by WhiteDalek

It was easily the most shocking act of violence that any of them had
ever seen. The pub's Ogron bouncer turned green and darted into
the shrubbery, where he was violently sick. Leela fainted. The
Master turned very pale and muttered: "That was a little bit... ex-
cessive." Two Androgums lost their appetites.

And all because of five innocent little words...

  * * * * * *

Tegan Jovanka was pissed, in both the British and American senses
of the word. She angrily gulped the remnants of her Screwdriver
and called for another.

Turlough shared the table with her, watching her with a sort of
dark amusement. She scowled at him, but that only made him
laugh and shake his head.

"Oh, Tegan, Tegan, Tegan! How beautiful you are when you're jeal-

She turned away coldly to conceal the fact that his point had struck

"Poor little Tegan," he said, his voice heavy with sadistic sympathy.
"Sitting in the corner because no one will pay attention to her..."

"Don't be so cocky," she growled back. "You're here, too."

"By choice," he replied easily, smiling everywhere but in his eyes.
"Whereas you, my dear, sweet Tegan, would much prefer to be out
there, dancing your little heart out and fending off male admirers by
the dozen. Alas, poor Tegan! Upstaged by her own best friend!"

Turlough drew himself up and made his voice serious. "Now, Teg-
an," he began, patting her arm sympathetically, "Don't go feeling all
depressed just because Nyssa is getting all the attention tonight and
every man in this pub is ignoring you like a used rag. It's only be-
cause Nyssa is so much prettier than you." He chuckled at Tegan's
shocked expression. "And she's a better dancer. And a whole lot
nicer, too. And smarter..."

"Thank you, Turlough..." she said through gritted teeth.

"...Better educated, of course. Oh, and she's much younger than
you, too. What are you now, 30? 35?"

That one hit a nerve. "I'm 25," she growled.

"...Better fashion sense, naturally. More interesting to talk to..."

"Turlough! Shut up before I deck you!" She drew back her fist.

"...And, of course, she doesn't get drunk, wallow in jealous self-pity,
and threaten her friends." He sighed heavily. "I swear, I don't know
why I put up with you sometimes." He got up and walked over to
the bar without looking back.

Tegan felt a wave of guilt wash over her. She really should apolo-
gize and -- and -- wait a damn minute! Turlough had started the
whole thing! Why was she wanting to apologize? She seethed in
silent fury at the smirking git's head games. Well, Tegan Jovanka
knew a few games of her own. Maybe it was time to find out wheth-
er Trion blood was as red as a human's...

She looked out on the dance floor and felt some of the guilt return,
some of her anger at Turlough turn to anger at herself. It wasn't as
if Nyssa was _trying_ to upstage her. Plus, that green velvet mini-
dress had been Tegan's suggestion. "At least I was right about her
looking good in it," Tegan thought sourly. "Hooray for me."

She polished off another Screwdriver. What the hell was the point?
She might as well head back to the TARDIS. It wasn't like anyone
would notice she was gone. At least she wouldn't have to look at
that redheaded jerk's face anymore.

She started to get up, then sat back down. Someone was coming her
way. A guy in uniform, not at all bad looking in an early-70's sort
of way. Nice grin. Tight buns. He would most definitely do.

She forced the anger back to a moderate boil and put on her best smile.
Things might just turn out yet...

Mike Yates had been waiting for a chance to talk to the short-haired
brunette in the leather miniskirt all night. When he saw the red-
haired boy leave, he knew that the moment had come.

"She's smiling," he thought. "Good. She's having fun. It'll make
this less awkward."

"Excuse me, Miss," he said. "I hope you don't think I'm being too
forward, but there's something I've been dying to ask you all night."

"Yes..." she invited, fluttering her eyes prettily at him.

He gestured in Nyssa's direction and spoke the last coherent words
he'd be able to say for a _very_ long time. Five of them, to be precise.

"Is your daughter dating anyone?"

  * * * * * *

Sergeant Benton looked down at his friend's twitching body, unable
to find his voice. He'd seen men shot, blown up, disintegrated, and
generally killed and maimed in hundreds of interesting ways, but
_this_ was downright barbaric.

An odd-looking white Dalek trundled up next to him and looked
down at the groaning, bleeding Captain. "Impressive," it muttered
in a respectful tone. "Creative, too. Note to self: Have Physical
Torture Division look into practical uses of chair legs applied to
various human body orifices--"


"He was a man born out of his time -- a strange blending of Puritan and
Cavalier...a knight errant in the somber clothes of a fanatic." --R.E. Howard,
_Solomon Kane_