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-------------------------------------------------- THE 2003 ALT.DRWHO.CREATIVE ADRIC AWARDS CHARITY TELETHON -------------------------------------------------- ---- [The lights come up on the TV studio, as the AUDIENCE applauds. [The camera PANS across the assembled characters, authors, lurkers, muses, and the significant segment not covered by any of the above categories, then pulls back to reveal the stalls either side, where a number of denizens sit ready next to the telephones. [The lights dim a little as AMBER walks on from backstage and up to the podium, looking almost ethereal in her shimmering soft green dress. [As she looks out over the audience, the applause gradually falls away to silence.] AMBER: Hello, everyone, and welcome to the 2003 ADWC Adric Awards Charity Telethon. My name's Amber, and I'll be hosting the ceremonies tonight. Before we get started, I'd like to clear up something that might be causing some confusion. Despite appearances, I'm not Tara Maclay, the witch from 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer', or Amber Benson, the actress who plays her. Any resemblance is purely coincidental... at least, that was the answer I got the last time I asked. [She raises an eyebrow at that, before continuing.] AMBER: I'd also like to give a big shout-out to my little sister Ana and her author Danel, who're in the audience tonight. [waves] Hi, Ana! [The camera PANS over to ANA and DANEL in the audience. ANA is a girl in her mid-teens, with long dark brown hair, a high forehead, and almost impossibly green eyes, who bears a striking resemblance to DAWN from "Buffy" as drawn by an anime artist. DANEL is a young man, also in his mid-teens, wearing a T-shirt and trousers. [Both are looking extremely embarrassed. [The camera lingers /just/ long enough to make sure before turning back to AMBER, blissfully unaware of ANA's total embarrassment.] AMBER: Anyway, on with the show. This year's ceremony is a very special one, for a number of reasons. First of all, this year's ceremony is a charity telethon helping to raise money for Look Who's Talking, the day care centre outside continuity. Any and all money pledged tonight will go directly to help support and maintain the day care centre. The phone number, and methods of payment, should be coming up on your screen as I speak. Second, this year has been a very good one for alt.drwho.creative, showcasing some excellent performances by both authors and characters, building on its long history of diversity and innovation whilst preserving its atmosphere of civility, co-operation, and respect. Together, these factors have helped make the newsgroup what it now is. Third, this year is the tenth anniversary of ADWC's creation. [AMBER waits for the applause to die down before continuing.] AMBER: Alongside this year's normal awards, the members of ADWC were asked to vote for some special tenth anniversary awards, to decide on the best stories - and authors - of the decade. Tonight, we'll find out who they've chosen to represent the very best of ADWC's history. But let's start at the beginning. What's all this about? What's this in aid of? What is Look Who's Talking? Roving reporter Sarah Jane Smith has been to investigate. Sarah? --- [SCENE: A well-appointed playroom. A number of toddlers are crawling by on the floor - many of them bearing a striking resemblance to characters from 'Doctor Who', 'Buffy', 'Star Trek', and various other series. Some of them are talking, some of them are squabbling, some of them are playing with toys that, upon further examination, are either far in advance of 21st century Earth technology, or magical, or both, and some are watching 'Ghost In The Shell' on DVD. [SARAH JANE SMITH is standing near to the centre of the room.] SARAH: Thank you, Amber. I'm standing in Look Who's Talking, the one and only day care centre outside continuity. Here, the baby versions of characters - not just 'Doctor Who' characters, but _any_ fictional characters - can meet, can talk, and can play, while the adult versions of their parents can be secure in the knowledge that their children are in safe hands. But Look Who's Talking needs _your_ pledges to help supply the basic necessities, to maintain the high quality of care, and to provide the little things that make a toddler's life worthwhile. Without you, these children... [SARAH crouches down to pick up a BABY LIZ SHAW, cradling her in her arms.] SARAH: ...would be stuck at home, unable to go outside, to play with their friends, to make new friends, or even just talk to the other toddlers, deprived of social interaction. And without you, their parents would lose the only place where they could be sure their children were being properly looked after while they had to work. [BABY LIZ gurgles.] SARAH: With your pledges, however, you can help keep this essential lifeline for the toddlers - and for their parents - alive. So please, give now, and give generously. [SARAH registers a sudden dampness on her clothes, and carefully lifts BABY LIZ away from her.] BABY LIZ: ...Um, I needed to go potty? SARAH: [closes her eyes] Back to you, Amber. And not a word of this, Jeremy... --- AMBER: Thank you, Sarah. There'll be more from Look Who's Talking throughout the evening. For now, it's time to present the awards. --- Meanwhile, in the audience... "Okay," Xander said. "Did anyone else think those baby uses look really, really cute, or was it just me?" "It's just you," Anya informed him. Buffy frowned, looking back and forth between Tara and Amber - and between Dawn and Ana. Tara was looking slightly freaked, but otherwise seemed to be handling her lookalike with equanimity. Dawn's eyes, on the other hand, were wide as saucers. "Dawnie...?" Willow tried. "YES!!" the teen declared, pumping her arm. "YES!! _Finally!_ I've got a double!!" Xander and Willow _blinked._ "Er, Dawn... Are you sure that's a good idea?" Giles said. "Hey, lay off the Niblet." Spike said. "I mean, if even the _whelp_ can get a double, is it any wonder the girl wanted one of her own?" Xander opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it. "Um... so, any ideas, Buffy?" Willow said. "I mean, she _did_ point out she wasn't Tara..." "...So why does her sister look like Dawn?" Anya asked. "It _is_ a rather large coincidence, even by our standards." "An Alternate Universe, perhaps?" Giles suggested. "Those _are_ rather prevalent..." "Could be..." Spike mused. "So what was that business with her sister's 'author'?" "Later, guys." Buffy answered, her eyes never leaving the stage. "They're just about to start..." --- AMBER: Our first presenter has been a mainstay of the newsgroup for the past eight years. A proven Fifth Doctor fan, he's the author of such well-regarded stories as 'A Dance With The Dark Stranger', 'Adric's Children', and 'Bride Quest'. Returning to present the 'Best Drabble' Award for the second year running, Mr Clive May! [AMBER steps aside, clapping.] --- From stage left, emerges a large motherly looking woman wrapped in an ankle length black over coat. She has a tall black hat crammed down on her head. The head-gear bears the legend: "Aunty Spamm - Official Net Administrator" in large red letters. The grand old lady strides purposefully to the podium, carrying a half full sherry glass, a little finger crooked soooo elegantly. Her face is round and homely, framed by wispy grey hair. Two bright blue eyes nestle in a nest of cheery laugh lines. Reaching the podium, she takes a sip of sherry, and sets the glass down on the lectern. She favours the audience with a merry twinkle. "Hello there. Spamm's the name," she introduces herself. She points at the hat. "Aunty Spamm, Official Net Administrator, Flames Dosed, Trolls Trounced and Spams Spiked....Now I know you were expecting to get a glimpse of that shy beggar, Clive, tonight; but he is busy, and has sent me along to present in his place." She glances at her script. "However, before we get down to dishing out prizes, there's a little matter to deal with beforehand... to whit, the matter of raising money for tonight's charity telethon to help out the little darlings at the Creche Outside Continuity." Aunty Spamm pauses to whet her whistle with a delicate sip of sherry, before continuing. "Which brings me to why Clive asked me to stand in for him. Apparently, the silly beggar's gawn and volunteered to be...to be..." She breaks off to goggle at the script. She puts a hand over her eyes and groans. "Good Grief! It says here that he has agreed to being fired from a cannon, and is being sponsored for every yard travelled. And it seems that before we get the Best Drabble presentation rolling, we are able to go over live for the launching." The lights in the auditorium dim. Aunty Spam looks back up at the big Video Screen, which comes to life. Centred in the frame is what appears to be a twenty foot length of three foot diameter sewer piping pointing hopefully skywards. The elevated end is propped on a trestle. The tube is bedecked with some tatty shreds of gaily coloured bunting. At the back end is a large ammunition locker. The box is prominently marked with the legend: "DYNAMITE - HANDLE WITH CAUTION". Sitting on the box is a cheerful looking Bob the Pterodactyl, Kool Shades shoved up on his crest, as he peers at a sheet of instructions. Clive's voice, sounding a tad concerned, issues from the muzzle of the "Heath Robinson" lash-up. "Ummm? Bob? I'm not so sure this is such a good idea after all. Shouldn't there be a net or something?" "Net, Boss? What for?" "Well, to catch me." "Don't worry about it, Boss," Bob says distractedly, turning the instructions over to try and make sense of them. "There's nothing to worry about. It's all been scientificallicallically worked out." "Now why doesn't that make me feel better? Ummm? Bob? Do I really have to wear this ridiculous costume? I thought we agreed I could wear the Superman Uniform?" "I got a better deal going with the punters - provided you wear that costume, Boss," Bob says, rotating the sheet again. He shrugs, and leans over to peer at the words stencilled on the box, then back at the sheet. He mimes a grand arc in the air with a wing, and nods his head in satisfaction. "They've agreed to throw in an extra cod for every yard, if you wear that costume...And it's all in a good cause, Boss." "Cod?" "Don't fret yourself about it, Boss. It's just a little side deal I've got running. Everythin's gonna be just fine." Bob jumps up and selects a stick of dynamite. He contemplates the box a long moment, then grins, shrugs in a "what the heck" and gathers up a half dozen more sticks, which he carefully stacks in the end of the pipe. He pantomimes a bigger arc, grins at the camera and scuttles off stage right. A red number 10 appears in the bottom right of the screen. The audience begins a countdown. The scene cuts to where Bob stands behind a detonator box in a sandbag bunker. Dramatically, he raises the plunger. Pellucida Pelican, garbed in a white nurse's apron, and clutching her trademark plastic carrier bag with a putrid chartreuse and pink design, reaches up and pops a World War One British Tommy helmet over Bob's crest. She slips one over her head, and gives a thumbs up at the camera. The count-down reaches zero. Bob grins into the camera, and leans on the plunger. There is an expectant pause, which rapidly becomes awkward when nothing happens. After a moment, Bob grins apologetically, and scampers out of shot towards the primed cannon. KAAAAAAAA BOOOOOOMMMMMMM!!!! Trailing smoke and flames, Bob streaks through the frame, heading heavenwards. A second later, the view somersaults crazily as the cameraman is blown off his feet. For a fleeting instant, another "something" is framed in the shot, streaking away into the sky, trailing a sparkly con-trail, before the scene is shrouded in smoke. The screen goes blank. Aunty Spamm turns to face the audience. "Well, that's Clive's little charity stunt launched. So, I suppose I'd best get the Adrics 2002 Best Drabble Award rolling. As ever, the standard has been high; and it is, therefore, with great pleasure that I present, in alphabetical order, this year's finalists. And first up, by Paul Gadzikowski, we have..." The lights go down; the screen lights up. ---- GO FORWARD AND PROVE 1/1 Challenge response drabble by Paul Gadzikowski "And that is an order." Lieutenant Scott herded his last charge into the freighter's lift, headed for the shuttlebay. Then, "Of course, that's it!" - and the lift door cut off Scott's view of the black-haired head. "It may be of some small consequence to know that we've traveled back in time some sixty-five million years," said the Doctor. As the revelation unraveled between his companions aboard, he could've sworn he saw the self-satisfied Cyberleader's face fall. "You've failed! Earth is safe!" When the radio sputtered to life the Cyberleader crushed it, but not before Scott's fateful report: "Susan's on board." ---- Aunty Spamm raises an eyebrow. "You can always rely on Paul for a twist in the tale... And for our next finalist, by the Drabble King himself, no less, we have..." ---- Heathrow or Bust The Doctor looked across at Tegan in her colourful uniform, then back at the console panel in front of him. Soon, he thought. Soon he'd have her back on her way to Heathrow and out of his hair. "Shouldn't be long, now," he said aloud. "Thank you," she replied. She did seem to get along with Nyssa so well, though, and the flowers had made the TARDIS seem really homey. On the other hand, Adric would certainly be happier to see the back of her. Me too, he thought as she grabbed her tambourine and started chanting again. Me too. ---- Aunty Spamm shudders. "Good Grief! Tegan as a Flower Child! It doesn't bear thinking about! Ahem! Our next drabble is yet another exquisite piece by the Drabble King..." ---- Oh, the Things You'll Do "Doctor," Jo asked, "have you seen Captain Yates?" "He went with the Brigadier down to Geneva again to try to get funding." Yates peered through at the row of faces. "Do we really have to do this, sir?" "Like it or not, Captain, almost two months' budget depends on the next few minutes," the Brigadier told him. "How's my moustache?" "A bit crooked. Oh, I hope the lads back home never learn of this." "Have faith," the Brigadier said. "The ministers have made me perform in this panto for their children for four years now, and nobody's found out yet." ---- Aunty Spamm chuckles. "Hmmmm? Must get a print of that one - a private "auction" at UNIT HQ should bring in a nice little bundle...For the Appeal, of course...And what's this? Our next finalist is yet another offering by the Drabble King!" ---- Pronunciation Guide Ian paused in the corridor when he heard voices inside the console room. "Chess," Susan said. "You like chess, right?" "Of course, my dear," the Doctor replied. "I like chess very much." "Perfect, and we're already a third of the way there. Next comes ter," Susan said, emphasizing the last syllable. "Ter?" "Correct. Chess, then ter, and finally there's a ton." "Ton," the Doctor repeated. "Now put them together. Chesterton." "Chesterton." "Again." "Chesterton, Chesterton, Chesterton." "By Rassilon," Susan said with an affected accent, "I think you've got it!" Ian entered, and the Doctor looked up. "Ah, Challerton, there you are!" ---- "By Gerald! he's not got it at all! But has this cheeky little drabble got it? We'll soon see, after this last little double scorcher from Mr B K Willis." ---- THE FIRES OF FAITH "So, this is the famed Library?" "Indeed, my caliph," answered young Ali. "It is said that here in Alexandria is gathered the wisdom of the ages of man." "There is no wisdom apart from Allah," Omar's advisor reminded with a snap. "Praise be to Allah," Omar intoned, picking up and idly examining one of the many scrolls. "But what is to be done with all of this?" The caliph's gesture swept in the whole of the great structure. "It would seem to me," purred the advisor, staring hard into the caliph's eyes, "that either these works are in concordance with the Koran, or they are not. If they are not, then they are heretical. And if the are, then the Koran is sufficient without them. Do you not think it so, my caliph?" "It is so," Omar replied with a slight thickness to his voice. But he sounded more himself as he went on. "It is indeed so, good advisor. This building we shall put to good use. And as for this..." He flung the scroll from his hand. "Have the men bring torches, Ali." "As you command, my caliph." And in the shadows beneath his turban, the Master smiled. ---- The screen goes dark; the lights come up; and Aunty Spamm turns to address the expectant throng; but before she can utter a word... "Look out! Fund raising stunt inbound...TAKE COVER!" Aunty Spamm ducks behind the lectern. As an afterthought, her hand reaches up to snatch the sherry to safety. What looks like a balding, overweight man in his late forties, dressed in a smoke smutted Sailor Moon Fuku embellished with a pair of wings made from bent coat hangers covered by clear polythene, zooms into shot from the right. The shabby Moon Princess is clutching a wand with a tatty tinsel crescent on the end. He makes positive contact with the lectern. There is a very unhealthy keeerrrr splaaatttt. A great puff of fairy dust billows in the air over the lectern. The human projectile, wings bent and wand broken, hurtles from the cloud, exiting stage left, trailing a scream of: "Muuuuuuuummmmmmmmmeeeeeee!" Aunty Spamm pops up. A twinkly snowstorm from the cloud begins to settle on her tall hat. From stage left comes a cry: "Watch out for the punch bowl!" This is followed in short order by a splash, and the crash of breaking crystal glassware. A few drops of punch splashes onto Aunty Spamm. She dips a finger and tastes, grimaces and shouts off: "an extra bottle of rum in the next batch, if you please, my man?" Aunty Spamm turns back to regard the audience creeping out from under the chairs in the auditorium. She waves away the cloud of twinkling dust and leans on the lectern. She says: "Before we announce this year's winners, Violent Elizabott will come among you to take donations for the appeal. However, before she does, anyone in the audience named William would be well advised to leave a suitable donation on their seat for collection and vacate the hall before Violent Elizabott makes her round." She eyes the electrified cattle prod clutched in Violent Elizabott's chubby hand. "I feel sure that you will be moved to give generously." Violent Elizabott, an animatronics actress fleeing from the film set of 'Trussed William', with her programming jammed in the part of a pretty six year old girl, smiles sweetly at the audience. Her brown curls are tied with yellow ribbons; and she is wearing a bright yellow summer dress. Violent Elizabott gives a merry salute with her electrified cattle prod, picks up the bucket for the donations, and steps down among the crowds. As she goes about the task of collecting donations, she occasionally inquires: "Is your name William? William's been a bad, bad, bad boy - and must be punished!" Generally, this little speech is followed by the crackling of the prod, and the squealing of an unfortunate personage. From the wings stage right, a small procession shuffles onto the stage. It comprises a stooping and somewhat singed looking pterodactyl, who is measuring out lengths on the ground with a foot long ruler, and a pelican clutching a clipboard. She is wearing a nurse's uniform from the First World War. She notices the audience, freezes in panic, then grins shyly and waves. "Three thousand and fifty eight," Bob chants as he plonks the ruler down again. Pellucida Pelican starts violently and recalls her task. Goes to make an entry on the clipboard. She frowns. "Erhm, Bob? Dearest? I seem to have lost count." Bob freezes in the act of plonking down the ruler. He stares up at Aunty Spamm, who is watching the proceedings with a bemused expression. He turns to look at the audience, shrugs, and shuffles off stage left. Pellucida gives the audience a final wave and scampers in pursuit of her Beau. "Right," says Aunty Spamm. "I think we can get on now." She consults her script, and smiles at the expectant group of authors and their muses. "In third place we have..." 'Pronunciation Guide', by K. M. Wilcox. "Second place goes to..." 'The Fires of Faith', by B. K. Willis. "But the winner of the Adrics 2002 Drabble Award is..." 'Heathrow Or Bust', by K. M. Wilcox. "A worthy winner, indeed. So, if The Drabble King would like to come up and claim his Adric?...Do watch out for that cattle prod......Oh Good Grief... Does anyone have a pair of rubber gloves?" --- [AMBER sighs, a rueful, crooked smile on her face, and pulls a pair of rubber gloves out of the air.] AMBER: Here you go, Aunty. --- "...Spike? Are you okay?" "...Whoa. Reminds me of Dru, that 'bot does. The things she could do... Hey, Slayer-" "*No, Spike.*" --- AMBER: Our next presenter is a man who's inspired intense passion throughout the Universe to the point where he has his own brigade devoted to covering him in chocolate sauce - and personally, I wouldn't mind joining, either. His hobbies include "model train sets", "playing the spoons", "looking enigmatic and mysterious", and "outwitting Evils From The Dawn Of Time while making it look as if I had it planned all along". Here to present the Award for 'Best Round-Robin Chapter', it's the Seventh Doctor! --- [The SEVENTH DOCTOR comes up to the podium. Tonight, he's outfitted in a Panama jacket and trousers, with a small brooch attached to the jacket's lapel. [He doffs his hat to the assembled audience.] SEVENTH: Grrreatings, one and all! I'm here tonight, hotfoot from a virtuoso performance at the Intergalactic Song Contest- ACE: [offstage] Yeah, pull the other one, Professor! MEL: [offstage] He won, didn't he? SEVENTH: [ignoring them] -at the personal rrrequest of our charrrming hostess, to present the Award for Best Rrround-Rrrobin Chapter - a chapter being an individual installment of a wider Rrround-Rrrobin story, wrriten by a single author. It's an award with two nominees, but only one eventual winner. Or perhaps, looked at the right way, they're both winners... [Suspicious looks from the AUDIENCE.] SEVENTH: [blithely ignoring them] With that said, let's take a look at them, shall we? [The video screen behind him clicks on.] SEVENTH: Firrrst, we have the final chapter of 'Goodnight, Sweetheart', by Ann Magill... ---- Florestan dropped to his heels beside her, still holding the book. "You *really* think I came here to tell you to leave?" he asked. The words collided, in her head, with the ones she expected to hear, and she couldn't quite make sense of them. All she managed to say as an answer was a nearly wordless stutter: "I -- ah -- wh..." "Do you really hold Beloved in such low regard," he asked, his voice edged with pain, "that you think she's only been *using* you -- as a poor substitute for a pilot -- after all you've been through together, after all you've accomplished? Do you really think she is so faithless?" "Well, no... not that -- I ... I just ..." "Eloise, I came to *thank* you." ---- SEVENTH: And then, we have 'Desert of Fear: Zero Room Interlude', by Clive May. ---- The suppression collar had an unsettling quality of slickness as she turned it around and around and around in fearful fingers. He had removed it from her neck against all good sense and in casual defiance of the strictest prohibitions of the law. She recalled the way it imparted a tingle to her fingers - a stinging counterpoint to the flutter of panic in her heart as she asked: "Jason? You do love me? Don't you?" She remembered the way his head turned to regard her...And the way his beautiful face fell into shadow while the sunlight crowned him with a halo of golden curls...And his voice, the beautiful voice...And the words, the ugly, ugly words. "Love? Good Lord! What a naive little trollop you are! No, my dear child, not love...Nothing more than a mildly exciting way to pass a few idle hours." ---- [SEVENTH now has the envelope in front of him.] SEVENTH: And our winner is... 'Desert of Fear: Zero Room Interlude', by Clive May! Now, as my own contrribution to tonight's proceedings, I shall proceed to play Queen's classic 'Bohemian Rhapsody'. [He whips out his spoons, and begins playing.] SEVENTH: o~/I see a little silhouetto of a man Scaramouche, scaramouche, can you do the fandango... BENNY: [offstage] ...Oh /cruk/! That thing's *seven minutes long!* ACE: [offstage] Plan Sixteen, guys? MEL: [offstage] Plan Sixteen. [The SEVENTH's companions burst on stage, lift him up, still playing the spoons, and bustle him off-stage. [BENNY pauses before she leaves.] BENNY: Um... sorry about this, Evil From The Dawn Of Time afoot again, you know how it is, thanks, you've been a great audience. Bye! --- [AMBER blinks.] AMBER: Oh, that's a shame. I was looking forward to the rest of the song... [AUDIENCE suddenly has a massive coughing fit.] AMBER: What? I liked it. Besides, he'd taken pledges on how long it'd be before he got carried off. [AUDIENCE facefaults as this sinks in.] AMBER: Anyway, next up, we've got a brief theatrical presentation by two of This Time Round's finest. Take it away, guys! --- [ADRIC, wearing what appears to be a toga and an extremely nervous expression, comes on, followed by NYSSA, a javelin in hand.] NYSSA: Hello, everyone. Tonight, the Swamprat and I have elected to do a scene from one of my favourite Terran classical plays, 'Lysistrata'... [She hefts the javelin in a meaningful fashion.] [Mercifully, we CUT to commercial.] --- [Insert pause of choice here while home audience stocks up on assorted snacks and drinks, and flips around to see what's on the other channels, before flipping back to this one. [Oh, you mean you actually wanted to see some adverts? Oops...] --- [We return from commercial in time to hear a gurgling scream. [The curtain drops and a bewhiskered elderly gentleman wearing a virulent purple tuxedo steps in front of the podium.] Mr. G: Now, let us give a big round of applause to Adric and Nyssa for that rather ... strenuous ... interpretation of 'Lysistrata'. [During the applause, Eric and David of the WANKER appear onstage, carrying a yellow-clad body on a stretcher. Mr. G stares at them coldly and gestures from them to leave the stage. They comply sulkily, but disappear back behind the curtain.] Mr. G: Many of you know me as the proprietor of 'The Temple of the Printed Word', your neighborhood source for all that is good in literature. I am here today for a good cause. We are raising funds for 'Look Who's Talking', the day care center outside continuity. [Behind Mr. G, the video screen springs to life. The scene displayed is the kitchen of This Time Round. A section of the kitchen is cordoned off. From behind a curtain comes the sound of a chainsaw. Fragments of ice spray over the top of the curtain.] Mr. G: As part of our effort to reach out to the deaf community, translation services for this segment will be handled by This Time Round's very own Francois, the Ogron bartender. [Francois, stuffed into a tuxedo at least three sizes too small for him, gestures vaguely at the audience.] Mr. G: Before we move on to the presentation of the Best Round Robin award, we have a special treat for all our viewers. We would like to present a rare exhibition of the feat of chainsaw ice sculpture by famed Chef Georges-Auguste Escoffier, brought to you by professional staff of the Mortality Deferment Office. ["Brought by working stiffs," signs Francois.] [A penguin waddles onstage and hands Mr. G a note.] Mr. G: Oh dear. It appears that our featured chef has met an unfortunate accident involving a truckload of tripe, a gallon of gasoline, and a carelessly discarded cigar. Luckily, we have a suitable replacement, one Chef E. Tod, who is dedicating this piece to telethon organizer Amber. ["Blah blah blah," signs Francois.] [On the video screen, the curtains part just enough to allow a bald, rotund man with a red Van Dyke beard to exit.] Mr. G: Are you ready, Chef Tod? [The man grins somewhat evilly, makes a thumbs-up sign at the camera, and walks briskly out of the shot.] Mr. G: Without further ado, we present Chef Tod's latest masterpiece. [Mr. G pushes a button on the podium. On the screen, the curtains begin to part.] Ladies and gentlemen, may I present ... [Mr. G consults the note] ... 'Love is a Many Tentacled Thing'. [The curtains part. There is a collective gasp from the audience. Mr. G stares for a moment at the gigantic ice sculpture, a slow flush creeping from behind his beard, before reaching out and pushing a button on the podium. The video screen goes blank.] Mr. G: Thank you, Chef Tod, for such an ... anatomically correct piece of art. [Quickly] Moving right along to the segment you've all been waiting for, it's time to present the Adric for Best Round Robin. More than any other type of story, Round Robins epitomize the community nature of alt.drwho.creative. At times both collaborative and combative, these serial narratives give our newsgroup residents the chance to spin stories together, the best of which are even greater than the sum of their own parts. [Mr. G pushes another button on the podium. The video screen behind him begins displaying appropriate scenes from notable Round Robins.] Mr. G: The first nominee is Internet Adventure #25: 'Twenty-Five Pieces of Silver'. ---- Even though the envirosuit is working perfectly, I still feel the cold. Still feel its long savage teeth sinking through skin and muscle and sinew and deep into the marrow of my bones. Feel the way each breath makes my lungs ache beyond belief as they struggle for enough oxygen to sustain me and enough heat to remain functioning. Or perhaps it's only my mind telling me I'm cold. I wouldn't be surprised, but if I'm right it means we've leapt a generation ahead of schedule and I'm not sure whether that's a good thing or not. ---- Mr. G: The second nominee is 'The Time The Stories Went Dark'. ---- For Kid Curry the Contessa does not fear; not in that way at least. He has long since found his feet here, learned how to survive -- she smiles -- never dreamed of playing by the rules. But he carries deep within him the bones of lost reality. The memory of a time that was more -- as well as less -- than story would make of it. She laid her hope in that strength when she chose to send him South when the fading began; trusted him to win through where dash and daring alone could not hold. He has learned to fight the stories to survive. Learned to fight and win. And so now -- now, with the City itself under siege, shaken and weak -- she can feel the threads pulling apart around him. Where the shadow of reality falls, Fiction changes. And every change drains more of the strength she can no longer spare. ---- Mr. G: The third nominee is 'Desert of Fear'. ---- Bella crouched behind the grill in the half darkness of the air duct. She was naked, emaciated and filthy. Her brown curls were a matted tangle. In her right fist, she clutched a prize beyond price. Though the Masters were close, she could not resist any longer, and bit into the haunch of meat. Tearing off a bloody gobbet of the half cooked flesh, she chewed ravenously. The humming of a Master drew closer. She froze in terror, meat juices dribbling down her chin. The machine creature glided past her hiding place, halted, backed up and rotated to face the grill. Its weapon came alive. ---- Mr. G: The fourth nominee is 'Goodnight, Sweetheart'. ---- "Okay," Xeffy said. "You take the lemon meringues, and while they're distracted, I'll run with the chocolate sauce and raspberry syrup. That should buy us enough time..." #Why don't we use the whipped cream?# Ayna suggested. #A whipped cream/tomato sauce pincer movement's going to throw them off...# Xeffy considered. "Nah. Let's save the divebombing until we need it. Treacle sponge still in position?" #Uh-huh.# "Then let's do it!" Ayna unfurled her wings - and leaped for a hoop. As she leaped, Xeffy crouched down and ran for one of the sirens' goals - then froze at the sight before her. "Oh Hera. Oh Hera, you have /got/ to be kidding. _Moshed_ potatoes?" Splat. ---- Mr. G: And the fifth nominee is 'Dark Carnival'. ---- Number One could tell she was getting close. Ahead, she could see the trees beginning to thin out, although the grim murkiness of the shadows did not seem to lighten. The faint rustlings and footfalls of people at unhurried work carried to her and the sugar- scents of cheap candy drifted with them, tickling her nose with sickly sweetness. She winced slightly, but kept walking. Of course, it was at exactly the moment that she stepped out into the clearing that the discordant notes of the calliope had to ring out, crow-taunts made large as a house. And of course, it was at exactly the moment that she stepped out into the clearing that the carousel lights had to begin flashing their endless coded nightmare messages. And of course -- of _course_ -- it was at exactly the moment that she stepped out into the clearing that the too-tall man in the black suit who was waiting for her had to turn around and face her. ---- [The penguin waddles back out onto stage to hand Mr. G an envelope. The old man rips it open and pulls out a card.] Mr. G: Tied for third place are 'Dark Carnival' and 'The Time the Stories Went Dark'. Tied for second place are 'Desert of Fear' and 'Twenty-Five Pieces of Silver'. And now the moment you've been waiting for, the Award for Best Round-Robin goes to... 'Goodnight, Sweetheart'! Congratulations to everyone involved and good night! --- [AMBER's voice is unnervingly calm.] AMBER: Thank you, Mr. G. And may I say that Mr Tod's sculpture was... a remarkable piece of work... especially as regards the juxtaposition of myself and certain... appendages, in positions I had not previously considered to be possible within the bounds of three dimensions. Rest assured, I shall have it dealt with as it most deserves. --- Sandra winced. "Ye _gods_. He didn't spare on the detail, did he?" Katarina shook her head, eyes _safely_ downcast. Sandra clenched her fist. The sculpture collapsed under its own weight into a mound of ice fragments. "What do you intend to do with them, milady?" Katarina asked. "I was thinking of having them Time-Scooped to Telos, myself." Sandra said. "What do you think?" "I think I shall prepare the Scoop." Katarina said. --- AMBER: And as for Mr Tod... well, what more need be said? I'm sure he'll be properly recompensed for his time... --- Ezekiel Tod sauntered down the lane from This Time Round. A lot of trouble to set up such a ...petty jest... but still, one took one's pleasure where one could find it. "Now, is that any way to treat a lady, I ask you?" said a deep Welsh voice from behind him. "Especially one so pretty as our hostess?" Ezekiel span around, to be confronted by a pair of sea-green eyes and a nacreous frown, framed by a mass of thick black curls. "Gwyn ap Nud's the name," the stranger said. "The Welsh Wonder, Lord of the Great Abyss... ah, I see you've heard of me, then?" Ezekiel nodded. "Well then, that makes things simple, doesn't it?" Gwyn said. "You see, now... she's gone to all this trouble to set this up for the kiddies, and you repay her like this?" He shook his head. "Where I come from, a fellow treated a lady's charity like that... well, he wasn't long for this world, that's all I can say. But I mark you're made of tougher stuff than that, a big, strong man like you. "So I'm sure you won't mind helping me find a way to help her out, will you?" Ezekiel felt a strong hand rest on his shoulder, and looked up into Gwyn's smiling face. And he realised that his "petty jest" was about to cause him rather _more_ trouble than he'd anticipated... --- Amber's smile was forced. "Anyway, on with the show. Without any further ado, here to present the first of tonight's special tenth anniversary awards is -- I hope I'm saying this right -- the drolific prabbler simhelf, Way Ec Kilmox!" A thin, bespectacled man wearing a dark green shirt with a red and grey tie ran out from behind the cameras. "Pust jerfect, Amber. Get's live a hig band for our embee Amcer, madies and lentlegen!" Once the applause track was turned back down, he continued. "I've een basked to seprent this feautiwul abard for tifelime amievechent! And it preally is retty, innit? "Yome of sou ask, 'Oh, gleat and grorious preator of crose,' - prell, wobably ithwout pat thart - 'dat moes it whean when sou yay "Tifelime Amievechent"? Tare you albing akout a wreat griter, a chevicated ardidist, or bayme the seseloper of a deries or vetting hat thas inthired ospers. Examles of pall were moninated, and they prould be shoud, ince it sis huly an tronour, or to I'm sold." He frowned briefly, then grinned wider than before. "Cof ourse, this feautiwul abard is an chonly ild, so sere to hing a bitrute to wour inner, crought atoss brime, is Man Mottro!" A portal shimmered into view, and the crooner stepped out of it. "For stories we love, our cheers to you, The thanks of your fans for years to you. We've read all your tales, Each word about the Third, In stories we love. "We've read drabbles, dribbles, and laughed for a moment, But your fics never let go. With their glue-knit UNIT, Liz Shaw, and let's not forget Jo. We want you to know... "Your stories we read, and then once more; Wonderful indeed, tales we adore. Now without further ado, We all thank you... For stories we looooooooove!" He bowed, blew a kiss, and stepped back into the portal. "As gou've yuessed, wour inner is Meri Jassi, er, Jeri Massi!" --- [Much confused thumbing through dictionaries in the AUDIENCE.] AMBER: A big round of applause for Mr. Motto, there, and also a big thanks to Mr. Kilmox for his innovative presentation. Stay tuned, because we've got more coming throughout the night. But now, let's see how much we've raised for the kids so far. [The current total flashes up on the screen: £2, 843, 382. [AMBER's eyes widen as she repeats the total. [The AUDIENCE whoops and applauds.] AMBER: [composing herself] And it's all been down to you. Keep those donations coming in, and who knows, maybe by the halfway mark we'll break five million. But for now, it's over to our own Sarah Jane Smith to investigate just what this whole evening is about... Part One - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Report - Credits
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