Anne does not doubt that if The Interrogator were suddenly to appear, Dev would literally tear HIM limb from limb.

Those men, in the study--Mary Anne thinks of the shift of tectonic plates, meeting in the impact of an earth tremor . . .

Stop it! Christopher said he needs you. Now get DOWN there . . .

But even as she tries to force her feet to move, the decision is made for her as she hears a door open below, and more voices . . .

The Doctor.

And another--?

A woman's voice . . . and unmistakable.

Mary Anne's eyes widen, and before she can even think, she is down the stairs, practically flying to the study.

"Claudia--!"

Brandon whirled, about to tear down whoever had dared to enter his study without knocking. It was the Doctor…

"I mean to say, if you would kindly tell me what is going on here, perhaps I could assist?"

… and next to the Doctor, looking rather uncomfortable was Claudia… Claudia. It took a moment for it to register, then Brandon looked back at Dev, who stood, staring with his mouth open, momentarily halted in his rant. This was Claudia, who they had searched for all of yesterday, and believed to have been taken by the Interrogator. She was here and Therese was gone. What did this mean?

As Brandon approached his study, he began to wonder whether he were to have a study left, given the sounds emenating from within the oak walls. A loud thud , muffled from the closed door, caused him to shake his head breifly before crossing through the threshhold.

The sight before him would have been comical, were it not so tragic.

Dev was backed into a corner, an AR personnel dangling from either arm, as Dr. DuBois attempted to get a hypo within stabbing distance. One could only assume the thud had come from AR personnel number three, who was currently picking himself up off the floor to go after de Valera once again. The only thing that saved the scene from turning into an all out brawl was the fact that none of the participants wished to harm one another.

"ENOUGH." Five heads snapped to attention at the tone of command presented by Colonel Brandon. "Eamon, sit down. Dr. DuBois, put the needle away. Alliance Rose staff, man the door." There was a moment of shocked silence as everyone seemed to hang in the balance.

"MOVE!"

Dev sat. DuBois sheathed her syringe. AR soldiers filed out.

"Now," Brandon moved to stand in front of Dev and Dr. DuBois, "we will need to plan a sensible course of action in order to insure that Miss Therese is returned as quickly as possible." He looked toward Dev, and saw the raw pain reflected in those haunted almond eyes. He leaned forward to rest a hand upon Dev's shoulder. "Eamon, we will get her back."

"I am going to go and get her back NOW. Do not try to stop me." Eamon's voice was ragged, and he ran his fingers shakily through his hair.

"Would you excuse us, please, Doctor?" Brandond requested, excusing the woman from the room. When she had left, he drew the ottoman over to the sofa that Dev perched on, and sat in front of the other man. "Eamon, you cannot do this by yourself. Believe me when I tell you that I understand this--remember, HE took Mary Anne from me once, just as HE now has taken Therese. We will not rest until she has been found, and we will find her. Your running off alone will not aid our search, we need you here, as part of the Alliance Rose effort.

Dev stood up, hands clasped at his side, fists clenching and unclenching in his distress. "How am I to sit? How am I to remain still while others plan and organise? I can not! I will hunt HIM to the very ends of the Earth if need be, I will cover every piece of the woods surrounding your home in order to find HIM."

"Eamon, listen to me. You will do those things, I swear to you, and I will be with you, by your side, as we do them. But first we need to locate HIM, find out information as to HIS whereabouts, and make certain that this time," Brandon paused, and placed one fist in the palm of another, his hands slapping lightly together in emphasis. "THIS time, he will not escape."

* * *

"I just want to go home," Grace whispered into Colin's shoulder. Then she pulled herself together and quickly pushed away from him. It would be too easy to sink into this broad chest and sob out her troubles to this kind man with the melting voice just like Hart's. But that was no solution. She had to get out of there.

Colin looked at her, his head bent to one side. "Want to talk about it? Drunks make quite good listeners, even when they're sober." Grace looked at him. His face was stubbly and drawn, his eyes red rimmed and tired. He was nobody's idea of a father confessor, and she started to smile.

"Or should I just apologize and take you home?" Colin continued, a puzzled look crossing his face. "Or maybe you should take me home? How *did* we get here, anyway?" His confused expression was intentionally comic, but no less genuine for it. Grace started to laugh helplessly, the tension broken between them.

Colin looped a companionable arm around her shoulders and steered her toward the elevators. He was relieved she seemed to be feeling better, although he still had no idea what was troubling her. Maybe he had misbehaved with her. He sincerely hoped not, and resolved to ask her. . . much later. "Let's go. I know the doorman. He should be able to get us out of here."

Grace scooped up her purse and let Colin lead her toward the elevators.

"What's going on?" frowned Claudia. "They look like they're on a mission."

"Can't be looking for you today," smiled the Doctor. "They aren't that bad at their job."

"What can have happened? It can't be the Interrogator, not today. HE wouldn't have followed me here, surely."

The Doctor raised an eyebrow at her. " I thought by now you would have learned not to make assumptions… especially where HE is concerned."

"You're right, but I can't see the reason…"

"Perhaps we should wait until we reach the house. I'm sure someone will tell us what's going on. That is, after they've finished racking you over the coals."

Happy Birthday to FOF! And, thank you to all the contributors for playing so nicely together. Of course, special thanks go to Suzanne for hosting and to Mr. Rickman for inspiring.

Therese backed away from the Interrogator, her heart pounding, her head throbbing, and blue murder flashing from her dark eyes. After straigtening HIS suit, HE had returned to HIS seat, and regarded her speculatively.

"I'm sorry, I did not mean to frighten you," HE began, holding out HIS arm to indicate the seat across from HIM. HIS tone was similar to one that would be taken with a recalcitrant child, and it did nothing to calm Therese's anger. "But you really must learn to do as I say, regardless of what I ask. Now be seated and we will try this again."

Therese regarded HIM coldly, and looked toward the chair HE indicated. Her fear and her anger were evenly matched at this point, and she stared at HIS throat, imagining that she had the power to throttle the life out of HIM.

The Interrogator made a mental note. HE dealt with all types, both male and female, and was accustomed to reactions of many disparate ranges. Women, in HIS experience, frequently allowed their fear to control them, making them much easier for HIM to manipulate. Rage was far more frequently a masculine response, but this one, HE allowed HIMself an inward smile that was in no way evident upon HIS features, this one was angry, no furious with HIM. She would be most interesting indeed. Perhaps another tactic was in order. . .

"I don't believe you are capable of doing me the physical injury that you desire, though you are welcome to try."

Therese glared at HIM, uncomfortable that her thoughts were so obvious. She would have to perfect her mien of indifference. It irritated her far greater, however, that HE was correct, she was not capable of doing HIM physical injury--or at least not without the added element of surprise. She would wait, and find the right time. Crossing over to the indicated chair, Therese sat.

"I'm sure this has all been very difficult for you." HIS tone was softer than it had been, less threatening, and the hair along the back of Therese's neck stood on end. She didn't know what HE was about, but she knew that HE was in no way sorry or sympathetic to her situation.

"With your simple cooperation I am certain that we could have you returned to your lodgings in little time. That would be your wish, of course?"

"Of course," Therese responded in a dull monotone. She had no delusions, and knew that HIS talk was simply a ploy. She truly could not imagine what HE wanted with her here, or why she was being held--their one previous incident surely could not justify this?

HE rose from HIS seat, and Therese flinched involuntarily, then cursed herself for doing so. She remained in her chair, though every nerve, muscle, and synapse in her body screamed for her to flee. Do not let HIM see your fear, do NOT allow HIM any more advantages than HE already possesses.

HE crossed around the table, HIS pace even and slow. Therese had seen a famous horse trainer gentle a wild mustang at a clinic once. The animal was frightened out of its mind in the comotion, and the trainer approached the horse as The Interrogator moved toward Therese now, with slow, calm, measured steps.

When HE was directly behind her, Therese had to concentrate fully on maintaining her position, the desire to flee was almost overpowering. When she felt HIS hands upon her shoulders, she did lunge forward in her chair involuntarily, but HE exerted a steady, even pressure in order to keep her seated. HIS touch was firm, yet not rough. It was not intended to cause pain, of this Therese was certain, for HE could easily accomplish that in HIS current position, should he so choose.

Therese's confusion mounted when HE began to massage her shoulders, HIS touch even and sure. She knew that this was deliberate, to throw her off, and catch her unprepared. . . yet it was a full five minutes before she finally spoke.

"It will not work."

I think I'm still the new kid on the block, having been here only since Thanksgiving (NOT FOF time, I might add. . .) but I just wanted to let everyone know how much I enjoy the writing and especially the camaraderie. (or however you spell it)

Bartender, Sinclair--champagne to all of my friends, on me!

Who would have ever thought that we could have gotten all of this just from a similar fascination with a certain actor of British persuasion? It's a fascinating world in which we live.

"Maybe we're early." P.L. stops suddenly and looks around. "Do you hear something? Where's that coming from?"

Sinclair crosses over to the doorway and leans out. "Down the hall, I think."

They left the echo of ghosts in the rehearsal room and followed their ears. "Late, would be my guess." Sinclair shoots an accusing glance at P.L., who's only response is to consult the peace of paper, still in his hand.

"What is that?" questioned P.L., distractingly, as they hastened their pace.

"Sounds like...... singing."

"Here." They push the door open just in time to see...

AR, the Director setting a beautifully decorated cake down on the table, he and the rest of the cast and crew singing the remainder of "Happy Birthday to you."

Sinclair smiles. Ahhhhh, all the familiar faces. Now *this* is going to be a party!

About to decamp for a camping trip (hoping the batteries don't die when I listen to ROTN during the night) but needed to toast you all! *CLINK* May the stories never end!

Ummm--how about those outtakes from the closed sets--check the lower locked file cabinet for the tapes, key is under the plant *wicked grin* (actually, this might include some Downtime material *snicker*).

I'm babbling, when what I really wanted to say is . . .

Happy Birthday to FOF!

I've loved being with you people these two years--here's to the next, and many more.

The Director sits at his desk, digging steadily away at the pile of work that never seems to diminish. Always something to do: read drafts of script ideas, edit scenes in progress, consult with Continuity and Props and Wardrobe . . .

The Director frowns in puzzlement. Just where has the Continuity Girl been lately, anyway? Not that her work is not getting done; quite the contrary. Everything in her department is carried out quite as it should be--it is just that he hasn't seen much of her lately, and worse still, he is only just now noticing that he has missed her.

He shakes his head. There is such a thing as working too hard. Being too busy.

"Thou find'st to be too busy is some danger," he mutters, staring at the heap of work on his desk. Then, deliberately, he pushes his chair backwards, away from the desk, granting himself at least a few moments' respite. For at least five minutes by the clock--he glances at his watch--you shall not touch that desk or anything on it.

He sinks back in his chair. He may not touch the work, but it is impossible to avoid thinking about it. However, he chooses to think of positive things. Successes on the set.

Renie putting in an appearance for some scenes, and being welcomed back to the set with open arms by the rest of the cast. So, I won't have to sue those pretty little shorts off of her, after all . . .

His cast has been behaving beautifully lately, even the known mischief-makers. Even Kari . . . He grins. Even Mary Anne . . . And at that, The Director's smile widens still further. He has calmed down a bit about her April Fool's Day shenanigans, but she could probably still do with a lesson if he can arrange it. A lesson . . . or two. Or three.

Leigh's material, wonderfully paced. And her first attempt at a "weave" went perfectly--that doesn't always happen. And everyone's on the edge of their seat waiting for Claudia's scenes . . .

The Director indulges himself in a long stretch, lying back in the chair and flexing his arms all the way to the fingertips, easing the tension from his shoulders--and grinning at the friendly wagering that has broken out among the cast over whether Claudia will succeed in seducing Brandon.

And those scenes between Therese and Mister I . . . Whatever they had worked out in their private rehearsals--well, he is not a man to quarrel with success, not after they had gotten those first interrogation room scenes in a single take.

The Director straightens up, then, and pulls his chair closer to the desk. Yet he does not return to the pile of paperwork, but one important matter still remains to be settled:

Where shall we hold the FOF Anniversary cast party this year?

After all, today is the day.

The Director reaches for a clean sheet of paper and begins to jot notes. First, the goodie reel of outtakes. Hmmmmm . . .

Renie and Hans and the oxen
Brandon in the bunny suit
Selections from the one hundred takes of Kari and Achilles

The list could go on and on . . . and does, as The Director returns with absorbed attention to his "work . . ."

The top floor of the Hansbank began to fill with sunlight just before six a.m. Grace woke with a start, instantly uncomfortable in her awkward position on the floor. Still sprawled out on the small sofa, long legs dangling over the edge, Colin slept on, his mouth open, softly snoring.

Grace got up slowly, making sure not to wake Colin. She walked to the outer office and picked up a phone to check for messages on her office and cellular lines, but there were none. Hart had not called. Steeling herself, she dialed Hart's home number. On the second ring, Joy answered. "Who are you and what do you want?" she growled.

"Grace Alexander. Please hang up so I can speak with Lukas."

Joy laughed. "I don't think he wants to talk to you. Besides, he's. . . busy. It's been so long since he's seen his wife. . . do I have to paint you a picture?"

Grace bit back the range of colorful metaphors that came to mind. "Never mind. I'll call him back." She hung up the phone, her hand shaking. She didn't believe Joy's insinuation, but neither could she ignore the little nagging doubt growing in the back of her mind. Surely Hart would have left her a message if he couldn't reach her. Wouldn't he? But he hadn't. She tried Hart's cellular phone, but there was no answer. Where was he?

In Colin's office, the moving band of bright sunlight reached his face, finally waking him. He lay still a moment, realizing he was on the sofa in his office, fully clothed. He had a pounding headache and no idea how he had gotten there. His tongue felt furry as he tried to lift his head. With a moan, he pulled himself upright and waited for the room to start spinning. It didn't, so he pushed himself to his feet. The sound of a woman's voice in the next room attracted his attention. He stumbled to the doorway and recognized Grace Alexander standing in the adjoining office. What on earth was she doing here?

"Changed your mind about working for us? Early bird getting the worm and all that? What time is it, anyway?" Colin rambled. Idly, he scratched his head and ambled over to a coffee machine in the outer office.

Grace wheeled around to face him. She had had just about enough of Colin Molyneux. Right or wrong, she blamed him for keeping her out of touch with Hart. He yawned and rubbed his eyes as he waited for coffee to brew. "Do you remember anything about how you got there?" she barked.

Colin blinked his eyes and turned toward her. And gave her a long, appreciative look up and down her wrinkled black suit. "A tragic loss of a beautiful memory, I'm sure. Why not refresh my recollection, counselor?" He lurched toward her, arms open wide, wondering what *had* happened.

Grace deflected him, pushing him away from her and into a nearby chair. "Don't even think it, you drunken oaf. Nothing like that happened. I rescued your alcoholic a** from the Peninsula Hotel, where you had earned a trip to the drunk tank, and this is the thanks I get, trapped in your offices half the night." Fatigue and frustration, and Joy's little digs, finally got to her. She raised her voice. "I wouldn't touch you with a barge pole, you filthy, drunken, ungrateful, rat-faced. . . ." Her voice turned into a wordless splutter. She had an unreasonable and highly uncharacteristic Scarlett O'Hara urge to throw something breakable at him.

Colin got up and walked gingerly toward her. Her shouting was making his head pound. "Ssssssshhhh. People get here early. Someone might hear you." That's all I need, the notorious early riser Bruno Stern walking in to see Grace dishevelled and me nursing an epic hangover, he thought to himself. He raised a hand to his temple and grimaced, while his voice took on an injured tone as he looked at her from under his eyebrows. "Rat-faced? The rest is probably true, but surely you didn't mean that?"

Grace bit her lip, sorry for her outburst, her downcast face showing at last the unutterable sadness she felt at not being able to reach Hart, not knowing for sure what his wife was up. . . or what he was up to with his wife. Colin was struck by the look on her face. Automatically, he put his hands on her arms and drew her against him, murmuring comforting sounds but not knowing what was troubling this formidable woman.

. . . as the camera moves forward to the desk. We see the pile of letters, neatly slit with a daggerlike letteropener which Claudia had slipped into Renie's huge suitcase when she had departed from Delaford. Postmarks from around the globe. Heavy stationery. Clean, tasteful and actually signed by the rarified senders--all addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Hans Gruber. Officials, presidents, leaders and prime ministers--the players who seek out the people with power. Their number is staggering. The letters, impressive. Some are formal, but pointed in their friendship. Some are scented, and border on the personal, but they are part of the game of those women who move in the right circles.

All in all, they are invitations from the well-known, the well-regarded, the well-heeled, the well-wishers who have invited Hans and his nouveau femme to visit, get better acquainted, and spend a week or two at the chateau, comme il faut.

Repondez si vous plait. R.S.V.P. Then, in a woman's handrwiting, "Say yes!" Or the sheik's almost illegible scrawl--"We will play again the chess. You will please to come soon."

The camera sweeps over them, letters and gifts: a Danish seal here, a photo of Hans in a palace surrouned Middle Eastern turbaned dignitaries, and a rare bonsai orange tree from the Chinese "Wise Men." Underneath the Chinese characters, printed in English (for her benefit, she thought neatly) read the inscription "For Matrimonial Luck." Renie had smiled. She had seen those Chinese characters before and knew that the more accurate translation was "Long and Fruitful Marriage." But the Chinese were diplomats, as were--as far as Renie could see--all of the authors who had penned these invitations and sent these delightful gifts.

The paucity of the pile of finished answers, however, suggests that her task had been checked by at least two other projects--one of which, a letter to her dearest friend Mary Anne--was duly completed, and lying in a corner of her desk. The other--the computer's considerable public information on Hansbank trading--was drawing to a lengthy close. Hans had come home just as the voice-enabled computer was about to announce "Downloading completed" . . .

. . . When, with his kiss--and ohhhh, such a kiss--the formidable Hans Gruber had drawn the attention of his wife decidedly elsewhere. Somewhere where "downloading" was just beginning . . .

So rapt was her attention--and his--that neither spouse took the least notice of the tennis racket which slid from the duvet of the bed, landing--in a manner rather reminiscent of a posh advertising layout for the French Open--on the floor, next to the suit from Paris, also discarded and forgotten, the real contestants having gotten well underway.

Love-love.

The heavy front door makes no sound as it closes, just a whoosh of air. Such are the pleasure of good design.

"Meine leibe?" His VOICE, although soft, carries through the house, which knows its master.

"Up here, Hans!"

His eyes flicker upwards. How does his wife's voice manage to reach him through the expanse of this place? She can whisper in seductive tones, and yet she can boom in a voice louder than a Saturday afternoon umpire. No matter. It has been a long day . . . he has missed her . . . .

Depositing his briefcase on the couch, Hans feels in his pocket for something, then walks through the grand foyer and up the grand staircase, twisting its way to the second floor, to the set of bedrooms dotted there like candles on a cake. The second tier balcony overlooks the living room , which is not so much living room as priceless museum--in the sculptural midst of a Henry Moore and a Giacometti is Ed's modern representational sculpture of Hans' wife. Renie insisted it belonged in a place of honour, and so it was.

The tower "apartment" near the Hansbank would still be in use, of course, but this place--well, it would suit the needs of growing family . . . Hans' step quickens, as he anticipates Renie's rapture in seeing him home, so early, her smile . . .

Unerring in his senses when it comes to his wife, Hans unfastens the top and middle buttons--these of his Parisian tailored suit jacket, walking--almost sliding along the thick carpet; he guesses that she is in the master bedroom. Passing through the open door of the very last of five bedroom on the left, he finds he has guessed rightly.

She sits, prettily, her brown hair fanning over the back of a sleeveless tennis top, in front of the large window overlooking the gardens and tennis court. Intent at her desk--cherry wood, black walnut and sterling silver accents--that is, if you could see the bold Italian design underneath the piles of letters, envelopes and, yes, the computer and its entourage. Hans sweeps up behind her.

"There--now it's downloading." Her tennis racket lies lost on the bed. She has been at this for some time.

Well, not exactly rapture, then . . . Hans muses. Renie nods her satisfaction at the screen, and tilts her her head back as she hears Hans come up behind her. Her mouth floats--available--in the air, the front of her throat exposed, her lips fallen open--as the muscles of the mouth often do, in that singularly unguarded position . . .

Hans begins with his hands on her shoulders. And, as she feels the touch of his divine hands on her skin, her eyes close . . .

"I'm home." She hears the words in her left ear, and goosebumps seem to ripple across her neck . . . then she feels his mouth touch upon her open lips, his soft short whiskers and the taste of him . . . Home. Yes. Home. I am your home, Hans.

Everything else, vergessen. Forgotten.

Some touch on her shoulder. A gentle shaking. Drifting upward, through the mists of sleep, drawn by that strong, persistent hand . . .

"Mary Anne?"

Her eyes, fogged with drowsiness, flicker open.

"I am sorry . . . my dearest . . ."

Brandon's face.

Sleep flees in an instant.

Brandon's face. Mary Anne has seen it like this on a very few occasions-- during the duel with Valmont . . . in the dungeons beneath the Manor House . . . at Safehouse #3, when the Colonel had advanced on The Interrogator with sword drawn, intent on dealing justice for HIS insinuations . . .

When The Interrogator had told them that Renie was dead . . .

The fire glows, but it seems that the room is full of shadows as Mary Anne sits up, wrapping the blankets about her. Brandon's bone-white face . . . "Christopher, what--?"

Brandon seats himself next to her on the bed and takes her hands in his. It will be no kindness to linger over this; there is no way to break it to her gently. "Mary Anne, Miss Therese has been . . . taken by The Interrogator."

There was a time when Mary Anne, presented with such news, would probably have fainted. As it is, her fingers tighten on Brandon's and the blood drains from her face, but when Brandon makes to leave the bed and fetch the water pitcher, she shakes her head. "No! I-- Stay with me, sir. I'm all right."

That she most decidedly is not, but Brandon remains, putting an arm about her and drawing her to him to still her trembling, which seems at first as if it will never stop.

Mary Anne swallows. Her mouth is dry; her lips are numb. But she finally manages to say, "How . . . ?"

A heavy sigh from Brandon. "It seems that Mister de Valera was intent on marrying her this very morning. He sought directions to the parish priest--"

"Yes. It would have to be a Catholic ceremony."

"Yes. They meant to ride--" Brandon halts, briefly overcome--thinking of Therese on Menelaus. How astounded he had been at her graceful and competent management of the animal . . . the race to the tree . . . "They meant to ride, and Hayes went with them, since my orders were that no one should be without an escort." A pause. "I had meant an Alliance escort, naturally. I should have been more specific."

A long silence.

"The horses returned--without riders."

The clasp of Brandon's arms about her. She is not the only one who trembles.

"Mister de Valera returned. They were assaulted by the forces of The Interrogator, and Therese was captured. Eamon had to leave Hayes where he had fallen, to come and tell us--"

"What about Hayes? Is he--?"

"No. When Eamon left, he was unconscious. Some Alliance soldiers have gone to see to him. Mister de Valera is downstairs. He is . . . distraught."

I can well imagine! "You didn't leave him alone, surely!"

"No. Doctor Dubois is with him, and several of the Alliance people." Hint of a grim smile from the Colonel. "It seemed that it would require . . . several . . . to restrain him. To prevent him from going immediately in search of Miss Therese. And Mister Sifuentes has sent a message to Commander Hudson."

Who will NOT be pleased to hear about this. "It seems strange," says Mary Anne slowly, fighting the tremor in her voice, "that The Interrogator did not take Dev as well. He would be an extremely valuable prisoner."

"Yes. Perhaps HE did not have the men available, to capture both. But if Eamon is not closely watched, The Interrogator may have him yet. At the moment, Eamon would make nothing of attacking HIM singlehanded."

Just as you would, if I were in HIS power. Oh, Christopher . . .

"Please dress and come down as soon as you may, Mary Anne. It would be most helpful if . . ." Brandon's eyes close. "I need you." Softly.

Mary Anne leans over and kisses Brandon's cheek, then slips out of his arms. "Go back and help with Eamon however you can. I'll be down in just a few minutes."

Though she is not certain her legs will support her, Mary Anne pushes the covers away from her and slips out of bed, hurried along by the memory of Brandon's grateful look. You're his wife. And he said it himself: he needs you. This is no time to fall apart. But her heart is wrung with fear for Therese and with pity for Dev as she hastily washes her face, brushes her hair, and buttons herself into her clothes.

How can I help? What can I do?

Another few seconds and Andrea would have opened the window and jumped out. From a sound sleep, she had suddenly opened her eyes wide, sprung from the bed, and run toward the window.

The AR soldier had reacted quickly to prevent Andrea's departure, and she now held onto her tightly while demanding an explanation. "Where do you think you're going? Stop struggling, or I'll sit on you."

It takes a moment for Andrea's head to clear. When she becomes aware of what has happened, she relaxes in the arms of her guard. "Forgive me. I didn't know what I was doing."

The soldier releases Andrea and helps her to sit on the bed. "A dream?"

Andrea considers this possibility. "I don't believe so. I think HE is out there."

Therese looked around her; she was in a large, open room, with a single table situated in the middle, a chair placed neatly under each side. The interior of the area was a dull gray colour, and two pillars stood as supports from floor to ceiling. There were no windows, and the overall effect was of being underground, though she did not know if this were true or not.

She realized that she was no match for HIM physically, of that much she was certain; HE must not be allowed to get HIS hands upon her again. That would be a challenge in her normal condition, but woozy from the sedative she was at HIS mercy. Therese knew all too well that of this, HE had none.

"Stand up," he commanded, his voice a deadly calm.

Therese scooted sideways along the floor, distancing herself from her tormentor.

HE did not pursue her, but merely stood HIS ground. "Stand up," HE repeated firmly. "I rarely react to prior incidents, it is unlikely to occur a second time."

Therese struggled to her knees once more, wobbled there briefly, braced her arms against the wall, and slowly pulled herself upright. Her skull throbbled with the effort, and she shook her head to clear it. She had no idea how long she'd been unconscious, but her limbs felt stiff and cumbersome from the lingering effects of the drug.

The Interrogator took several steps toward her, and Therese quickly moved backwards a like distance. HIS movements were leonine and graceful, a hunter patiently stalking its prey, hers were awkward and ungainly as she fought to control her body and her terror.

"I have little time, and no tolerance for games," HE indicated the table and chairs. "Be seated."

Therese looked toward the area HE had indicated. If she could sit for a moment, to allow her mind to clear and her body to coordinate itself. . .she could plan her escape. "I would feel more comfortable were you to be seated first," she told HIM, her voice soft, yet firm. She struggled to maintain her vocal pattern, she knew instinctively that to allow him to see her fear would be a fatal error.

HE regarded her for a moment, studying her, before HE inclined HIS head a mere fraction of an inch, and crossing the room, HE sat in the chair closest to Therese.

She had been hoping HE would choose the seat on the opposite side of the table, across from where she stood. In HIS current position she would have to move within arm's reach, something she was in no hurry to do.

HE watched her progress as she moved around HIM and to the remaining chair, arching a brow at her obvious attempt to remain as far from HIS person as possible as she flattened herself against the wall before coming to rest lightly on the very edge of the seat.

"Are you comfortable? Is there anything which you require?" HE began.

"My immediate release."

"In good time," HE responded. "What is your name?"

"If you do not even know who I am, why have you abducted me?" Therese demanded, her eyes flashing.

HIS guise of easy tolerance evaportated, and he slid to the edge of HIS chair. "This can be easy, Therese Anne Gellert, or it can be very, very difficult." HE opened a drawer underneath the table and removed a square, white piece of fabric, which HE unfolded into a thin, sleeveless shift. Passing it to her across the table HE said, "Remove your clothes and put this on."

Therese's head snapped up indignantly. "I will not!"

At the first sign of HIS movement toward her, Therese was also out of her seat, but she was simply no match for HIS speed, escecially given her weakened condition. HE grabbed her roughly by one arm and pulling her backward, sweeping her feet out from under her body with his foot. She would have fallen had HE not lowered her more gently to the ground. Once she was prone, he kneeled over her, pinning her between his legs, and methodically began to remove her clothing.

Therese fought HIM with everything she had, attempting to twist and wrench herself from HIS grasp, crying out in her frustration and horror. Despite her valiant efforts, she could not escape, and soon her garments were strewn around her on the floor. When she was completely unclothed, HE rose, straightened his jacket with a cursory tug, and returned to the table. Taking the shift from where it lay, HE he threw it at her, hitting her squarely in the stomach. She quickly drew it over her head before rising from the floor, her chest heaving.

Therese wanted to attack HIM, to claw at HIS face and eyes for daring to touch her person. She was furious, humiliated. . . and very, very frightened.

Special skills and camera angles must be utilzed in the upcoming "Interrogator's Lair" scene. Remember, our ratings do not allow for nudity.

Cast:

This will be a closed set.