Welcome to the Traversverse

The following takes place following: Travers & Other Lies

The Master slowly emerged from his fugue state, dazed and disoriented. It had been some time since his last—he’d hoped they were behind him.

He quickly realized he was still in Dr. Shawn’s office. Only now, it was empty.

He stepped outside the infirmary into the unusually quiet Council grounds. The eerie stillness made him shudder; these absences never ended well.

Crossing the courtyard toward the northern gate, he entered Memorial Park. As he cleared the trees at the park’s edge, a towering 40-foot Traverscast screen came into view. Mayor Travers’ face filled the display, delivering a looping speech about how his decisive leadership had vanquished the alien threat and declared the city “Barnacle-free.”

He noticed a crowd in the distance. Curious, he headed toward it, half-expecting a festival or sporting event. But as he drew closer, he realized it was almost entirely women. A sign on the lawn read:

WALDOBURY WEST AUDITION CENTRE

Pushing through the crowd, he found a sprawling outdoor photoshoot set. Decorative backdrops ranged from ancient Greek courtyards to Renaissance garden follies—columns, urns, and faux-stone benches arranged like a theme park’s idea of culture. Around the perimeter stood guards in dark tactical gear and gas masks, cold and impersonal—more riot control than fashion security.

Slightly futuristic looking aerial drones hovered around, capturing images of dozens of naked women posed across the elaborate sets. At one edge of the clearing, a line of women waited silently, handing over identification at a checkpoint before being led into a curtained changing area. From there, they passed through a conveyor belt of hair and makeup artists before being ushered into the shoots. Most wore the same expression: resignation.

Above the checkpoint, a second Traverscast screen—this one only 20 feet tall, blinked to life. Travers' prerecorded message played, thanking the women of Widdlington for their “national service.”

The Master approached a group of women who had already completed their sessions and lingered nearby, gossiping. After a few questions, he learned the details: pre-selected women between the ages of 18 and 65 were being conscripted for mandatory auditions that involved nude photoshoots. Those deemed “attractive enough” might be summoned for a private audience with the mayor, if he so wished.

After a few seconds, a drone flew up to him, scanned his face, and snapped a photo. Then came a sharp “EH-UHH!”—like the wrong-answer buzzer from Family Fortunes. It curtly instructed him to vacate the area. No spectating was permitted, apparently.

A surge of anger flared. He clenched his fists but restrained himself. Storming the set would solve nothing. Travers was the one who must be dealt with...

As he headed east along Waldomere Boulevard—normally one of the city’s busier streets, he noticed how empty it felt. The only movement came from gas-masked enforcers pacing the sidewalks in silence, their presence casting a heavy shadow over the district. The closer he got to Volkov, the more the atmosphere shifted—colder, more controlled. The air was filled with distant, droning noise and bursts of static-laced radio chatter, punctuated by the crackle of overhead speakers delivering garbled announcements to no one in particular. Every sound felt deliberate, like the city itself was keeping watch.

Arriving at the Citadel gates, he encountered yet another queue of women—painted up like streetwalkers, shivering in the winter cold. Many looked like they had been waiting for days, huddled beneath threadbare wraps and thermal blankets.

The Master, still groggy from the fugue and in no state to fly, opted for the lift. He ascended in silence to the Mayor’s office.

****

Passing by more women in the waiting room, he was greeted by a topless Ermintrude at her desk.

Ermintrude: Oh hi, Master Devlin! Welcome back. We missed you.

Master Devlin: Um... Hello, Ermintrude. Excuse me, but I really must see Travers immediately.

Ermintrude: Sure! Mayor Travers will be excited to see you!

She buzzed him in through the locked doors.

He walked into the office to find Travers smoking a cigar while Mrs. Summers and her daughter, Buffy, were working together to change his oil. Mr. Konrad stood nearby, looking vaguely ashamed as he filmed them with his phone. Dr. Shawn, looking rather unamused, sat on the couch taking notes as Travers recounted the tales of his many fantastical adventures.

Master Devlin: Good God.

Travers: Master Devlin! As I live and breathe! How are you, man? It’s been forever! Like what I’ve done with the place? You remember the Summers girls, don’t you?

Joyce and her daughter looked up at the Master briefly, then turned away, mortified.

Travers: No, don’t stop, ladies. You can say hello after...

Master Devlin: No, Travers. It stops now. Ladies—get dressed and get out. Now.

The two headed for the door, Buffy throwing a final dagger-eyed glare at Travers, who responded with a cheery wave.

Travers: And of course, you already know Dr. Shawn —I’ve been taking your advice and having regular sessions with her. Strictly professional, of course, now that she’s a married woman. Well—there was that one time she... Anyway! It’s good to see you, my friend!

Master Devlin: Travers... What the fuck is going on here?

Travers: Self-love and compassion, Master Devlin. It’s all the rage now. I took your advice, continued weekly sessions with Dr. Shawn and tried to cure the sickness, like you suggested. And then I discovered... that Travers was being way too hard on himself.

Dr. Shawn: That’s not accurate. I tried to explain that—

Travers (over her): It’s a cure, Master Devlin. Turn's out I’m something of a perfectionist! My own biggest critic... But with the guidance of Dr. Shawn’s mindfulness sessions, I realised I was being too hard on myself. What I needed was a little self-love.

Dr. Shawn: That’s really not what I—

Travers: And so, I realised I’d been completely wrong-headed—doubting myself, letting public opinion sway my policy-making. But I was duly elected mayor.

Dr. Shawn and Mr. Konrad both silently shook their heads.

Travers: And therefore, I need to trust the faith the voters put in me to make the big decisions. So I started thinking—what kind of city would Travers want to see, if money was no object? What if Travers was, for all intents and purposes... Ed himself?

He threw his arms open.

Travers: And well... here it is. Welcome to the Traversverse!

Season 7 continues in House Call