This whole 'being fictional' thing? [Clint even uses air quotes to emphasize.] Right. I'm a story book character. If I sprout wings and fly I'm going to be seriously pissed. I'm not a flying monkey, I'm not some character in some damn book.

I feel very real thank you. Besides, this hospital is creepy and I'm about two seconds away from punching something just to hear a satisfying crunch.

This is not Hong Kong.

Sifu. I'd like your guidance. There are any number of lessons you might have set me to learn here, and I'm not sure which you intended. If I had to narrow it down, I'd say... when confronted with a challenge you can't defeat, you should focus on yourself, rather than going immediately to face the challenge. I have an obligation... to myself, to my teachers, and to my fellow students, to represent what I've been taught wisely, and to submit myself to the lessons I have yet to master.

If I've failed in that, I'm sorry.

Charming place, this. Cozy.

[Jim isn't visible on camera, but the hospital is. Sterile floors, hospital cafeteria tables, and one very neatly manicured hand rolling an apple between fingers. Pausing. Rolling it back the other way.]

All fiction is implicitly metafictional. Did you know?

[He makes a sound like a hum and sets the apple down, getting to his feet.]

Anyone know where I can find the best book store in town?

I want to look up a few friends.

Everyone here is so certain they aren't fictional.

But why? You all come from interesting places, surely the concept of information leaking from one world to another and being fictionalized would present itself when coming up with theories. [ She sounds genuinely irritated and a little baffled. ]

I have seen a lot of confusion and contention regarding my earlier post to the network.

Let me assure you, fellow citizens, that what I am suggesting is nothing to show such concern about.

As the Chief of Police, even I have yet to meet any of the 'governing officials' in control of our lives here. How can we allow ourselves to follow a people who so indiscriminately demand we adjust to their ways of life, their ideals of reality, when they can not even lower themselves to the level of speaking directly with the people they hold captive?

Our numbers are small, now, I admit it. It is an undeniable fact of our lives here.

What I am suggesting is a break from their systems and rules. That we take it upon ourselves, to govern ourselves. To create our own systems and organizations. As it is, there are already several vigilantes and vigilante groups that operate outside of New Moore law. I am not suggesting a total takeover of the island. Merely a rising up in demand of our rights. If nothing else, we owe it to each other to look after one another when our alleged government is clearly so ready and willing to abandon us.

We have all known how willing they are to provide us with excuses and lies to the situations and strange events that occur on this island. The very lies the force us, your police force, your protection, to feed to you after ever incident occurs.

You all have thought this before. Deny it all you wish, but none of you are pleased by this deception. They think we are sheep to be easily led to the slaughter. That we will roll over and believe any foolish fable they submit to us.

Are you really willing to follow a government that has no investment in any of you? Whether you live or die or disappear without a trace does not matter to them. If you believe it does you are either a blind fool, or very new.

You can call these ideas revolutionary or brazen. You can deny these thoughts have ever entered your mind. But you would only be lying to yourselves.

If our government is so willing to abandon us, then we create our own. We look out for each other. What is there to look down upon, on the idea of supporting each other where the 'real' people will not?

We owe it to ourselves to protect one another from the corruption and secrecy of the people who hold us here.

Before you argue against it, I ask only that you consider one thing. Do you really believe your life before this was fictional? You were snatched from your life and brought here, forced to learn and live by the laws of another people. Do you trust the people who tore you from your life to feed you lies and then leave you to fend for yourselves at the first sign of danger?

So we're overthrowing the government now? What should we hit first?

And we live on another day.

There are two plans. Only one of them can work (if either of them actually works), and I've got no right to make that decision for you all.

Plan A is to power the TARDIS up as much as I can. Burn off every room except the control room, then pump all that energy and the power from the engines into the shields. That means there will be room for twenty, maybe thirty people inside if you squeeze in tight. Donna, Master, Rose, Amy, Rory-- you'd be in charge of keeping the shields stable. Other than that spots would be first come, first serve. IF the force-field around the island can soak, oh, maybe half of the impact of the comet, then there's maybe a fifty percent chance everyone inside the TARDIS would survive.

Plan B is to get everyone on board the TARDIS. Absolutely everyone. Then we wait for the last moment, after the meteor hits. If we can dematerialize in between the time the force-field goes down and the shockwave hits, we could get away. If the force-field goes down before the tsunami hits or the volcano goes off or the island breaks apart. AND if the force-field is what's been keeping the TARDIS pinned in place here, which I'm not sure of.

Everyone gets a vote, but until I've got your vote, absolutely nobody goes aboard.

I thought I'd be more upset about dying again.

[ Private: Katniss ]
We need to see you.

Well, we're fucked.




Cheers!

There's got to be something we can do. I feel like if there were real superheroes here, they'd know how to fix this.

Well now, isn't this a surprise. It was going to happen sooner or later. This miserable rock draws the most unwanted and unnecessary attention of all the wrong sort.

Congratulations. First row seats to the near extinction of the planet. It's a once in a lifetime opportunity. Well, once for you, at least.

So. Shall we celebrate? I am feeling rather like dancing.

Let's have a party.

The Visitor Center is shut down. Doors locked, no lights, no anything!

I have this feeling that something seriously not right is going on here...

For all of you who are unfamiliar with a comet collision, I will make this brief.

The comet with hit earth. Fragments may break off into the atmosphere, possibly causing multiple collisions. Six teratons, was it? Twenty-five megatons would flatten reinforced concrete buildings in a radius of five miles around ground zero. This would be four-hundred thousand times the force. And the worst they're worried about is a few tsunamis? It's enough to knock the earth from its axis. This tiny island, if not already obliterated by the impact, will be at the bottom of the ocean before it hits.

If we somehow do manage to survive the impact and its immediate after-effects, we can look forward to a post-impact winter. The comet should have enough force to knock enough dust into the atmosphere to make it bone-chillingly cold until the turn of the next century.

Classes will continue as scheduled.

[The post opens with an insistent, repetitive beeping sound, emanating from every island-issued computer or smartphone. A moment later, there's a grumbling, incoherent streak of swearing in the background, and then Shepard's voice, sounding bleary, tired, but still sarcastic as always. It seems to be one side of a conversation, the other half is not audible.]

What the Hell do you mean 'emergency announcement?' If you have an emergency dispatch, can't you just broadcast it yourselves rather than making me read it from a -- no?

Isn't this more the Chief's job than mine?

He doesn't wake up to rhythmic alert noises?

Fine, whatever.

[The last bit is nearly a snarl. immediately following, his voice takes on a bored sing-song quality, reciting from a script -- only gradually changing to anger and alarm as he realizes what he is reading.]


Deep-space radar has detected a cometary fragment moving towards Earth with improbably high speed. Calculations show that it will strike within fifteen miles of New Moore at 1:07 AM on January 17th. Its mass and velocity are sufficient... to cause an extinction-level event?

Upon impact, it will... release six teratons or four zettajoules of explosive force, cause worldwide seismic and volcanic events, including megatsunamis, atmospheric combustion, and a burst of infrared radiation, together exterminating eighty percent of all biological life on the planet. Perhaps needless to say, the forcefield protecting the island will be insufficient defense.

The administration of New Moore... encourages you all to make peace with your place in the universe... and enjoy the remainder of your existence on the planet.

[There is a long pause.]

What do you mean, 'no further communication will be forthcoming?'

[The beeping sound resumes. After thirty seconds of it, the transmission ends.]

As tempting as it might be to sit around in my underwear and screw around on the network all day, I have obtained gainful employment at the book store. So now I have an excuse to get dressed in the morning, you know.

I do wonder, though- would I be able to publish my own books here? I am, after all, a writer first and foremost, and one cannot simply abandon one's craft. Anybody have any ideas? Or happen to know any agents or publishers?

[The video opens to one (1) Rose Lalonde, sitting primly on what appears to be the carpet of a play area. Her jaw is tight and she stares the camera down in obvious annoyance.]

It seems I have been relocated.

[There's an ear-piercing shriek of laughter in the background, and a few toddlers dart on and back off camera. Her expression gets tighter.]

My erstwhile roommate has been 'released' into the wilds of actual reality, or whatever story it is that they feed us, which has left me in the position of evicted to a daycare center until such a time as a proper guardian can be procured. Apparently, essential godhood is not taken into account when discerning whether or not one can satisfactorily take care of oneself.

[A brightly-colored plastic ball, such as the kind found in ballpits, comes speeding out of nowhere. Rose catches it before it hits, with the same hand that still clutches one of her customary needles. Turning her hand palm-down, she opens her fingers. The needle falls; the ball does not.]

At least I have this truly astounding collection of Sweet Valley High novels to keep me sane.

[Or not. The ball finally unsticks itself from her hand with an unpleasant smack, and she grimaces.]

I'm dead. I have to be. That is the only explanation for this ... this preposterous nonsense.

[Ianto doesn't appear to be talking to anyone in particular. His phone is resting on a window ledge, slightly skewed view as though it was not intentionally recording. The short haired Welshman was pacing back and forth, one hand on his hip, the other sliding through his hair. Hair full of dust and pieces of debris like his tattered suit. A bruise and a nasty looking cut could just be seen on his cheek when he turned a particular way. He shook his head again and threw his arms up, looking up at the night sky. ]

I'm dead or unconscious and this is all just a dream. A nightmare brought on by too many years doing this job. That has to be it. It has to be.

[His voice cracked a little at the end. He really didn't care about the fiction/nonfiction speal, the fact that his clothes were ruined, the blood running along his chin. He did not even care that this was not Cardiff. No. What really mattered was the memories flashing through his mind from just before he awoke to the lecture. Jack. Jack could survive anything, he said. But there would be nothing left of him after that. Nothing to survive. How could he possibly-

Ianto swallowed a lump in his throat, glancing down at his room assignment. This was all a nightmare. He would wake up from it in Cardiff, and the hub would be there, Jack would be alive, and everything would be okay.]

A work of fiction becomes reality.

I'm a writer of mystery novels, so I guess the proper way to introduce me to this place would have been "Yo Mr. Castle, we heard you write fiction, so we put some fiction in your fiction so you can be not real while you write about things that aren't real". I suppose this place isn't hip to Internet memes the way I am, hmm?

Not that I buy that line quite yet, of course; it's all a bit too meta for my tastes.

Hello, New Moore. I'm Richard Castle, world-famous novelist, and I am eager to hear everyone's story.