[When we last left Rachel, she was exiting her TARDIS in search of a puppy sized elephant. This is not where this story resumes. Like Douglas Adams's short run on the writing staff of a certain British telly program which was quite popular in the 70's, some things are lost and unaired. The chronicle of how the elephants Rachel currently holds may someday resurface in a lonely thrift shop on Charon, but that might be addressed later.]
"Have I mentioned how much of a letdown these elephants are?" Rachel grumbled, poking one with her sonic sharpie. It jumped and landed with a charming *clump* in the hatbox, causing the second to whistle in its sleep. The third puppy proboscidean was trapped in a cycle of trumpeting in a panicked fashion until it fainted and awoke again - Rachel's quickly decided this one would be MK's, so she named it Picante. The lethargic specimen was Dumbledwarf, and the first unfortunate victim was Cumbersnout. Rachel's initial period of delighted amusement had slowly diminished with the responsible reality of caring for the three's needs. "This is why I don't have kids. Though it is kinda funny to toss their excrement into space, I wonder how science will explain THAT!" She smiled at the ridiculous notion. "Cosmic Elephants will make a great reality show on Discovery or something." "Scribe!" the onboard interface broke into her visions of episodic focuses and specials. "The temporal window for reconciling this temporal anomaly is dwindling rapidly. You should -." "HEY!" Rachel yelled, looking up at the holographic image. "I am the important adventurer here in a time machine that goes anywhere in the universe - You are the computer solvey thing that does all the calculations and nyan cat rainbows of science. I do my thing, you make sure I can keep doing it, kapisch? I click 'Don't send' or 'register later'."
"This is the twenty-third time this topic has been postponed, even for a Timelady of your reputation, this is most irregular." Rachel waved away the information, got up off the floor, then stopped. "What is my reputation? I forget sometimes. Is amnesia a side effect that came with the last regeneration?" "Negative," The core replied, "The origin of the condition which you are querying has a greater probability of stemming from alcohol intoxication on your base planet." "Touche." Rachel smirked. "Speaking of which, I want to restock our supplies, it is a 'creative necessity.' Stop off at a planet or time that has an excellent beverage selection." "There are three destinations which remain viable in my coordinate system - Tea with Jane Austen on Aug. 27, 1815; 'Charon's Trachea' on Pluto's orbital satellite, Stardate: Cellist-4561.7; or 'Unicorn Dreams' on Hubron in the Nether Days." Rachel considered these. "Seeing that I HAVE to see Jane Austen eventually to receive this title personally, I'll do that later. I choose 'Unicorn Dreams'." The TARDIS sighed softly, condensing tendrils of resignation as the lighting pulsed rhythmically.
"Your destination, Scribe. Powering down to maximize geocentric pinpointing throughout the vortex entry areas. Protocol dictates that the traveler operate in a responsible and level-headed manner during this procedure. Internal opinion based on observation of your behavioral patterns over the course of your reactivation as a passenger indicate strongly that you will ignore this as a suggestion." "Thank you for your understanding. You're really great too."
As Rachel exited her time vehicle, the first impression she noticed was the Silence. She ignored the taut air of tension and soon forgot it in the light of the next thing she noticed. The ground was strewn with notebook paper, mechanical pencils, broken laptops, and highlighters. There were people among the ruins, if they could be called as much, shells and shadows of higher life forms. Rachel approached one despondent fellow and kicked him lightly on the shin. He moaned and looked up. "What is it? There's been only horrendous news in here, the more knowledge I have, the greater the burden of despair." "Do I even want to ask what your problem is?" She waited a beat out of a sense of courtesy - she had opened this dialogue by kicking him after all. "Are you new here or are you one of those delusional believers in the legend of the Scribe? You know that the Scribe's coming is as likely as black forest cake for everybody - 'tis but a deception!" Rachel, who had been thinking about taking her chances with some friendlier person, became interested. "How many people do you see believing in that stuff?" The man waved his hand, "Too many, even though the Scribe's predicted arrival date has come and gone three weeks. This person is supposed to arrive and defeat the Silence that rules over this land. Many have tried and failed to craft the solution to the problem. It counters our best efforts, the words we sow have no space in which to grow and bear fruit. We need to accept this barrenness - our writing utensils are worn down, our ends are left incomplete. Those still in denial hold out hope that the Scribe will lead us out of this limbo."
Rachel began to understand, "Are you a writer?" The man laughed mirthlessly, "I used to be, we all did, but now our true colors are shown - we were nothing but pretenders. Who are we to believe we have something to say that can change anything? I dabbled in fiction, now I am converted to realism."
Rachel stared him down, "If you were an instrument, you would be a kazoo. Yeah, everyone is happy that you have something, but when you try to use it, all you really do is blow. I don't really like your one note drone, so I'm going to talk to someone else. Keep on working at it, maybe one day you'll have something to trumpet about." With her thoughts made clear, Rachel turned and walked away. She miscalculated a sheaf of notes, however, and turned her left ankle. "That is going to smart tomorrow. " She muttered, limping. "Nice way to exit stage right..."
[Note: Now that I am invested in this, I'll continue this in another post tomorrow. I haven't a set ending in mind, but I would hate to have my friend not succeed or something. Be forewarned that I am afraid of happy endings - they feel like a cop-out on originality and sincerity to the reader.]
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