Daniel sends their whole improv group an e-mail saying "check this out its fun1!1" and a link to a web comic called The Adventures of Spaceman Spiff.

Also, and this is maybe where the week starts to become less normal, Mark finds out that his mom thought he and Eduardo were dating. Like, not currently, obviously, because that would make even less sense, but in the past, like, back when they were still friends, before he’d...before Eduardo had sued him for 600 million dollars and then never spoken to him again.

A comic strip adventure, 26 years on.

"Veronica Mars," he says, recovering himself by adopting a terrible southern accent, "as I live and breathe."

Her mouth works soundlessly for a second, and Logan flashes wildly on the thought that she's going to punch him in the face. Which--it's not like she's ever actually done that, not like he's ever been particularly frightened of her physically…but. But there's a difference, he recognizes hazily, between Veronica Mars and The Legend of Veronica Mars, and he's spent rather less time with the former than the latter in recent years.

There are forces even the Royal Navy never counted on reckoning with.

What are you when even gravity can't touch you? I haven't ever figured that out.

"Were you always this evil or is it a new development?"

Brad doesn't ask any questions, even though there are just about a thousand of them balancing on the razor's edge of his tongue. He keeps them behind his teeth, about why now, why when they hadn't talked in years. He wasn't confused as to why Nate wanted out, that much was easy to see: Nate gravitated toward a spotlight that he didn't much enjoy, there's your bullshit moth metaphor, right there. Some things get to be clichés because they're so fucking true.

The boy walked with a soldier's swagger, though he couldn't have been fully out of adolescence yet. Not a march, precisely; back stiff, shoulders set, a cocky tilt of the hips as he moved. Part of it was surely the nuskin bandages that Levy knew were strapped tightly around the boy's ribcage, extending up along the left side of his neck and down his half-mangled right arm.

"You wanted to see me, sir," the boy said, standing to attention in front of the table.

"Sit down," Levy replied, kicking a chair out for the boy to sit in. Brown hair, bright eyes. Someone's darling. A heartbreaker already. "What's your name, kid?"

"Lo," the boy said.

So Michael's moved on, with a slight wistful thought about Billy sometimes, when he sees a bit of dancing on the telly or hears fancy music on the radio. He wonders what he's doing and who he's with and if he's happy, and meanwhile he's got on with his life.

If there had been gossip after the reunion, Brian's life might have looked something like this.

Alexis Castle is a small redheaded thing; you wouldn’t believe that’s the woman who’s been running the New York Resistance cell for the last two years.

“You’re not at all what I imagined,” John tells her and she smiles wryly, her light blue eyes looking him over, still cold with some degree of suspicion. “You know, the intel that’s been coming in,” he adds and it doesn’t help much, but the corner of her mouth rises slightly. John sighs. “I thought you’d be taller,” he says finally.

He set out to tell a story, and in the process of editing, he decided to stop trying to tell anything at all. He asked instead, and found that the questions came easier.

In the beginning, for there was a beginning though not an end to this story, the Oracle announced her plan to her faithful second, Black Canary. She quoth, "Forsooth, the definition of insanity is repeating our actions endlessly with the expectation of better results. The spirit of Stephanie Brown haunts my clock tower, and her wraith cries for us to forge a new path."

"Okay," said Dinah. "But you're the one who actually has political experience. Why isn't this Gordon for America?"

Barbara's fingers paused on her keyboard. "Because I really want to see Robin kiss some babies."

The Black Canary broke the monitor with her laughter.

Dean stands in the house that had been Bobby’s, and crosses his arms. “No,” he says. “No way, Jo. It’s too dangerous.”

Jo Harvelle, in scruffy jeans and a t-shirt that’s seen better days, just rolls her eyes at him and carries on pulling her hair into an untidy braid. “You’re kidding me, right? We fight demons and ghosts and werewolves and the frigging devil and now this is too dangerous? Are you high?”

There's a battery-powered lamp about ten feet in from the doorway, sitting on the floor. It casts a net of light about knee-high, in which a handful of shadows are moving. It takes Harper a second to realize that they are actually ankles, the ankles of two people as they walk across the floor- slowly, oddly, and now backwards, and then forward and back again. It takes Harper another second to recognize that they are dancing.

A strange deck of Tarot cards, a dying TARDIS, and UNIT's invasion of a coastal Welsh village lead Torchwood to investigate the disappearance of the Doctor, with some help from Sarah Jane and Luke Smith. This is a new incarnation of the Doctor, however, and none of them are prepared for what they find as they unravel the mystery.

Nate doesn't think of himself as a civilian; not yet. Maybe he never will. When he's asked what he did before Harvard, he says things like: "I'm- I was in the Marines". The past tense feels awkward. But in the mirror, the outline of his body is softening.

Stars Hollow is always going to belong to Rory. It doesn’t matter that he’s called it home for almost nine years now, or that she’s been as good as gone for the last six. He was Rory’s boyfriend; now he’s Rory’s ex, and he’s never going to be just Dean Forester. Not here.

So he packs up and moves. He doesn’t tell many people he’s going – his family, Gypsy, Tom and Taylor. It’s a small town – word will get around sooner or later, and anyway, it was never his to begin with.

Savannah Weaver was sixteen years old when she first dared to broach, even tangentially, the subject with her mother. It happened over breakfast on a Sunday morning. Savannah, still wearing her pajama bottoms and tank top, was eating an omelet with broccoli and tomatoes. Catherine Weaver was immaculately dressed. It had been years since Savannah had seen her mother any other way.

Three months after Uther’s death, Merlin leads Arthur out to the lake where he cast away the sword that defeated the Black Knight and tells him about his magic.

Or, well. He tries, at least.

[American spelling.]

"Oh yes, please." The Doctor grinned. "I've got such an appetite." His eyes widened. "For pizza."

Arthur tilts his head back, eyeing the purple stain spreading across the ceiling, mouth curved in a mocking smile. "Good evening, Lord Merlin. How does your search for domestic help--"

"I will turn you into a frog, I swear to God."

"Years ago," Arthur says because he's an utter, utter bastard, "I, too, suffered the indignity of incompetent help. It's a trial, I know, but rank has its burdens-"

[No Americanisms]

Arthur looks intrigued. "And you say there's an enchanted sword in this lake?"

"I put it there," Merlin says, wanting to stress how entirely -- mostly -- partially responsible he is for there being an enchanted sword in the first place.

Arthur claps him on the shoulder. "Of course you did, Merlin. Who else would throw a perfectly good enchanted sword into a lake?"

"It made sense at the time!"

Dan hasn’t planned on going home for Thanksgiving. His publisher sent him for a tour of Europe to promote Big Pond, and Germany doesn’t have Thanksgiving. Neither does England, Ireland, Holland, France or the Netherlands, although Dan’s pretty sure that the Dutch are pretty thankful all the time, what with the legalized drugs, prostitution, and socialized health care.

She’s not too fond of jazz, because it seems like the kind of music everyone pretends to like and nobody really enjoys, so when he fiddles around with the radio dials and gives a satisfied “Ah!” when soft crooning and unmistakable Gershwin fills her car, she makes a point of rolling her eyes. She’s trying to teach him a lesson here- this is not going to be as easy as he thinks it is. He ignores her.

She sees him standing over by the punsch booth under a string of gold and red star-shaped lights tangled in the bare branches of the trees. She sees him, and she knows he didn’t come here looking for her, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t here for her.

Because, seriously, what kind of dumbo missed that? Not Donna Noble. Not anymore anyway.

"So, how's Luke?"

The phone slips out of purchase, slams back against her ear. "Luke?"

"You know. Backwards baseball cap, works in a diner -"

"Oh, that Luke."

"In the diner yesterday, there was definite looking."

They came here once, the two of them.

In the end, it doesn’t take centuries. Just fifty-three years.

If this is going to be the hardest thing she's ever done, she's damn well going to give it her best shot.

He used to associate everything about this town with Rory, every eccentricity and bizarre local ritual–he still does, but when asked, Dean never says he’s from Chicago anymore.

"Ten years of hunting, and then we're done. We get a place. We get off the road."