Shut up, Charlie.

[The hallway passes lazily behind them. They're doing a walk-and-talk again, but there's no urgency behind this one. Sorkin would be so disappointed, but the fact that they aren't in their mess of a room staring at any number of TV screens might be a little significant.]

Horror's not really our genre.

[Scrad says.]

Great party, though, wasn't it?

[Charlie adds. Scrad looks as close to thoughtful as he is capable of looking.]

[Spam for Kay and also open.]

[They've finished their broadcast, and the comm is tucked back away in one of the many pockets on their vest, but it still can't be said that they're looking where they're going. Scrad is looking at their feet. Charlie is watching the ceiling pass by. Some things will never change.]

[There's a two-headed boy on screen. He's fairly big for his age. Well-fed. Robust. And he's dressed in a complicatedly folded toga. And he's staring. Both of him are. Just staring. Both of his heads are the same size, and the one attached traditionally to his shoulders looks particularly lost. He's attempting to duck behind his second head, which is at this point in their development slightly too heavy for its neck-stalk.

They squirm slightly. They are, for once, not in Scrad/Charlie's spectacularly consumerist room. They'd awoken there, but they have no idea why, or how it happened, or whose things those are, and they're quite sure that they are now in trouble. Because they're always in trouble.

Which is why they've seated themselves on the floor in the hallway and are staring warily at all of you, with your one single heads. Is this their punishment?

Good job. It's terrifying.]


((SPAM. They're on Level 3, in the hallway, being a tripping hazard. Feel free to run into them. Literally. They do not have The Shining.))

[For once, they are not broadcasting from inside the last rent controlled apartment in Manhattan: they are in Prefect's quarters. As is Prefect. And this does not appear to be a social call. Scrad keeps his eyes, and the gun-shaped object in the pocket of their hoodie trained on Prefect, as Charlie addresses everyone, stretching forward on his stalk to peer into the comm's camera.]

Okay. Here's the deal: we want off this boat, and we want off it now. So unless you wanna see something unpleasant happen to this guy-

[Charlie jerks his head in Prefect's direction. Scrad nods.]

-...I'd suggest somebody get with the getting.

[The boys are standing in front of a Barge-normal door. You know what that means kids...]

Our warden flew the coop.

[Scrad announces flatly. Charlie sarcastically adds:]

Big surprise.

[Actually, it is. They liked Drake; thought he was an okay guy. Trusted him, kinda. Almost. This hurts.

Don't expect them to admit that, though.]

[The camera is mainly focused on Charlie, although Scrad is visible in the background. They've been laying low and re-bonding since their recent beheading, but things in Idiotville seem to be back to almost but not quite Earth-normal. Charlie says:]

Here's the deal: bar-quiz night. Teams. Trivia. Drinking. Hot wings. Make it happen.

P.S.: we're winning.

P.P.S.: Dibs on the team name "Napoleon Bonerparty".

[Scrad snickers and repeats "Bonerparty". As you do.]

[Scrad and Charlie are lounging in a pile of pillows and people. They are looking shirtless, surprisingly well-built, and very pleased with themselves.]

Beach.

[Scrad says.]

Space-babes.

[Charlie says. The pile of space-babes waves and makes kissy faces. There are five of them. One of them is a dude. This does not preclude him from being a babe. Scrad asks:]

What was the problem again?

[And they cut the feed.

...

...

...some time later, Charlie appears alone on screen:]

Uh. We got a problem here.

[There's a two headed man recording himself in the third floor common room. The hair on both of his heads is a little longer than it normally is, and they are both clean-shaven. His smaller head looks less like it has been repeatedly punched in the face, but they still aren't completely identical.

They are wearing a toga.

It has been expertly folded and tucked around them, like fabric origami. They're also heavier, although it's hard to tell in the toga. The long neck stalk the smaller head is attached by is entirely uncovered, and the result is...a little phallic.

They both look confused. They turn to each other. The larger head turns back to the camera and says:]

&##*^))i>%*~?

[Which roughly means something like 'Greetings. What in the fuck?', but you can also use your imagination.]

[Scrad eyes their comm as the hallway passes behind them. They're doing a walk-and-talk: just like on The West Wing! That show is hilarious. Human politics.]

So. Why is everybody introducing themselves and asking if anybody's out there? Is this an invasion?

[Charlie pops onto screen and says:]

Because we, for one, welcome our new already welcomed overlords, and are eager to submit our resume. References available on request.


[Happy 4th Wall Day! 4th wall away!]

[Scrad holds the comm out at arm's length. Behind him, Charlie is pointedly facing in the opposite direction. They both seem less laid-back than usual. Their shoulders are tight; a general sulk lurks around them. Scrad says:]

So here's what I wanna know: where are all the non-humans? Hands up, round of snaps, head count, whatev-...

[He's cut off as his own hand yanks the comm away and holds it out at arm's length from Charlie instead. Charlie says:]

Just so you know: I'm not speaking to you.

[Scrad, facing away from the comm, explains through audibly clenched teeth:]

That's not. How not speaking to somebody. Works.

[To which Charlie replies:]

I can't hear you.

[The back of Scrad's head sputters:]

You just-...!

[Scrad pulls the comm back in front of him and line faces into it. The boys are having a fight. They're also projecting it. Have fun interpreting that emotionally, monocephaloids.]

[There's a man on screen. A scruffy-looking man who's recently been in a fight. His lip is split and bleeding, and there's a chunk of hair missing from one side of his head. He stares into the camera with unfocused eyes. His jaw works silently for a moment. Eventually he slurs:]

Did anybody...catch the plate on that Arquillian cru-...

[His eyes roll back in his head and he drops like a ton of bricks. The communicator lands with a clatter, camera still focused on the man's face. And then another voice pipes up. It is, in fact, the same voice.]

Oh, you did not just pass out. Scrad? Scra-ad!

[No one named Scrad responds. The man on the floor remains still. His eyes are closed. His mouth has not moved. It continues not to move as his disembodied voice quips:]

Annnnnnnnnd the champ! Is! Down!