LOON POWER MAKEUP

The Tomb of All Feels.

The Tower of Rumdon.

The Bathhouse on Avalon.

There have been several nicknames for Arthur's resting place over the years...

Hells, he's coined most of them.

Him.

Merlin.

Little old him.

It's in the distance, sauntering across the skyline of the Lake like the Lady of Shallot, all mud and boat dock and boards and grass clinging in clumps to the side like creeping barnacles.

The Boat of All Beer.

That's what Merlin calls it, anyway. He favours the Holman-Hunt version.

As he picks his way along the jutting shore-side rocks for the humpteenth billionth time, he adds a few lines to the little ditty he's been humming.

"Whoo-EEEE-whoooo! WHOOO-ooo-WHOOO! WHOOOO-oo-WHOOO-WHOOO-oo-WHOOO! And a bottle of ginger beer!"

He sticks his middle finger up at the sepulcher across the waves, flipping the big bird to the Boy Who Couldn't Wait... to get Killed By His Sister's Doe-Eyed Pekingese.

His friend.

Arthur Pendragon.

The Once And Future Pen Stealer.

"You toad!" he squawks, wiping a greasy hand on his rough grey rags, "...your handwriting was always impossible to read!"

He blinks, puffing the sticky white mass of his formidable beard hair out of his nose by way of an upward curling lip and a downward curling mood.

A vision of a red snake comes to him from across the wide sea, spanning his vision in a trancelike float of rather sanguine nature down his left eye... a squiggly bug, perhaps? Oh god, is it another of those centipedes that got in his favorite garbage bin last Christmas?

As he stares at this new sight, a small ufo arcs above him, candidly moving in half-ring toward his face from the general direction of his ungrateful charge's tidy middle-of-the-lake-side hideaway.

The bluish object sails closer, as objects in flight often do, curtailing the distance between itself and his forehead in a tidy little display of ouchiness followed by a thick, snickering PLONK.

The red snake appears before him, draining across his eye; it's just as the vision inscribed on his mind not two seconds ago.

"You prat!" Merlin yells as he holds up his hands; there is gold pouring from his fingernails, gold flowing from his nostrils- gold slips from his skin like a thin butter dust, powdered and metallic.

"STOP THROWING IT AT ME! YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD!" he screams, adding that to the pain shunting through his muscles.

The last word from his lips is a single telling noun, aimed at the previously unidentified object, now re-established in the vernacular as the slightly worn and weathered Blue Box sitting demurely behind him.

There's a smear of blood, just barely there against one indigo corner.

"TRAITORESS."

Thousands of tiny fires alight in his brain.

He regenerates.

He falls to the ground, his new fingers touching new dirt and deeming it fine... perhaps in a sandwich. A pudding? A... oh what is it he...

His fingers snap; he finds himself in drag, wearing the same bit of blue, half-unraveled frump-rough he used to play the old hag in front of Arthur that time he saved creepy Guinevere from, well... being remotely entertaining.

Rags to rags, so they say.

The tip of a boat bangs softly against the shore now, touching emotions Merlin had long felt buried... with...

The blondish man in the boat stands up and bows, his long fingers bending suspiciously into the bowels of the shallow vessel, tapering along the lines of the bracing beam nearest his booted feet for...

For what?

Playful, idiot, sensitively densely insensitive Arthur straightens, a gleam in his youthful and maleficent blue eye as he quickly hides a shadowy something behind his back, stuffing his spying elbow into a bit of his shirt near his hip.

Merlin eyes him, scratching his new grey woman hair and pleading with every fiber of his underclothes for Arthur to stop.

"Arthur? That was you, wasn't it? How many times have I told you to stop sleep-pitching for the Mets? They're never going to hire you. You're too blonde."

Arthur smiles and waves, then withdraws his hand back, farther and farther, until the instrument of Merlin's doom becomes clear.

Merlin cries out, "PLATYPUS!" but it's too late; the furry creature blinks forward, sent by Arthur's arm, it's little limbs shivering in glee, its flat tail making aerodynamic wibble sounds that call to mind Saturday cartoons as it flies.

The platypus' beak impales Merlin's right heart, and again the gold of regeneration threatens the somber tone of the moment.

When the light is gone from Merlin's new body, he touches his hips. His hair. His breasts.

Yes, Breasts.

Curves are where they shouldn't be, now.

Right.

She's wearing a white body corset, and right between the barely-there jugs, a big heart, with ribbons. Reddish boots... short red flowing skirt, a ridiculousness of pulled back blonde hair, set back on the head in pony-dangling meatballs the size of small planets.

There is, she suddenly gathers, an obscene desire to make up her face, then spin round in a circle and squeal.

The TARDIS door creaks open to reveal another blue-eyed man in a blue shirt, red suspenders and an army coat of lovely long length. Jack Harkness. His hand is in some woman's... her sleeve is black. There seems to be an inordinate mass of hair in a beehive on her head... Morgana.

Merlin sniffs and tries to smile.

"Hey Ushas, is that Jack's gun or are you happy to see me?"

Jack stares at Morgana. He looks back at Merlin.

He stares at Morgana a second time, scratching his hair.

A grin erupts over his entire frame, shaking him out like... well, pretty much anyone who tromps about on children's telly in a brightly-colored body suit.

The Time Agent then takes a breath with the entirety of his upper chest, trying to compose himself, then sweeps his brown hair back from his head and falls to the ground, a single phrase glued to his face and his lips.

"MOON POWER MAKEUP DOCTOR!"

END.