It was not until Christine and Marshall had closed their bedroom door that Nancy breathed a sigh of relief. Christine had probably not noticed her brief suppression of the other personality, and she prayed to the lords of darkness she would remain unknowing while Nancy, or at least the body she wore, was a houseguest. She would regret having to kill the other woman; Christine had assisted in her own emergence, and had always been a good friend.

Nancy frowned. They had discovered this evening that others were not being as kind to her friend. She would deal with them in due course, and they would rue the day. Regretfully, she set aside those thoughts of revenge, and turned to her current acquisition with a grim smile.

By a misfortunate timing of graduation, she'd missed attending the first gathering of the others. Oh, she knew who they were, from comments, story dedications, and her own divinations in the dark, knew names, thoughts, could almost see faces. The group as yet had no name, but would one day, cutting a swathe of talent through the unsuspecting populace. Having missed that first vital meeting, though, she had been rendered incapable of commanding them, or the ones who would follow and fall into the group, the clan.

M&M's indeed! She would have shown them visions beyond the dreams of mortals! Assuming the other personality didn't start spouting nonsense as she was doing so. Missy had her uses, but her silliness often precluded anyone's taking either of them seriously, especially Nancy herself. Figment of the imagination, they called her, and worse. Missy would laugh, but Nancy would draw her own dark thoughts closer, adding another name to the list of those who would learn the color of revenge was Brown.

As always, thoughts of revenge brought a smile to her face, a smile that lingered as she reached into her pocket, pulling from it a fine coil of dark hair. In the light of the streetlamp outside, she clearly saw the follicle clinging to the end like a tear, ready to fall for humanity.

Holding her carefully-won prize, she dug through her suitcase for the specimen envelope, and put the hair safely inside. She'd taken it during one of several hugs in the evening. Neither her prey nor her alternate had noticed.

A noise came from the bedroom. The baby had awakened. She heard Christine comfort her, felt Missy slide back into place with concern. It didn't matter now. The other could keep possession of the body for the rest of her stay in New York. Once they had returned to Rolla, then they would see who was in charge.

Inside another face, Nancy smiled and made her plans.

***
October 25, 1996
Rolla, MO
***

Nancy slipped back in control of the body without difficulty, and stretched. She'd been taking control more and more often as of late, and Missy had been encouraging her! The little fool believed Nancy was helping her write a story, and as Nancy had managed to make this particular story quite long, Missy let her stay in charge for extended periods of time. Large chunks of text appeared on a regular basis, so Missy was happy and Nancy was free to do as she pleased with the body.

The most delightful, laughable thing of all was the utter lack of interest from the Chemistry department. Whatever she ordered, she put down as needed for the lab she taught. When she had taken the petri dishes, the agar, and later, the more complex nutrient bath materials from Life Sciences, no one had blinked an eye. She was a TA, and therefore below consideration. Her invisibility had made her bold. The final stage of the plan had taken place in the Chem building itself.

The storage room beside the main Pchem lab was mostly abandoned, but for a few antique Apple IIe's and last year's lab notebooks. The window was covered with ragged paper, for the experiment was light-sensitive. No use having runaway reactions when she could prevent them. She'd rekeyed the locks to the room, but she was the only one who would even notice for months. By then, the first part of her plan would be completed. The rest could be done in the privacy of her own house, in the back bedroom she officially used for guests that never came.

Almost never came. Nancy frowned. Missy had invited her friend Amy to live with them for a while. When she had finally, mercifully fled the country, Nancy had celebrated inwardly, thinking she would have the place to herself. Then Missy invited another friend to stay for a few days. Larry would be taking up space in the back bedroom, but he would be gone shortly after Samhain.

She rechecked the calculations. Yes, it was time.

She went out to the main lab and made certain the door was locked. No use in having curious students dropping by to ask her inane questions about heats of combustion. The lock held, and the hallway remained dark.

Inside the storage room, a pile of papers, a lab coat draped atop, pulsed in a heartbeat rhythm. She removed the coat, dug through the papers, excavated her work.

The container was small for the job, but she had dared no more than this. Electrodes ran through the system, attached to the walls of the plexiglass, and to that contained within it. On the floor, a laptop kept its silent watch over her creation, feeding it the proper chemicals to grow, and information to learn. Nightly she thanked the Dark Ones that she lived in the era of CD-ROM, where a life's worth of knowledge could be transmitted in a few thin digitally-mastered disks.

"All right, Anton," she said to the laptop, "Let's see if you're worth your cost." Anton, being a computer, said nothing.

Nancy input a command. Then she input another.

The container gurgled, sounding much like the last man whose throat she'd slit. She listened further, and decided it was a different sound after all. She watched as the nutrient bath drained from the container into a waste container, which Waste Management would remove without a second thought the following week.

The thing inside the container opened its eyes and screamed.

The lights! She cursed herself for an idiot, and shut off the harsh fluorescent bulbs, leaving the room bathed in the weak glow of the monitor.

The thing's eyes still remained shut against the dim light. She hadn't anticipated this level of sensitivity. Her creation would need to wear dark glasses for some time until her eyes adjusted, if they ever did.

Once the draining process was complete, Nancy unlocked the container and reached inside. Almost gently, she assisted her creation to a standing position. Her legs were weak, having never been used, and she looked fearful. She had anticipated this.

"Do you know who I am?"

The creation nodded. She opened her mouth, made a wet noise, coughed, and said in a voice never before used: "You are the Creator."

"Good." The programming had worked! Now to test how much of the rest had taken. "Do you know who you are?"

"Yes. I am the Created."

"Yes. No," she corrected. The thing would need a name.

She inspected her handiwork in the near-darkness of the little room. The accelerated growth program she'd bought had yielded a near-duplicate of the source: adult female, apparently in her early twenties, about 5'3", dark curly hair damply plastered at her head.

Nancy handed the clone the clothing she'd brought for this evening's work. As she donned the simple sweatshirt and skirt, Nancy remembered the woman whose hair she'd stolen, and thought on lines by Dante upon first meeting a special woman:

Daughter of God. Wasn't that the meaning of the woman's name from whom she'd stolen this cellular pattern? How perfect!

Her creation had finished dressing, and stood before her, ready to be nurtured and commanded.

"Your name is Beatrice." The clone nodded, accepting the name as she had the clothes, without question. Nancy liked her already.

***
December 20, 1996
***

" ... is progressing rapidly in her development, much faster than I'd anticipated. Not even two months old, she can dress and feed herself better than most teenagers I know. Her study program is also going better than I could have imagined. I'm exposing her to as much science and science fiction as possible, but Beatrice herself chose to add to that the study of music and theatre, something I hadn't planned on showing her until February. I can only hope that this will aid in her assimilation into the Dreamer Clan more effectively."

Nancy shut her journal and placed it back into its hiding place beneath the couch. As often as Missy cleaned, she'd never find it there. As she usually did when thinking of her alternate, Nancy frowned. It was bad enough that she'd invited her mother to stay with them for two weeks (two weeks!) but now that they'd rid themselves of the woman, Missy had plans to go back to Maryland for a week, and Chicago for four days after that. There was no way she could bring Beatrice along on the trip; while Missy's mother tended to be rather oblivious, her father would certainly notice someone else with them. No, Beatrice had to stay in Rolla. Alone.

"Beatrice."

The clone poked her head from the door to her room. "Yes, Mother?"

"I will be leaving you tomorrow."

"I know." She'd worn the same forlorn expression when Missy and her mother had driven to Arkansas for Thanksgiving. That had been only for a weekend.

"I will coerce her into leaving you enough food, and she'll leave the heat on to protect the pipes. You will be comfortable."

"Do you have to go?"

Nancy nodded. "Right now, I'm bound to what she has me do. When I return, I shall begin work on a means of separating us permanently. I will require your assistance."

A bright, clear smile appeared on Beatrice's face. "Really? You'll be able to do what you want? You won't have to go away when she does?"

Nancy smiled at her eagerness. "Yes, my pet, and more. But that is for later. Right now, I have another game for us."

"All right." The promise of freedom had already been forgotten, in anticipation of what she planned next. Nancy's mouth twitched. Beatrice would need to learn more aggression, at least in regards to other people, before she could be made completely self-reliant. It was one thing for her to be obedient to her mistress, quite another to be so to the rest of society. If she allowed them, people would walk all over her young, impressionable protege. Nancy had bigger plans for her than that.

"Put on your coat." Nancy donned her own jacket, thought that Missy should be studying and would be put out that she'd lost so much time

Nancy patted her leg. "Here, Spike." The ancient, arthritic Yorkshire terrier, half-asleep on the futon, raised his little head. Another pat made him stand on small legs, and brave the one-foot jump to the floor. He ducked as she reached to pet him, his overlarge eyes bulging from their sockets, and two of his four teeth sticking out over his small black lips.

Nancy affixed his collar and leash, and he began what Amy had called "The Circle Thing," his prelude to going outside. "We're going to take a walk."

The dog shivered as they walked. Nancy refused to carry him as she knew her double surely would have by this point. He was limping badly as they neared their destination.

In the 1960's, the university had commissioned some engineering students to create a half-sized scale model replica of Stonehenge using water jets. The monument sat beside the highway, visible to passers-by. Not many years later, the same university had contracted the construction of a building directly beside 'Henge. The building effectively blocked the sun on the eastern side of the monument, rendering it useless as a calendar for half the year.

This was the kind of stupidity Nancy intended to wipe out as soon as possible.

"Set the wards," she told Beatrice as they reached the circle. She led the little dog into the center, beside the analemma. Small lights inset in the base shone crimson upon the upright stones. To the north, she could just see the local Catholic church, the statue of Jesus bedecked in garish red and green light. Otherwise, there were the streetlights, blinking on one by one in the closing of the day.

"The wards are set," said Beatrice.

"Very good. Now, this is how you transfer a soul."

As they performed the ritual, Nancy noted how her daughter's voice quavered at certain places. Yet, she was growing in strength and ability; as they joined hands to transfer the soul of a stray cat into the dog, the majority of the power flowed from Beatrice.

At the end of the ritual, Beatrice lifted the dog into the dying rays of the sun, shining through the southwest trilithon. A maroon glow suffused through him, and he started to growl and spit. Beatrice set him down, and he began chasing his own tail, crying and barking and hissing.

"Very good, my dear," said Nancy. "When the time comes, I hope you will do as well."

"Thank you, Mother," Beatrice beamed with honest pleasure.

***
February 1, 1997
***

Imbolc had come, and a waxing moon glided above them, peeping through wind-torn clouds. Beatrice, wrapped snugly in the down coat Mother had bought her, lit the last candle at the perimeter. Mother smiled her approval as she took a seat on the chilly concrete near the analemma.

Dozens of candles guttered and sputtered in the brisk wind which had jumped up earlier that same evening, dancing dim light over the smooth stones they had gathered for the occasion. Beatrice no longer needed her sunglasses to function during the daylight hours, but she was still grateful for the darkness, and knew in her soul she would always bloom at night.

Mother drew her hands over a small brass bowl in a complicated gesture, muttering. Beatrice leaned forward, straining to see something in the shallow bowl of water, something other than the moon's reflection and the shadows of the rocks about them. A wind stirred the surface of the water, ripples shattering the reflected moon into a thousand brilliant shards.

"Don't try to focus," Nancy told her. "She will slip away from you. Allow her thoughts to become your thoughts, her sights your own. Let the visions in, and they will come."

"Yes, Mother," whispered Beatrice.

It was always the hardest part for her, forcing herself to be passive, to stop trying. She'd improved somewhat in the past two months, but ...

"Allow the thoughts in, child." Her mother continued speaking, low murmurs which she could not identify as words. She allowed them to become a litany in the back of her mind, lulling her.

~Blood of my blood,~ she thought silently,~my counterpart, my enemy; where are you this night?~

An image fluttered in the bowl, coalesced into blurred patches of shadow and color. Beatrice gasped and her head jerked forward.

The image wavered and dissolved.

Nancy squeezed her clasped hands tenderly. "That was admirable for a first attempt. Now, try again."

Beatrice flushed, bit her lip and nodded. ~Clear, yes. Relax, yes. I can do this.~

What would her alter-self be doing, so many miles away? She could be walking, or dancing, or reading, or ...

She deliberately tensed for a moment, hard, then as deliberately relaxed.~Blood of my blood,~ she thought again. ~Show me where you are.~

Again, the water in the bowl stirred, as if some hot breath, heedless of the cold, had moved across it.

The image formed. A bed, pale blue quilt bunched up at one side, a pair of bare feet resting on the pillows. A figure lying face down on the bed, in pale yellow pajamas, propped up on its elbows over an open notebook and chewing the end of a ballpoint pen. Dark tangled hair was twisted into a haphazard knot at the back of the head, a pencil stuck through it. The scry's point of view hung over the bed, and Beatrice was unable to see the figure's face.

"There she is," Beatrice breathed, eyes wide in wonderment.

From very far off, like a radio station just outside of transmission range, she heard music. ~Fairy music,~ she thought, until she heard a snatch of lyrics: "She can do what she pleases, she's nobody's fool... "

The figure lowered the pen, scribbled something, reached over to a half-full packet and took out a gold-wrapped chocolate kiss, and munched on it for a moment.

The music ended and an announcer's voice cut in. With an irritable-looking shrug, the figure turned over to reach for the radio knob.

Beatrice blinked, and her hand came up to touch her face. "Do I..." She paused. "Do I really look like that?"

Nancy said, "She is a lesser reflection of you. She would be like you."

A slight frown on her face, the figure -- Batya -- twisted the radio knob through several bands of static, lighting on a station playing another song. She smiled and sat back on her bed, her lips moving soundlessly with the music: "I want to see you clearly, come closer than this...."

"Does she look like you? Somewhat. The question is, child, can you mimic her?"

Beatrice studied her counterpart for a long moment. "I think so," she said finally. "Given enough time to watch her."

"You will have the time."

Beatrice nodded. As she did, the image flickered and faded.

"It is a pity her associates are not present," Nancy mused. "Perhaps next time."

Beatrice paused. "Do you -- do you think I could find the others? Without her being there with them?"

Nancy paused before she said, "No. They need to be with her." The certainty in her tone seemed forced.

"Oh," Beatrice said. A pause. "Why?"

"I've made the attempt."

"Oh," Beatrice said again. She peered down at the bowl again, her brow furrowed in concentration. It seemed so easy. ~Perhaps,~ a tiny voice whispered in her mind,~When Mother is gone, I can try. Just to see.~

***
July 20, 1997
The Gathering 1997, New York City
***

Constance, Christine, Amy and Missy walked back from the diner where they'd eaten breakfast. Constance slapped at another mosquito.

"I didn't know you got them so bad here," said Christine, slapping one of her own.

"We don't, normally," said Amy.

Constance gave a little chortle. "It's been like this all summer. We've kind of been joking that Dr. Sevarius is after our DNA."

The others laughed.

***

Beatrice watched the fans from a hundred feet away, disguised as best she could. Tiny robotic insects droned at her command towards the rest of the Dreamers as they headed the tour groups through Central Park.

The plan was working perfectly. When they all stopped for a mock fight scene from "High Noon," she retrieved the last few samples she needed.

***

Beatrice glanced up at her new hideaway: Independence Plaza. There was an abandoned floor, formerly home to some young company or another which had not survived its infancy. A simple Somebody Else's Problem Field spell rendered it invisible to the other occupants of the building. It was perfect.

As soon as she arrived back at her office suite, Beatrice called her mother.

"Did you obtain all the samples I specified?" No greeting, Beatrice noticed.

"Yes, Mother. I'll begin the DNA extraction process immediately."

"Good."

"Mother?"

"Yes, my dear?"

Beatrice bit her lip. "I've chosen a last name."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Your last name is Brown."

"I ... I think I should have a different last name. That will provide for more confusion when the time arrives."

Another pause. "What name did you choose?"

"Watts. After Alfred Watts."

"I see."

She forged ahead: "Alfred Watts was created to write the things that his creators didn't want to write. They killed him when he became too real. I thought perhaps you'd like it."

"It is acceptable. Apprise me of your progress as you perform the extraction."

"Yes, Mother," said Beatrice. She hung up the phone, and stifled the whoop of joy she wanted to express. There was work to be done.

***
November 5, 1997
Independence Plaza, New York City
***

The only sound, at first, was the liquid draining away. Beatrice stood nervously by, glancing between the vat and her mother's impassive face. Other than her eyes, the only thing moving was her right hand, rubbing the back of her left wrist in a slow absent-minded motion.

She'd spent hours sitting by this vat and that one, reading, studying, contemplating the forming bodies inside, wondering what each one would be like. Nancy had named them, but she'd allowed Beatrice to help her. Already, she'd played games in her mind with the rest. She had shown them the many things she'd learned in her own life. She had ...

The girl inside the tank opened her eyes and screamed.

Beatrice reacted instinctively, taking her sister in a swift embrace that hid the other woman's eyes against her shoulder. "Shh," she murmured. "It's just the light. I'll get rid of it."

Mother cursed under her breath. "Beatrice! The lights! Turn them off." To herself she added, "I should have remembered that."

Beatrice raised her voice. "Yes, Mother," she replied as she scurried to the switch.

"Then clothe her. She'll be cold." Mother spared a smile for the new clone, which she probably did not see for the light assaulting her eyes. "Hello, Carmen. Happy birthday."

The newborn woman did not respond, and shivered even after Beatrice had helped her into the loose clothes they had prepared. Her eyes were wide in the new darkness, and scared.

Mother went back to the computer, ignoring her current daughters, ready to waken another.

Beatrice put an arm around her new sister's thin shoulders and squeezed. "Wait here," she whispered. "I've got to go help wake up the others."

Mother went to each vat in turn, typing in commands, awaiting the rush of water from inside. Beatrice followed with fresh towels.

One by one, the vats emptied. One by one, her sisters gulped air for the first time. One by one, she held them, dried them, gave them the first touch of kindness each would receive.

The pile of clothing grew smaller. She cast a critical eye on the remaining garb, already planning on how to obtain more and better things for her siblings, her charges.

The names they had so carefully chosen before the day were now fitting around the new lives like another layer of cloth. She had spoken them to herself, both silently and aloud, so when she called to Kate, it was Kate, and not just some half-blind naked thing. Betsy struck out wildly at first, calming only when she saw Beatrice's face. Petra blinked up at her calmly, moving with an almost eerie grace when she stood. Molly looked out at the world and laughed.

With a saddened glance, she looked towards the eighth decanting chamber, dark and barren. She should have been greeting another sister today.

The only two remaining were the boys, Uriel and Jason. Beatrice turned to her mother expectantly, and waited. Mother touched the computer, then removed her hand. Her chin lifted as she looked at the two slumbering figures in the vat, and made no further move to awaken them.

Beatrice had feared this, for the last month of the incubation. She'd seen her mother's face whenever she looked at the males, recognized the distaste without quite understanding or sharing it. Her readings, her lessons, everything she had learned from Nancy told her that her unborn brothers were somehow already inferior to her. Beatrice had considered this, and in her own mind, rejected it.

It was her first independent thought, away from what she had been told. The first awareness of it had made her giddy with fear. The more she traced her own logic, the more she believed her own position to be correct. That had made her even more afraid, for how could her mother be ... wrong?

Everything in her cried out against the very idea of a flaw in her mother, yet somehow she could not fully accept that the flaw was in herself; was not she her mother's creation? And could anything Mother created be flawed?

Biting her lower lip, Beatrice glanced at the vats again, and back at her mother's face. The question surfaced like a dark fin in her mind: what would her mother do? And what would she, herself, do if ...?

And abruptly, she realized that she did not want to know the answer.

"Mother," she said, firming her voice to steadiness with a touch of eagerness, "let me do it."

Nancy turned to her, her face unreadable for a fraction of an instant more.

"Please?"

Then she granted Beatrice a smile. "Yes, daughter. I think you should."

She stepped away from the controls. Beatrice did not allow her relief to show on her face. She studied the controls for a moment before moving, tapping in the sequence as she'd seen her mother do it, as she remembered it should be done.

As the last of the water drained away, the male's eyes flew open, darted to and fro, settled on Beatrice. The male clone closed its eyes for a moment, shaking its head, and looked back up with a suspicious, almost hunted expression.

Beatrice met his gaze and held it steadily, until he relaxed. "Sister," he rasped. "Where are we?"

"You're born, Jason," Beatrice said quietly. "You're home."

Nancy watched, her mouth in a thin line. "Get some clothes on him, daughter," she said coolly.

Jason moved awkwardly as Beatrice handed him the clothes Nancy had set aside. He resisted her attempts to help him, struggling to move on his own with muscles that had never before been used.

He glanced over Beatrice's shoulder and his lip curled in a faint sneer; Beatrice turned to follow his gaze, and saw her sisters looking back at him impassively. A shiver ran through her, worry. Perhaps Mother had been right.

"Jason," she said with the barest trace of rebuke in her tone, enough to be heard by him but not by the others. "These are our sisters."

His eyes cleared and brightened. "Oh," was all he said, but the look he turned on the others was no longer hostile, no longer contemptuous. Beatrice was glad of that; his momentary glare had distressed her.

She turned away from him then, towards the last tank and the last of her siblings. Her fingers flew over the controls, more confident this second time. The water drained from the tank, and Uriel opened his eyes.

"Blast and double blast," said Nancy.

"What is it, Mother?" asked Beatrice, keeping an eye to Jason, who struggled still with his clothing.

The other male clone shivered outside his vat, eyes tightly shut against even the dim light. "Open them," demanded Nancy. "Show her." Uriel blinked his eyes for half a second, then closed them in a gasp of pain. The glimpse had been enough for Beatrice to see what her mother had already noted: The clone's eyes were blue.

"The original has brown eyes," said Nancy. "You retrieved the wrong sample."

"That's not possible," Beatrice said, without thinking. "I made certain." The black look she received from her mother made her cringe inwardly, but she remained calm. "Besides, he's the very image of the original, other than the eyes."

"Not good enough. Destroy it, and we'll try again."

Beatrice looked at her brother. His eyes crept open, met hers. She remembered her own awakening, how much that was she was already in place. "Mother, no."

"What do you mean 'No?'" Nancy's voice was flat, and Beatrice knew beyond any doubt that her next words, unless carefully chosen, could be her last. Behind her, her sisters shuffled, probably to move away from Jason. They had been born minutes ago, and already trusted her. She was their big sister. She had to keep them safe.

"I mean that it would be wasteful. We don't have the time or resources to spare on making new clones just because of a minor defect. Genetic drift is a constant danger in the process. We already lost Lilith, and we do not currently have the ability to attempt her again. If the only further problem we encounter is that Uriel's eyes are the wrong color, then we should find him some contact lenses, count ourselves lucky, and get to work. Mother."

Nancy stared at her, as if reading her thoughts, trying to discover some flaw in the argument, any crack she could use to pry it apart.

Evidently, she found none. "Fine. But be advised that if we find any more defects in it, it's gone. I will not allow one mistake to cost us our goal."

Beatrice swallowed her smile. "Yes, Mother." She went to the pile of remaining clothing and towels, selected something appropriate, and took it to Uriel. "Happy birthday," she told him, quietly. If he understood her, he did not respond.

When the boys were dry and dressed, Nancy called all the children to her. Beatrice took her accustomed place by her mother's side.

"Happy birthday, everyone. You already know who I am. You should know one another, as well." There were nods. Once they had settled on names, Beatrice had programmed in the knowledge of faces. They'd been born knowing their family, so much easier than the normal fashion.

"This, of course, is your sister Beatrice. She will be caring for you in my absence, training you as necessary for the task that remains before us. Petra, tell me what that task is."

Petra cleared her throat. "To infiltrate the Dreamer Clan."

"And?"

"To take control of the Gargoyles fandom."

"And?"

"To use the fandom to invade other fandoms, and bend them to our will."

"And then?"

"Take over. Everything."

"Very good, my little bloodstone." The girl beamed at the praise.

"Mom?" asked Molly.

"Yes, my dear?"

"When will you be back?"

"This weekend. My host is officially in Connecticut now, and I'll be able to slip back into town then for a few days. Beatrice?"

"Yes, Mother?"

"Have you obtained the equipment we discussed?"

"Yes, Mother." That was odd. Mother already knew that the equipment had arrived. She had specifically ordered Carmen to be programmed with electronics knowledge so they could install everything properly. The vats they could recycle, but it was one thing to grow a clone, and quite another to grow a new host body for an already-existent soul.

"Good." Mother sighed. "And now that you are all here, and alive, and well, I must return to Hartford before the twit is missed." She frowned.

"What is it, Mother?"

"She has a 'boyfriend.' We will be meeting him in Chicago after the Connecticut trip is finished."

"You know, Ma," said Jason, "We can take care of that for ya."

"Not yet. He may actually turn out to be useful. He has a strong knowledge of the creation and applications of high explosives." She smiled, without humor.

"Sounds like our kind of guy."

The Nightmare Clan was born.

***
November 8, 1997
***

After she had been properly greeted by her children, Nancy ensconced herself in her papasan chair. "How are the others progressing, Beatrice?"

"We have been working on our social skills. Eating, drinking," she glanced at Jason, "dressing." Indeed, the clones were properly dressed in more of the same spare garb she and Beatrice had acquired before their decanting. All of them wore dark glasses to protect delicate new eyes, with the exception of Petra, who had found a strip of white gauze which she wore as a sheer blindfold.

"What of warfare and battle tactics?"

Beatrice replied, "I still haven't completely determined how much of the programming has taken root, and how much will need to be taught."

"Haven't you at least shown them basic combat?"

"Oooo! Oooo! Ma!" Jason raised his hand, wriggling it around in the air. Nancy ignored him.

"They must be taught weaponry. I know that you prefer your staff, but the rest will need to know all manner of fighting."

"Ma! Ma! Over here!"

"They will," said Beatrice, holding her ground. "They already have a great deal of knowledge. Jason, for example," she glared at her brother, and he silenced, "is highly proficient in artillery, both light and heavy. As I'm certain he'd like to demonstrate."

"Since his birth, has he touched a gun?"

"Not for more than a few minutes," said Beatrice. There was a certain relief in her voice that Nancy noted and filed away for later.

"What of the others?"

"Betsy is quite as proficient as Jason in arms, but she prefers light hand-to-hand weaponry; handguns, knives, the like. Carmen also favors the blade, but she can hit a target five tries out of seven already. Honestly, I believe her real usefulness will be with electronic infiltration. Molly has demonstrated no particular interest in any weapon."

"Boom," said Molly happily.

"Although she seems to delight in anything making a loud noise," Beatrice continued. "Kate has taken to a large-caliber bazooka, which she also uses as a club when she's angry. Uriel has shown some interest in unarmed combat."

"Useless," said Nancy.

"Perhaps not," replied her daughter. "I believe you will be most pleased with Petra's choice of weapons. She has shown great aptitude with powders, potions and poisons."

"Indeed." She was impressed, but would not let it show. "I thought you said you didn't know how much of the programming took?"

"Not completely, no. These are all aptitudes, which we will encourage in their training."

"Which you haven't started yet."

Beatrice fidgeted. "No."

"Then I shall. You have done well, daughter." Nancy turned to the other clones.

"Today we shall start at the beginning
A very good place to start
When you read you begin with A B C..."

"Aeschylus, Beowulf, and Chaucer," explained Beatrice to her siblings. "Or Asimov, Bradbury, and Clarke."

"When you count, you begin with 1 2 3..."

"Actually, Ma," said Jason, helpfully, "That's '3 ... 2 ... 1! Fire in the hole!'" Betsy shushed him as Nancy glared.

"When you fight, you begin with Bo, Ray, Lee."

"Bo Ray Lee," parroted the clones obediently.

"Baa Ram Ewe what?" asked Molly.

Nancy sighed. "I see we have much ground to cover."

"Bo, a stick, blunt instrument
Ray, a laser-shooting gun
Lee, the side you hide behind
Draw your sights on everyone
Blow a poison-headed dart
Ma is watching where you go
See knife twisting in his heart
And that brings us back to bo!"

The children responded:

"A stick, blunt instrument!"

In unison, they moved their hands in front of them, as if each grasped a long staff.

"Ray!"

"A laser shooting gun!"

Seven hands pointed finger-guns menacingly.

"Lee!"

"The side I hide behind!"

They fell to their knees, bracing against invisible walls, pointing the finger-guns down towards the floor.

"Draw!"

"My sights on everyone!"

They shifted to one knee, holding imaginary rifles.

"Blow!"

"A poison-headed dart!"

The image was disturbing, but it worked.

"Ma!"

"Will watch me where I go!"

Seven statues, hands folded politely in front of them, awaited her every command.

"Thanks, Ma!" said Jason.

"See!"

"Knife twists into his heart!"

They stabbed, drew in, and twisted.

"And that brings us back to bo!"

The imaginary staff was back in their hands.

"Excellent," said Nancy.

***

Mother grabbed her forehead and stumbled, catching herself on the back of a chair. "Ow, what happened?" In less than an instant, Uriel was at her side, holding her elbow, helping her stand.

She looked around her, frightened, her gaze settling on the youth beside her. "What? Where ... Who are you?"

Blast. The other resident of Mother's form had joined them. Beatrice shooed the rest to the back rooms as Mother's body tilted her head and looked up at Uriel. "I know, you, don't I?" He nodded. She smiled. "Is this that dream where there's a movie screen in my backyard, and I follow the aliens through the portal to Germany?" He stopped, perplexed, then shook his head no. "Pity. Then I suppose this is the dream about the house with many rooms." Helpless, Uriel looked to Beatrice.

Well, the building did have a lot of rooms. She nodded. He nodded to Mother's body in turn. Beatrice hoped this passed soon.

"Then let's go to see the tree, shall we?" He stiffened; there was a tree in the center of the lobby downstairs. How could she have possibly known that? Beatrice mused that perhaps during the slumber inside, some of Mother's memories still filtered through. Mother would have to be informed. When she came back.

Apparently convinced this was all some strange recurring dream and not in the least nonplused, Mother's host tugged on Uriel to escort her towards the door.

She gasped, and then straightened. With a foreboding glance to her son, Mother said, "Remove. Your. Hands." He dropped them and took a step back. Mother turned to Beatrice. "How long?"

"Two minutes, no more."

"Two minutes too long. I need to rid myself of that imbecile permanently."

"Yes, Mother."

Mother, still shaken from the event, went to the table, pretending to look over schematics. Beatrice went to her brother's side and touched his shoulder. "I'm sure she meant to thank you," she said, very quietly.

Without moving his gaze from Mother, he shook his head almost imperceptibly no.

***
December 21, 1997
***

A cold rain spattered the windows of the building. Beatrice pulled her charcoal-colored sweater tighter around her neck. Inside, they were snug, but the cold was so very near, and Mother was far away.

She let her eyes wander over her sitting siblings. As it often did, her gaze settled on her brothers, and she muttered to herself: "Given half a chance, she'd kill the boys."

"Yeah, and?" asked Kate.

Betsy gave Kate a little punch on the shoulder, but lightly. She and Jason had quickly formed an attachment, forged by a mutual love of mass destruction, a relationship which worried their mother. Mother had given both boys a stern lecture early on about how they were to behave around herself and their sisters; Jason took it to heart after Petra sprained his wrist. Mother told Beatrice to watch him anyway, but all Beatrice saw was that her bellicose brother had a perfect partner in crime. And nothing else.

"Does that really matter?" echoed Molly.

Beatrice shivered. The words and ideas were Mother's, but they felt ... wrong, and that was a feeling she could not make herself associate with something her Mother believed. Mother was always right. But ... It mattered. It really did.

"All right," she sighed. "Back to the lesson."

Not that the lessons were helping. Despite Mother's insistence that they learn as much as they could about this particular subject, on the off-chance the information would be necessary in their takeover, Beatrice faced a brick wall of non-opposition. While her siblings of course saw the usefulness of the Dark Arts, none of them seemed to put forth any effort in learning more than a few rudimentary shielding spells.

Even as she was explaining the mechanics of the mind-controlling vecnatricon powder, and how it was made from the dried leaves of the night-blooming tolp plant, Jason and Betsy were whispering animatedly about some new idea Betsy had concocted. Carmen seemed vaguely interested, but was paying more attention to her own graffiti-inspired doodles in the notebook she'd taken to carrying. Kate and Molly were flatly unimpressed, eager to return to weapons practice. Only Petra was offering her full attention to the lesson; Beatrice was secretly pleased at the progress her sister was making in that respect. When the time came, she would probably call on Petra to assist her in the charms that would need setting. And then there was Uriel. Beatrice did not know how much, if anything, was settling into him from the lessons. He hid behind his mirrored glasses, no sign to indicate whether he was listening and absorbing, or just sleeping.

"That's it," she said, suddenly. "Class dismissed."

"Yay!" chorused Kate and Molly. Carmen closed her notebook; within it, Beatrice knew, in addition to her drawings, she had notes on their lessons, as well as notes on Constance, her friends, her habits. Carmen was becoming an excellent student, provided the topic was something that interested her. Petra scribbled in her own notebook, and shut it, placing her pen in the notebook's spine.

"Practice tonight, sibs," Beatrice said over the beginning hum of conversation. "Stealth and recon, and take out anyone who sees you."

"Awright!" cheered Betsy. "Central Park?"

"Not in this muck," Kate objected. "Financial district?"

"Midtown?" Molly begged.

"Not midtown," said Beatrice firmly. "Too crowded for stealth work. And you're supposed to try not to be seen, Molly."

Molly pouted. "Where's the fun in that?"

"I like Central Park," Jason put in. Petra made a face, but said nothing.

"Right." Beatrice took a quarter out of her pocket and nodded to Betsy. "Call it," and she tossed the quarter into the air.

"Heads," Betsy called.

Beatrice snagged the quarter out of the air and slapped it onto her wrist, and smiled. "Will roll," she said. "Heads it is. Don't sulk, Kate, the variable terrain's good practice." She pulled down their map of Manhattan. "Start at Columbus Circle and work your way north. Stay out of the heavily populated areas. And wear your galoshes, all of you; it's nasty out there tonight."

"Dibs on the Ramble," Jason said as they turned to go.

"Hey! You had it last time!" protested Betsy.

She watched them go, her eyes drawn to the two boys; Jason already tossing tactics back and forth with Betsy, Uriel silent and watchful, bringing up the rear guard. Somehow, she'd prove to Mother that they were useful.

The others occupied, Beatrice took a moment to go to her own room and collect her thoughts.

There was a package on her bed, wrapped in plain brown paper.

She knew the varied senses of humor of her siblings, so she approached it warily. As she peeked at the top, she read a note: "Happy Solstice, Beatrice."

Her heart gave a little jump. Here it was solstice, and they'd forgotten! Mother hadn't even called. But then, her host was in Chicago, and the opportunity was probably lacking.

She unwrapped the package carefully. Within, she found the oddest thing: a spice rack, complete with herbs. Dragon's toenails, bloodwort, nightshade, many others.

It couldn't have been from Mother. One of her siblings must have given it to her. A lump filled her throat. Other than the necessities her mother had provided her as a matter of course, it was her first real gift.

Solstice. They should have a special dinner. They had neglected Thanksgiving this year. Mother said they would declare the day they took control of the fandom the real Thanksgiving, and Beatrice had been alone for most other holidays, as Mother's host had to put in appearances in places Beatrice could not go.

She glanced at the spices again. None of these would be appropriate to use. But she would think of something, perhaps have it ready for when the boys returned.

They would have their first holiday dinner with the family.

***
February 21, 1998
***

Nancy opened her eyes. For a moment there, her host had retaken control of the body. This occurrence was too common for her liking. The memory would have to be adjusted, again. Missy was supposed to be in Rolla, but as it was Spring Break and her beau was out of town, no one would notice her absence for the short time she could spare to come to New York. But she didn't dare leave any memories of the trip.

She picked up the hypodermic. A quick prick, a withdrawal, and she had her sample for the cloning process. The body would be easy to create. The spirit, well, that would be in Beatrice's capable hands.

Beatrice tapped on the door, but did not come into the room. "We're ready, Mother."

"I'll be out in a moment."

Nancy dripped the blood into the sample holder. The machinery would take apart the genetic code of this thing she called a body and build her a new one. She'd even have the opportunity to make a few adjustments: the eyes, the teeth. She'd debated making alterations to the breasts as well, then discarded the idea as frivolous.

She slipped her black leather jacket back on over her dark silk blouse, and then checked her hair in the mirror. Try as she might, her host was wearing her hair too long these days to tease it properly, and Nancy didn't dare cut it herself. She made a face in the mirror. Soon, she would have her own body, and she could do what she pleased with it.

As she entered the outer room, she placed the sample vial beside the one remaining vat. All of her hopes and dreams were within that vial. This had to work.

The children sat around the darkened television, expectantly. She hid her smile as she observed them. Despite their resemblances to their originals, they had each taken pains to make themselves distinctive from those pale rough drafts.

Beatrice was the closest to her double. She chose simple, tasteful grey gowns, with only her boots to provide a discordant note to her outfit. Carmen had gone for the exact opposite effect: tight shirts, always, and today with an anarchy symbol scrawled on, black miniskirt, fishnet stockings, and combat boots. She'd put a purple streak in her hair, and wore black lipstick and nail polish. Constance's own mother would have difficulty picking her out of a crowd.

Nancy thoroughly approved.

Molly had gone for the "escaped mental patient" look. Her long dark hair was pulled back in two sloppy pigtails, and she was using a ratty old straitjacket as a half-cape. She'd found a bandolier of grenades, although Nancy suspected that not all of them were real. Petra played her opposite: cool and svelte in a white sheathe, she was a single graceful line with nary a hair out of place.

Kate was by far the most practical. She wore tight black jeans, a tighter black t-shirt, and a black leather flak jacket. Her eyes were cold behind the contact lenses she favored instead of her counterpart's glasses. Nancy noted that she'd pulled her hair back into a sleek tight bun; the look suited her. Uriel was dark and silent beside her, covered similarly in black: t-shirt, jeans, even a black leather trenchcoat in which he hid at times. Nancy frowned; he'd dyed his hair blonde, and had already grown it long enough to wear in a small ponytail. It would make surveillance of the others easier, but he'd have to change it back for infiltration. And cover his damned eyes.

And finally, there were Jason and Betsy. She had discovered quickly that the times were few indeed when one was not in the presence of the other, or else working in tandem in separate rooms. Today Betsy wore a pink tank top and close-fitting army fatigue pants, a belt with twin holsters to accommodate her favorite pair of Desert Eagles and her short swords; Nancy had looked into her room and seen dozens of tie-dyed t-shirts strewn about the place, but as yet, Betsy had not worn one around her. A scarlet and gold chinese dragon covered most of her back, as well as multiple bands of tattoos on her upper arms; Celtic knotwork, a ring of thorns, and assorted others. Her hair was an explosion of wild curls, and she was whispering to her brother. Jason grinned, and nodded at whatever she was saying. He wore dark fatigues, with a black vest thrown over top for extra carrying capacity. Strapped to his body was enough ammo to take out New Jersey, and she knew she wasn't seeing all his weapons. He also had a black leather trenchcoat, but had tossed it haphazardly in the corner when he'd come in earlier.

Such were her children, blank slates to which they themselves were already taking chalk. Nancy cleared her throat.

"You have just viewed the episode 'The Reckoning.' What can we learn from Thailog's sad example? Betsy?"

"He betrayed Demona to her face and then turned his back on her. That was stupid."

Kate said, "He left his clan alone while he fought with Demona. A clan divided cannot stand."

"Very good. Yes, Petra?"

"He didn't treat the other clones as his equals. By under-educating them, he left them at a disadvantage."

"Good."

Jason said, "His real mistake was like Kate said: dividing them up like that. Poor planning." He smirked. "But that Delilah's a nice piece of tail. So to speak."

Nancy frowned at the boy. "You might also note that he underestimated Demona. He thought he could replace her with something beautiful and obedient, not an equal, but a slave. That was his notion of the ideal female. Thailog, being who he was, didn't see Demona, a female, as a real threat, even knowing her capabilities."

She fixed Jason with a cold stare. "Don't ever, ever make the mistake of underestimating your enemy, my children."

She noticed that Uriel tugged at Beatrice's sleeve. There was no overt communication between them, but Beatrice raised her hand, keeping her eyes glued to her brother.

"We have a theory, Mother," said Beatrice. "He didn't create a real clan. All he created were extra arms and hands to do what he wanted. Extensions of himself."

"That's a very large mistake. A hand cannot be easily removed." She watched Beatrice watching Uriel, who kept his own gaze calmly on Nancy. Fascinating.

"It can if it isn't really part of you," said Beatrice. "And that's what Thailog wanted."

"And what are the rest of you? Are you also extensions?" Nancy held her breath. Did they see themselves as her children or her pawns? If the latter, they could grow to resent her control. If the former, they would gladly follow her into hell and back.

Uriel shook his head. Beatrice said, "We aren't just mindless automatons made to look like our counterparts. We are improvements upon them."

There was pride there. The children were hers. Nancy let out her breath.

Betsy snorted. "I know what the real moral of the episode was: Don't mindfuck your women." The others laughed, and Nancy allowed herself a smile. Tension melted like the last winter snows beneath gentle rain.

***
May 18, 1998
Independence Plaza
***

A sizzle of magic skittered along the outside of the plexiglass container, and regretfully went to ground on the provided wires. Beatrice shook the tingling sensations from her arms until she could feel her fingers again. It was the largest working she had attempted on her own. Well, almost on her own. She glanced at her two helpers. Petra was shaking, but stood, looking wide-eyed and incredulous at her own hands. Uriel leaned against the wall, pretending he didn't need it to stay upright.

Carmen looked up at them from the controls. She'd been inputting commands as they'd worked, perfecting the program. At Beatrice's nod, she typed one more line and then stood.

"I'm going to start the decanting process. The rest of you, go into the back."

"But why? We want to see Mother, too!" whined Molly.

Kate patted her on the head. "Just in case. Beatrice is going to take care of everything, right Beatrice?"

"Right. Now shoo!" Her siblings marched out of the room, Jason going in last and closing the door. Beatrice turned back to the container.

They had attempted the soul transfer blind, but there had been no way to bring Mother's original to New York and still manage to send her back alive. Mother's orders had been specific, if not readily understandable to Beatrice.

Again, a twitter of doubt fluttered in the back of Beatrice's mind. Mother wanted her original alive and well, and back in Missouri, when they could just as easily have captured her and kept her there. Mother wanted her own body, rather than take over Missy's as she'd been doing for years. Mother said the boys were unnecessary to their plan, but Jason was brilliant on weapons and tactics, more so than Betsy, and Uriel had just assisted her with the transfer. But surely, Mother had her reasons for saying what she did. Beatrice was simply not yet advanced enough to understand.

"I hope this works." Her fingers moved over the controls. Before she hit the execute key, she hurried over to the lights, and cast the room into twilight for her mother's dark birth.

As the last of the fluid decanted from the container, the body inside convulsed. Beatrice held her place, ready. A heartbeat went by, and Beatrice thought,~It didn't work, and Mother's spirit has gone forever.~ There was fear in the thought, and guilty hope.

She stepped up to the new clone, reached out, shook her wet shoulder. "Mother," she whispered. "Are you ... " ~Are you what? Are you in there? Are you you?~ "...Are you all right?"

The eyes flicked open, then squinted in the dimness. Beatrice saw confusion, emptiness, a blank tablet on which any command could be written.

And then, recognition. The woman's eyes narrowed. "Good morning, Beatrice. You seem to have been successful. Where are my clothes?"

Beatrice swallowed. This was her mother, her Creator, and she was the Created. She would follow Nancy because there was no other path she could ever take. She handed her a towel.

As her mother dressed, Beatrice slipped into the back room.

"She's awake."

"You sure it's her?" asked Kate.

"I'm sure."

Molly jumped and clapped her hands gleefully. "Does everyone have their gifts?" Her sisters nodded. "All right. Fang, Claw, you two stay put."

Jason looked up from the ceaseless sharpening of his blade. "You'll call for us, right?"

"Of course." Leaving her brothers, Beatrice led the girls into the other room. Mother had dressed, and was using the towel on her hair.

"Hello, my dears," she cooed as the clones filed in one by one. The smile dropped. "What are you hiding behind your backs?" she demanded.

"We brought you presents for your birthday," said Beatrice.

Carmen pulled out her gift from behind her back: a soggy clump of torn rose petals.

Petra sang:

"Raindrops on roses ..."

Betsy took Mother's hand, and tilted nine fine hairs into her palm.

"And whiskers from kittens ..."

Petra hissed, "It's 'Whiskers on kittens!'"

"You sing it your way," yawned Betsy.

Petra had a copper kettle. Blue-green mist rose from the spout.

Kate handed her mittens, still occupied. "To keep 'em warm," she explained.

"My turn!" squealed Molly, and giggled as she handed over a package with string. "Don't open it inside," she warned.

Mother, arms full of her new presents, beamed at her children. "That's my girls," she said. "Thank you."

***
June 14, 1998
***

They filed into the room, fresh from surveillance of the Dreamer Clan. Mother curled in the papasan chair at the head of the room. The throne effect was not lost on anyone.

"So. Your reports."

Carmen stood first. "Constance. I watched her for three weeks. Never seen such a softy --- I could beat her up with one hand tied behind my back. No muscles to speak of." She flexed her own arm. "Still in that same dull old job she's had forever, and hello, could there be less activity in the hot guy department? She walks through the park a lot and says hello to all the cutesy wootsey wittle doggies and babies. Blegh."

Beatrice chuckled; her own double was gooey as well.

Carmen continued: "She's a chronic do-gooder. She never litters, she doesn't smoke, she doesn't spit, shit; the other day she wore black and I almost lost her, I thought she was someone else. Soooo boring." She flopped down into her chair.

Kate smirked. "You forgot the fact that she's almost thirty and still lives with her mother." Beatrice cleared her throat, and tilted her head to Nancy. Kate's eyes widened. "Not that there's anything wrong with that! Living with your mother, great idea!"

Mother said to Carmen, "You were supposed to find something good about her, something on which to build."

"Hm ... she's got decent taste in the entertainment department, I hafta admit. And how the hell does a wimpy chick like that learn how to write kick-ass fight scenes? I don't get it."

"Good enough," said Mother, and smiled at Carmen. "Petra?"

Petra stood and clasped her hands behind her back. "Merav. Seems to have no sense of style. Her clothing is eccentric at best, and certainly undignified. And she flits about! Like a bird with very little room to move, she is constantly pacing about with no purpose, chatting with one person or another, and always with that insipid smile, the 'I care what you're saying to me' expression." She demonstrated, earning laughs from all the clones.

"Truly, she could be so much more than she is. And that male she hangs out with, the boisterous laugh and the shaggy hair. Honestly, what does she see in him?" She shuddered. "And her hair. Completely impractical. Sometimes I feel embarrassed to be cloned from her. But then there are those moments when she's traveling alone, when she looks out into the darkness on the commuter train, just two shining eyes against the matte blackness of the night, and then I think, perhaps I could learn to like this strange mirror. She who is not me, but is so like. We are sisters, she and I. I would study her more."

"Very good," said Mother. Petra bowed her head in thanks.

Kate stood up. "Kellie," she said. "Bleeding-heart liberal sucker. Overweight, underpaid, and too wimpy to give those juvenile delinquents she teaches what they deserve. Lives life in a chatroom. Good points? Well, she's got a brain. She's a scientist, too bad she only uses those skills for her insipid causes. And she isn't afraid of much. And she's creative, I guess." Kate made a face. "She can't spell to save her life. Worse, she's proud of it."

Betsy picked something off the toe of one combat boot before she stood. "Liz. She's got potential, probably the most of that bunch. They call her Clan Champion," she said derisively, and laughed. "She might be the best of them, but she couldn't beat the least of us." She glanced at Uriel. "That would be you, gothboy."

"Be nice," Beatrice murmured.

"Anyway," Betsy continued, "definitely potential there. But she's way too soft. Like the rest of them."

"I'll go next, Ma," said Jason, climbing to his feet. "My report on Mr. Mann himself. To start with, he's flabby and self-absorbed. If I didn't know better I'd swear he's a fag." Nancy glared. "Sorry, Ma. But there's some potential in him. He understands the nature of cruelty. He's not stupid, he's got a decent head for tactics, and his imagination could provide some fascinating scenarios. Too bad he's such an uptight guilt-ridden little crybaby. The end."

Mother's face turned down. "Thank you, Jason, for that in-depth study of Jordan's character. Next time, please put some effort into your work."

"Yes, Ma."

"All right. Who's next?"

They went through their reports one by one, ripping and shredding their opposites to pieces. When grudgingly forced to find something good about them, there were mumbles of "Nice hair," and "She's got a brain, too bad she doesn't use it." Her other brother had written a three-page bulleted list, pinpointing his double's weaknesses and character flaws. There were additional pages filled with charts and diagrams, and the whole was encased neatly in a plastic report cover.

Finally Beatrice gave her report, making it as detailed as she could. When she finished, she added, "She has met someone recently. His name is Alexander, and from what I can observe, they've grown quite close." Beatrice had watched him for a long time at his dark little apartment in Queens, noting the shape of his smile, the twinkle in his eyes, the stacks of his comic books.

Mother said, "That proves an interesting wrinkle. You'll have to deal with him."

"I think he could be useful," she said, a tad too quickly.

Jason and Betsy started singing, "Beatrice has a boyfriend! Beatrice has a boyfriend!"

"No," she said, deliberately slow. "Batya has a boyfriend. I have a tool I'm wise enough to use as necessary to further our goals." Mother smiled approvingly at her, then turned to face the others.

"Now," she said, "What have we learned from this? Yes, Kate?"

"Our originals are stupid and should be destroyed."

"Besides that."

Molly chimed, "They're going to be ridiculously easy to defeat?"

"Close. Beatrice, you tell us."

"We have learned that there is something useful even in our useless counterfeits, and they should not be discounted without careful consideration of their possible strengths. Underestimation of the enemy loses the battle before its start."

"Excellent, my darling girl." Beatrice smiled.

"The time is close for our plans to see their fruition. I have arranged a suite for us at the hotel. At first, we will merely observe. Then, when I give the word and no sooner, we will strike."

Mother turned in her chair, looked away from them.

"In the depths of her mind I was
Forming, a shadow.
And the vision I had was as
Bright as could be
Though a shade merely at first,
To full life I could burst
Then I rose, came awake,
And the nightmare was ... free!

"In her mind I was once just a
Figment, illusion.
When Merlin named me she
Knew not what she did!
My words made some tribute pay
But one little clan got away!
Dreamer clan now beware,
Nancy Brown is awake!"

Beatrice sang:

"From the depths of her mind
Darkness, we surgam
From their DNA we take what we need ... "

Nancy sang:

"Revenge will be sweet"

Together, they all sang:

"When the clones are complete!
From the depths of their minds ... "

Nancy sang:

"We will rise!

I can feel that my powers are
Slowly increasing!
Wrote a tale and a bit of
Deception works well!
When the plan proceeds on its way
Missy will cower while I play
Vale Tibi, Merlin Missy,
Adieu!"

The children responded:

"From the depths of her mind nightmares
Will find her
Nightmares the first step to do!
From the depths of her mind,
Nightmarish crew. Ooh!"

Nancy smiled.

"Soon they will know how a
Nightmare can grow
From the depths of her mind ...
They'll be through!"

The others joined in again, singing in counterpoint:

"From the depths of their minds
Darkness will find them
(Find them!
Ooh!)
From the depths of her mind
A figment's true.
(Clone them!)"

Sang Nancy:

"My dear, here's the news:"

They all rejoined:

"The Dreamers will lose!
From the depths of her mind ...
From the depths of her mind ... "

Nancy turned to them and spoke:

"Come my children
Live for your mistress
Now your weapons choose.
Find them all
But don't leave a mess, dears."

They all sang:

"From the depths of her mind
From the depths of her mind
From the depths of her mind ... "

Nancy's eyes flashed. "I will rise!"

They loaded their few bags into the suite, placing them indiscriminately on the beds. There would be no time for sleep over the next several days.

Nancy looked over her children, and smiled in pride. They were perfection, and they were hers.

"My darling children." she said. "The time has come. This weekend, we will realize our goal. We will take down the Dreamer Clan in one fell swoop, and assume our rightful place in charge of this fandom."

"Mother?" said Petra.

"Yes, my little bloodstone?"

"The Dreamers aren't in charge of the fandom."

"No. But we shall be. The few of them who are here have gathered in the room of the one called Wingless. Batya and Merav have returned to Queens for the night."

"Should we take 'em out now?" asked Betsy eagerly. Jason pulled a weapon from inside his vest, the silver pistol he favored.

"Not yet, my pet. Remember, we are here to observe. Tomorrow, you need to mingle. I will arrange for my counterpart to be at the check-in table all day, so I will be mingling as well. Distraction. Obfuscation. These are our chief weapons."

"Also semi-automatic rifles," Jason said.

"Yes, those as well. Beatrice, a word." Beatrice came to her side. "Tomorrow night is the peak of the annual Perseids meteor shower."

"I know."

"I want you to take one or two of the others to the roof tomorrow night. Perform a ritual to seize the power of the meteors. We could always use the extra help."

"Yes, Mother."

Nancy smiled and patted her daughter on the head. All the bases were covered. There would be no mistakes.

"I love it when a plan comes together," she said. "Tomorrow night, the meteor shower. Saturday, we begin to take control. On Sunday, I make my announcement."

Beatrice looked at her quizzically. "What announcement?"

"I will announce to the fandom that Merlin Missy is no more, and that I am who I always was, that we are the Nightmare Clan, and that the fandom will never be the same." She clenched her fist.

"That was not the original plan. We are copies of the others for a reason."

"The plan has changed. I will make the announcement and tell the world that I live."

Beatrice opened her mouth, then closed it again. There was a long pause. Then she nodded. "Yes, Mother. It will be as you say." Nancy accepted the words.

~But she paused. She needed to consider it. This one bears watching after all.~

***
August 14, 1998
The Gathering
***

Mandi looked around in eager anticipation. The lobby of the Hotel New Yorker was huge, and tiered. To her left was a little sitting area, complete with food kiosk, and further still, a diner. To her right she saw the check-in counter.

JEB nudged her. "Up there." On the balcony, a large poster in a familiar font dangled over the railing. The Gathering was upstairs.

"Cool," she said, trying to see of she recognized anyone from pictures. She saw a man sitting at the registration table, familiar from on-line pictures of someone dressed as Vinnie at the last con. "I think that's Jordan."

She was knocked back, almost off her feet, by someone running by. A man and a woman, they didn't even stop to say "Sorry" as they ran towards the elevators.

"What's with them?" asked JEB.

"I dunno. Hey, that looks like Jordan, too." She glanced up to the balcony, where the other man still sat. The elevator door opened, and the hurrying pair jumped inside before she got a good look. "But ... "

"Maybe he has a brother?" suggested JEB.

Mandi shook her head. They looked so much alike. "I knew I should've slept in the car," she said, as she schlepped her bags towards check-in.

"You were driving," JEB reminded her.

"Oh, yeah."

***

"I knew I should've slept on the plane," said Christine, as she hauled her bags into the hotel. The lobby was much bigger than the Mayflower's, and already she could see the check-in table for the con.

"I hope we haven't missed the opening," said Christi. "Damned shuttle bus driver, anyway."

"Hiya!" Constance popped up in front of them from out of nowhere. "I'm so glad you both could make it!" Without asking, she took both surprised women in a big hug.

Christine's back started to itch at one point right at the bottom of her neck. As Constance pulled away, she rubbed at it absently. "Um, hi Constance," she said. "Have we started yet?"

Constance laughed. "Oh, the fun has not even begun." She flipped around and wandered away from them, saying over her shoulder, "I'll be seeing you around."

"And that was?" Christi prompted.

"Constance Cochran. You know, from the list." Christine frowned. "At least, I think it was."

***

Molly bounced down the hallway. A large group of the silly fans were heading her way, and she mingled, as per orders. She checked; her own original was safely ensconced in the temporary con suite.

"So where are we going?" she asked the nearest person, a slight Asian woman.

"Upstairs," said Amy, excitedly. "We're going to try and get hotel security to let us on the roof to watch the meteor shower."

~Meteor shower. Uh oh.~ "Why?"

"Because it's cool, that's why."

"All right." Molly ducked out of the way as the group filed into the elevators. She dashed down the stairs and reached the security desk within moments. "Excuse me," she said to the man on duty.

"Yes?"

She pulled out of some Petra's homemade vecnatricon powder and blew it in his face. He yelped as he scrabbled at his eyes to rid them of the stuff. "Your eyes don't hurt," she said.

"My eyes don't hurt," he said.

"No one is allowed to go up on the roof."

"No one is allowed on the roof."

She lounged against the wall as the others came into sight. "How did you get here so fast?" asked Gabe.

"Stairs. No elevators, remember?" Molly said.

"Oh yeah, sucks to be you."

"Not really."

Amy and Missy meanwhile went up to the security guard. "We'd like to go up on the roof to view the meteor shower that's supposed to be going on tonight."

"I'm sorry," he said, "No one is allowed on the roof."

Molly hid her smile. Then she snaked her arm through Gabe's, to his astonishment. "I guess we go back upstairs."

***

Gabe yawned and checked his watch. "We should probably be turning in."

"Turning into what?" chorused the response from the few faithful remaining. The filking had driven everyone else to bed hours before.

"Some of us have to go home yet tonight," he said.

"You could've roomed with us," said Peter, as he stood and stretched, yawning.

"Yeah, yeah." He wasn't actually interested in going home yet; he was buzzing, but awake.

Constance yawned. "Stop that! It's contagious!" She looked at Batya and Merav. "Bed?"

"Bed," intoned Batya.

"Bed," repeated Missy.

They closed up the room, clearing out the trash and the not-trash as they did.

"I swear the con suite is better than this," said Batya, as Missy tossed an armful of used paper plates into the trash.

Merav said, "We believe you."

They rode the elevator up as a group, dropping people off floor by floor. Gabe went with them, making sure everyone got to their rooms without trouble. As they deposited Constance outside her room, he checked to see if he had cab fare home. Check.

Peter and Missy were the last two; they had rooms on the same floor. Gabe walked with them as far as the hallway to their rooms, then bade them good-night.

~So. Time to go home.~ But he didn't really want to go home, not yet. He was wide awake again.

He decided to poke his head around the real con suite, see if anyone else had the same idea. Then he could detour through the Tick-Tock Diner, again try to find any night-owl fen who might be lurking. Then home. Really.

He rode the elevator back down to the lobby, and then walked to the fourth floor. He knew the approximate location of the new con suite, but as he rounded the corner, he knew that no one would be there.

Except that someone was. The door was open, the light was on, and this was odd because it was after one in the morning. The tingle of alcohol running through his system made him brave, and besides, hadn't he been looking for someone to hang with rather than go home?

"Hello?"

He stepped into the room. Kellie was leafing through a stack of notes on one of the tables -- the runner assignments, he saw -- and she was apparently in costume way early, wearing black and carrying a heavy wooden club. Merav was coming out of the video room, closing the door neatly behind her; she wore a fluttery white dress and a band of thin white cloth tied over her eyes.

"Oh, hey guys. I thought you went to bed "

"We changed our minds," said Merav.

Gabe chuckled. "Can you see anything through that blindfold?"

"Hey, Gabe?" said Merav. "Take a look at this, will you?" She held out her two hands, closed around something.

Gabriel bent to look almost automatically. Merav lifted her hands to the level of his chin, opened them, and blew a cloud of fine powder into his face.

He let out a sharp startled cry as the powder lightly stung his eyes, lifting both hands to cover his face in a reflexive movement. Merav's voice cut through the moment of disorientation, saying: "We aren't the people you're looking for."

Gabe squinted, rubbed at his eyes, and tried to focus; it was harder than he'd expected. "You're not the people I'm looking for," he repeated vaguely.

"You should go about your business," said Merav, smiling behind the blindfold.

Confusion threatened again, and he latched onto the last thing he'd heard. "I should ... go about my business," he agreed. His business. What was he supposed to be doing right now? What had he come in here for?

"Come along," Merav's voice said.

Come along. Oh, yes; that was what he was supposed to do. "Coming!"

Merav and Kellie walked downstairs and through the kitchen; Gabe ambled happily behind them. In the back of the kitchen was a long metal wall with an old-fashioned latch door.

"Batya and Constance will be coming here soon. You should wait inside for them," said Merav.

"I'll be in there, waiting for Batya and Constance," he affirmed. He opened the door and stepped inside.

"Now shut the door, so the cold doesn't get out," said Merav, and Kellie guffawed.

Gabe shut the door behind himself, so he could keep the cold inside. "Batya and Constance will be here soon," he said to himself.

The cold penetrated his senses. "Wait a minute ... "

***
August 14, 1998
***

Liz checked the schedule for sitting at the registration table and hissed in irritation. "Gabe was supposed to be here by now. I can't handle the money until Sabbath's over."

Missy looked up from where she sorted the registration forms. "I can stay for another two hours, but I've got the filk panel after that."

"That's great, but dammit, he should be here," Liz replied, annoyed.

Missy looked over Liz's shoulder at the schedule. "Cripes. I'm gonna have to cancel lunch with Laudre and Mandi. Remind me to tell them?"

"Sure," said Liz, distracted.

***

"Ziegler, you got a minute?" Aaron tensed. He knew that voice.

"A minute," he said. "I'm going to audition for the radio play."

Christi caught up to him, hands full of printouts.

"I just wanted to ask you some questions about 'Disobedience.' I toned down the language from the first draft."

"Yes, you did."

"Garlon and Sekhmet barely interact."

"Barely?" He took the printout from her, and read at random: She twisted, and then Garlon was on top of her. He pressed his face close to hers and flicked out his tongue to her forehead. "Good little pussy. Cat." "'Bare' is a good word for it," he said aloud. "Drop it, or the episode dies in edits." He tossed the papers back to her.

"You can't do that."

"I am TGS Standards and Practices. I can do anything!" He raised his voice, echoing the "Millennium" episode, but Christi apparently didn't notice or didn't get it.

"I've had about enough of TGS S&P. We're not writing the series for seven-year-olds, and the average seven-year-old has seen far more sex and violence than anything we've even considered here."

'They're not going to see it in our series. That would violate the spirit of the show. I'm sorry, but kill the scene, or the episode dies." He turned on one heel, and headed towards the auditions.

Behind him, Christi fumed.

***

Mandi and Sean waited in the lobby. "She said eleven, right?" asked Sean.

"That's what she said this morning."

"I have to be back by noon," he said, not for the first time.

"Five more minutes. Then we'll go without her."

"Waiting for me?" Missy was suddenly there. That was odd; Mandi could have sworn she'd put on shorts and the con t-shirt this morning, not a goth wannabe ensemble. Ah well. ~Car lag.~

"Sorry I was late. I haven't been myself this morning." She smiled, which looked especially odd with the overlarge sunglasses. It wasn't even that bright outside.

"That's okay," said Sean. "We're all a little crazy this weekend. I have to be back at noon for a second audition." Excitement hummed in his voice, and Mandi was suitably jealous. "Can we eat near here? Maybe at the Blimpie's?"

"That would be perfect."

***

Seth closed the door behind him and pocketed the keycard, reminding himself to return it to Fan later. He scanned the printouts in his hands. The Pendragon story was going well, he thought from the few lines he scanned. ~Time to edit.~

He passed the elevator banks on his way to the stairwell. He considered calling for one, but reasoned that he could be downstairs by the time the elevator reached his floor.

The door chimed. ~On the other hand ...~ He turned. Batya rushed from the elevator, headed on a beeline for a suite in the other direction and ignoring him completely. Something poked for his attention in the back of his mind, and he wondered what it might be. ~Oh yeah. The draft.~

"Hey, Batya!" His voice went froggy, and he coughed to clear it. "Got a minute?" Batya didn't break stride. She reached the door, swiped her card, and went inside.

"Ummmmm. Okay. Don't say 'Hi.'" Well, she was very busy for the whole weekend, and she'd been facing the other direction. ~Probably just didn't hear me.~

He stood a moment in debate. He needed to get Fan's key back to him, but on the other hand, he needed to talk to Batya. Fan could wait.

Seth went to the door. ~Should I go with "Room service" or "Pizza guy?" Eh. "Room service."~ He was about to knock, when he heard Missy say something. He frowned. He could have sworn she'd been at the registration table just five minutes ago. He'd waved as he'd gone down the stairs to catch the elevator going upstairs. ~Maybe she came back for something.~

Another voice. Kellie's. Maybe the Con Staff was having a quick meeting. On the tenth floor. In a room he hadn't known any of them had taken.

He looked at the pages in his hands. It could probably wait, if they were busy. But he did have the stuff right here, and it would only take a moment.

Seth knocked.

Inside the room, the voices fell still. After about thirty seconds, the door cracked open. Batya peered out at him. There was a cold expression on her face when she saw him, and he immediately regretted knocking. They had probably been in the middle of something serious. ~Damn.~

"What?" asked Batya. Behind him, he heard the elevator doors open and close again. ~Missed another one. Definitely the stairs going down.~

"Oh, nothing. I was just going to ask you a quick question. Nothing that can't wait." He heard footsteps, and turned his head. He smiled when he saw Jordan and Gabriel. "Hey, guys."

Batya nodded to the other two, and then turned back to Seth. "What did you want?"

"Um. That thing we were going to do with Leba. Did you want to look over Fan's notes before or after I run them through a quick edit?"

Batya stared at him blankly, then said, "After."

"All right. Just thought I'd ask before I got started. I know you wanted to take a look, and I thought I'd save myself some time."

"Fine," she said. "You're late," she said to Jordan and Gabe, apparently ignoring him again.

"I'll just be going then," said Seth. "I wouldn't want to interrupt your meeting."

"Meeting?" Batya's attention swivelled squarely back to him again, suddenly making him wish otherwise. There was something about her gaze, something sharp. He'd always known her to be one bubbling smile; now her mouth was drawn into a thin line, and she regarded him with a calculated interest that made him squirm.

"Look, if there's something wrong," he blurted, "I'll help out. Really."

"What did you hear?" asked Jordan. Seth considered offering him a cough drop; his voice was scratchy, like he'd caught a cold.

"Bring him," said Missy, unseen from inside the room.

"Seth," said Batya, "Maybe you'd better come in." The little voice in the back of his head poked at him again, but Jordan and Gabe were still behind him. There was no other way to go but into the room. ~Hope it's nothing serious.~

"I didn't mean to overhear anything," he said. Inside, he saw the rest of the Dreamer Clan already gathered. Constance, Merav and Laura stood by the windows with Missy, who was seated in the room's one tiny chair. Kellie and Liz stood to either side of him, watching him with the same guarded expression Batya wore. Jordan and Gabe were still behind him, now between him and the door. "Hey, everybody." No one said a word.

"But you did hear something," said Batya. "That's fine. You get to find out about the surprise before everyone else."

"Surprise? Cool! Can I be in on it?"

Batya smiled, and he felt more at ease when he saw the familiar grin. "I think we can arrange that."

"So what's going on?" He looked from face to face, reading nothing.

"Sit down, Seth." He took a seat on the edge of one of the beds. Batya remained standing, but Kellie and Liz both sat on the bed to either side of him.

"Now, I'm going to tell you something you might find a little strange." She smiled again.

"Shoot."

"There's a small faction here at the con who are not pleased with the way things are being run in the fandom. They believe there should be a bit more order to the way things are run, a firm hand guiding the way. They'd like to see the end of the little lists, the varied web pages, and see that energy channeled into a single, useful purpose. In short, although it may seem hard to believe, there's a group that is plotting to overthrow the fandom as we know it and seize power."

Seth stared at her. "Look, I know you and Patrick aren't getting along right now, but he and Demmie aren't plotting to take over. I swear."

One of the others chuckled and was shushed. "No," said Batya, "Not Patrick. There's a revolution at hand. It's being planned by people who," she broke off, chuckled a little herself, and then said, "People who look just like us."

"You're not serious."

She placed a hand on his shoulder. "I'm deadly serious."

"You make it sound like we're at war or something. 'Revolution?'" The little voice in his head gave up tapping him on the mental shoulder, and yanked out a clear memory, one of Gathering '97. He'd gone to hug Batya, and she'd stopped him. She couldn't hug him, and she couldn't touch him. Religious reasons.

He looked down at her hand on his shoulder. Batya followed his gaze, then jerked her hand back; she turned slightly at the same moment, such that he might almost have missed the abruptness of the hand motion if he hadn't already been looking for it.

"The revolution is here at hand," Batya went on, gesturing with the same hand, "and Nancy Brown will lead it." Seth turned his head to where Missy sat, silent, watching him like the others. She had been dressed in shorts and a t-shirt when he'd seen her downstairs. Now she wore black jeans and a black blouse and overlarge dark glasses covering her regular glasses. Her hair seemed a lot darker, too, although it was hard to tell, poofed up as it was. And she was going to lead a revolution?

He couldn't help himself. He laughed until his sides hurt. "Oh, you had me going there for a minute! Funny."

"We're not joking," said Batya. "We want you on our side, to be a part of the new order."

"Under Missy. I mean Nancy. Right."

Kellie and Liz both moved closer to him, and he read no humor in their eyes. The little voice brought something else to his attention. ~It's Saturday. What was Batya doing on the elevator on Saturday?~

"You know," said Seth, "I really don't like being the butt of some dumb joke."

"This is real, Seth," said Laura from beside the window. "Really real."

"Uh huh." He looked at Missy again. "Okay, so you're coming to the Masquerade as your own pseudonym. Whatever. You should see my outfit." He grinned; there would always be a Hunter, but probably not one like this.

"It will be during the Masquerade, yes," said Merav. "From there, our rule will extend over the entire fandom."

"We're not a government, fer crying out loud! Hello? Earth to fangirl? We're fans of a cancelled TV show. Pssh. Get over the Pinky and Brain complex already." He stood up, found that Kellie and Liz were right beside him.

"Seth, be reasonable," said Batya. "We're offering you a chance to be on the inside. Because we like you, and we don't want to see you get hurt."

"Much," said Laura, and Constance giggled. Liz placed a hand on his arm, and he shrugged it off angrily. He stared at Missy.

"I thought you were my friends." She shrugged. "Cut the crap, Nancy, Missy, or whoever you think you are this time, and get a frickin' life."

Batya's face went dark. A split second later, his wrist exploded into pain, and he fell to one knee. Before he could say or do anything, a fist connected with his mouth. Hard.

"OW! What the fuck...?" Seth staggered, grabbed his own mouth and looked down at his hand. Bright blood welled from a split lip and shone on his fingers.

Gabriel released his other wrist and took a step back. He'd only used two fingers. Seth massaged the spot with his thumb, working the pain away from the bruised tissue.

"Jesus Christ," he choked. "What the hell was that for?" Gabe said nothing, stood calmly staring back. The look on Jordan's face beside him was anything but friendly.

Batya, no longer sounding at all like herself, said, "Seth, if you're not with us, then you're against us. And you will not speak that way about Nancy."

"Okay," Seth growled, "that's it. First Nancy, now Demona.... What the hell is going on here?!"

Instead of answering, Batya and Gabriel both looked towards the windows, to where Missy sat, and Seth saw the utter devotion in both faces, in the faces of the other clan members.

"You clearly have no conception of the honor we're offering you here." It was the first she'd spoken since he'd entered the room. And it was that brief sentence that truly began to frighten him: her voice was the coldest thing Seth had ever heard. Utterly unlike Missy's usual half-manic cheerfulness.

Constance and Laura moved away from her, towards him. Around them all was a taut alertness, an anticipation of ... something. His heart hammered as the hairs on the back of his necks jumped up to attention.

Then Missy's words registered, and he exploded in wounded indignation. "A fat lip? SOME HONOR!" He was shouting at her now, his fear sublimated into anger. "Batya, talk to me! What's going on?"

Batya smiled. "I'm not ... exactly Batya."

Seth began to back up towards the wall and backed right into someone. He spun around, and looked down at Jordan. Jordan looked back, a dangerous glint in his eyes, and just perhaps, the beginnings of a very small smile.

"Or you might say," Batya continued, "in a way I am Batya ... as she should have been." She glanced around the room. "It's the same with all of us," she added matter-of-factly.

Seth said, "Oh no ... of course not ... you're ... " ~No,~ his mind said with reflex logic,~don't be absurd.~ "Ya know what? Ya just better get to steppin'."

Batya spoke softly now, with a kind of gentle amusement. "Seth, we're not the Dark Side, we're not the Borg, we're not even the Illuminati. We're just the future of this fandom. And we'd like you to be a part of it."

There was nowhere to run. He was surrounded, and while under normal circumstances, he might be able to take one or more of the others in a fight, his wrist still ached from the pressure Gabe had put on it, and he didn't know what other surprises the clan had squirreled away. His bowels gave a warning quiver, already in deep conversation with his hindbrain.

"Who...what are you?"

"We're the winning team, Seth."

Merav smiled. "Come on, Seth," she said in a chiding tone. "You've seen 'The Reckoning,' haven't you?"

"...Oh my god," Seth whispered.

The word was sounding in his head now: ~Clones.~

Seth sagged his shoulders, then pushed Jordan -- no, not Jordan -- out of the way and made a run for the door. Kellie's clone stepped into his way and grasped him by the shoulders.

He threw her hands off in a spasm of revulsion. "Leggo 'a me!"

The clones of Liz, Merav, and Laura had converged in front of him, and Gabriel's and Jordan's behind. The Batya-clone hadn't moved, and neither had the woman who had to be Nancy Brown; they still sat on the bed, watching with the same impassive stare.

Seth put up his hands in his best imitation of a Karate position. The Jordan-clone laughed out loud. "Oh, puhleeze." His voice was raspy, low.

The Kellie-clone made a beckoning gesture at him, a nasty grin on her face. "Come on," she said. "Impress us."

Seth ignored her, and looked pointedly down at the Jordan-clone with a desperate bravado. "You think you can take me?"

The Jordan-clone gave him a sharp smile. "I could take six of you, golden boy. And even if I couldn't, you can't fight us all. Join us."

"I'll never join you!"

The Liz-clone giggled and clapped her hands together. "He said it! He said it! Can I cut off his hand now?"

~Oh shit oh shit oh shit.~

Seth spun and kicked at the Kellie-clone, slamming his elbow at the Jordan-clone's face. He felt the kick connect, heard her whoof as the air went out of her, and then heard himself scream as his elbow was caught and twisted at an excruciating angle.

He brought his other arm around in a blow to the Jordan-clone's stomach, as hard as he could. The impact was solid, and he felt and saw the reaction, but there was something hard under his shirt that wasn't stomach.

Seth kept striking frantically until the grip on his elbow loosened and turned into a shove that sent him stumbling into the center of the circle. He staggered, turning to face the next one, and the Laura-clone's fist slammed into the pit of his stomach.

He doubled over, tumbled onto his side and rolled. He reached for the nearest pair of ankles -- the Constance-clone's - grabbed them and jerked as hard as he could. The Constance-clone stumbled and nearly fell backwards, but the Gabriel-clone was behind her, steadying her, and both of them stepped forward as Seth rolled to his knees --

The Batya-clone abruptly stood up. "Enough!"

The circle widened again around him. Seth looked up at her, still on his knees and clutching his stomach, his face burning red. Hands grabbed him from behind, pinning his arms.

Nancy rose and advanced on them. "Stand him up," she said coldly.

He tried to struggle as they lifted him to his feet, holding him bent forward so that he had to crane his neck upwards to see Nancy leaning over him, her face inches from his own. "I grow tired of this," she said very softly, and she didn't look at all like Missy anymore. "This is your last chance, boy."

Seth drew in a shaky breath, and spat in Nancy Brown's face.

A shocked silence descended. The hands holding him tensed.

Against his will, Seth gulped, as Nancy very deliberately brought her hand up to wipe her face. She looked calmly at the spittle and blood on her fingers ... and turned away from Seth to look over his shoulder at two of the others. Her voice, when she spoke, was quiet and even. "Jason. Betsy." A pause. "Hurt him."

Seth's eyes widened. ~Oh SHIT--~

The Jordan-clone and the Liz-clone began to grin. Most of the hands let loose, and the two of them dragged him to the tiny bathroom. They slammed the door behind them.

Moments later, sounds started coming out through the door. The noises gradually rose in pitch and volume, and then, after a long time, stopped completely.

***

Jason and Betsy emerged from the bathroom, she smoking a cigarette and passing a second one to him. Jason stretched theatrically, and smiled. "I never get tired of doing that."

Betsy gave him an appreciative wicked grin. "Good thing, 'cause we got a long weekend ahead of us."

Uriel shook his head, with a tiny wry smile. The Terrible Twosome were good at what they did, but they had no subtlety. Blood was already seeping from the tile floor of the bathroom into the carpet by the door.

"All right, sibs, playtime's over." Beatrice looked up from the notepad she was holding and nodded to Jason and Betsy as they moved into the room, joining the others. "Stay focused, stay in contact. We've all got our targets, let's get to it." She looked around the circle; the cold purpose in her manner spread, as each Nightmare straightened, came alert. "Any questions?"

There were none, only that same intensity, reflecting back to her from the faces of her brothers and sisters.

"All right," she said again, and closed her ballpoint pen with a tiny, sharp click. "We move now."

***

The room was utterly strewn with things: costumes, makeup, wire, duct tape. The lone sound was a contralto singing: "... and we walked twenty miles to the schoolyard, barefoot, and uphill, both ways ..." over the sound of running water. Merav had finally found time for a shower.

That was when the door to the bathroom opened. Merav's head poked around the shower curtain. "Tir, is that ... Gabriel?" She studied him for a moment.

"Where have you been? We were expecting you this morning ... " She trailed off, noticing for the first time that "Gabriel's" chin was staying perfectly level, and his adam's apple was too. Gabriel was never this laconic. "You're not Gabriel, are you?"

The black trenchcoat moved only a little as the familiar-yet-unfamiliar head moved from side to side.

"But obviously you know that I was a film major in college, or you would have waited 'til I came out of the shower." There was a hint of a sarcastic grin, but nothing close to the laugh the real Gabriel would have produced at that accusation.

"So what did you leave in the bathroom?"

He pointed a gloved finger at her.

"...Me?" He nodded, and Merav drew a deep breath. "Let me get a towel."

Gabriel's clone smiled, a small sardonic smile, a lot like the one Gabriel had when he was about to make a terrible pun. He handed her a second, smaller towel. For her hair.

Merav nodded and wrapped the first towel around her body, and the second one went under her hair.

"Can I get dressed?" she asked.

He shrugged, and leaned against the wall. Apparently, he would wait.

"Oh." ~Well in that case, I'd better,~ she thought, and headed for the suitcase.

"My mother always told me to wear clean underwear in case I get into an accident," she smiled. "And since I know I'm likely to be in an accident...."

She thought he smiled just before she slipped into the bathroom. His hand stayed casually between the door and the frame, leaving her unable to cast about for a weapon. ~Besides, slippery shampoo bottles don't make good bludgeons, even in the best of times.~ She slipped on her Princess Katharine gown.

"Alright," she said. "Lay on, MacBird." He glanced at her, one eyebrow quirking. "In-joke," she muttered, grabbing a dry towel as he hauled her out the door.

***

It was almost time for the radio show. Mandi sat up from where she'd been napping, and clutched her throbbing head. She'd felt sick since lunch. ~Probably bad tuna,~ she speculated.

Her stomach gave a heave, but allowed her to stand. She splashed some cold water on her face in the bathroom and felt a little better.

~Time to go.~

Mandi had not auditioned for a part in the show, but she did want to see. Her favorite part of being in the theatre group at Hood was seeing the final performance come together without a seam. She was eager to see how Greg would manage to put this performance on with such a short notice for the cast.

Downstairs, she waited in line as, one by one, people filled out the non-disclosure forms. When it was her turn, she took one from Leva and glanced it over. Nothing unusual. She signed it, and handed it to Missy.

She frowned at her roommie's t-shirt and shorts. "Did you change?"

"Nope. Probably should, though. I'm kinda chilly."

"Okay." Her head swam. She went inside and found a seat near the back.

After a long time, Greg came to the podium. He gave a little introduction, which set everyone at ease. Then he said, "And now, we present to you: 'Snowfall.'"

There was applause, and Mandi smelled it: someone had brought fast food back from somewhere. The grease smell hit her in a wave, and she barely stumbled from the room before she emptied her stomach onto the floor.

When she could breathe again, she saw a pair of black boots standing very close to where she'd just hurled. A bit of it had splashed them, and she felt a stab of guilt.

"I'm sorry about that," she began as she started to stand. "When did you have time to change?"

Missy grabbed her by the collar of her dress and slammed her hard against the wall, knocking the breath back out of her. There was a cold smile on her face as she said, "You and I are going to go have a nice little chat now. You're going to tell me every single detail you can remember about Hood College, the grounds, the people, everything. And if you do a good job, I might be inclined to give you the antidote."

Still holding Mandi, she checked her watch. "I'd talk fast, if I were you."

***

Petra lurked in the hallway outside the ballroom. As Tirtzah came through, she snaked an arm out and touched the girl's shoulder.

"Merav!" squeaked Tirtzah. "Where were you? Did you see?" She looked around, probably trying to make sure she wasn't violating the disclosure she'd signed, but all in earshot had seen the show. "What did you think?"

Petra smiled in a gentle fashion. "Oh, you don't want to hear my opinion. You should ask one of your fans." She gestured with a slim arm.

"Sure I do!" Tirtzah beamed, glowing with the anticipatory satisfaction of praise about to come.

"Well," started Petra, "I came in late, but from what I saw, you did show a lot of potential."

"You think so?"

"Oh yes. Of course, that was difficult to see under the many layers of banality. I suppose the lion's share of the blame goes to Weisman for the limp script. We already knew his sense of pacing was suspect at best, but really, after hearing this weak attempt, it's a miracle the show ever saw the light of day past the pilot. But anyway, you wanted to hear about your performance."

"Um, yeah."

"It was adequate to the task."

"Adequate." Her voice caught. Petra smiled inwardly.

"I don't think you really want me to go into detail right now. Why don't you talk to your adoring public?"

"No, no ... I want to hear what you have to say." The girl put on a brave face. How sweet.

"To be perfectly frank," said Petra, voice dripping with sisterly concern, "Your reading was flat and uninspired. You could have been reading the ingredients list from a cereal box with the same emotion you gave the character. I have seen much better performances, although now that I consider it, not from you. I can only imagine the reason he chose you to play Snow was so that he could later blame the terrible reception of the radio play on your acting." Petra patted Tirtzah on the shoulder, as the girl sagged. "I wouldn't feel too bad. You're showing improvement."

"Okay. Okay thanks," said Tirtzah, very calm considering. Petra would have bet twenty to one that she'd have burst into tears by now. "I need to go and ... Um. Congratulate Jordan. Yeah." She wandered off, dazed, in the direction of Jordan, or had Jason done his work already? No, she noted. Still his gormless original.

Petra smiled, and pondered what havoc to wreak next.

***

"Tirtzah," said Constance, as the girl walked by, "That was a great performance!"

"Thanks," said Tirtzah, miserably, and then she burst into tears. Still sobbing, she ran towards the elevators.

"What's with her?" asked Leva, mystified.

"Dunno," said Constance. "Have you seen Seth at all? I thought he'd gotten a part in the show."

"Nope," said Leva.

Fan turned from the conversation he was having with Fire Storm. "Hey, if you find him, tell him he still has my key."

"Why does he have your key?"

"I had some TGS stuff in my room that he wanted to go get."

"When did he go?"

Fan shrugged. "A while ago."

Constance spied Peter as he exited the ballroom. "Peter, can you do me a favor? We're looking for Seth. Fan says he went up to the ... What floor, Fan?"

"Tenth."

"Tenth floor a little while ago."

"Can't you do it?" asked Peter. "I'm kind of busy."

"Not really. Please?"

"Fine," he grumbled, and went to the elevators.

***

Jordan was tired; it had been a long day, and since he was one of the few on the con staff who would use money, ride the elevator, make photocopies and so forth today, he had been running across town and back, and through the hotel keeping the tables staffed, the workshops happy and prepping for the Greg reading. The show had gone well, but dammit, he was cranky, he was frustrated, and he had gotten a heat rash in a rather uncomfortable place. And the damned auction was in half an hour. He sprawled across the bed he was sharing with Alex Wittenberg, praying that no one would find him.

"Just fifteen minutes," he muttered to himself, "And if that Irish girl asks me one more question I swear to God ... "

His rant was interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Unless you're Greg, God, or a naked redhead, go away."

The knocking continued, measured but more insistent than before. Unable to rest he hauled himself upright and went to the door.

"Miri, if that's you I'm gonna ... "

Jordan got up and went to the door; it was not God or Greg standing there but Liz. Funny, he didn't remember her wearing that tight tank-top to the show, and he would have.

He was about to say something to effect of "Well, you got it half right," but the look on Liz's face suggested that this would be a bad idea.

"We need you downstairs, now."

Jordan was not inclined to argue.

***

"Sure," Peter grumbled as he stepped off the elevator. "Send me to find Seth. Like I have nothing better to do. Just have to show the damned video of the last damned con is all."

Then he realized that, although he knew what floor, he didn't know what room Fan's was. He said something foul under his breath and headed back towards the elevator, when he saw a door ajar down the hall.

"Seth?" he called. "You in there?" No one answered. ~Never hurts to look.~ He wandered over to the door, then knocked on the doorframe.

"Hello? Anyone in here?"

There was a groan. He jumped back, but it had sounded like ... "Seth? Are you in there?" Another groan.

~Damn damn damn.~

Peter entered the room. He noted a few bags lined against the wall beneath the tightly closed curtains. The room was hot and dark, and he fumbled for the light switch. "Seth?"

" ... here ... "

The bathroom door creaked but did not swing. Peter leaned closer, and a movement on the floor caught his eye. A thin trickle of some dark fluid, oozing over the tiles to brush against the woodwork. Some dark red fluid ...

Peter shoved the door open, his heart suddenly knocking at his ribs. Something -- no, someone -- was curled up on the red-smeared floor, a pair of broken glasses lying a few feet away from the head.

The someone raised his head painfully. Blond hair clotted with drying blood, one cheek bruised and swollen, eyes squinting against the light ...

"Oh my god," Peter whispered. "Seth?"

"Peter ..." Seth coughed, dragged in a wheezing breath. "'S trouble, bad ..." He struggled to rise, sank back down with another groan. "Think ... they broke somethin'," he rasped.

"Wh-who?" Peter managed, his voice going high in shock.

~The mirror. There's blood spots on the mirror.~ Suddenly, he could barely focus on Seth as his mind turned over and over on how the spots could have gotten so high above his head.

"Jordan an' Liz," Seth mumbled; Peter barely heard him. "Only ... wasn' them ... T-tell Batya ...."

"Need help," Peter said, backing away. "You need help. I'll, I'll call--"

"Wait!" Seth coughed again, his whole body shaking as he tried again to push himself upright, blood streaming from a gash on his forehead. "Tell them. Clones. Nancy an' clones ... gotta tell 'em ... nightmares ...."

He blinked, tried to shake the blood out of his eyes. "Gotta --" Another racking cough, bloody foam coming to his lips, and he curled around himself like a poked bug, gasping in pain. When the coughing stopped, he was unconscious.

"Oh my god." Peter backed into the bedroom, fumbling for the hotel phone by the bed. "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god ... " He felt the receiver against his hand, turned as he picked it up and started to dial 9-1-1.

~Spotted. Above my head. And it dried where it dripped down. And his glasses were broken.~

As he touched the nine, the phone line went dead.

He clicked the receiver button a few times. "Hello?" He felt his voice go high again in near-panic, and fought it. "Hello? Operator? Hello?"

"Hello," said a quiet voice behind him.

Peter yelped and dropped the phone; it smashed into his knee on the way to the floor. "Kellie! Don't do that!"

The door slammed behind her, and Kellie stood between him and it.

"Thank God you're here. Seth's in the bathroom, he's ... " He gulped. "There's blood, and it got so high, and he thinks something's broken, and his glasses, they're all cracked, and ... "

He stopped. Something about his sister had worried its way into his perceptions and demanded his attention, even as preoccupied as he was with thoughts of Seth bleeding to death in the bathroom. Something about her carriage, and the look in her eyes as she watched him. She also seemed to be in better shape under the tight t-shirt and jeans than he remembered, but then he hadn't spent much time around her these past two months.

"We have to. Help him. Find a phone. Come on." He went towards the door. Kellie's arm blocked his way, and she shoved him back and onto one of the beds. "Hey!"

"You and I should talk."

"Later." ~All cracked.~

"Now. There are some things I've been meaning to tell you for a long time."

"They can wait." He tried to go past her, but she was stone.

"Something Mother said. Something you should know."

"Fine. What?"

"You were an accident." Peter flinched. For a moment, his thoughts of Seth went away.

"Thanks. I needed that right now."

Kellie snorted. "You needed it a long time ago. Something to stop you from acting like the whining little brat you were and are."

"Shut up."

She advanced on him. "I always told them, you needed a firmer hand." She drew back her arm and slapped him, hard on the face, and his head jerked. "But no, they had to spoil you." He ducked from the second punch, and looked for an escape under her arm.

She was faster than him, and brought her elbow down on the back of his neck. Peter fell to the floor, momentarily dazed. His eyes drifted to the other end of the floor. A reddish-brown stain had settled into the carpet around the bathroom.

~All cracked, and he said Jordan and Liz did it.~

"Kel?"

Kellie loomed over him as he scrambled up on his arms and knees, and gave him a powerful kick to his midsection.

"You need," kick, "to be taught," kick, "a lesson." Two more kicks came, and then the torrent of words. How she and Kathleen had never wanted him around. How Mom had been upset at finding out she was pregnant again. How Dad almost left because of it. As the kicks continued, Peter pulled his body into a fetal ball, and hoped unconsciousness would come soon.

***

Miri heard someone who sounded an awful lot like Peter yelping from inside the room. The door, like the rest of the doors in this place, locked whenever it closed. She rapped on the door three times.

"Peter? Are you okay?"

The noises stopped. The handle turned, and she stepped back. Kellie stood in the doorway, face turned in an ugly smirk. "This just gets better and better." Just behind her, Miri saw Peter on the floor, clutching his stomach.

"Miri," he gasped. "Run ... "

Kellie grabbed her arms with a strength Miri hadn't suspected she possessed.

"Enough." The voice was behind her. Jordan and Constance were behind her; Constance had been the one speaking. Kellie released her instantly.

"Kel, what's gotten into you? Peter, are you okay?"

Jordan grabbed her in a bearhug from behind as Kellie turned back to Peter. "Okay, sweetie," hissed Jordan in her ear, "We can do this the easy way or the hard way."

"Let me go! Dammit, Jordan!" She was scared; Jordan knew better than to touch her, but he had her in a grip like steel as she struggled. Kellie grabbed Peter, and slung him over her shoulder.

"That's the hard way," said Jordan, placing a hand over her mouth and nose, clamping off her air intake.

"Be a good girl," said Constance. "Bad girls get punished.." Miri stopped struggling. This was all weird, beyond weird. "Are you going to behave?" She nodded. "Good."

Jordan released her, but held her hand. He watched her with an expression on his face she could not and would not identify, but her skin crawled where he touched her. Kellie led the way back down the hall towards the elevators.

"If you make a scene," said Constance, conversationally, "we're going to hurt you. A lot."

Miri cast her eyes down, trying to think of something. She could try to make a break for it; she could outdistance Jordan in a fair race. She darted a glance at him. Or maybe not. He seemed to be in much better shape than she had taken him to be. What was up with him? With them?

Kellie set Peter roughly on his feet when they stepped into the elevator. She held a firm hand on the back of his neck, holding him up as his head lolled. The elevator ticked off the floors as they descended. Miri's chest pounded with every floor, and she was half-sure she was going to pass out. ~Keep it together. It'll be okay. There's got to be a good explanation.~

The elevator stopped at the ground floor. "Be good," whispered Constance. The doors slid open. Aaron Ziegler stood outside.

"Hey guys," he said, nervously. He glanced out to the lobby.

"Hi, Aaron," squeaked Miri.

"Are you okay?" He took a quick look at Peter, at the five of them still standing in the elevator.

"Everything's great!" said Miri.

"Going down," said Jordan, and jabbed a button.

As the door closed, she saw Christi Hayden approach Aaron, her face dark and unreadable. "Can we talk, Mister 'I am TGS Standard and Practices, I Can Do Anything?'" Aaron's eyes grew wide, and he was gone.

"Good girl," murmured Constance. The elevator slid down one more floor and opened. Jordan pulled her out as the others followed.

"Okay, so we're in the basement. Great. A funny trick. Hahahahaha." "Shut up," said Kellie. They walked through the kitchen, unnoticed by the staff, to a large metal door. Laura lounged against it.

"Two more fish, cold storage!" she said, and opened the door.

Jordan shoved her inside. Kellie dumped Peter on the floor beside her.

"Enjoy your stay!" said Laura, giggling. The door slammed shut, sending them into darkness. Peter moaned.

"Guys?" said Miri. "Please say this is a joke. Guys? Please?"

"So they got you, too?"

"Merav?" She backed up against the door.

"Yeah. It's me. I'm not one of them."

"Them who?"

"The doppelgangers. The evil twins. Whatever they are." Merav flopped down beside her on a crate. Jordan, and it was Jordan, she could see even in the dim light, bent over Peter to check on his bruises.

"Oh. I think they got Christi, too. And Aaron Ziegler." She recalled the look on the woman's face. She hoped Aaron was okay.

"We've been here for a few hours," said Merav.

"Few hours," huffed Gabe. "I've been in here since Friday! Not that any of you seemed to notice."

"But," said Peter to Merav, pulling himself to a sitting position, cradling his ribs, "I saw you right after the play. You were talking to Tirtzah about it." He coughed.

Jordan looked at him. "What part of 'doppelgangers' did you just miss?"

"She ... I didn't hurt her?"

"She looked kind of upset."

"If she hurts my sister, I'll kill her." Miri, not sure of what else to do, placed a hand on Merav's shoulder. Already, it was like ice.

***

Dr. Konway surveyed the eager audience, and sighed. "Sorry folks, I have to be going. It's been fun!" He descended from the podium to cheers, and whistling, made his way out of the ballroom. Behind him, the con staff scrambled to fill the void.

Ah well. He'd be back in the morning to see how it went. He'd been especially amused by how the con staff had sold off cameo appearances in a story they were writing. ~Wonder when that'll see the light of day?~

"Hello," said Laura in a silky voice. Her arms behind her, she leaned on the balcony railing.

"Hello. You'd better hurry. They'll be wanting more people to help with the auction."

Laura pushed herself away from the balcony and stepped up beside him, tilting her chin and smiling. "Pretty," she said.

He felt a flush rising to his cheeks, then a worse wave of embarrassment as she petted his gryphon. He obediently toyed with the pen that made her seem alive, and Laura cooed.

"Such a pretty thing." She placed her ear near the animatronic toy. "What's that? You want to come home with me?"

"Erm, sorry," said Dr. Konway, moving back slightly. "I can give you the business card of the place that makes them," he said, apologetically.

Laura ignored him, fixing her gaze instead on the gryphon. "I agree. He is selfish. We should teach him a lesson." With one hand, she plucked the gryphon from his shoulder. Before he could protest, she had formed a fist with the other and connected between his eyes.

BAM

As he lay stunned, she gingerly placed the gryphon on the railing. Then she turned and picked him up easily, slamming him into a pillar. His glasses cracked, cutting into his face. She dropped him, roughly.

"DO I hear a one? ONE!" kick "Do I hear a two! TWO TO THE GROIN!" punch punch "Three? Three? Come on, do I hear a three?"

Through the blur, he saw Laura kneeling beside him, as if listening. Then her head flipped to face the gryphon. "THREE! SOLD!" She slammed her elbow into his head three times.

Dizziness and pain swirled around behind his eyes, and through them came a single thought, which seemed to make sense at the time: ~But I didn't even bid for a cameo....~

There was darkness.

***
August 16, 1998
***

Alex dragged himself to his room, tired but happy. After the auction, they'd gone to the video room and seen "Flight of Dragons," a movie he remembered from years back. After that, he'd stayed for too long, listening to Greg tell stories to a rapt audience circled around like children at a campfire.

He was a morning person, and these late nights were definitely not his style. But they did seem to be Batya's style, which meant that he'd probably be getting used to it.

The thought made him smile.

Life was pretty good, and Shabbos was over. He could use the lights again. Still, he didn't want to disturb his roommates, so quietly, he readied himself for bed in the dark.

As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he noticed the tossed blankets on the bed he was sharing with Jordan. And no Jordan. The bed Peter and Seth were sharing was also unoccupied.

Alex flipped on the light. "Guys?"

***

Liz didn't see Gabe until she stepped into the elevator. "There you are. About time you showed up." He offered a wan smile. Liz pressed the button for her floor. "Same floor for you?" Gabe nodded.

The doors closed with a chime.

"You know, you can take the sunglasses off. We're inside." He touched the side of his head. Liz snorted. "Must be one hell of a hangover."

He shrugged. She couldn't figure out why he hadn't said anything.~Maybe the headache is so bad it hurts to talk.~

But there was something about him, something that itched at her, something not right. Something strange about him ... or, well, rather, there was always something a little strange about Gabriel, but at the moment there was something about him that was strangely different from his usual strangeness, which was ... well ... odd. For no reason she could name, she wanted to be away from him as quickly as she could.

The floor dinged and she almost jumped. "Ah! We're here!"

He smiled again, then moved to leave the elevator, stumbling on the lip between the two carpets. She held out a hand to steady him. He threw an arm behind her to get his balance better.

She felt his fingers slide to the back of her neck, and then she felt nothing at all.

***

"We still have people on the outside," Miri said, pacing to keep warm. She glanced, worried, at the others. Peter was battered. Merav was shivering hard in the slip of a gown she wore, running her fingers through her hair to keep the tangles from freezing. Gabe had stopped shivering, and that worried her; he'd been in the freezer for over twenty-four hours. Hypothermia was a real threat.

"It could be worse," she said without conviction.

The door opened. Liz was flung inside; Miri didn't even get a good look at who caught her.

"It's worse," said Jordan.

***

"That's it. Right inside." Jason pricked the back of Kellie's neck with the blade, making her want to squirm, and desperately try not to squirm.

He pushed her roughly, more roughly than he needed to, but she had given him a solid blow to the side of the head before he'd pulled his blade on her.

"Hi, Kellie," came the chorus of disenchanted voices from inside the freezer. He nodded to Molly, then took a step in with his new prisoner.

"Is everyone comfortable? Do you need anything? A blanket? Some dinner, perhaps?" He grinned in the cold air.

"We don't need anything," said Merav.

He turned to her, and his grin spread. Mom was quite adamant about his keeping his hands to himself when it came to his sisters. She hadn't said a word about the prisoners.

"I could give you something," he rasped. He placed a hand against the frigid wall and leaned up against her as she tried backing away. He held his knife out, placed the very tip of it against her cheek, and slowly drew it down her face. "Oh yeah, we could have lots of fun, you and me." Merav said nothing, but he saw the tremble in her chin. His pathetic original came up behind him, hands in weak fists. "Leave her alone."

Jason drew one of his pistols and pointed it casually at Jordan. "Don't kid yourself. You wanted to do the same thing." He turned back to Merav, who was nearly cross-eyed trying to watch the knife on her face. "Now, where were we?"

From the open door, he heard Beatrice: "You were coming out here and guarding the freezer 'till we get the rest of them in."

Jason cursed. He pushed the knife so that a tiny red bloom formed from the prick. "Dibs," he whispered.

"Now, Jason."

He cursed again, and with a jaunty little salute, moved away from Merav, whose hand went to her cheek. He kept the gun pointed at Jordan. "Give me just one good excuse, fanboy." The others were already rushing to Merav, to see if she was all right.

Beatrice gave Jason a disapproving glare, then turned to Merav, who had sunk down onto an upturned milk crate and was sitting there with her arms wrapped around herself. "I'm sorry for that," she said formally. "It was ... undisciplined of him. He knows," and Beatrice turned slightly to aim the words at her retreating brother, "Mother left strict orders that you not be harassed unnecessarily."

"Bitch," muttered Liz, standing behind Merav and glaring. Beside her, Miri was silent, but her own glare spoke volumes.

Beatrice paused as she was turning away, and gave Miri a long searching look. Jason knew this Dreamer's counterpart would have been his seventh sister, Lilith, had the clone survived the aging process. Beatrice gave a small sigh, and Jason shrugged. Life was too short to regret anything.

"We regret the necessity of holding you captive," Beatrice said aloud to the Dreamers. "Be wise, and offer us no resistance, and you will not be harmed."

"Except for the part where we freeze to death," Jordan muttered.

"Hypothermia will not become a real threat for at least another twenty-five hours," Beatrice said calmly. "By that time, if all goes well, we should be able to release you."

"Why?" asked Kellie. "What happens in twenty-five hours?"

Beatrice produced a meaningless reassuring smile and stepped out of the freezer, closing the door behind her.

***

In the empty hotel room, Batya rummaged through her duffelbag, searching for the vial of black body paint. There hadn't been time to get a proper false moustache, so paint on the upper lip would have to do for Alex's Nicholas Maddox makeup.

The phone buzzed. Batya picked up the receiver. "Chaos Central. Batya speaking."

"Hi, it's Constance," came the voice at the other end. "I just brought in the last tour group. What's doing?"

"Hi hi. Uh, we just closed the Con Suite. I'm getting a few things out of the room, and then I'm gonna try to make the tail end of the Costuming Workshop. Are you costuming tonight?"

"Yeah, I'm going as the archaeologist person. Lydia Duane."

"Coo'. I'm doing Mavis. If we have time."

There was a tapping at the door. Batya shifted the phone to a shoulder grip. "Hang on, Constance, there's someone trying to get in. Who's there?"

She opened the door.

"Hi," said Constance, stepping into the room. "What's doing?"

Batya looked at her for a moment, then spoke into the phone without taking her eyes off the other. "Um, Miri? I'll call you back. Constance just walked in."

Ignoring the startled voice on the other end of the line -- "What? Huh? Batya, what's going on? Hello? Hello?" -- she went on. "Okay, great. All right. See you then. Bye."

Replacing the phone on its hook, Batya smiled uneasily. "Um. Hi."

The other Constance smiled back. "Wanna show you something."

***

The elevator doors opened on the lobby level in front of Leva Mevis, revealing Constance and Batya standing inside. "Going up?" asked Leva.

"Down," Constance said, with a one-shoulder shrug.

"'Kay, I'll take the next one. Oh, Batya --" Leva grabbed the elevator door before it could slide shut -- "I need to talk to you about something."

"Uh..." Batya's gaze flickered over her shoulder, to Constance. "This, uh, this kind of isn't a good time, Leva. Later?"

"When?"

"Um, I'm not sure ... " Batya was glancing nervously around the lobby. "Something's sort of come up."

Leva's brow furrowed in concern. "Anything I can help with?"

"Yeah," Constance said quickly. "If you see Alex, could you ask him to come to the Con Suite?"

"Sure," Leva said. "I think I saw him on the mezzanine."

"Um--" Batya started, then paused. "Yeah. Thanks."

"Great." Constance flashed her a smile, and reached out to press the DOOR CLOSE button. "'Bye."

The doors slid shut. Inside the elevator, Batya closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the doors, as the Constance duplicate lowered the switchblade from behind her back.

"I think you handled that very well," the other Constance purred.

***

Constance stood holding the receiver, which now droned with the empty sound of the hotel's dial tone. A strange, prickly sensation formed between her shoulder blades. She wished the hotel room door would open and Kellie or Leva or Amy would appear, so she could have the comfort of saying to another live body, "The oddest thing just happened ... "

She shook her head. Probably, she was making something out of nothing. Tucking her hair behind her ears, she sat on the still-unmade bed, her mind starting to turn over possibilities.

It could be a joke -- but that wasn't really the way Batya's jokes went. It could be that the Con Chair had finally cracked under the strain ... Constance grinned. Nope. The result of that wouldn't be absent-mindedness, it would be the Toon curled up in a corner, crooning filks that should never, ever be filked.

She stared at the phone and started nibbling at the nail on her pinky. If Batya had been cut off or, say, Miri had walked into the room, Batya would have called back. Batya almost always called back, and if she didn't, there was a good reason for it.

"Okay, maybe I'm an idiot and we'll all laugh about it later. But I'm going up there," Constance spoke aloud to the empty room. She grabbed the key from the table, and left, letting the door slam decisively behind her with a bang.

Walking fast to the elevator, annoyance started to creep in. As if there wasn't enough to worry about with running a fan convention. She pressed the elevator button. It lit. She waited five seconds. She pressed it again. And again. As if that would make the elevator come faster.

***

The door opened immediately at her light knock.

"Batya!"

"Constance, good, you're here." Batya's dark hair was twisted back into a knot, and she wore a pin on her t-shirt reading: We're Concom. Weird IS the job. The small woman pulled Constance out into the hallway and shut the door. "Something's going on, I don't know exactly what but I don't like it. I'm getting the senior con staff together for a meeting."

Constance had to trot to keep up with her as they started back towards the elevator bank. "Was that what that weirdness on the phone was about?"

"Yeah." Batya gave a half-sigh and pressed the elevator down button. "Let's just say ... someone else might have been listening."

"Um. Okay, you're starting to scare me now. Who? What's going on?"

The elevator door pinged open. "I think someone's trying to sabotage the con."

"What?!" The elevator doors slid shut, enclosing the two of them in the paneled space. There was a hum, and a sinking sensation as the elevator descended to the lobby level. "Do you know who?"

"Have an idea. Wait until we're all together."

The prickly feeling was back, along with a sense of unreality. Of the things they'd imagined going wrong, from too little space to the Almighty Mouse bringing wrath down upon their heads, the word "sabotage" hadn't exactly come up during planning meetings.

"Hope you've got your wooden stake," Constance said deliberately, with a significant glance at Batya. Some months back, the Con Chair had confessed to her odd dreams in which she was a vampire slayer, at the Gathering '98, and had to stop something terrible from happening. Apparently it had been a premonition, though at the time the general consensus had been that the Toon needed to cut back on the sugar.

Batya gave a little laugh. "Ha. Yes. Spike and Drusilla are probably behind the whole thing."

The doors slid open and they entered the lobby. Constance laughed as well, but then said, "No, I mean, your dream."

"My dream?"

"You know, the slayer dreams."

"Oh, right. Yes. Come on, this way." She led Constance through the lobby. There was no one with the convention there now -- they were all upstairs in their rooms donning garb, body paint, paper-mache wings, or who-knows-what for the Masquerade ball. A few tourists sat with their piles of luggage on the couches or at the small round tables, speaking various languages and looking at maps of the city.

They went through a door beyond the check-in desk, which led onto a back hallway lit by fluorescent lights. The floor was covered in linoleum instead of the lush crimson carpeting of the lobby.

"Where are we going?" Constance followed Batya along the back hall.

"Back here. I thought it was out of the way enough that no one'll overhear."

They stopped. It was very quiet here in the inner recesses of the hotel. It was unlikely any guests came back here. Through another swinging door were the fire stairs and the landing where the garbage bins were kept. Batya pushed open another swinging door and led the way through. It led into a kitchen that wasn't part of either hotel restaurant; perhaps they used it for catering special events. It was fairly small, with long, metal counters, a stove, and what seemed to be a walk-in refrigerator. The lights were out except for one softly glowing fluorescent watch-light over the big sink.

Constance paused. There was no one else there.

"The others should be down any second; I told them where it was. Oh god." Batya sank into a folding chair and pressed both hands to her stomach. "I feel absolutely hollow. Been rushing around all day and haven't eaten since ... oh man, not since last night. My blood sugar's probably bottomed out hours ago. You wanna see if there's anything in the fridge?"

With a shrug, Constance closed her fingers over the cool metal handle of the walk-in fridge. Then her fingers froze, and with a quick jerk of her head, she turned to look back at Batya, who was poking through a cabinet. "But ... Bat ... this place isn't kosher. Is there anything here you could eat?"

She waited for the usual complex explanation -- something about prepackaged food that might be okay, perhaps, or some obscure reason why this situation allowed for leniency.

"Um ... right." Batya blinked. "Forgot."

"You ... forgot?!" Constance stared at Batya.

Batya gave a shaky sigh and drew her fingers across her forehead. "I know. I know."

"Wow, this really has got you rattled. Don't worry, we'll sort this mess out." Constance pulled the fridge door handle, opening the door. "We sorted out everyth--" Her voice died in mid-word.

Standing inside the fridge, hugging her arms and looking very cold, was Batya. Behind her, rising to their feet, were Liz and Gabe and Jordan and Merav ...

Batya's large blue eyes snapped wide open as she saw Constance. She leapt forward, and shrieked. "Constance! Don't let the door close!"

Before she could turn, Constance felt two small, strong hands shove hard between her shoulder blades. Her grip slipped from the handle. She would have fallen face-first onto the floor of the fridge if Batya hadn't stepped forward to bear her weight.

They both collapsed to the floor anyway, side by side. The Batya outside the refrigerator looked down at them with a small cold smile, one hand resting on the edge of the door. "Really, Constance. I told you somebody was trying to sabotage the con. Weren't you listening?"

Batya was on her knees immediately, struggling to her feet, lunging back towards the door, even as the other Batya chuckled and slammed the door shut in Batya's face.

Constance gingerly pushed herself up to a sitting position trying to get her bearings. Batya was leaning against the door, pounding on the metal with her fists. Scrambling to her feet, Constance went to the door and reached for the safety latch, but there wasn't one. There had been one once, but someone had removed it.

"I already tried that," said Gabe, sitting back down.

Constance looked around at her friends. "What are we all doing in the freezer?"

"Freezing," said Merav shortly, flicking ice crystals out of her hair.

Rubbing at her bare arms, where goose bumps were forming, Constance said, "This doesn't make sense." She shot a glance at Batya. "She was a dead ringer for you." She buried her face in her hands for a moment.

"Can you not use that word?'" asked Peter, who sat on the floor and shivered.

"'Ringer?'"

"'Dead.'"

"Can someone tell me what's going on?" Constance's voice went shrill on the last word.

Liz said, matter-of-factly: "Our evil doppelgangers have taken over the con. How's your day going?"

"Hang on," said Batya. "How long have you been in the freezer?"

"Since yesterday," said Merav. Her face was pale, far more than normal, and she held her fingers beneath her armpits.

"Yesterday?" asked Constance. "But ... But ... "

Gabe muttered, "Fucking Friday. No one even tried to call my place?!" Miri shushed him.

"I don't suppose there's a handy ventilation shaft?" Batya asked, hope in her voice.

"Not unless you have this amazing ability to turn into a cat that you haven't shared."

"Right."

A helpless silence fell. Constance began hopping up and down to keep warm. Batya hugged her arms again, looking huddled and miserable. Finally, a resigned look on her face, she raised her head and looked around. "Okay," she said. "Do we have any idea who's behind this?"

Merav shook her head. "They're not talking."

"The one who looks like you said something about 'Mother,'" Liz said. "Somebody giving the orders."

"Mother, huh." Batya frowned.

Peter spoke up hesitantly. "Seth said..."

"Seth?" Batya asked.

"He, uh..." Peter swallowed. "They got him. Beat him up pretty bad. Last I saw him he'd passed out ... I don't even know if he's still ...."

" ... alive?" Constance managed. The other Dreamers stared at Peter, sick horror on their faces.

Peter shook his head miserably. "Th-there was blood everywhere. On the mirror, higher than my head. And he said ..." He paused, remembering Seth's exact words for the first time. "He said to tell you," he told Batya. "It was Jordan and Liz, only it wasn't them. Clones, he said. Nancy and clones."

"Nancy?" Batya blinked. "Nancy who?"

"Lebowitz?" Merav hazarded.

"The button lady?" Jordan asked. "But she isn't even at this con!"

"I dunno," said Peter. "Do we know any other Nancys?"

Batya's head came up suddenly; she hesitated, and then asked very quietly: "Has anyone seen Missy recently?"

***

Nancy slid the keycard into the lock and silently opened the door. Missy sat on the edge of the bed, facing away from her, and had not noted her entrance. She was changing into her costume for the Masquerade: a Quarryman's outfit. Strange attire from one who despised those in her family who supported another Klan, but Nancy was the first to say that Missy made no sense.

She stood awhile, watching her double. There was so much Nancy wanted to say. She wanted to scream, to beg of the other woman how she could have created her, and then let her fade when her purpose was served. She wanted to pound her fists into the yielding face, try to make her know what kind of pain it was not to exist, to be looking out through another's eyes and know what a waste the other had made of her life, and to be able to do nothing about it.

She wanted to shake Missy by the shoulders until her teeth rattled, and make her seize the life that was right there, within her grasp, rather than allowing the ebbs and flows of life to carry her along in their drifting fashion, never knowing a proper destination.

She wanted her life.

She approached her double from behind. The reflection in the mirror caught Missy's attention, and her head spun.

"What ... ?"

The club came down with a satisfying crack, knocking her into dreamland without a word. Nancy wanted much, but she wasn't stupid. She didn't need to play with her prey.

Nancy quickly divested her of her jewelry, slipping the diamond ring onto her hand with a smirk. Then she grabbed the limp body under the shoulders, and dragged her down to the street, and out into the approaching night.

***

Laura flopped down on the bed with a soft grunt. She was tired, and really wanted a break for a few minutes before she got into her costume. The others could handle things fine without her.

She grimaced. She had a paper to finish this week for the class she was taking over the summer, and she wasn't quite done the book. She rummaged around in her bag, retrieved In Praise of Folly. Erasmus could be dry, but she could use the change of pace. ~Just for a few minutes,~ she promised herself.

She sat cross-legged on the bed, taking a bemused look at the pink cover with the woodcut of Folly blown up, and then buried herself on her book.

The door opened, but she didn't look to see who came in; she wanted to finish the paragraph. The bed shifted as the other person sat.

A familiar, though not immediately placeable, voice asked, "Good book?"

La looked up from her book. Her own reflection smiled back at her in a calm yoga position, eyes hidden behind dark glasses. She gave a little start, and slid off the bed onto the floor with a painful thump.

The mirror image did not move. Laura noted her place in the book and set it carefully on the nightstand beside the phone, which she only just kept herself from picking up and calling Security. Her fingers ached from the death grip she hadn't known she'd kept on it.

Keeping her voice calm and unflustered, she held out her hand. "Hi, I'm Laura, and you are...?"

The girl answered, still smiling widely, "...here to get you."

Laura stared, dumbly. Her twin made a grab for her, and she just jumped back out of the way, scrambling for safety onto the other bed, farther from the door.

The girl made another grab for her, and Laura ducked under her outstretched arms and darted to the door. She twisted the handle open and ran for it. Not six feet behind her, the other her skipped merrily, humming something that sounded like "The Merry-Go-Round Broke Down."

Foolchaser, the Dreamer Clan had named Laura once, after an encounter with a bothersome jester at the Sterling Forest Renaissance Faire. The incident had ended with the motley-clad lout fleeing across the great lawn, with Laura chasing him off, and one of the jester's companions laughing "I don't think I've ever seen him run that fast."

She was running faster than that now, and it was not going to be enough.

La put on another burst of speed past the staff area, knowing she couldn't make it down the stairs ahead of her twin, hoping to lose her in the maze of rooms. As soon as she passed the door, it opened before the other woman, momentarily offering Laura the advantage.

She heard the waiter pushing the cart, heard the soft whump as his body hit the opposite wall, heard the squeak of the tortured wheels headed on a beeline to her.

"Danger Woman rides again!" the other Laura crowed at the top of her lungs.

She knew better than to look back, but did anyway, and saw the other woman aboard the cart, half steering, half checking out what was under the metal covers of the food platters.

"Croissants! I love croissants!" she squealed in delight, and munched into one happily. La darted a hard right and a hard left, was horrified to note that the cart did not crash as she'd thought, but followed her smoothly through the turns and despite logic, was gaining on her.

The metal cover, wielded with dead-on aim by her evil twin, hit her with the cart's full momentum, and she staggered, clutching to the wall's molding to keep upright. The clang reverberated in her ears.

Her twin hopped off the cart, walked over to her, and watched her for a moment, smiling. The smile was the worst part.

She grabbed a handful of La's shirt at the back of her neck, put her other hand under La's chin and tilted her face upward. "This is going to hurt an awful lot," she told her solemnly, and swung her headfirst into the wall, hard.

White lights burst behind Laura's eyes. Barely conscious now, she saw her double dust her hands together in a satisfied fashion. At the end of the hall, she could just see the waiter climbing to his feet, looking as dazed as she felt.

The clone looked up, smiled at him, and waved. She reached to her belt, pulled out what was probably a grenade, and tore out the pin with her teeth, spitting it into a corner. She tossed it from one hand to the other, then flipped it casually down the hallway, calling, "Go on! Scoot!"

After a few moments, Molly waded through the dissipating cloud of nerve gas and bent to pick up the unconscious waiter by the arms. "Rockabye waiter, in the hotel," she sang quietly, dragging the body toward the nearby service closet. "Till our time comes, you're not going to tell; When the bough breaks, the hammer will fall, And down will come fandom, Dreamers and all!"

With the last words, Molly manhandled the body up and into the laundry chute. "Night-night," she called down the chute, and blew a kiss down into the darkness.

Laura's vision fluttered, and then her twin was standing over her. Without effort, she stuffed La's unresisting body into the bottom of the cart, and covered her with the cloth.

La drifted into a warm slumber.

***

Batya raised her voice above the increasingly frantic buzz of conversation.

"Look, this is no time to panic -- "

"Really?" Liz fumed. "We're all locked in a fucking freezer, and there's duplicates of us roaming around the hotel! You know, I can't think of a better time to panic!"

"This is just the culture shock," Jordan added. "You wait till I've settled down and got my bearings! Then I'll start panicking!"

"And this is no time to quote Douglas Adams, either!" Batya aimed a glare at him.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"There's still hope," Constance said. "Laura is still out there."

There was a moment's quiet. "We're doomed," Gabriel said mournfully.

The door clicked open and the Dreamers inside tensed, some rising to their feet. Outside in the kitchen, backed up by several Dreamer-clones with guns trained on the prisoners, was Laura -- was someone who looked like Laura wheeling a covered cart.

"Room service!" she announced happily, pushing the cart into the freezer. With a flourish and a "Ta-daa!", she whipped off the cloth to reveal ...

"Laura," whispered Batya.

The Laura-duplicate pushed Laura's unconscious form off the cart to fall in a heap on the freezer floor, then looked around at the shocked faces of the Dreamer clan. She made a disappointed pout. "What? No tip?" She turned on her heel and walked out, the door clicking shut behind her.

"Oh yeah. Doomed," Peter muttered.

"She's breathing," Liz said from where she was hunched over Laura's limp form. "Bruises on her head. Someone find me a cold compress?"

"Hope, huh?" asked Kellie, helping to move her to a more comfortable position.

La's eyes lazily drifted open. "No, Mommy. No school today."

"Hey," said Liz, kindly, trying to do a pupil check in the dimness. "Do you remember your name?"

"Laura."

"Good. What day is today?"

"Um." She moved her head to the side. "Sunday. Pockets again."

Batya smiled. Kellie asked, "Do you know who the president is?"

Laura smiled. "Hillary."

"Do you know who the rest of us are?" asked Gabe.

"Sure. Piggy and Gonzo and Fozzy and Janice and ... " She stopped. "Do I have to start singing 'Look at me / Here I am / Right where I belong ... '"

Gabe whispered loudly to Jordan. "I think she thinks she's a Muppet!"

"I'm not a Muppet. And I'm fine." She moved up to a sitting position, against Liz and Kellie's well-meaning attempts to keep her still. "And if you don't let me sit up, I will start kicking people randomly. Got it?" The smile stayed on her face.

Batya looked at Jordan and shrugged. "She's fine."

"The jury's still out on that one," Gabe said.

"So who do we have left out there?" asked Jordan again.

Batya ticked off on her fingers. "Seth."

"Who's probably dead by now," said Peter.

"Missy."

"No way to know," said Laura.

"Tirtzah?"

"Nope again," said Constance. "Last I saw, she'd locked herself in the bathroom crying, and wasn't going anywhere soon."

"Steve?" said Merav.

Laura shook her head. "I saw him heading down to the banquet hall, guitar in hand."

"Kathleen?"

Kellie said, "She went home as soon as Christi left the con."

"Oh!" said Miri. "I think Christi might be one of them! Or something."

"Christi Smith Hayden is not an evil clone," said Kellie.

"Are you sure? None of us have met her before this con. She could be," said Miri.

Batya asked, "Did anyone get taken by her?" No one responded. "All right, let's assume for now that Christi isn't an evil clone. Which doesn't matter anyway, because she's not here, and doesn't have any idea we're in here."

"Leva might notice," said Constance. "Since Kellie and I are both gone."

"Here's hoping Leva notices," said Jordan, and plopped back down on a crate.

***

At last, the Dreamers were secure in the freezer. At a motion from Beatrice, Kate aimed and took a swing at the handle with her shillelagh. The blow sheared the handle from the door, sending it clattering across the kitchen. Kate grinned.

"Batting a thousand," said Petra, approvingly. Kate bowed.

"All right," said Beatrice, rubbing her hands together, "now that we're all gathered ... " She trailed off, noticing suddenly a distinct absence. "Where's Betsy?"

Molly scratched her head. "Wasn't she supposed to get Ackerman?"

Jason nodded. "Yeah. She's kinda mad at you for that, by the way." Molly shrugged. "Haven't seen her in over an hour."

Beatrice muttered under her breath, then said, "You let her wander off?"

"Yeah. She's not a child."

"No. I suppose not. All right, everyone, spread out and find her. Then we make our move."

As the others filed out in search of their missing sister, Jason shuffled his feet and caught her eye. "Yes?"

"I didn't want to say in front of the others. I, um, think I know where she's been."

Beatrice read the gleeful malice in Jason's eyes; Betsy had been off causing mayhem for both.

"Show me." She placed a finger near his face. "But not one word from you when we find her."

Jason nodded and led her up the service stairway and onto the roof. Betsy perched on the edge, a cigar in her mouth. As Beatrice approached, she made a half-hearted attempt at a smoke ring. "Oh, hi Beatrice!" The satisfaction on her face spoke volumes.

"You killed."

"Yep."

"Mother told us not to kill. She wants the fans alive and under her command. You can't command a corpse." She amended, "Not without acquiring a number of expensive items, anyway."

"I know. But Molly beat me to Ackerman, and Jason was busy guarding the freezer, and I was bored. So I went to find someone else to play with." She grinned. "Did, too. But he just wouldn't shut up. Even after I broke his arm!" She tossed the cigar over the edge of the building.

Beatrice closed her eyes and silently counted to ten. "How many?"

"Pieces?"

"People."

"Oh. Just the one."

"Fine." Beatrice turned to take the Terrible Twosome back downstairs. Betsy skipped along beside her, as Jason fell in behind, smirking. "You did hide the body, of course."

"Of course! In the closet."

"Good ... "

"And in the kitchen." Beatrice turned around in horror as Betsy counted off on her fingers.. "And in the bathroom. And under the bed. And in that lovely flowerpot I like in the lobby. And in the fourth floor maid's cart."

"The maid's cart?!"

"Yeah. A shoe. Umm ... with a bit of foot still in there, as I recall. That should prove a nasty surprise to someone." She grinned. "'Extra towels? Extra soap? Extra foot?'"

Beatrice closed her eyes again, and counted to twenty, in Greek. "So who was it?"

"Well, that's the interesting part." Betsy flipped out a wallet. Beatrice took the sticky thing and opened it. There was indeed a driver's license, with a picture she recognized, but the blood had soaked in, making the name illegible.

"Hm. Enigmatic to the last," she said. Then, "All right. You two. Downstairs. Betsy, start watching the perimeter. Jason, check the freezer one more time, then back to the ballroom. I'll tell Mother we're ready."

They both nodded. Just as Beatrice turned, she saw in the corner of her eye as Jason flashed Betsy a big grin and two thumbs up.

***

"We have to get out of here," said Batya, rubbing her arms for warmth.

"No kidding," said Peter. On the plus side, he'd found a steak to put over his blackened eye. On the downside, it was frozen, and Batya was pretty sure it was going to hurt like hell when he peeled it from his face.

"Ideas," said Batya. "Any and all."

"Trick the guard into letting us out?" asked Miri, hopefully.

Liz added, "Convince the guard to come in here and hit him over the head with some frozen meat?" She brandished a solid leg of lamb hopefully.

"Climb through the air duct?" said Merav.

"No air ducts," Kellie told her.

"I knew there was a reason we didn't try that earlier."

"Would shouting for help work?" asked Gabe, and before she could veto the idea, he shouted: "HELP! HELP!" until Laura pinched him.

"Shut the hell up in there," snarled their captor from outside. "Some of you aren't necessary anymore."

"No more shouting," hissed Batya.

"Okay."

Constance asked of the world in general, "Why is it that so many escape ideas center around our captors having to be complete morons?"

"It just seems to work out that way," said La.

"I have a thought," said Jordan from beside the door. "But you're not going to like it."

"Share."

"The guard right now is my clone, right? So we've got some things in common. I'm thinking we have quite a few things."

"And?"

"And. If you were to, you know, try to, um." He wouldn't meet her eyes.

Liz said, "Jordan wants you to seduce the guard, Batya."

Batya blinked. Then she turned to Jordan, and said very quietly, and very deliberately, "No."

"All right," said Jordan.

"And ... no," she added. "And, for instance, no."

"Okay," he mumbled. "Sorry."

"If there is no other option, I'll ... consider it," she said, "But until then, no."

"We're gonna die here," said Peter.

"We're not gonna die," snapped Kellie. "We'll think of something."

Jordan said, "Kel, Liz, you're scientists. You're smart. Think of something."

"Look, we all went to college," said Merav. "We should be able to work this out. It's just your average locked room puzzle, right?"

"Those are usually murders," said Constance.

"Oh my god," wailed Peter, "we're all gonna get murdered!"

"You're not being Mr. Helpful," said Kellie.

"Fine!" he said, and grabbing his steak, he stomped to the back of the freezer in a huff. He put his back against the wall and slid down it partway, before jerking back up again. "Ow!"

"Okay," Miri said, "can we add 'murder' to the list of Words to Not Use Right Now?"

"Right." Constance winced. "Sorry."

Kellie rolled her eyes. "All right, what do we have?"

"A bunch of meat," said Liz.

"Check."

"A lot of ice."

"Check."

"I have some bobby pins," said Merav, pulling them from her long hair.

"Bobby pins. Check."

Peter called from the back of the freezer. "I think I found the back door out to the loading dock."

"Back door. Check."

There was a pause, the kind that stretches.

"Back door?" asked Batya.

***

Jason and Betsy peeked into the ballroom. The turnout for the Masquerade was tremendous. Jason had never seen so many losers.

Betsy finished secreting her weapons in her outfit. Then she nodded at him.

He said, "There's a hundred and six people in the ballroom. We got a full load of ammo, half a pack of cigarettes, we're indoors, and we're wearing sunglasses."

"Hit it."

***

Beatrice knocked before she entered the room. "Come."

All the lights were off in the suite, and the curtains had been pulled wide open, allowing in the multicolored backdrop of the city to outline her mother as she stood facing outwards. The Empire State Building rose above the skyline like a shimmering beacon. The way she stood, Mother seemed to be grasping it, embracing the bejeweled dagger against the sky.

"Mother," she said, when she found her voice. "We have captured the last of the Dreamer Clan."

"Good."

"I have ... a query."

"Yes?"

Beatrice made an effort to not bite her lip. "You saw how Seth reacted when we told him the truth. They're all going to react that way. We went to a great deal of trouble to make sure that we would look like our counterparts. It only stands to reason that people won't believe us when we say we aren't them." She hesitated. "Especially you, Mother. They've seen your name, and they've all been told that you're her."

Mother did not look at her. Her head sunk deep between her shoulders, her arms braced on the windowsill, she stared out into the glittering night city with tension trembling in every line of her body, taut as a bowstring.

"Indeed," she said finally, coldly. "Indeed. And what would you propose we do, daughter?"

She drew in breath, as if readying herself for a plunge into icy water. "Keep up the pretense. Don't break the illusion. They'll accept us as our counterparts, we've seen that. All we have to do is -- "

"No." Just the single word, flat and uncompromising as a stone.

"It would work," Beatrice insisted, trying to keep her voice from shaking. "They'd believe it, and we could take over from within, nobody would ever know anything had changed..."

She trailed off as Nancy turned, slowly, and placed her hands on the back of the room's single upholstered chair.

"Nobody would ever know," her mother repeated, softly. "Precisely why we must go forward as we have planned. They must know. They must be fully aware of what we will do for them. And they must never again ..." her grip on the chair's back tightened, and Beatrice could see the fingers digging into the upholstery ... "they must never again mistake me for her. Never again. Is that clear."

It was not a question. Beatrice bowed her head in assent anyway -- in assent, and to hide the helpless confusion that she knew must be in her face.

It was wrong. There was no way around it. It was her mother's idea, and it was wrong.

This, she knew suddenly, this was why Missy Wilson must not die. The soul that they had transferred into the new body was not yet whole enough to survive on its own, and the mind that went with that soul was, was becoming .... ~Say it. Say it.~

Unstable. Unbalanced.

Mad.

Head still bowed, Beatrice let out a tiny breath of pure misery. ~There's nothing I can do. Nothing but try to help her. She is the Creator; I am the Created. Right or wrong, sane or mad, I'm hers until one of us dies.~

"Join me." Mother remained transfixed at the window. Beatrice gulped, then moved to her side.

"What do you see, out there?" she asked.

"Nothing of consequence," replied Mother. She grabbed the curtains and closed them, sending the room into near-total darkness. Then she removed her sunglasses. "Give me your hand."

Beatrice was afraid, but it was late, far too late to even consider disobeying. She held out her palm, and Mother took it, placing a single finger in the center.

"Swear to me your loyalty."

"You know you already have it."

"Do I?"

Her heart raced. "Have I ever given you reason to doubt it?"

Mother paused. "No. But given a choice between my life and that of your siblings, you would choose theirs."

"I ... I pray that decision is never mine to make."

"But if it were."

"I would make the decision I thought best advanced our goals."

"Even if it meant my death." Beatrice could see her mother's eyes in the dimness. Suspicion had reared its head. If she had gone too far, if she had already slain her original...

Beatrice had a delicate line of her own to walk. She chose reason. "Mother. Our enemies are captured. We are in our hour of triumph. Now isn't the time to think of death."

Mother stared hard at her. Then, "You're right. I'm sorry, my precious one. I have waited so long for this day, it seems impossible that it should be here."

"Did you, did you capture ... ?"

"My excuse for a former host has been secured as we decided." Beatrice allowed herself an inner sigh of relief; Mother was always her old self while insulting Missy.

"Then, Mother dearest, you and I have a party to attend."

***

Carmen boarded the elevator and punched the button for the tenth floor. As the door almost slid closed, a small Asian woman poked her hand in, stopping the doors. "Hold on, Constance!"

"Oh. Sorry," said Carmen, and allowed the girl to board. She ran through her list of names of Constance's friends and associates. "Hi, Amy."

"Were you headed back to the room?" asked Amy.

"No."

"Okay." She tapped the button for another floor. "So what's your costume going to be?"

"Costume?"

"For the Masquerade. You've been so secretive about it."

"I've got special plans for the Masquerade," said Carmen, shortly. "Tell me, what do you think about the direction the fandom is headed in?"

"Direction? We have a direction?"

The elevator opened onto the tenth floor. Laudre waited there.

"Oh, hi Constance!" Carmen rolled her eyes at him and continued on her way.

***

Laudre got into the elevator. "What's up with her?"

Amy paused before answering. She had known Constance on and off for a while, now, was in fact rooming with her this weekend. Something wasn't right, with Constance, or in fact, with the rest of the Dreamer Clanners. They were secretive, edgy, and she could have sworn she'd seen more than one of them in two places at once.

In all her years of watching animation, particularly the Japanese variety, Amy had seen a lot of strange things. She'd seen a boy turn into a girl when splashed with cold water. She'd seen a girl fall into a book and end up in another world. She'd seen the apocalyptic story of giant mechanized fighting machines that could be powered only by adolescents; she'd seen talking cats and cross-dressers, and white dragons. Somehow she had the feeling none of this was as strange as what was going on at this convention. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but something, somewhere, wasn't right at all.

"Sean, what would you think if I said I believe that person we just saw isn't actually Constance?"

"I'd think you've been watching too much anime again."

The elevator stopped at her floor. "You're probably right," she said without conviction, and got off.

***

Constance rubbed her wrists experimentally as she waited for the elevator in the lobby. She'd thought briefly of taking the stairs back to her room, but something in the back of her mind told her that now was a good time to save up her energy.

~Hurry up,~ she thought at the elevator. She had to get back to the room to scrounge for weapons. She was almost certain she'd packed the pepper spray in her bag ...

The door popped open. Laudre started to walk out, then did a double-take.

"Wow, you're fast!"

"What?"

"You probably shouldn't run down the stairs that way. You'll break your neck."

The door started to close, and she threw her hand in the way.

"Sean?" she asked, trying not to let the strangled note show in her voice too much. "Where did you just see me?" He glared; he probably thought she was trying to be funny. "Humor me. Please?"

"Tenth floor."

"Thanks!" She gave him a quick peck on the cheek in thanks, and rushed past him into the elevator while he wandered out. As the door slid shut, she saw a bemused expression slip over his face.

"C'mon, c'mon," she whispered, as the elevator edged its way up floor by floor. The tenth floor pinged, and the elevator door slid open before her. Suddenly, she was very, very scared. What business did she have going up against her own evil twin? She wasn't prepared for this.

Opposite the elevators, she saw a bronze pot holding fake greenery. She clutched it, terror coiling its way through her stomach.

Keeping against the wall, Constance edged her way down the hallway. Frightened half out of her wits, she found her gaze drawn to the pattern on the carpet, repeating and repeating.

There was a noise, footsteps around the corner. Constance held to the vase like a grail. The door to the service area was to her left; she ducked inside and had the door closed just as whoever it was rounded the corner. She waited for ten breaths, as the footsteps went by, and then looked out into the hallway.

She had only seen the back of her own head in a beauty shop mirror, but she knew without a doubt that the body in front of her was her own. Trying to silence her own breathing as well as the jackhammer of her heart, she tip-toed behind her clone.

The vase deflected the initial blow, saving her from the savage knife that would have surely bisected her chest.

"So you're free," sneered the false Constance, balancing her knife nimbly between two fingers. "Mother will be interested to hear that. Tell me before I kill you," she said, circling around Constance like a dancer, "did you manage to get the little wizard out of her hollow hill?"

"Hollow hill?" Constance repeated stupidly.

The other laughed. "Hollow hill, cloven pine, mouse in a mirrored cage.... So you haven't found her yet? You people are pathetic."

Constance didn't trust herself to think. Instead, she flicked her eyes past the clone, hoping beyond hope.

Her reflection sneered again, an ugly expression on the too-familiar face. "I'm not going to fall for that old ... "

The lamp shattered with a satisfying smash. Merav yelped and stuck her left index finger into her mouth.

"Ow!"

Constance prodded her clone with her foot. Her double muttered: "Beaten by a bad cliche," and passed into unconsciousness.

"And people say I read too many comics," said Constance, and smacked the clone on the head with her vase, just to be safe. "Are you okay?" she asked Merav.

"Yeah. Cut myself a little is all."

Constance poked her double again. "Let's get her back to the room and tie her up. I don't want her warning 'Mother.'"

"Wait," said Merav, looking from her to her double and back again. "I'm having a thought."

Constance read the thought in her friend's eyes. "Oh, no."

***

"This is not a good idea," said Constance, as she slipped on the clone's boots. "This never works in the comics. The villains always find out."

"Can we come out now?" called Jordan from the bathroom, where he and Peter had been waiting while Constance changed clothes. Miri opened the door for them, and they rejoined the other seven.

Peter blinked at the blond woman, and nodded. "It works. I'd think you were her."

She didn't answer, but the look on her face made it clear that she would have been far happier if he'd said no, it'll never work, let's try and think of something else.

"We don't really have a choice," said Batya apologetically. "Right now, our one advantage is you."

"I don't want to be an advantage!" Constance wailed.

Liz held the sunglasses. "I'll go," she said, staring at the glasses. "Maybe I can get to my clone before she calls an alarm." She placed the glasses on her face, hiding her eyes, and Constance held back a cold shiver.

"No. I'll go." She took the glasses from Liz, settled them over her eyes. Everything went dark, and she tried to think as the other her might, the darker her. Carmen was the Constance who said what she wanted, did what she wanted. She'd be the kind of woman to suck life dry and then demand more. Not a dreamer. A hunter. Constance knew the impulses she had blocked throughout her own life, knew in her heart who she might have been, had she just been a little less ... nice. Another her.

She just prayed she could be enough like this other her to fool the clones.

Batya smiled at her though the darkness. From the closet came sounds of struggling; Carmen was awake, and none too pleased. Her stomach gave another friendly lurch.

"Okay," said Batya. "I have an idea."

A groan went up from the others.

Batya glowered. "A good idea. I think I know where Missy is. From what Carmen said, I think Nancy may have managed to transport her into a subway pillar."

"Transported," said Miri, voice gone flat.

Jordan shrugged. "We're dealing with our own deranged doppelgangers. My suspenders of disbelief have been on for hours. But why do you think Missy's in a subway pillar? I mean," he said, almost apologetically, "she is Nancy Brown. We all know that. Maybe she's sniffed too many chemicals and went over the edge."

Peter asked, "Do you think it's actually Missy in charge of the people who may have killed Seth?" Constance swallowed. Merav and Gabe had gone up to the tenth floor on Miri's directions to try and find Seth without being recaptured.

"No."

Batya shrugged. "So. From the sound of it, Nancy's got her own body. She's in charge. My bet is, she's the one the clones are calling 'Mother' and taking orders from. Nancy is, or was, Missy, and if our doubles are any clue, doesn't like her in the slightest. She didn't stow her with us, but she'd probably want her close by. And in the subway station a few blocks from here, the pillars are all shiny metallic, practically mirrored." She ticked off points on her fingers. "Hollow hill, cloven pine, mirrored cage. It fits."

"You're reaching," said Liz. "She could've been bluffing. For all we know, Missy's dead."

Constance asked, "Can we please not assume anyone's dead until we've actually seen the corpses?"

Batya said, "For now, as far as we're concerned, people are wounded or missing, and they need our help. Kellie, Peter, I want you two to try and find Missy." Peter shuddered, and sidled away from his sister, a wary look on his face. He had not told them how he'd been captured, and Constance suddenly wondered if it had been by his sister's clone.

"On second though," Batya said, perhaps seeing the same thing, "Jordan, you go with Peter. Kellie, I want you here."

"So ... I'll go to the ballroom," Constance said, "and pretend to be the other me. Then what?"

"If you find out anything we need to know immediately, get away from them and come find us," said Batya. "Otherwise, stick around until we get there, and wait for what looks like the best time to break cover."

"Maybe we should call security," Miri said hesitantly. "I mean ... they should be told, if there's likely to be a huge fight somewhere in the hotel, right?"

Batya chewed her lower lip. "We probably should," she said. "Okay, you and I will go to security and see if we can get their help. Maybe we can get the clones thrown out as gate-crashers, or something."

"Meanwhile, what are the rest of us doing?" Laura asked.

"You're going to gather whatever weapons you can find," Batya said, "in case going to security doesn't work. Sticks, rocks, tire irons, anything. We'll regroup in the con suite in half an hour. Okay, we all set?"

Jordan nodded, then muttered, "Yeah, You try finding someone in a subway pillar." Peter said nothing.

"I guess so," said Constance. "Wish me luck."

"Luck," "Good luck," "Be careful," the others murmured.

***

They made their way to the lobby via the back stairs, watching around each corner for faces that might be familiar, and might be too familiar. At another nod from Miri, Batya ran down the last flight and looked out. No one suspicious was in sight. She waved, and Miri joined her.

Boldly, they made a beeline for Security. At the desk, the guard on duty watched the lobby intently.

"Excuse me," said Batya, as pleasantly as she could with her heart hammering so loudly in her chest. "We're with the convention, and we need help."

The guard turned his head, and smiled absently at her. "I am here to help."

Miri smiled back. "Great!"

Batya said, "Now, this is going to sound crazy, but there are people who've ... crashed our convention and need to be removed." She looked to Miri for confirmation. "The thing is, they look like us."

She waited, for disbelief, for impatience, but the guard continued to smile at her, saying nothing.

"Can you help?"

"I am here to help!" said the guard.

A cold pit settled into Batya's stomach. "So," she said, without much hope, "you can help us?"

"I am here to help!"

"Okay, thanks," she said, and grabbing Miri's hand, dragged her back around a corner.

"We could still ask the desk clerk," said Miri.

"They're not that stupid," said Batya. "They've done something to the guard, they'll have done something to the rest of the staff. We're on our own." Miri's face was scared. "I want you to do something for me. Get out of the hotel, go to the police. Bring what help you can."

"What will you do?"

"Try to get our con back."

***

Constance let herself into the ballroom and immediately stopped dead as she caught sight of ...

"Gorebash?"

Gore was dressed in an all-too-familiar outfit: red jacket, black shirt, jeans and two extra body parts which had not been there earlier in the evening. He was a disturbingly good Elisa, and Constance gawked.

"What do you think?" asked Gore-Elisa, batting his eyelashes.

"You win. Hands down." She spotted Batya in her Mavis O'Connor costume. "Will you excuse me?"

"Sure."

~It's not Batya. It's not Batya.~ "Hello, Batya," she said to the woman who was the twin of her best friend.

"Constance, how pleasant to see you."

"Alex, great costume. I like how it turned out." Nicholas Maddox inclined his head toward her, moustache looking almost completely unlike something crawling on his upper lip. He hadn't been in the freezer. It had to be the real Alex. Right? She dared not risk the question.

"Isn't it wonderful?" asked not-Batya, and there was something in the tone, something possessive. "Nicholas, would you please fetch me a drink?"

Alex bowed deeply. "Of course, my dear." The inflections had just the right combination of oily courtliness and goofy I-can't-believe-I'm-dressed-up-like-this fannishness. It was Alex. ~Score one bonus for the good guys.~

When he was out of earshot, Batya's clone hissed, "I thought you were going to change."

"I, uh, changed my mind," she said, cursing the quaver in her voice. "This can be my costume." The clone glanced at her. "No one would believe it was something out of Constance's everyday wardrobe." ~Improvisation! Yay for me!~

"The way she dresses? Hardly. At least my original has some limited taste in clothing."

Constance prickled, but Alex was back with a glass for his ersatz beloved.

"I thought you were coming as Dr. Duane?"

"I changed my mind," she said, as Mavis sipped her drink. "I'm here as my own evil clone." She wasn't sure how close she came to being showered with soda, but the clone did start coughing as Constance managed a coy laugh. Erm. Well, if she knew how to laugh coyly, it would probably sound like the laugh she'd tried to make, anyway.

"What an interesting idea," said not-Batya, and smiled. That is to say, the ends of her mouth were pulled up, and all her teeth were showing.

On the other side of the room, Steve was tuning his guitar. Someone who was not Merav sat beside him, her hand on his arm.

"I think I'll mingle,"said Constance.

"Before you go," said not-Batya, "have you seen Laura recently? Or Gabe?"

"Not in the last fifteen minutes," she replied truthfully.

"Hm. If you do, tell them to be here by ten. M-Missy's going to be expecting them." ~Mother. She was about to say Mother.~

"I'll do that." As Constance wandered away towards Steve and not- Merav, she heard Batya's familiar laugh, no doubt at a witty comment from Alex. Constance wasn't given to psychic flashes, but she could see the future laid out before her: a short engagement, a wedding before winter, and Alex missing or dead by spring, perhaps even replaced with a clone of his own.

This had to end. Tonight.

She straightened her shoulders, tried to remember the sensual stroll her double had affected in the short time she'd seen her. Oh, yes.

A smile dripped from her lips. She gave her hair a toss, then oozed over towards Chris and Gore instead. Liz's clone stood with them, watching them over her sunglasses and acting impressed with whatever they were saying. She gave a flirtatious giggle and ran a finger down Chris's arm. Constance fought for control over her own giggles; the real Liz would be gagging at her double's behavior.

"Hi, boys," said Constance, in what she prayed like mad was a voice thick with sex appeal.

"Constance," nodded Liz's clone.

"Let me guess," said Chris. "You're dressed as your own evil clone, too."

"How did you guess?" asked Constance, giving another flirtatious laugh.

~Oh please let this work.~

***

Jordan took a quick glance around the throng in the subway station. "Check the pillars, she says. She has an idea, she says." He muttered to himself, then knocked casually on one of the reflective pillars. "Anyone home?"

Peter tapped another pillar. A stretched-out bruised Peter reflected back at him, but he made no reply.

Passersby steered away from them, no doubt disturbed by the disheveled madmen knocking on the subway pillars. Someone tossed a coin at Peter's feet. He turned to snarl at the donor, and was met by the clearest blue eyes he'd ever seen. What began as a "Hey ... " became instead a mangled: "Hello!"

"Hi!" squeaked the girl. Her tight blonde curls bobbed around her face as she spoke. "You looked like you needed help." In the reflection, Peter saw Jordan smirking at him. Peter placed his hand against the pillar, blocking Jordan's reflection.

"I do, actually, but not this," he said in a voice he hoped held some kind of certainty. "Thanks." He handed her back the coin with a flourish. Rapidly, he discovered that flourishes were a bad idea, as the coin bounced neatly from her hand and hit the cement. He gave the girl an uneasy smile, cursing inside, as he bent down to chase the rolling coin across the floor, where it hit another pillar and rattled to a stop. He turned back to where he'd left the girl, but she was gone in the crowd.

"Dammit!" he said, louder than he'd intended.

The pillar mumbled something that could very well have been his name.

Peter spun, agape. First evil clones, and now ... "Missy, is that you?"

Another mumble, this one in the unmistakable tones of "Get me the hell out of here!"

"Jordan, over here!" Jordan hurried over, then tapped on the pillar experimentally.

"You sure?" The skepticism in his voice was more due to the patent ludicrousness of someone being trapped in a subway pillar. Peter was almost certain of it.

"I'm positive." The pillar mumbled again.

"Holy shit!" Jordan took a step back. "We'll get you out of there!"

"How?" asked Peter.

"Um. Haven't gotten that far yet. I'm thinking a sledgehammer would be choice."

The pillar yelped out a long incoherent stream.

"Say again?"

Peter stuck his ear against the pillar. "I think she's saying she's got one in her suitcase."

"That doesn't make any sense. Why would Missy ... Oh never mind. Stay here. I'll be back in a few minutes."

"But ... " Jordan was already out of earshot and headed for the stairs.

"Dammit dammit." Peter leaned his back up against the pillar nonchalantly, knowing how weird he had to look. Bruises everywhere, his lip was swollen where it had split, he certainly was not painting a good picture of being all together here with his talking subway pillar. He noticed people trying not to stare at him, and matters were not being made easier by the fact that Missy was still talking from inside the pillar. He was torn between ignoring her completely and telling her to can it until Jordan got back.

"I swear, I will never complain about being bored at work again." He realized he still had the stupid coin in his hand, and he took a look to see what it was. It looked foreign; a woman's head graced one side, looking strikingly like the girl. On the bottom was a name: "Dea X. Machina." He turned it over, and was not entirely surprised to read: "Fixing plotholes since 1000 BC."

It figured.

"Back," said Jordan. Two transit cops, twenty feet away, eyes him with interest as he brandished the hammer he'd brought back.

"It's rubber," said Peter.

The pillar said something that sounded like "It'll work," and then said something else.

"What was that?" asked Jordan, and he placed an ear against the pillar. "Okay."

"Hurry up," said Peter, as the cops started walking in their direction.

"Wait," said Jordan, "There's a mantra we have to say before this."

"Say it!" Ten feet away, and drawing their walkie talkies.

"It's a million to one shot," said Jordan, drawing back his arm.

"But it just might work," replied Peter.

"Whackus!" Jordan slammed the rubber mallet into the pillar, which shattered in a glittering rain of mirrored steel. Inside, Missy huddled, covering her face from the flying shards.

The transit cops took a step back, flabbergasted. Jordan took a long hard look at the mallet, at the wreck of the pillar, and at the mallet again. "Cool."

"Are you okay?" asked Peter, giving her a hand. She stepped out of the wreckage then dusted mirror shards from her clothing.

"I'm going to fucking kill her," she said in a pleasant, almost cheerful voice. She looked at the two cops. "Sorry about the mess. C'mon, guys!" She led the way up and out to the street.

The cops stood there. One turned to the other. "You wanna call that in?"

His partner kicked at a piece of twisted steel. It was as solid as ever. "Call what in?"

"I knew I should've slept on the train."

***

Laura stuck her head in the cabinet, tossing out pots, pans, colanders, everything. Nothing seemed to be exactly what she needed.

"Hey! Cast iron!" She picked up the frying pan and tested its weight.

"We're not going up against the fair folk," said Gabe, taking it from her. "A frying pan won't be much good facing an AK-47."

"Details. Did you find the knives?"

"Yeah." She pulled her head from the cabinet at the weird note in his voice. He'd stuffed six or seven Ginsu knives through his belt.

"You can't go up there like that. You'll impale yourself before we reach the stairs."

"No, I won't," he said, and tried to quick-draw one of the knives. He winced. "Okay, not through the belt."

"Well, isn't this adorable?" came an all-too-familiar screech. "All right, kiddies, turn around slowly," said Molly. "Mom says you've got to be allowed to live. She didn't say anything about doing it with all your limbs on."

Laura scooted back from the cabinet, but before she could turn, she heard a solid clang as the airborne frying pan impacted with her head.

"OW!"

She turned around. Molly stood a few feet away, tossing a grenade up and down in her hand. Gabe looked from one to the other, then shook his head.

"Not a damned word," said La.

"'Kay."

"So, the frozen fools defrosted. Mom will love to hear that." She tapped her chin and her foot, still playing with the grenade with her free hand. "Now, should I let you go on your merry way? I don't think so. Cut off your ears and make you eat them? Naw, more Betsy's style. But I do know what I can do." She tossed the grenade. "CATCH!"

Laura screamed as Gabe pushed her, and they both rolled to flimsy shelter behind the corner of a metal cabinet. Seconds ticked by.

"No BOOM?" She whimpered. "Maybe the random dud wasn't so funny after all." She closed the distance between her and where they lay in three easy strides. She'd pulled a large caliber weapon that Laura didn't recognize from her jacket and pointed it at Gabe's nose.

"But this is."

Laura shouted suddenly, "YOU CAN NEVER WIN, YOU'LL ... hey, is that a blue bunny over there?"

Molly's head spun. "Where!? Where!? Whe.."

Thunk! Molly fell mid-word. Gabriel grinned as he swung the fire extinguisher over his shoulder, "I'm not sure this thing is completely full. That can be dangerous."

Laura rubbed the back of her head, "Thanks."

Gabriel let the extinguisher thud slightly as he put it next to the wall. "Blue bunny?"

"What? I've got a thing for blue. I figured she might."

"You think she thinks like you?"

"Well," she paused and continued with slightly forced breeziness, "if you took a mirror, poured wet glue on it, smashed it, cooked it and then stood in bad lighting wearing a mask ... they'd be our spitting images."

Gabriel looked a little skeptical.

She shrugged. "She likes croissants, I like croissants. She rode a lunch cart at top speed to crack my skull with a food tray, I've always ... wanted to ride one. And, uh, I've got a thing for blue."

"How hard did she hit you?"

"Enough."

They stood for a moment looking down at the prone Attention Deficit Disordered clone.

"Hey, Gabe? I think one of the little blue birds still flying around my head is carrying a light bulb."

"What?" He looked at her in concern.

"I have an idea." Laura began untying the straitjacket from Molly's neck. The hand grenade belt followed. "If I can convince your clone that I am my clone long enough to annoy the hell out of him, and assuming they've been taught not to hurt each other, you can annoy the hell out of his skull with that large blunt object while he's distracted. It might actually work. I just have to avoid making sense."

"What!?"

"I see I'm off to a good start."

"Whoa, slow down. You think it'll fool him? You're still wearing your own clothing, uh, cape and belt excepted."

"Take a look. She's wearing my clothing too, uh, cape and belt excepted. She's pretending to be me ... more or less." Laura put on the sunglasses and then tilted them 10 degrees off horizontal. "I'll do the same"

"And how will you annoy him enough to let down his guard?"

"Well, I assume Molly often annoys your clone most of all the clones, and if this one could focus for two coherent thoughts in a row, he might annoy her. I'll just play it up."

"Why would your clone annoy my clone?" Gabriel looked a little insulted. "You don't annoy me. Much."

"Yeah, but you aren't an anal retentive control freak. Much. And most of the time I'm not a walking billboard for heavy sedation."

Gabe grinned, "Good point."

***

Amy wandered into the ballroom, looking around her nervously. Nothing about this con made any sense to her, unless she chose to believe something which made no sense at all in the normal scheme of things.

"Hello, my dear," drawled a pleasant voice, and she jumped. Dominic Dracon, or Thomas Forsyth as he went by in his normal life, extended his hand to take hers with all the charm he could muster. "And who might you be, this evening?"

"Oh. I'm dressed as an innocent bystander. As in 'It always happens to the innocent bystanders.'" Thomas laughed.

She looked behind him. Batya stood near Alex, a protective, almost indulgent smile on her face. But something about it was all wrong. Amy knew Batya casually, knew that she didn't see the other woman enough to know for certain that she was in much better shape under her costume than she ought to be, but still.... And Constance, earlier in the elevator. She'd seemed wrong. And hadn't she seen Merav getting off another elevator Saturday in the middle of the day?

"What is it?" asked Thomas, dropping his Dracon persona in concern.

"Nothing." Across the room, she spied Laudre chatting with Bud-Clare. Or was it Laudre? Or Bud, for that matter. Was this, in fact, Thomas Forsyth? She shivered and rubbed her arms.

"Doesn't look like nothing."

"You'd think I was nuts. But I'm not. There's something going on here. Have you," she paused, then forged on, "Have you seen ... more than one of anybody here this weekend?"

"More than one of anybody?" he asked, uncertainly.

"Like, someone gets off the elevator, but you just saw them on the same floor a minute ago? Or someone starts acting really weird, and doesn't remember little things they should?"

"Well," he said. "Maybe." Her heart jumped; it wasn't a coddling tone, it was one unsure of his own sanity, as he said, "See my badge?" He was number 1066. "When I got checked in, Missy said she'd saved it for me. It's for my email address," he explained, seeing her look. "But I saw her a minute ago in the hall on my way down, I asked her to email me notes on the website. She looked at me like she didn't know me, and then asked what my email address was. I thought maybe she didn't recognize me in the costume, but ... " He was still easily distinguishable.

Amy nodded. "I've been seeing stuff like that all weekend. It's weird."

"What's weird?" asked Duncan, clad as a passable Matt Bluestone.

As Amy explained, and Thomas confirmed, Siryn, Aimee and Lex wandered by, and so did Leva and Kanthara, and JEB, and Guandalug. Amy noted that no one from the Dreamer Clan, official or FoDC, came over, although she could see that they were attracting some attention from Jordan and Liz.

She coughed. "Let's not gather so close, folks. Just keep your eyes open. And count people." The others split off.

"Hi," said Jordan, from directly behind her, as Thomas wandered casually away. Amy's heart raced as she turned. His eyes were hidden behind dark glasses, and his voice was low and menacing. "You and I might want to chat."

"Amy!" Kanth and Lex made a beeline back to her, each one scooping an arm. "Pardon us a minute," Lex said to Jordan, and they pulled her away as she added, "Girl talk!"

***

They regrouped in the con suite. Batya took a quick inventory.

An ambulance was on its way to get Seth, who lay unconscious in the video room. His bleeding had stopped hours before; Kellie suspected a concussion and some broken bones at the least. There was nothing more they could do for him but pray.

Carmen was locked in the closet, up in Constance's hotel room. They had no illusions that it would hold her forever, but the telephone line seemed to be working as a tie for the moment.

Constance was in the ballroom, trying to infiltrate the clones. She hadn't come back with any urgent news; for the moment, they were going to try to take that as a good sign. Laura and Gabe had disappeared while looking for weapons -- Batya could only hope they had not been recaptured or worse.

Miri had gone for help on the outside. Whether she could persuade anyone to believe her and come with reinforcements was anybody's guess.

So her troops, as they were, consisted of herself, Merav, Liz, Jordan, Peter, Kellie and Missy. They were tired, bruised, and battered, and looked badly frightened ... but they were here.

"All right. Everybody have a weapon?"

"Check!" Jordan brandished a rubber mallet menacingly.

Batya paused. "Everyone have a good weapon?"

"Don't diss the hammer." Peter nodded in agreement.

Kellie and Liz had broken a chair, and had makeshift wooden clubs at the ready. Merav readied her can of mace. Batya herself had rescued the Edit Staff, and held it as a talisman. She noted that Peter and Missy both lacked weapons.

"What are you going to use?"

"I want to give some ass-kicking back," said Peter, punching his fist into his hand.

Missy frowned. "She won't use weapons on me. I can't use any on her."

"You're sure about that?" asked Kellie.

Missy rolled her eyes and held up her hand. "Everyone who's had their own evil clone actually living inside their heads please raise their hands now. Thank you. I made her. I know her. No weapons. It's an us thing."

Peter said, "About that making her part ... "

"Later."

Batya clasped her hands behind her back, started pacing before the crew. "Okay. Gang, you know what we're up against. We're going to try to take down our evil clones, who are better armed than us, better organized than us, and stronger than us. But we have something they don't have. Do you know what that is?"

"Better taste in clothes?" asked Merav.

"Numbers?" asked Peter, then glanced around. "Oh, right."

"A duck?" someone asked; she thought it was Missy.

"No no no. We've got the knowledge that we're on the right side, fighting for truth, and freedom, and the continuation of this fandom as a wonderfully disorganized jumble of volatile creative types!"

The rest stared at her.

Then Jordan said, "We are so dead."

"Probably." Batya shook her head. "But ... I think we have to do this anyway. The story isn't supposed to end this way."

"Um," said Peter, "This isn't a story."

"It's not?" She stared at him. "Let me just say this one more time: Evil clones. Of us. Are trying to take over our convention. Of course this is a story! Guys! Guys! Come on!" She stared around at them pleadingly. "We don't want the bad guys to win!"

There was a pause. The others exchanged glances.

"And that's what's going to happen if we run away. They'll swarm in here, and they'll take over the con, and no one will ever know. Except us. And except Seth, if he survives. And except whoever else they decide to take out while pretending to be us. What about Tirtzah? What about Steve? Kathleen? What about my parents when they come to pick us up tomorrow? What about all your parents? And what about all the parents of the kids down there, who signed agreements saying that they could come out here because we said we'd take care of them?

"This is our responsibility. This is our con. And nobody steps on a con in my town!" Batya shouted the last declaration, eyes blazing, fists clenched, her breath coming fast. The rest stood in awed silence.

Very very quietly, Jordan began to sing:

"Do you hear the people sing?
Singing the song of angry fen?
It is a music of a people - "

Batya held up her hand. "Jordan, we don't have time for a musical number right now."

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"I like that, though. It's good. Save it for later."

Batya looked around at her clan, meeting each one's eyes. "We're going out there?"

As one, they nodded in assent. They were ready.

"I love you guys," she said softly. "Let's go."

"You realize," said Jordan on his way through the door, "that we're going in there to start a war. The hotel is never, ever, ever going to let us come back."

Merav said, "Jordan, the hotel is already never, ever, ever going to let us come back."

"Point."

***

Kellie grabbed Peter's arm before he could leave. She saw the flinch, and her stomach tightened. "Hold on a sec."

"We don't have a sec."

"What did she do to you?"

"What does it look like she did?" he snapped. The bruises stood out in angry relief on his face.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Just drop it. We've got a fandom to go fight for. Though I don't know why. It's not like any of them like me anyway."

"We like you."

"Bull. They put up with me because they like you. And I know what you think about me."

So. Her clone had gone for the psychological torture as well as the physical stuff. Bright girl.

"What do I think about you?"

"Kel, we need to go."

"What do I think about you, Peter?"

"You think I was an accident. You and Kathleen didn't want me. Mom and Dad didn't want me. Fine. I can deal with that. But don't pretend we're good pals on top of it."

"Is that what she told you?" He looked away, down the hall where the others were kind of waiting, kind of trying not to eavesdrop. "She lied to you."

"Whatever."

"She did. Sure, it was weird finding out that Mom was pregnant again. But you weren't there. You don't know how thrilled she was, how thrilled they both were when you were born. Remember, Daddy wanted a son to carry on the family name? And you're forgetting that I wanted a boy. Kathleen wanted a girl, but that was only because she wanted her own room .... You have no idea how happy you made us all, you ... you ... yutz."

"All right. Fine. Whatever. We need to go." But his voice caught, and she thought maybe he'd gotten the message.

"Yeah. Hey, I guess that Fan really isn't a clone of you." That brought a smile to his face.

***

It was nearing midnight, her hour. Nancy had joined the party, quietly. She wanted to take a quick look around her before making her announcement.

Beatrice, Carmen and Petra were in a large knot sitting on the floor around that loser Macdonald as he plucked some inane song about his youth. Jason and Betsy were watching the perimeter of the room, monitoring who entered and who left. Kate sat pleasantly chatting with the two web gurus. Molly and Uriel were nowhere to be seen, but that was not atypical; Uriel had become very good at only being seen when he chose, and Molly, despite her apparent inability to focus on anything for more than a microsecond, was learning the same trick.

Most of the fans were gathered. Unfortunately, the Hayden woman had already left, and Ziegler, whose DNA she had been considering acquiring, was nowhere to be seen. Pity.

Betsy sidled near her. "Mother?"

"Yes, dear?"

"I did something naughty."

"What did you do?"

"You know the fan?"

"Which fan, dear?"

"The Fan."

"Yes?" Betsy grinned. Nancy sighed. "Where did you leave the body?"

"Which bit?" She giggled.

"We'll discuss this later." Betsy nodded, then skipped back towards Jason. Nancy shook her head. Kids! She returned to her contemplation. The Dreamers were locked away, as was her pathetic excuse for a mother.

It was time.

She moved to the back of the room, directly opposite the podium, where the doors had been opened. The staircase wound its way upwards. She stood on the bottom step.

"Excuse me," she projected. The words settled over the room, drawing every face towards her, just as she liked it. "Pardon the interruption, but there's a little announcement I need to make."

"Are we announcing the Masquerade winners?" someone yelled from the crowd.

"Oh, the Masquerade is over," Nancy said, satisfaction thick as cream in her voice. "Well and truly over.

"Many of you have been in the Gargoyles fandom for years; some of you are brand new. We've all seen many changes. Tonight, we're going to see one more, a change, I think, for the better."

"Wait just a goddamned minute, you bitch!" There was no mistaking that voice. Nancy turned, and was only slightly surprised to see Missy standing at the top of the staircase at the back of the ballroom. Her clothes were stained with city soot and her long brown hair was disheveled, but her entire body seemed to radiate furious energy.

The head of every fan in the room swivelled up from Nancy Brown towards the top of stairs. Small gasps of shock, surprise, or disbelief rippled through the room.

"The last minute escape, of course. How dramatic," she said. "And how utterly pointless. As you can see, I've already taken control of the situation." Nancy spread her arms wide.

"They know," Missy said, voice low. "They can see, now. You're not me."

Murmurs arose from those watching:

"What's going on?"

"Is this some kind of floor show?"

"Whoa, they look so alike ... "

"Okay, this is the last time I eat salsa and then go to bed at 4 am..."

But no one moved. Not yet. They seemed transfixed, some more puzzled than others, most just watching with blank or horrified fascination, an audience pinned. And yes, she checked, the children had done their work; many of the faces had the surreal happiness of those who'd partaken of Petra's fairy dust.

"No, I don't suppose I am. And I think everyone's happier that way." A subtle, closed-lipped smile crept over her face. "No, they're not the Dreamer Clan, and no, I'm not Merlin the Great and Terrible," she said, voice dripping sarcasm on every word. "And what the fuck is up with that name? It's like everything else about you, it's stupid and pointless."

Very low, from somewhere in the crowd, she heard someone say, "I think this is what we're looking for."

"Be ready," said another quiet voice.

"This from somebody I made up at 2 am?" Missy said, her voice carrying and clear, resonating with scorn.

"No. This from the somebody that you created inside you every time someone teased you, every time someone flipped up your skirt on the bus, every time the pretty girls made up notes from boys and gave them to you to try and make you think someone actually thought you were attractive. I've been with you since you were born, you twit. I know how much of a flake you really are. Do they? Do you think any of them actually like you? Do you think they would if they knew a little more about you? You're twenty-four and still sleep with a stinky old rag doll!"

The room had quieted; the only sound was the low murmuring of a few people still trying to figure out whether this was part of the show.

Merlin started down the stairs. Slowly. "Shut up."

"I don't think so. I think you know that all those little insecurities that you've been hiding behind are as real as you fear. You are ugly. You are shrill. You are unpleasant. You can't keep friends because you drive them off with your less than charming personality, and then you blame it all on moving when secretly you're just as glad to get away from them so you won't have to face their ridicule. You try to buy affection with gifts," she turned to Fire Storm, ripped a PVC figure from his hands and threw it to the floor, "but you won't take five minutes to say hello."

"I said, shut up."

"No wonder people don't like you. And I don't need them to like me. I just need them to fear me. I'm all the parts of you that you wish you had for yourself, all the things you wanted to spit back. I'm every insult you took without rebuttal. I'm the one who knows how to dress without looking like a walking fashion don't. I'm the one who knows how to speak to people without tripping over my own tongue. I'm the one who can write. I'm the one who can fight. Why shouldn't I be the one who gets to live? What have you done to deserve your life?"

Her former host stood still at the foot of the steps. She was trembling now, jaw locked shut in anger or fear or both. Nancy had inched closer to her with every word, was now only a few feet away. Missy didn't move.

"I want your life. I want control of it all. I can do things you've barely let yourself dream of doing. You've played around with magic, changed the weather," she sneered. "I transferred a soul. You're nothing compared to me. You're a waste of skin. You're useless."

"And you're a reflection of me. What's that make you?"

"Better. Although that's not difficult, considering." She nodded. The shadow she had noted slipped free of the darkness and placed a gloved hand at the back of Missy's neck. She gasped, and tried to turn. "I wouldn't recommend that. The boys have a habit of getting carried away with their toys. You might be damaged. I wouldn't want that."

"Why not?" The shrill note was back again. How annoying. "If I'm a waste of space, why not kill me? Or have one of your pets do it?"

The glove contracted, and she stiffened with a squeak. Nancy waited a pleasantly long moment, watching the pressure increase, listening to the barely-controlled squeal of pain go on and on as her toes left the ground.

Beatrice was behind her. "Mother ... "

"Stop," said Nancy. "Let go of her for now." Uriel dropped Missy and took a step back. She rubbed her neck, watched him in fear.

Nancy snapped her fingers. A moment later, Beatrice was by her right, Carmen to her left. Betsy and Jason took up stations to either side of Missy, weapons pointed casually in her direction. She did not need to see that the others had arranged themselves in a loose half-circle around them. "You see, they are my children. They love me. They'd do anything for me. Isn't that right?"

"Of course, Mother," said Beatrice, but quickly, her head swiveling back to the rest of the murmuring crowd, where she had left Alex. The sheep. They would wait, open-mouthed and stupid, while she completed her work here, and allow her to take control anyway. Yet, from such weak beginnings, she would create an empire.

"They're nothing like the originals. They are better, they are stronger, and they are obedient."

"Then why am I still breathing?"

"I haven't given the order. For now, you're more valuable to me alive than dead." With a sudden memory of the series, Nancy smirked. "Barely. And please, tell me I won't get away with this."

"You won't. When you go back, people will notice. Todd will notice."

"Eventually, perhaps." Nancy rubbed the diamond with her left thumb. "Or perhaps not."

"You leave him alone."

"I don't think so. He's too much part of the disguise now. And if he proves to be inconvenient, I'll simply make a new one and have a more obedient consort."

She patted Missy on the head, then cocked her head to one side, picking up a stray thought. "What's that?" She looked at the ring on her hand with renewed interest. "It's not really yours. It was the ring he bought for his last fiancee, and you're just borrowing it for the con. Shame on you for lying. Tell me, does he know why you're wearing it?"

"Stay the fuck out of my mind."

"He doesn't. How typical. Running away from another confrontation. You're pathetic."

Missy blinked. "Oh shit. You need me."

"Excuse me?"

"You need my memories, my thoughts. You don't exist without me. That's it, isn't it?"

"Mom doesn't need anyone," said Betsy. Beatrice nodded in agreement, but kept her eyes to the other fen in the room. With a touch to Nancy's arm, she moved away, back to maintain control of the crowd lest someone decide to be heroic.

"Sure she does. She needs everything I know. She's a part of me. I remember you now. You're the one I wanted to be when I was fifteen and stupid, right?"

Nancy slapped her, hard across the face.

Missy kept her head averted for a moment after. Then she deliberately turned her gaze to meet Nancy's. "Maybe I am weak and everything you said, but that means you are, too. Anyone else would have just punched me."

"I don't need to resort to that type of violence. Jason, hit her."

The blow echoed through the ballroom. Missy went down hard on her butt, then rubbed her mouth.

"Oh yeah, that proved everything," she said, wiping the blood from her lips. "You're so much better than me because you can tell some muscles- for-brains clone to hit me. And you say I'm a flake." Jason aimed the butt of his rifle towards her skull, but Nancy waved him down.

The muttering was growing louder now; those who still seemed to think this was a floor show were beginning to express the opinion that it was in increasingly poor taste. Others were falling silent, one by one, as they tried to come to grips with the impossible situation that seemed to be true nonetheless.

"You're the one bleeding on the floor," Nancy bit off. "I'm the one surrounded by friends. I still win."

"Maybe. But maybe I know something you don't know."

Jason chuckled harshly. "We're not left-handed either, bitch."

"Like what?" Nancy sneered. "That the Dreamer Clan has escaped and are even now taking up positions around the room, hoping to spring a surprise attack on us?"

The children shifted, looking anxiously towards the shadows. Nancy held out her arm. "It doesn't matter. We beat them before. We can do it again."

"Without all of your clones?"

Nancy frowned. A quick glance showed everyone accounted for and in their place.

"Everyone is here. And your Dreamers are nowhere to be seen."

"Mother," asked Carmen from beside her. "Where's the best place to hide?"

"In plain sight, of course." Nancy dropped, just as Constance inexpertly swung her knife in a too-wide arc that would have probably done some decent damage anyway.

"Get them!" someone yelled, and whether it was Beatrice or Batya, she would never quite be sure. The room exploded into shouts and a tangle of limbs as people attacked each other. Some fans noted that although the weapons they carried were fakes, as blunt instruments, they worked just fine.

"Nightmare's over, Nancy," said Missy, and they were upon each other.

***

Betsy's voice boomed over the loudspeaker: "Use of unnecessary force has just been approved!"

***

Batya knew there were more important things to do, but her heart raced in her chest as she hurried to where she'd last seen Alex before the wild rumpus started. Sure enough, he was near the edge of the room, watching all hell break loose with a kind of stunned calm.

"Alex!" Relief flooded her to see him alive and well; she very nearly hugged him.

"Hello," he said, seeing her. "I am waiting right here." He held his fake cane regally.

"What? Never mind. Here is a good place. We're fighting our evil clones. I'll explain later."

"No," said Beatrice, coming up beside him. To Batya's shock, the clone took his arm and held it. "You can explain now." She raised her head to smile at Alex. "Tell her that we've fallen in love, you and I, and are to be married."

"Batya, I've met someone. We're going to be married."

"As soon as possible." As the other spoke, Batya noticed that she had a staff of her own, of dark gunmetal and chrome.

"As soon as possible," he parroted.

"Good boy," smiled Beatrice, stroking his hand.

"I'm a good boy," said Alex happily.

"You know I'm here to fight you," said Batya, levelly.

"With Alexander the Great here as the prize?" The clone's mouth turned up at the sides. "Hardly seems worth it, does he? You should know, we've already distributed this powder to half the fen here. They're on our side, at least for the moment." She glanced at Alex, and her smile went evil. "Alex?"

"Yes?"

Beatrice pointed at Batya with her chin. "Get her."

"Okay." He obediently advanced on Batya, raising his cane.

Horror clutching at her throat, Batya backed away. "Get her?" she demanded of the clone. "That's your big plan, Ray? Get her? Verrry scientific."

"Absurdity and non sequitur. How very like you."

Alex swung the cane clumsily; she blocked it with the Edit Staff. "Alex, please, get out of the way," she told him in a low voice, hoping against hope that he would hear her ...

"Okay," he said, and obediently moved out of her way.

Beatrice blinked. "Alex, get her!" she snapped.

"Okay." He turned back and swung his cane again.

"Stop that!" Batya shouted, and Alex stopped.

The other's eyes flashed in rising ire. "How are you doing that?" she asked in low, dangerous tones. "That powder shouldn't wear off for some twenty minutes yet. The only voice he should be obeying now is mine."

"Really? Huh," Batya said, in sudden gleeful understanding. "You know something? My voice sounds a whole lot like yours. Why is that, do you think?" Without waiting for a response, she turned to Alex and said clearly, "Alex, get to a safe place, and don't listen to any order anyone gives you for the next half-hour."

"Okay," Alex said, and made for the relative safety of the alcoves at the back of the room.

Beatrice opened her mouth to call him back, and Batya stepped into her way. "Leave him out of this."

The clone swung her gunmetal staff and caught her across the upper arm. "You fool," she spat. "Nobody gets to be left out of this."

Gritting her teeth, Batya brought up the Edit Staff in front of her. "I won't let you hurt anyone else."

Beatrice laughed. "You don't honestly think you can beat me with a stick, do you?"

Riding on a high frothing tide of mingled adrenaline and desperation, Batya felt a mad grin pull at the corners of her own mouth. "This isn't just some stick," she said. "This is the Edit Staff. Don't you know what that means?"

The other was looking at her narrowly, not yet sure what she meant. With as much utter conviction as she could manage, Batya pushed on. "If I use this, not only will you not be here, you'll never have been here! I can go back and rewrite your sorry ass out of this story, and don't think I won't do it!"

Something in her voice must have struck home with the clone, because uncertainty, something Batya was familiar with on her own features, edged their way onto her face. Then she smiled and held her staff in front of her. To Batya's horror, she tugged at both ends, revealing a thin, deadly blade, which Beatrice then pointed in her direction.

~Yipe.~

"Ha," she said in what she prayed was a confident voice, as she stared at the point, "you think you're the only one who can do that?"

She tugged with bravado at her own staff. Which came loose and revealed a sword of its own.

Both stared. There had never been a blade there before, and both of them knew it. Batya recovered first; whatever had chosen to back up her bluff, she thanked it, and focused on acting unsurprised. ~When all else fails,~ she thought,~stay in character.~ "I told you this wasn't just some stick," she said. "Weren't you listening?"

"Indeed," Beatrice taunted. "Then come erase me, little toon."

"You did ask." Batya raised her hand over her head, set her feet into an extended T, and snarled, "En garde, you bitch."

***

Peter turned from the blow, and saw Kellie. No, not Kellie. Her clone. Her back was to him, both arms raised to strike the fallen Guandalug with a two-fisted blow. Peter's bruises winced for him.

Brain on autopilot, he crouched, then jumped onto her back and started pounding at her face with his fists. She flailed at him, but he dug his knees into her sides.

"This" pound "is for" pound "beating me up earlier." The clone lost her balance, and they fell in a tangle of elbows and knees. Peter was faster than she, and pinned her down while pummeling her with blow after blow. The clone kneed him in the stomach, dislodging him. He rolled over, clutching his mid-section as she delivered a kick to his kidneys. He grabbed her leg as she pulled back for another kick, and staggered to his feet as she fell.

"All right," he said, wiping his mouth. "It's just you and me."

The clone smiled, and attacked. Peter dodged, bringing his fists in towards his body, then rushed her. She tripped him, and he fell hard, even on the carpeted floor.

The clone stood over him, leering. "I told you you were nothing." She pulled something from her back pocket. A serrated-edged knife opened with a click.

The punch bowl smashed satisfactorily as it crashed over her head. Kate fell over immediately, eyes rolling back, and landed on the rug with a thud. Kellie shook the remnants of punch from her hands, then offered Peter one. He lay there, dazed, and she crouched down to him.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I'm okay."

"No broken bones? You're sure?" Kellie had her hand on his forehead, oblivious to the crashes and shouts of the continuing melee around them. Peter removed her hand, then held it a moment.

"I'm okay. Thanks for saving my life."

Kellie smiled. "Hey, anything for my favorite brother." She helped him to his feet.

Peter staggered slightly, then rubbed his eyes. He must have been hit on the head harder than he'd originally thought, because it looked like Missy and Nancy were fighting in the middle of the room, and they were singing at each other.

Missy sang:

"It's the last nightmare
It's the last fight
It's the last nightmare
Soon it will be day...light
Took a little hair?
Stole a little blood?
Built a little clone...did you?
Had to get your fans
Had to take your bow
Had to get your clan, didn't matter how,
Anyway it doesn't matter now..."

Nancy spat back:

"I'm your last nightmare
It's good-night all
Nothing but a vast nightmare
At the Masquerade ... Ball!
Nothing you can do:
I'm more you than you!
All I need now is the name!"

Missy replied:

"Oh, of course, what really matters is the name
Have to know your name
Fine, if that's the point of the plan,
Keeping your name,
If that's the aim,
You take the name!
Just give up the clan!"

"No," Nancy said, shakily.

"No," Missy repeated with contempt.

Peter looked at his sister. "Kel, are they singing?" Kellie nodded. "Why are they singing?"

"We're having a battle with our evil clones who want to replace us, take over the fandom and then proceed to world domination, and you want to know why they're singing?"

"You're right. Never mind."

A tall figure in a pointed wizard's hat and a masked woman in black with a wooden mallet ran past, pursued by the three women dressed as the Weird Sisters. As they passed, two of the Sisters saw Kellie and Peter and turned to lunge at them, and the brief lull was gone.

"Why don't I have any normal friends?" asked Peter, as he threw a punch towards Luna.

***

Christine and Leva found a table and hid beneath it, then looked out into the fray.

"I don't get it," said Leva. "There's only a few of them."

"I think some of ours are fighting with them."

Leva blinked. "Why?"

"Dunno. Lousy service at the con, maybe?" The horn of her Una costume bobbed up and down as she spoke. "You should get pictures of this."

The table beside them overturned, and they were joined by three other people: Gorebash, Thomas Revor, and ...

"Um, hi Greg," said Christine, knowing exactly how ridiculous she looked, crouched under a table dressed as a unicorn-shaped gargoyle.

Greg's face was waxen in a kind of horrified shock.

Gore, Elisa costume still in place, told Greg, "We're not like this. We're really not like this! Honest!"

Greg nodded. Christine debated with herself whether she should check his pupil response.

A plastic sword winged over the table. Thomas said, "I'm really starting to rethink the Masquerade for next year's con."

Christine stared at him. All the clones seemed to favor dark glasses, and she'd never seen Thomas without his. "How do we know you're you?" she suddenly demanded of him.

"You don't," he said, quite calmly for the situation. "And I don't know that you're you. But the thing is, either we start trusting each other, or we're cannon fodder."

"Give the man a point," said Leva, as she snapped a picture of the battle.

A Puck tumbled through the air, to land heavily behind them. "Ow."

"You okay, Patrick?" asked Thomas, as Christine crawled over towards him.

"No," he groaned.

As Christine was about to check for broken bones, the table flipped over, and someone who looked a lot like Liz was pointing a pair of enormous handguns at Greg, who looked up at her wide-eyed.

"Oh, this is too easy!"

"Now Betsy," said someone who looked like Merav, "You know Mother didn't want Weisman hurt." Then she smiled brightly at the others. "She said nothing about the rest of you."

There was a better part of valor, and they took it.

***

Peter crouched behind the table. He wasn't leaving the fight; he was just regrouping. A moment later, Aimee Major, dressed as Raven, jumped behind the table, followed by a panting Jubilee.

"What the hell is going on?" Aimee demanded of him.

Peter thought fast. "You see those guys that kind of look like the ConCom?"

"Which ones?"

"The ones in the sunglasses."

"Yeah. What's up with that?" asked Jubilee.

"Never mind. They're the bad guys. They," he paused, and gulped. ~Above my head. How did it splash above my head?~ "They probably killed Seth."

"...What?" whispered Jubilee.

"Seth?" asked Aimee, her voice thin in shock. "Oh my god."

Jubilee stared blankly for a moment, then repeated, "They killed Seth?"

Aimee's voice was stronger suddenly, and the shock was replaced with outrage. "They killed Seth?"

Peter nodded.

"You BASTARDS!" Aimee shrieked, and leapt over the table and sprang at the nearest Con Com member lookalike, grabbing for her throat.

"Wait!" yelled Peter, dashing after her and tugging her. "That's Kellie! The ones in the sunglasses! They're the bad guys!" Aimee stopped fighting, as Jubilee joined them.

"Sorry, Kellie," said Aimee.

"It's okay," Kellie replied, rubbing her neck. "Good reflexes."

Peter pointed towards Liz's clone. "Her. Go beat on her. For Seth."

As they ran, screaming, towards the clone, Kellie whispered to him, "Um. Do they know Seth's not dead?"

"Nope."

"All right, then."

***

Constance crawled on her hands and knees toward a stack of chairs, seeking cover, reflecting how terribly impractical fishnet stockings were during combat. She tucked her head down between her elbows as some unidentified object went flying overhead and landed with a crash against the wall.

When she opened her eyes, she found her view blocked by a pair of familiar-looking running sneakers. "What the..." She raised her head and followed a line of sight up along a pair of perfectly toned and muscled legs, khaki shorts, Gathering '98 t-shirt and ... her own face. Only different. And hair cut short, with a purple streak, black lipstick, too much eyeliner. "Even I know purple isn't our color," Constance said flatly.

"Did you really think I wouldn't get out of that telephone wire eventually?" One small hand, fingernails painted black, reached down and grabbed her original by the hair, yanking her head back painfully. "I look so much better in my clothes than you do. In fact," Carmen put her head to one side, in mock thoughtfulness, "I look so much better in your clothes than you do." There was a click, and out came the switchblade. Carmen shoved her boot against Constance's shoulder, pushing her onto her back.

"Carmen you can't do this," Constance said quickly, wondering if the shake in her voice was noticeable. "I am you. You're me. You're made from me. In fact ... I admire you."

"What?" The hand holding the knife paused in shock.

"Sure. You don't take shit from anyone. You can draw. You're in great shape. You ... you don't know how much I admire you, how much I want to be like you." Now the other woman, the not-Constance, knelt over her double, knife still held loosely in one hand. "Really?"

"Sure." Constance managed to shrug despite lying on the floor with someone that looked just like her kneeling over her with a knife. "There's just something you need to know about me. Something you don't know yet. Information."

Carmen cocked an eyebrow. "Information," she purred. "Go on."

Swiftly, Constance brought both of her combat-boot clad feet up and let loose a hard kick that contacted perfectly with Carmen's abdomen. Carmen flew backwards, crashed into a stack of chairs, and fell over with them in a tangle. When it was over, she lay limply, chairs on top of her, breathing deeply but out cold.

Constance rolled to her feet, then stood looking down at her likeness, arms folded. "I'm not as nice as you think," she said softly, without venom.

***

Nancy got in a jab up under Missy's chin, then stood over her.

"You're so good.
You're not right, you're not wrong, you're just good
I'm not dark, I don't brood, I'm just real
You're the fake
I'm alive!
You're the fake, you're the lie they believed."

Missy scrambled to her feet.

"You're the fake, you're all figments and thieves
You're a pen name
That I put on a screen
It's the end game
Time to wake from the dream!"

***

From where she crouched by the stairway, Laura could see Gabe's clone standing, observing the fight between Nancy and Missy. Not fighting. Just watching, and waiting. ~Hope this works,~ she thought. Then, in her best hyperactive-child-on-a-caffeine-high voice, she shouted, "BROTHE..! Uh, GABRIEL! ARE YOU THERE GABE-RI-EL?!" He turned. His eyes were hidden behind his mirrored glasses, and still she felt a cold fear. "OH THERE YOU ARE!" She bounded over to him in what she hoped was a passable impression of her clone, as oblivious as she could be to the surrounding fight.

"So?" She leaned over onto his arm and perched delicately. "Are we winning?"

No response.

~C'mon, Gabe. I'm not doing well on the making conversation bit here.~

"C'mon," she said, grabbing his hand and tugging. "Let's go cause some mayhem, 'kay?" She squeaked on the last note and pulled out a grenade.

He slipped his hand from her easily, and continued to watch the battle. Thankfully, she saw the real Gabriel coming behind him with the fire extinguisher. She smiled brightly at the clone.

"Wanna have some FUN?"

Without looking at her, or at Gabe, he reached his hand back and stopped the oncoming blow to his head. He pulled the extinguisher, and Gabe, around to his front, shook his head, and tossed them both forcefully into the wall.

"Ow," said Gabe, as he slid to the floor. The extinguisher fell beside him.

The clone looked down at her, and again La felt the fear. The other clones were happy psychopaths bent on world domination through fandom. It was dawning on Laura that they were the well-adjusted ones.

~Like a dog,~ she thought. ~The rest of the world doesn't matter. Only his master.~

"I'll just be going," she said. Before she could bound away, she felt his hand on her shoulder. The loose knot of the straitjacket gave way, and he pulled it free. He tossed it to the floor, then shook his finger at her.

She could see Gabe getting to his feet slowly, as she backed away from his clone. He wouldn't reach her in time, and even if he could, she wasn't sure he could do anything. Hadn't the clones proven time and again that they were stronger, faster, smarter ...

From nowhere, Dominic Dracon flew threw the air and landed on him roughly.

The clones weren't necessarily more observant.

Fire Storm, his eyes glazed over, ran after Thomas, grabbed him by the back of his suit jacket, and pulled him off Uriel. Thomas,dazed from being tossed directly into Uriel, struggled, swinging his cane. He managed to strike Fire Storm on the leg, but he couldn't move fast enough. Fire Storm punched him in the stomach, then followed up with a hard right to the jaw. Thomas' vision began to blur.

Suddenly, Fire Storm let out a howl of pain. Laura, face set with determination, dug her fingernails into Fire Storm's arm. She held on stubbornly. Then Gabriel leapt on him from behind, getting him in a stranglehold, tight enough to make it hard for Fire Storm to breathe but not hard enough to hurt or bruise him. Laura brought her knee up and got him in the stomach as Thomas held his cane raised, ready for whatever might be needed. But Fire Storm sank to his knees, gasping. Gabe told Thomas, "He's under a mind control powder."

"He's what?"

"Just trust me on this. It'll wear off soon. Could you just keep him quiet for a little while until it does? Find something to tie him up with if you need to." The younger man nodded. "Thanks."

La tilted her head towards Uriel, who was already on his feet again and was calmly walking away from them as if they were no longer at all important. "What about him?"

"You think we could take him?"

"No." She glanced at the clone. Having discounted them as threats, Uriel had resumed his post. "But he's not a danger. To us, anyway." ~But if it even looks like Missy might be winning ...~

"Then let's go help the others."

"No," she said, too quickly. "You go and see what you can do. I'll stay here. To watch."

***

Chris brandished his fists as menacingly as he could at the scantily-dressed woman. Earlier in the evening, someone he'd thought was Liz had hung all over him. Now one of her "sisters," the one who looked like Merav, with Laudre beside her, were circling him and Gore, surrounding them. And they were smiling, she with a predatory grin, he with a slightly glazed one.

"You know," Chris said over his shoulder, standing back-to-back with Gore, who looked enough like Elisa that his freak-out factor was about to critical. "This isn't how I planned on spending the con."

"You?" Gore turned his head slightly to look at Chris, keeping one wary eye on the Merav lookalike. One of Gore's breasts had popped, and his makeup was smeared across his face.

"Point. Hey, whozzat?" He gestured over at two bodies entwined on a chair about ten feet away.

"Um, DumlaoX and Al."

"So they're busy?"

"Looks like."

"Hell."

"Now boys," said the not-Merav, slipping her hand into a black velvet bag. "You know that resistance is futile, right?"

"Futile," agreed Laudre, moving closer.

"That's it. I'm cancelling your account," muttered Gorebash.

Merav's clone coaxed, "We could have so much fun! The two of you control the websites. We'll just let you know what to put on them."

"I don't think I like this idea," Chris growled.

"It's not like you've got much choice in the matter," she said, and pulled her hand out, blowing dust at them. It landed on both of them. Chris started to sneeze, as Gore coughed.

"You will join us."

"No! I'll never join you!" said Gore. He gave a little chuckle. "I've always wanted to say that."

Merav's clone stared at him in shock, and Chris took the opportunity to dart for a chair. He swung it around, and brought it crashing to the back of Laudre's head somewhat harder than necessary. The crash jarred his wrists, sending spikes of pain through his arms.

"Nice," said Gore, as Chris dropped the chair and started rubbing the pain from his wrists. "He's gonna be pissed at you when he wakes up."

"Probably. Learned that move in high school."

"Tough school."

"But ... But ... " The not-Merav looked at her fallen minion, and down to her pouch. "You will follow my instructions!"

"Erm, no," said Chris, slowly.

"Then you will die!" From nowhere, she whipped two hypodermics out, and with a snarl, she pounced. As though they'd rehearsed it, Chris dove to one side as Gore went to the other. Merav's clone fell, and the needles broke on the floor beneath her.

There was a crush of bodies passing by, and Gabriel was there. "Hey guys, are you okay?" They both nodded, as Merav's clone scowled and tried to get to her feet as she dug through her black bag.

Gabriel whipped out a plastic baggie, and Chris took a step back. "Looking for this?" he asked her. Her eyes widened in shock as he pulled out a small handful of sparkly white dust and blew it at her.

She screamed and clutched her eyes. Gore asked, "If you have her dust, what did she blow on us?"

"Kool-Aid." He shrugged. "Lemon-lime flavor. I've spent a lot of quality time in the kitchen this weekend."

"Oooh yeah," said Chris in his best Kool-Aid Man voice.

Gabe looked at Petra, and there was a gleam in his eye. "You are suddenly very sleepy."

"Sleepy," she agreed, and she folded her arms beneath her head, closing her eyes.

***

Jordan found himself facing off against Betsy in the back corner of the ballroom. She had pulled a long blade and was attacking him with a viciousness he had never seen in Liz, even during her angriest moments.

"You're a poor excuse for my brother, fat boy."

Jordan grimaced. During the con last year he had also been trekking back and forth from New Jersey, where he had been playing Benvolio in "Romeo and Juliet." The fight scenes had been elaborate and in the process he had learned how to fight with a rapier and block with a dagger. The rubber sledgehammer made a poor excuse for either, but at the moment it was the only thing standing between being alive and being kosher shishkabob.

"Would you like me to slow down for you?" mocked Betsy, moving her arms in faux slow motion, then slicing his upper arm with a deft touch. "No wonder Jason's so embarrassed by you. I would be."

Jordan knew he couldn't hold out much longer. He stumbled and fell backward into a corner.

"No way out," said Betsy. She advanced slowly and started to whistle.

Jordan gulped and awaited the inevitable, but suddenly he recognized what Betsy was whistling.

"The Sound of Music?"

He could work with that.

There must have been something in his eyes, because suddenly, Betsy's demeanor changed. She shuddered, and made a misstep.

Jordan slid up the wall and gripped the handle of the sledgehammer and started swinging it in wide arcs, then to Betsy's obvious surprise, he started singing:

"Do you hear the fandom sing?"

swing

"Singing the song of angry fen?"

swing

"It is the music of the geekboys who will not be scared again!"

swing

"When the beating of your heart echoes the beating of the drum,"

swing

"There is a future that we bring when tomorrow comes!"

It was all Betsy could do to keep clear of the swinging hammer. She backed and danced, and a smile spread over her face as he saw that she had his rhythm down. There would be only one chance.

~Watch the hammer, doppleganger.~ Her eyes were on it, on him, and he knew he was out of time.

On an upstroke, he let the hammer fly away.

Betsy glanced over her head for a brief second, but it was enough.

Jordan threw himself forward with all of his considerable weight and body checked her, sending her flying backward.

Betsy recovered and grinned. "Is that all you've got?"

Jordan slowly shook his head, and said, "Not quite yet."

As she opened her mouth to her answer, the rubber hammer returned from the near wall it had bounced off, hitting her square in the back of the head.

"I hate filk," muttered Betsy as she collapsed to the floor.

Jordan stepped up to make sure she was out cold, then, summoning up his best Bruce Campbell voice, said: "Groovy."

***

"It's the last nightmare
Gather 'round, all!"

"Shadow from the past, nightmare
Soon you'll see the lie fall!"

The voices were so similar that it was no longer easy to tell which one of them was saying which words.

Laura crept up behind where Nancy stalked Missy. If she could just get in a clear shot with the fire extinguisher ...

Nancy sang:

"Here, you want a dream?
Have another dream!"

Nancy whirled, grabbed Laura, and thrust her into Missy. Missy stumbled, and La growled at Nancy.

Missy sang back:

"Dreams are all that you ever were!
Write them and they shine
But they all were mine
Sing another line
Running out of time
Oh, well, you can blame it all on her!"

***

Jason lashed out a foot at Kanthara, sweeping her feet from under her and sending her sprawling. ~Pretty,~ he thought, looking down at the tumble of blonde curls and the low-cut silver blouse. But he shelved his other ideas for later. ~After the carnage, more fun.~

Kanth carefully pushed herself halfway up to a sitting position. Her eyes narrowed. Then, without warning, her hands grabbed Jason's ankle, and her head darted down like a striking snake to sink sharp teeth into his calf. Her teeth went through the pant leg and into his flesh.

"You little bitch!" He kicked her with his other foot, catching her hard on her collar bone, causing her to loose her grip on his leg. She fell onto her back. Jason stood over her, whipped out his pistol, thumbed off the safety, and aimed. Her horrified stare met the mouth of the pistol. "Say goodnight, sweetheart!"

"Goodnight, sweetheart," a girl's voice shouted from behind him.

It was a voice Jason vaguely recognized. Instantly, he flicked his attention away from the girl on the floor. But he wasn't fast enough. A tall female body barreled full force into him, black hair flying. Lex. From Miniclan. Oh, yes.

She made a grab for the gun, pinning his fingers against the barrel and twisting desperately. Relishing the conflict, Jason laughed, toying with her instead of taking her down immediately. His laughter cut off with an angry curse as Lex, with a burst of adrenaline-induced strength, sharply bent back his wrist.

"Leggo!"

Gradually, Lex forced his arm upward as they struggled for control of the gun. Jason slipped his left hand into his belt and pulled his favorite knife free, and in the same quick motion, slashed at her side.

The knife caught in the fabric of her costume. With a ripping sound, the blade slid out through her left wing. Lex gasped. He took advantage of her distraction to squeeze the trigger.

The gun discharged into the air. The girl in the gargoyle costume ducked reflexively. Jason heard the bullet ricochet off the wall and ceiling, heard the scream as someone was caught.

Lex raised her head and turned, looked over to where the scream had been. "Oh, no..." she said softly, one hand reaching outward, unaware. "J.T.... "

~Who the hell is that?~ he wondered. ~Oh well.~ Jason drew back his arm and pistol-whipped Lex from behind. She fell to her knees, struggling to stay conscious, panting. ~Pathetic.~ He took a step, lowering the pistol for the kill.

"You cloned bastard, you killed J.T.!" Jason spun to see a girl dressed in some kind of ninja get-up, maybe a vampire hunter, stalking towards him in rage. Behind her was a fallen figure; Jason could not make out who it was.

"Hey, cutie!" he leered at her.

In response, she growled at him like one of the characters in the show that had brought so many together in that ballroom.

He eyed the arsenal of plastic and costume weaponry strapped to her belt. "Mine's real," he said mockingly. "Is yours?" And he dove at her. Jason had forgotten why he was fighting; he was simply enjoying the thrill of the seek and destroy.

K-Jay nimbly met his rush and grabbed his arm in prelude to a self-defense move. It was designed to allow her to use his own momentum against him, to toss him over her shoulder. Amateur. She was quick, though, and her grip was tight. But he was quicker. He grabbed her shoulder and wrenched her close to him. "You think you can fight off me with this?" he rasped, and pulled a faux wooden stake from her belt. His grip tightened on her shoulder. Her fingers opened, releasing his arm, as she gasped in pain.

Then the world came crashing down in a jangle of discordance. He fell to his knees, and K-Jay took the opportunity to seize the stake back. There was another unseen blow, and then Jason was on his back staring at the fancy panels and moldings on the ceiling. He blinked, willing his vision to clear. A shape hovered into view, long hair falling wild and loose over shoulders. The upside-down image of Merav held the wreckage of Steve's guitar case, her face a mixture of fury, revulsion, and a strange pain that was almost like pity.

"This is for J.T.," said K-Jay, and whacked him on the head with the stake. ~But who the hell was J.T.?~ The question followed Jason into the darkness.

***

Liz had lost her club thirty seconds into the fight. Everywhere she turned, she saw a massive crush of fans, some going after the others with chairs, clubs, or whatever fake weapon they'd brought for the Masquerade, others pounding into each other with fists and teeth.

Siryn and Bud-Clare battled it out beside her. Each had grabbed hold of the other's hair, and they were pulling and screaming at each other. Were they under the strange thrall that the clones had placed on some of the fans, or did they just not like each other?

Liz waded in between them, pulling them apart. "That's it! Stop fighting now! Bud! Siryn isn't your enemy -- those clones are! Siryn, stop trying to gouge Bud's eyes out with your horn! I said, stop it!"

The pair continued to snarl, fighting against Liz's control, until she finally let go, and let them have at each other. Someone was going to get hurt, and it wasn't any of the ones who'd started this mess. She saw Jen Anderson in her Demona outfit a few paces away, tying up a blank-eyed Pogo as kindly as she could.

"Demmie! Lend a hand?"

Jen nodded to her husband, who was dressed as a very handsome young Macbeth, and told him, "Keep an eye on Mitch, okay?"

"Help me get these two separated?"

"Sure." At a signal, Liz grabbed Bud while Jen went for Siryn's waist. The pair continued struggling, striking at each other and at the two trying to separate them, until Liz lost patience.

~Hell with it.~ She shifted her grip to the back of Bud's neck, reached over to grab Siryn similarly, and banged the pair's heads together sharply. Siryn's padded headband offered her some protection, and she only reeled away half-dazed, but Bud-Clare went limp, unconscious before she hit the floor.

Liz dragged her to the side of the room, and lay the girl against the wall, her long hair spilled out around her.

"You just sleep this off, okay?" Bud didn't stir.

Something heavy smashed into Liz's left shoulder from behind, knocking her off balance, and she dropped to one knee. "What the -- " She looked up, raising one arm to ward off the next blow, expecting one of the clones, one of the drugged fans....

"Greg?"

Greg's eyes were glazed over with the drug, whatever it was they'd given the rest. He had a baseball bat raised over his head -- Lord only knew where he'd gotten it -- and Liz rolled out of the way as he swung it down where she'd been, barely missing her head.

~Ah shit.~

Batya, who was fencing her own clone, was within range. "Batya!" Liz shouted. "Greg's under the spell!" The other woman lost a precious moment of concentration as she turned to gape at Liz, and barely managed to parry Beatrice's next thrust. "What?"

"They got Greg! He's drugged as the rest of them!"

"Oh no. No no no. Ack!" Batya darted backward just in time as Beatrice slashed at her. Greg brought another blow down at Liz, clubbing her leg soundly. "Try talking to him!" Batya shouted to Liz over the din. "He might think you're your clone!"

"He thinks I'm her? Do I look like a Lara Croft wannabe?"

"Just talk to him! And try to sound like her!"

Liz turned to him. Now, how did that psychobitch talk? Oh, yes. "Lay off, you moron!" she spat.

Greg lowered his bat, and stood there, panting.

"Good." Greg smiled. Liz looked around. Most of the clones were locked in battle, but one, Gabe's clone, stood apart, watching the fight. Laura was near him, a fire extinguisher in her hands, but she wasn't attacking. A slow smile spread over Liz's face, even as she recalled the headache she'd woken with after Clone Boy had slipped the Vulcan neck pinch on her.

"Greg? See that guy in the trenchcoat?" Greg nodded. "Attack him."

"Okay."

Greg raised the bat over his head.

"Greg? Attack him loudly."

"Okay."

The odd resemblance to Val Kilmer was suddenly reminiscent of his role as the berserker swordsman Madmartigan, as Greg let out a war cry that was half- bellow, half-yodel, and plowed through a group of tussling fen unfortunate enough to be in his path. Bodies fell to either side as Greg, still screaming and not even slowed, charged at Uriel.

~Note to self: Greg's kinda cute when he's angry.~

"Oh my god," said Jen.

Batya and Beatrice stopped their battle, and stood as one, gaping. Simultaneously, and in identical incredulous tones, they said "You did WHAT?"

"I just ... " Liz started. ~Sent the Guest of Honor further into the fight,~ her mind finished. Her jaw went slack in horror.

"Ohmigod ohmigod ohmigod," Batya repeated. Eyes wide, she clapped her free hand to the side of her head. "Think. Think. Think."

Beatrice showed no inclination to take advantage of Batya's distraction; her own eyes, briefly wide in the same shock, had narrowed in quick decision. She lowered her sword, and shouted an order to the other clones and their enthralled minions: "Protect Weisman!"

At the same moment, Batya shouted to the room: "Greg's in trouble!" Her clone forgotten, she dashed after the drug-crazed creator.

Beatrice's attention snapped back to more local events, and she raised her sword again to lunge after the entirely distracted con chair.

Liz drew a quick breath, stepped in, grabbed Beatrice's right wrist with one hand, and backhanded her across the face with the other. The clone dropped her weapon, and Liz followed through, driving her fist into Beatrice's gut, knocking the breath out of her.

As the clone doubled over, struggling to breathe, Liz caught the arm of the nearest fan, who happened to be Duncan. "Hang onto her for me, will you?" she asked him, and turned to run after Batya.

***

"Greg's in trouble!"

Fire Storm twitched at an order from the clone that looked like Batya, and Thomas, surprised, let loose his grip. Instead of fighting, Fire Storm ran towards Greg, who was shouting incomprehensibly and headed in their direction.

~Greg's in trouble.~ That was all that mattered.

***

"Greg!" shouted Peter, and he dashed as fast as he could after him. The back of his mind played him a quick and rather pleasant movie of how Greg, happy that Peter had saved his life, offered him a job at Disney.

***

~Protect Weisman.~ There was a buzzing in Kathy's head, had been ever since Liz had talked to her earlier in the evening. She'd been certain that throttling Denis had been a good idea, but now, her mission was clear: protect Greg.

A tiny fly in the back of her mind noted that Denis rubbed his neck, then followed her at full speed..

***

~Oh damn oh damn oh damn please don't let him die~ thought Batya.

***

~Greg's in trouble,~ thought Jubilee.

***

~Protect Weisman,~ thought Kathy.

***

~No, a corner office is far too extravagant, Mr. Eisner,~ thought Peter.

***

~Protect Weisman,~ thought Fire Storm.

***

~Gotta save Greg,~ thought Jen.

***

~Save Greg,~ thought Leva.

***

~Save Greg,~ thought Batya.

***

~Attack him loudly,~ thought Greg.

***

Uriel kept watch.

Mother danced as a black flame opposite her poorer reflection, darting and spitting and stepping, but not, he noted with satisfaction, allowing her opposite to best her. From across the room, he noted the approach of Weisman, a baseball bat brandished over his head, bellowing. Foolish - silence was the heartbeat of attack. As it was, he calculated the incoming trajectory of the man by sound alone. In approximately four seconds, he would step aside, allow Weisman's inertia to carry him past, and strike him down with a careful blow to the back of the neck. It would have to be quite careful; Mother would not want him permanently damaged. She could do as she pleased with the man after the fight, and would maybe even give him back to Uriel for disposal. Of course, Uriel knew he wouldn't kill Weisman. At least not immediately.

The sound was almost upon him. He raised his arm, then turned his vision momentarily from Mother to see the man's face before he struck.

Weisman, club raised and screaming in vecnatricon-induced fury, bore down on him like a discount rack god. Followed by over one hundred insane fans hell-bent on protecting Weisman at all costs.

~Oh, this is not good at all,~ Uriel thought, and the bodies crashed into him like a tidal wave.

***

And then they were all captured but one.

Mother and her inept original danced their strange little caper through the ballroom. Beatrice struggled against her captor, but Duncan was surprisingly strong. She made a note that, when they triumphed, as surely they would, they needed to make a clone of him as well.

Around the room, she saw her siblings in various stages of confinement. Jason and Betsy lay beside each other, unconscious. Crzy Demona and Patrick Toman, she dressed as her namesake and he as Puck, sat on Uriel. Every time he raised his head, Toman beat him with Demmie's tail until he quieted.

Apparently some of the others had been too eager. Bodies sprawled every which way on the floor, including a random pile of about twenty unconscious fen who'd been unlucky enough to reach Weisman and Uriel first. And there was one who was unmistakeably dead, the one the fans called J.T.. Beatrice would have to discipline her siblings later; the fen were not supposed to be killed. Those who were under the sway of the vecnatricon shared the same glazed expression, and stared in rapt fascination at the ongoing battle.

Mother would best her original. And they would be freed. Beatrice was certain of it. She noted movement behind her, was able to move her head just far enough to see Amy Chan and the Miniclan Lex examining a control box on the wall. Mother and Missy continued to spar towards the center of the room, beneath the crystal chandelier.

Mother spared a glance for the rest of them. Beatrice read the disdain, but remained calm, as Mother began to sing again:

"It's the last nightmare
It's the last verse
I can always cast nightmares
I'm leaving you my last curse:
I'm leaving you alone
You can tend the children, they're yours
Caught my little clones
Everybody dead on the floors..."

She cast a sweeping glare to her children which said in loud tones that this was entirely their fault. Beatrice cringed. Mother was very angry with them. They had failed. They would be punished.

"Got it," she heard Lex, behind her.

"'All right, Mother, when?'
Lost the Disney fen!"

Mother swept her gaze back to her simpering original, who backed away from her in fear.

"Don't forget the girl you were then!"

Nancy stood in the center of the room, the center of attention, the center of everything, just as she'd always wanted.

"Give me clones who can fight
Take the con at midnight!
And the dreams
And the screams
And the--"

The chandelier fell without grace. The lights popped like flashbulbs, as the crystals shrieked and shattered, showering them with hundreds of deadly rainbow splinters.

Beatrice tried to scream, but nothing came out.

Amy said, "Everybody saw that coming, right?"

Nobody laughed. Even in the drug-addled gazes of the powdered ones, the realization was dawning that this was real, that this was true, and that they all had just been parties to a murder, willing or otherwise.

"All right," said Doug. "Let's get her out of there."

Several minutes and ten strong fen later, they moved the thing enough to pull her mother's body free. It may as well have taken a century.

Missy bent down over the still form, covered in broken glass. Beatrice shook her head at the gruesome image; this was the body Mother's spirit had worn during most of Beatrice's life. The body had killed the spirit.

~And now we are free,~ came the tiny thought of treason.

"I'm so sorry," said Missy to her double.

Mother's eyes drifted open, unfocused. "I still win," she breathed.

"Um. No. You don't. Your clan has been defeated and you're going to die. We're talking definition of losing."

Feebly, Mother took Missy's hand in hers; Missy jerked at the touch, but allowed Nancy to move the ring from her finger back to Missy's own. The ring glittered, and the crystal shards impaling her mother everywhere shimmered like a thousand diamonds.

Mother managed a weak smile, but what she smiled at, Beatrice could only imagine. "What is death to someone who never lived?" She coughed, and there was blood, and then silence.

Missy's hand moved over her eyes to close them. "This thing of darkness I acknowledge mine," she whispered, too low to be heard by anyone not standing close by.

Beatrice closed her own eyes, a deep sob welling in her chest. She held it, would not let it break free, until she heard Uriel howl, and Beatrice wept.

***

"This is too weird for words," said Missy, as they spread along the bank of the small lake.

"Well, it's going to be weird," said Batya, staring at her clone as the other her gathered her siblings together like chicks.

"We're about to set fire to a raft carrying the body of my evil clone, while her 'children,' who just happen to be clones of the rest of you, watch mournfully. I'm going to need some serious therapy when I get home."

Liz scowled. "You couldn't have thought of the therapy before your evil alter ego cloned us and tried to take over the fandom?" she muttered.

"Yeah, that would've been smart," Batya said, distractedly, still watching the clones. Beatrice was hugging Petra, who sobbed into her arms. She was their mother now. She said, to herself: "And this same progeny of evils comes / From our debate, from our dissension; / We are their parents and original."

"What are we gonna do with them?" asked Miri.

"Do?" asked Jordan.

"I'm thinking prison," said Peter. Liz nodded vigorously in rare agreement.

"Too hard to explain," said Gabriel. "They're us."

"You know," said Kellie, "When they sent the clones to live in the Labyrinth at the end of 'Reckoning,' I thought they were being mean, but I get it now. I know it sounds bad, but I don't want them around with us. It'd be too weird."

Constance said, "Lex said she and the Miniclan would be all right with taking them in, showing them the ropes. Even after what happened to J.T.."

Jordan muttered, "Alas, J.T., we hardly knew ye."

"That could be okay," said Batya. Beatrice was approaching her. She tried not to freak at seeing her own face, her own body.

"Pardon me," said Beatrice, "But we could not help but overhear."

"The Miniclan wants you," said Batya.

Beatrice nodded. "We appreciate that, especially after all the trouble we've caused you. But, we do not want the Miniclan. My sisters and brothers and I are self-sufficient. We can take care of ourselves." She smiled, and tilted her head in a way that Batya knew very very well. "We are a family."

"What about the world domination plans?" asked Missy.

"No more world domination plans. That was ... her idea." Beatrice looked towards the makeshift raft, where her siblings still held watch as an honor guard. "It is time."

"The Parks Service is going to have a field day over this," muttered Liz, as they walked towards the raft.

Batya said a quiet prayer, first in thanks that they had left the rest of the fen back at the hotel, and second, more reflectively, for whatever misshapen soul might have once lived in the corpse on the raft.

"Good-bye, Mother," said Beatrice. She struck a match against her shoe. Nothing happened. She tried again, and the match broke. "Um."

"Here." Molly pulled out a cigarette lighter --- Batya could just make out the words "Born to Burn" on the side --- and flicked it. A tongue of flame shot up six inches from the lighter, and Molly tossed it onto the raft. The gasoline they'd already spread there caught with a soft whump, and blue flames etched their way over the body. There was a stench in the air of petrol, and burning leather.

Beatrice placed her hand on the raft to push it out, but there was a hand on her shoulder. Gabe's clone, Batya had forgotten his name, stopped her. Neither said a word, but some communication must have passed between them, because Beatrice stepped back and allowed him to push the raft into the water himself. His lips moved as the craft slipped away from the shallow shore, but Batya did not hear what he said.

The floating pyre drifted out into the lake, the thin smoke rising almost invisibly in the pre-dawn fog of a New York summer. Beatrice's voice sounded from the shore, thin and clear, reciting familiar words in the cadence of a prayer, or an elegy:

"Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air..."

Jason and Betsy stood close together, their shoulders touching, both their faces somber and empty at the one blow they could never have anticipated, and against which they could not even think about how to strike back. Kate covered her face with both hands. Molly pressed one fist against her mouth, her shoulders shaking with something that was not laughter. Carmen had one arm around Petra, who was weeping silently.

"And, like the baseless fabric of this vision," continued Beatrice,

"The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve..."

And it seemed almost that the burning raft was dissolving, fading into the haze over the lake, fading in the brightening air.

"And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are --"

She choked suddenly, and turned her face away, fighting for control. After a moment, she swallowed hard, raised her head and went on.

"We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep."

***

The Dreamers and the rest began to walk back toward the hotel, leaving the Nightmares to do as they would. Jordan noticed that Peter was counting something on his fingers, and muttering to himself.

He caught Jordan's eye, then tapped Gabe on the shoulder. "Gentlemen, a word."

Jordan had a sudden twinge of doubt. Was this actually Peter? He had the same bruises, and they never had seen a clone of him. Still ...

"What?" asked Gabriel.

"Think with me on this," said Peter in a low voice. "The Nightmare Clan are exact duplicates of the Clan. You know, except for me."

"Yeah."

"Notwithstanding that one of them is a clone of my sister, the other girls are clones of the female Dreamers, yes?"

"Yes. And?"

"They're not Orthodox."

"No," said Jordan. Then he stared at Gabe. Gabe stared back. For the moment, no words needed to be exchanged.

After a long pause, Jordan shook his head. "No. They'd kill us."

"Well, they did say that was only because of Nancy's plan," Gabe started.

"No, I don't mean them." Jordan lowered his voice, and tilted his head at the Dreamer Clan women, walking some distance ahead of them. "They'd kill us."

"How sure of that are you?"

There was another long, thoughtful silence.

"Um, gang?" Jordan called to the others, who had walked on ahead of them. "We'll catch up."

The three of them turned around, smiling, and strolled back towards the Nightmare Clan to get better acquainted.

The camera lens of time pulled itself back, and viewed many things:

Seth made a full recovery, with visits from appreciative fans. Not unwisely, Seth played up his injuries around the more attractive females, his own part in the Clone War (as people insisted on calling it) growing larger and more defiant with each retelling. The story he'd given to the police, when Miri finally returned with them, was of a mugging gone bad. No, he hadn't gotten a good look at them. The cops, who bore no resemblance to Elisa or Matt in any way, took down his story and left. He returned to California later than planned, older and wiser. He fell out of touch with the Dreamer Clan, but that was almost to be expected.

Aaron's strangled body was found in the basement. None of the clones would take responsibility for his death. Miri turned out to be the last person who saw him alive. She did not tell anyone about the look on Christi's face as she'd come up behind him. No one would have believed her anyway.

Betsy did enthusiastically take responsibility for Fan's death, and led the others to where she'd left the greatest chunk of Fan's body. It was no longer there.

Fan was never seen or heard from again. Rumors persisted for years afterwards that he had moved to somewhere on the West Coast. Certainly everyone had heard the story of the wrongly-accused young man in dark glasses who fled the law in a black convertible while solving mysteries and trading wisecracks with a beautiful and mysterious woman.

And who was to say it wasn't Fan?

The rest of the New Yorkers went back to their lives. The other Gargoyles fans, united for a brief time in a common fight, went their separate ways again, to Ohio, and California, and Missouri, and Florida. And on the other end, there were families, and friends, and sweethearts, none of whom completely understood the fervor with which they were embraced by their returning loved ones, nor could it ever be properly explained.

There were dark nights for all, and explanations to be made to parents whose children never came home. As for the children whose mother was lost, no explanation would have sufficed.

***
August 17, 1998
Independence Plaza, New York City
***

Beatrice took a long, hard look at the closed door. Originally an office, Mother had made it into her private chamber and bedroom. None of them had set foot in the room, ever.

But things had to change.

"Stay here," she told the others. They stared at her obediently. Many things had to change. "Or don't. Do as you wish. You don't need to listen to me."

"Who will we listen to?" asked Kate.

"Me!" said Jason, smiling evilly. "Hey Petra, come over here a minute."

"No," said Beatrice. Petra stopped in mid-stride. "No more orders. No more instructions. We decide what we want to do, and we do it. Or we don't. Just like everyone else."

Betsy laughed, the first time since the fight. "I'll get some C4 ready."

"No," said Beatrice.

"You just said, no orders."

"We're going to try to adjust to this world, not blow it up."

"Then what are we going to do?" asked Molly, hiding her firecrackers behind her back.

"I don't know," said Beatrice. "But I'm sure we'll figure something out. No explosions, though. If you're bored, clean up this place. We're going to be living here for a long time."

Apparently they took it as an order, because Kate and Carmen went to find their cleaning supplies as the rest started tidying the rooms.

She overheard Jason mutter, "The Nightmare Clan, reduced to a cleaning crew."

"We're not the Nightmare Clan anymore," said Beatrice. "That was who we were. We're a family now. Just a family." She went for Mother's door.

"You're actually going in there?" asked Betsy.

"I'll clean up in there. And then we can use it for storage of the vats." Her voice trembled. The door was unlocked.

Mother had covered the windows with black paint, and then with dark blinds. The air conditioning had never worked, giving the room a stuffy atmosphere. Beatrice fought back a cough as she sat on the edge of the bed.

~Where to begin? For any of this?~ They had new lives to build and explore. She had no doubt but that they'd land on their feet; the computing skills which had bankrolled their endeavours thus far would keep them living comfortably for a long time.

Mother had wanted to create obedient, if chaotic, servants. Could Beatrice now form relatively normal, productive members of society from that rough clay? In her mind's eye, she saw too clearly Jason and Betsy, hiring themselves out as mercenaries the first chance they found, saw Carmen taking up a life as a cracker. Perhaps if she could obtain some Ritalin for Molly, and they could splurge on a little therapy for all of them, maybe she could coax them into the people she knew they could be: separate from the Dreamers, but more than their equals.

Thinking about her siblings' futures, she began to clean the room. There was little to do. On her bedside table, Mother had neatly arranged the gifts her daughters had given her on her decanting day. The kettle they could use. The rest Beatrice decided she would return to the others, to do with as they pleased.

She stripped the bed and folded the blankets, humming to herself. When she moved the bed, planning to stack it against the wall, she noted something underneath it.

She pulled out the oversized shoebox gingerly and set it in the middle of the floor, mindful that it might be from Molly. After she had determined that the probability of explosion was low, she tipped it open.

There were papers. She picked up the first and scanned the tiny font: "In The Gloaming, a Gargoyles story." The rest of the papers were printouts of Mother's stories. Beatrice stacked them neatly to one side. Beneath them she found two diskettes, which she set aside to view later. There were three tight stacks of Polaroids.

This one was of Beatrice, taken just days after her birth, holding the dog on her lap. There were several of her at the house in Rolla, in the lab, at Stonehenge, and Beatrice smiled as she saw each one. There were fewer of the others, taken here during practice, during lessons. She quickly chose one of Betsy and Jason mugging for the camera as her favorite.

Beneath the pictures, she found smooth stones: hematite, obsidian, and moonstone. There was a slim plastic bag, which held a single strand of dark hair coiled inside.

To one side in the bottom of the box lay an oblong shape, wrapped heavily in bright green tissue paper. Beatrice removed it, unwrapping the paper as delicately as she could. Within, she found a single black rose, carefully dried, still with a whiff of scent. As she sniffed, wondering where on earth Mother had gotten it, she brushed against the desiccated petals. The rose crumbled to dust in her hands.

***
August 18, 1998
Rolla, MO
***

The trip back from the airport to Rolla had been nearly silent. Todd had asked her a few questions about the con, but Missy hadn't been able to tell him anyhing, did not even know where to begin.

As they passed the St. Clair sign, the halfway point between St. Louis and the Great Black Hole, she looked at the ring on her left hand, rubbing the diamond.

"Hey," Todd said, keeping his eyes on the road. "Did the ring do what you wanted?" All she'd said when she'd left was that there was a conversation she didn't want to have, and he'd trusted her.

"Yeah." It caught the light, and shone like a crystal impaling her skin. In one movement, she slipped it off and handed it to him. "Here. Thanks for letting me use it."

He waved her away. "Hang on to it. We got it sized for you anyway."

She nodded, but didn't put the ring back on her finger. Part of her could and always would see blood on the band, no matter how she cleaned and polished, and another part of her would wake at night from dreams of seeing someone else with him, someone who wore her face.

"So," he said. "About this wedding. We should think about setting a date."

"Yeah," she said, a smile touching her lips for the first time in a long while. "I guess we should."

***
December 31st, 1998
Miri's apartment, Brooklyn, NY
***

The living room was littered with half-full plastic cups, bowls of tortilla chips and salsa and M&Ms, miscellaneous bottles, packages of cookies and crackers, piles of torn wrapping paper and bits of ribbon ... and Dreamer Clan members in various levels of sugar high. Miri's two black kittens wandered through the chaos, pouncing on a scrap of paper or a foot as the mood took them.

Miri, with Laura's help, was bringing the champagne and sparkling cider from the fridge and uncorking them; it was only minutes to midnight, and they had to be ready.

Peter bent over the VCR, fiddling with one of his tapes. The video from this year's Gathering was perforce somewhat fragmented and incomplete, but he'd managed to get some interviews and group shots to finish it off nicely. Next to him sat Kellie, closer to her brother than had been her wont in the past; she was flipping through one of her innumerable journals, saying "Wait, wait, I know it's in here somewhere...." over her shoulder to Constance, who was watching with interest.

Jordan sprawled full length on a couch, trying to entice one of the kittens to chase a piece of string. Merav and Gabriel watched, she laughing, he making sardonic comments. ("Cat play with string!" "No, string play with cat....") There was a certain wistful touch to the laughter; Jordan had already announced his intention to travel west in a few months, and possibly to find a place to settle down permanently. He needed to find himself, he explained, despite the rest of the clan's protestations that they already knew where he was.

Batya sat cross-legged on the floor, undoing the wrapping on her last Midwinter present. At some comment from Alex, she raised her head and gave him a long brilliant look. Even sitting on opposite sides of the room, the bond between them was palpable, nearly as solid and hard-edged as the ruby-and-diamond ring Batya wore on her left hand. Nobody had been particularly surprised when the two had announced their engagement back in October. Jordan had already promised, on pain of pain, to be back in New York for the wedding in May.

"Okay, guys, here they are!" Liz came in from the other room carrying a shopping bag, a broad grin on her face. "I saved these for last."

"More presinks?" Constance perked up.

"A special sort of present," Liz said, handing out small tissue-wrapped packages. "I think you guys deserve these."

Each one eagerly unwrapped the package, and stared.

Laura was the first to break the shocked silence, in a faintly sick voice. "We deserve these? What did we do?"

"We kicked butt," Liz told her. "We fought our own darker sides, and we won! I thought that deserved some ... commemoration."

In each Dreamer's hand was a small plastic figurine, some three to four inches tall, designed to resemble each one's Nightmare counterpart. Liz had an eye for detail, down to the lacquered needles holding Petra's hair in place, the bandolier of tiny grenades slung over Molly's shoulder, the gunmetal-dark staff carried by Beatrice.

Jordan held up the Jason figure and shuddered ostentatiously. "I don't know about the rest of you, but I'd as soon forget it ever happened."

"I know what you mean," said Batya. "Those guys would scare me even if they didn't look just like us."

Peter's eyes were fixed on the Kate figurine his sister held. "She wasn't that tough," he said quietly. "None of them were that tough in the end."

Constance stood, somewhat unsteadily, and grabbed for her glass of soda. "No, really, gang, I think we all learned an important lesson from this experience. And Liz is right, it's a lesson that we should treasure forever." Her tone was mock-portentous, but there was a sense that perhaps she meant what she was saying.

"It is?" asked Alex. "What was it?"

Constance raised her glass, and declaimed: "Always spray for robotic mosquitoes."

Pillows and handfuls of M&Ms flew at her from around the room. The tension dissolved in laughter.

"No, no, wait," said Liz, "I think the lesson was: When you're stuck in a freezer, look for the back door first."

"No," countered Jordan, "it was don't diss the hammer!"

Batya laughed. "No, it was: don't diss the Edit Staff!"

"I think it was: Don't auction off parts until the story's done," suggested Laura.

Miri put in, "No, I think it was: we're never running a con again." A babble of agreement answered that one, and by this time everyone was laughing almost too hard to speak.

There came a brief lull, and Constance spoke up, this time with real sincerity in her tone. "You know what? It's this: We're all here. We're all alive." She looked around the room. "Maybe we've got some mental sorting out to do ... but we've all got each other to help."

Batya flung out her arms as though to embrace all of them at once. "My buds are here! I love my buds!"

"Hey," Peter said, "it's almost midnight!" He reached to turn on the television, and the screen lit up with cheering crowds at Times Square and the bright ball poised at the top of its spire, already starting to drop.

There was a rush to pour champagne or cider for everybody as the ball drifted majestically down. "Ten! ... Nine! ... Eight! ..." the crowd was chanting, and everybody in the room took up the countdown.

The last glass of champagne was filled, and the drinks were raised high in the air to toast in the new year, together.

"Three! ... Two! ... "

***
1999: Chicago, IL
***

In the darkness, something stirred. A hand moved across the jerry-rigged computer terminal, making calculations.

A moment passed, and then came the rush of water, as from an unholy birth.

There was a shudder, and a gasp, and in the darkness, there were two, the Creator and the newborn Created.

This time, there would no qualms, no obstacles, no males to accidentally destroy hard-worked plans. This time, there would be perfection. And there would be revenge.

The hand stroked dark, wet hair behind a young ear.

"Happy birthday, Johanna," said Nancy.